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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until they were returned. They’re too important to allow them to disappear.’
‘Then perhaps you can explain how this set vanished?’ Sally slid a file across the desk. ‘Stefan Korsakov. Convicted of fraud in 1996. He definitely had prints taken when he was charged. No mistake. Prints that you’re telling me have since disappeared.’
Collins looked shocked, but recovered quickly and smiled. ‘A clerical mistake. Give me a minute and I’ll search for them myself.’
She knew it made sense to double check. ‘If it’ll make you feel better, then it’ll make me feel better. I’ll be in the canteen. Give me a shout when you’re finished.’
DI Ross Brown waited at the old murder scene for Sean to arrive, the police cordon tape flapping loosely in the mild breeze, tatty and spoilt now.
It was getting late, but he didn’t mind waiting. His investigation had not been going well − stranger attacks of this type were extremely difficult to solve quickly. Unless you were out to make a name for yourself, they were every detective’s worst nightmare. And with only three years’ service remaining, DI Ross Brown wasn’t out to make a name for himself. If he thought Sean could help his case, he’d wait all night.
Sean found his way to Hornchurch Marshes and drove through the unmanned entrance to the wasteground. A single road wound its way over the desolate and oppressive land to a small outbuilding. Sean could see a tall, well-built man standing outside. He parked next to DI Brown’s car and climbed out. Brown was already moving towards him, his hand outstretched.
‘Sean Corrigan. We spoke on the phone.’
Ross Brown wrapped a big hand around Sean’s. His grip was surprisingly gentle. ‘Good of you to come all this way out east,’ he said.
‘I just hope I’m not wasting your time,’ Sean answered.
DI Brown pointed to the outbuilding. ‘She died in there. She was fifteen years old.’ He looked sad. ‘She’d run away from home. The usual story. Mum and Dad split up, Mum gets a new man, kid won’t accept him and ends up running away to London − straight into the hands of some sick bastard.
‘It’s not easy to get the homeless to talk,’ he continued, ‘to get their trust. But a couple of her friends have provided us with details of her last movements.
‘We’re pretty certain she was abducted in the King’s Cross area on the same night she was killed, about two weeks ago, give or take. We canvassed the area, but no one witnessed the abduction − our man is apparently extremely cautious and fast.
‘We tried to get the media interested, but we only got minimal coverage. It’s difficult to compete with suicide bombers, and they like victims to be the nice, top-of-the-class type, not teenage runaways.
‘The killer drove her to this waste ground. He took her into this abandoned building, stripped her, and then he cut her throat. One large laceration that almost cut the poor little cow’s head off.’
Sean could see Brown was disturbed. No doubt the man had teenage daughters of his own. The nearby giant car plant dominated the horizon. It all added to the feeling of dread in this place. ‘Poor little cow,’ Brown repeated. ‘What the hell must she have been thinking? All alone. Made to strip. There were no signs of sexual abuse, but we can’t be sure what he did or didn’t make her do. Fucking animal.’
‘The murder of Daniel Graydon occurred six days ago,’ Sean said without prompting. ‘His head was caved in with a heavy blunt instrument, not recovered. He was also stabbed repeatedly with an ice pick or similar, not recovered either. He was killed in his own flat in the early hours. No sign of forced entry. He was a homosexual and a prostitute.’
Brown frowned. He couldn’t see much of a connection to his investigation, if any. ‘Doesn’t sound like my man. Different type of victim, murder location, weapon used. I’m sorry, Sean. I don’t see any similarities here.’
‘No,’ Sean said, holding up a hand. ‘That’s not where the similarity lies.’ He began to walk to the outbuilding. DI Brown followed him.
‘What then?’ Brown asked.
‘The only usable evidence from our scene were some footprints in the hallway carpet. They were made by a man wearing a pair of plain-soled shoes with plastic bags over them. The forensic report said you recovered footprints.’
‘Yes,’ Brown said. ‘Inside the outbuilding.’
‘And no other forensic evidence?’ Sean asked.
‘Is that why you’re here?’ DI Brown asked. ‘Because neither of us have any forensic evidence, other than a useless shoeprint?’ Sean’s silence answered the question. ‘Then I guess we’re both in the shit,’ Brown continued, ‘because if you’re right and these murders are connected, then this is a really bad bastard we’re after here and he’s absolutely not going to stop until someone stops him.’
Sean’s phone interrupted him before he could reply. It was Donnelly. ‘Dave?’
‘Guv’nor, surveillance is in place at Butler and Mason, and guess who’s back?’
‘He’s at work?’
‘No mistake. I’ve seen him myself through the window. He’s not hiding.’
‘Okay. Stay on him. I’ll call you later.’ He hung up.
What the hell are you up to now? And where have you been that you didn’t want us to see?
‘Problem?’ Brown asked.
‘No,’ Sean answered. ‘Nothing that can’t wait.’
Sally saw Collins enter the canteen and gave a little wave to attract his attention. He sat opposite her, carefully placing an old index book on the table.
‘From a time before computers,’ he told her. ‘I’ve double checked both the computer system and searched manually, as well as checking the old records on microfiche. We have nothing under the name of Korsakov.’
‘Which means?’ Sally asked.
‘Well, normally I would have said that you were mistaken. That Korsakov’s prints could never have been submitted.’
‘But …?’
‘But I have this.’ He patted the index book. ‘This is a record of all fingerprints that are removed from Fingerprint Branch. We still use it as a back-up for our new computer records, and this way we actually get the signature of the removing party, which helps ensure their safe return. This volume goes back to ninety-nine.’
Collins went to the page showing all the fingerprints of people whose surnames began with the letter K that were removed that year. It was a comparatively short list. Fingerprints were rarely removed.
‘Here,’ he pointed. ‘On the fourteenth of May 1999, fingerprints belonging to one Stefan Korsakov were removed by a DC Graham Wright, from the CID at Richmond.’
‘So they were here?’ Sally asked.
‘They must have been.’
‘But this DC Wright never returned them?’
‘That’s the bit I don’t understand,’ said Collins, frowning. ‘They were returned. Two days later by the same detective, along with the microfiche of the prints, which he’d also booked out.’
‘Then where are they?’
‘I have no idea,’ Collins admitted.
Sally paused for a few seconds. ‘Could someone have simply walked in here and taken the prints and microfiche?’
‘I seriously doubt it. The office is always manned and all prints and fiches are locked away. Only someone who worked in the Fingerprint Branch would have that level of access.’
Why the hell would someone