DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 6-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network, The Toy Taker and The Jackdaw. Luke Delaney
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about to begin studying the first of many when Donnelly burst in. ‘Bad news, guv’nor. Hellier’s lost the surveillance.’
‘What?’ Sean couldn’t believe what he was being told.
‘Sorry, boss.’
‘Tell them to get back and cover his office and home. He’ll turn up eventually, and they can pick him up again.’
‘Not that simple, I’m afraid,’ Donnelly said wearily. ‘All the surveillance teams have been pulled away on an anti-terrorist op. Sign of the times, eh?’
‘Give me some good news, Dave. What about the lab? Any news?’
‘All samples taken from the victim and his flat have been matched to people who admit to having sexual relations with him, but the lab found no blood on any of those individuals or their clothes. Only Hellier is anything like a genuine suspect. In short, the lab can’t help us. They still haven’t processed Hellier’s clothes, but I won’t be holding my breath.’
‘Fingerprints?’ Sean asked.
‘Spoke with them this morning. There’s three sets of prints they can’t match to anyone. All the others came back to the same people who’d left body samples there.’
‘What about these three unmatched sets? Do they come back to anyone with convictions?’
‘No. They’re no good to us unless we come up with other suspects we can match them to.’
‘Bollocks. Okay, we cover Hellier ourselves. Who have we got that’s surveillance trained?’
‘I am,’ Donnelly said. ‘And I think a couple of the DCs are: Jim, and maybe Frank.’
‘Good,’ Sean said, in spite of the fact it was anything but. ‘We’ll split into two teams and do a twelve-hour shift each. Dave, you lead Team One and get Jim and Frank to run the other.’
‘Hold on a minute, guv’nor,’ Donnelly argued. ‘We’re talking about two teams of what, maybe five people. Almost none of whom are surveillance trained. We’d be wasting our fucking time – and I haven’t even mentioned the fact he’s seen more than half the team when he got arrested.’
‘That’s why I won’t be with you,’ Sean said. ‘I’m gambling he was concentrating on me when he was arrested. You need to exercise special care too. I doubt he’s forgotten what you look like. No offence.’
‘None taken,’ Donnelly replied. ‘But this is still little better than hopeless.’
‘We’ve got no choice.’ Sean sounded desperate. He was. ‘So let’s get on with it. Take whatever cars and radios you need. Apologize to the troops for me. I’ll speak to them myself later.’
‘Fine,’ Donnelly said.
Sean could hear the dissatisfaction in the DS’s voice. He understood it, even if there was nothing he could do to quell it. They had to try something. What else could he do?
Hellier arrived at the antiques shop in the Cromwell Road at about 1 p.m. The shopkeeper recognized him immediately.
‘Mr Saunders. It’s been a while,’ he greeted Hellier. ‘And how has life been treating you lately, sir?’
‘Fine,’ Hellier said without smiling. ‘I need to make a collection. I trust it’s safe.’
‘Of course, sir.’
The shopkeeper disappeared into the back.
Hellier wandered slowly around the empty shop. He ran his trailing hand across the fine wooden furniture. He stopped to lift and examine several china pieces. Their value alone would have stopped most people from touching them. Hellier handled them as if they were Tupperware. He breathed in the scent of the shop. Leather, wood, riches and age. He deserved it all.
The shopkeeper reappeared carrying a metal safety box. ‘Do you confirm that your property is kept in box number twelve, Mr Saunders?’
‘I do.’
‘Excellent.’ Pulling a key from his waistcoat pocket, he unlocked the padlock then stood back for Hellier to open the box’s lid.
Hellier removed a small white envelope and another larger one. He quickly checked the contents, which included a passport for the Republic of Ireland. Satisfied, he slipped both envelopes into his pocket and closed the lid.
‘Do I owe you anything?’ he asked.
‘No. Your account is still very much in credit, Mr Saunders.’
Regardless, Hellier pulled five hundred pounds in new fifty-pound notes from his wallet. He placed them on the desk next to the till. ‘That’s to make sure it stays that way.’
The shopkeeper licked his lips. It was all he could do not to grab at the cash. ‘Will you be returning the property today, sir?’
Hellier was already heading for the door. He answered without looking back. ‘Maybe. Who knows?’
With that he was gone.
The shopkeeper liked the money, but he hoped it would be the last time he saw Mr Saunders. He was scared of Mr Saunders – in fact, he was scared of lots of the people he kept illicit safety deposits for. But Mr Saunders scared him the most.
Sally drove back towards Peckham alone. It had been a long and uninteresting morning at the Records Office. Truthfully, she was beginning to feel a little left out of the main investigation and now she also had to put up with the frustration of waiting days for the results of her searches − all of which meant she had yet to eliminate Korsakov. She knew Sean wouldn’t be best pleased.
Her mobile began to ring and jump around on the passenger seat. In defiance of the law, she answered it while driving. ‘Sally Jones speaking.’
‘DS Jones, this is IDO Collins from fingerprints. You sent a request up yesterday, asking for a set of conviction prints for Stefan Korsakov to be compared with prints found at the Graydon murder scene.’
‘That’s correct,’ she confirmed, excitement growing in her stomach.
‘I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible,’ Collins told her.
‘What? Why not?’
‘Because we don’t have a set of fingerprints for anyone by that name.’
‘You must have,’ Sally insisted. ‘He has a criminal conviction − his prints were taken and submitted.’
‘I don’t know what to tell you,’ Collins replied. ‘I’ve searched the system and they’re not here.’
The possibilities spun around Sally’s mind. Korsakov was rapidly becoming the invisible man. First his charging photographs and now his fingerprints. Sally didn’t like what she was finding. She didn’t like it at all. She remembered what Jarratt had said: maybe Korsakov was a ghost.
IDO Collins broke her thoughts. ‘Are you still there, DS Jones?’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I’m still here. In fact, you know what? I think I’d better come see you.’
Hellier hailed a black cab and directed the driver to take him to the Barclays Bank in Great Portland Street, around the corner from Oxford Circus. Tourists and shoppers jammed the pavements. Red buses and cabs jammed the roads. It was an unholy mess. Diesel fumes mixed with the smell of frying onions and cheap meat. The heat of the day kept the air heavy.
The cab drew up directly outside the bank. Hellier was out and paying before the driver knew it. He dropped a twenty-pound note through the driver’s window and walked away without speaking.
He went to a keen-looking female cashier in her early twenties. She would want to do everything by the book. So did he. He handed her the larger envelope he’d taken from the antiques shop. It was documentation of his ownership of a safe-deposit box held in the bank’s vault. ‘I