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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you walk through again just to help me. I’d rather not cause you any more grief than I probably already have, so best you wait here, or outside if you fancy some fresh air. I’ll find my own way around.’
The two detectives nodded to each other and headed for the front door. ‘I’ll send DI Townsend up when she arrives,’ Simpson told him.
‘Thanks,’ Sean replied. He was already in the living room. Leaving the outside world behind. Entering the killer’s world.
Hellier arrived home sometime after 3 a.m. to find his wife had been waiting for him. She had a lot of questions she wanted him to answer, but he’d insisted he needed to be alone, that the stress of the police investigation was getting to him. He’d told her he loved her, that she and the children were his life. She’d cried tears of both joy and fear.
But someone else had been waiting for him when he arrived home – the police. He could feel them easily enough. They must have been sitting out there all night waiting for him and now they didn’t know where he’d been for over nine hours. Had Corrigan slept at all? He had more unpleasant surprises for DI Sean Corrigan.
It was almost midday and he still hadn’t been to the office. He’d called them to say he’d be working from home in the morning. He’d be in this afternoon. He stood on Westminster Bridge and gazed north-west across the Thames at the Houses of Parliament. He never did buy himself a politician. A cabinet minister would have been handy. Not to worry. Maybe next time.
The midday sun sparkled on the surface of the Thames. It was quite beautiful. Parliament’s reflection was as impressive as the real thing. Most of the architecture along the banks of the great river pleased him. Especially the north bank. Some unpleasant monstrosities had somehow been allowed to appear on the south bank, but it was still magnificent. A river to rival any in the world. He made a note to himself. Wherever he went next must have a river running through its heart, or at least a dominating harbour. Yes, he could make do with a harbour. Or even a lake, surrounded by mountains.
His mobile phone rang in his breast pocket. He considered tossing the damn thing into the Thames. A symbolic gesture of leaving this city. Instead he answered it.
‘Mr Hellier? Mr James Hellier?’ It was the same nervous voice from the previous day. He recognized it immediately.
‘I don’t appreciate having my time wasted,’ Hellier snapped.
‘I was being followed.’ The voice sounded strained. ‘I couldn’t risk leading them to you.’
‘Who was following you?’ Hellier demanded. ‘The police? The press?’
‘I don’t know, but I need to see you. I’ll contact you soon.’
‘Wait. Why do you need to see me? Wait.’ The voice was gone. Hellier no longer felt tired. Who was this man, this man telling him he was a friend? James Hellier didn’t have any friends. If the voice belonged to a journalist, then what was he waiting for – what was his angle? Hellier couldn’t see it, and that bothered him. Maybe it was time to consider the possibility his friend was something entirely different.
Sean didn’t like being in the flat alone, but the quiet peace was a blessing. He could hear what the scene was telling him. He moved around the living room, keeping to the edges to avoid stepping on microscopic evidence. He touched as little as possible and made a permanent mental note of anything he did.
The room was comfortable, almost snug. Too much furniture. Too many colours. A real room. Years of impulse buying and fitting presents from family and friends into the space had produced an uncoordinated history of the occupier. Kate would have hated it. He quite liked it.
Did the killer come in here? If so, why? To be amongst her things? To spend a moment with the photographs of the victim that were scattered all over the room. Would he have put a light on to see better? Sean doubted it. Maybe he used a torch? If he did and if he was the same killer, it would have been the first time he used a torch. Again, Sean doubted it.
He’d been in here though. Sean was sure of it. He scanned the room over and over. Is this where the killer came to prepare himself? Not to put on his gloves and other protective clothing – he would have done that outside, before he entered. But to be amongst her possessions, the very heart of her life. To form a connection with her. The more he connected with her, the sweeter it would be when the moment came to move down the corridor to her bedroom.
Hellier had a connection with the second victim, Daniel Graydon, albeit a fleeting one. Did he have a connection with the first, Heather Freeman? Had the murder team in the east missed something? Sean resolved to go back and check. Was there a connection between the killer and this latest scene? Between Hellier and the third victim?
Did the killer touch anything in here? Take off a glove and touch anything? No. He was too controlled for that. Always in control. No mistakes. He would have confined himself to looking. So he’d stood and looked. Just as Sean was now.
Sean left the room and moved back into the hallway. He pushed a door open on his left. It was a small bedroom, being used for storage. Stuffed and tied bin liners littered the floor. The room wasn’t in keeping with the rest of the flat. It was cold and impersonal. Whoever lived here didn’t come in very often. What was in those bin liners? They appeared to be waiting for someone to come and take them away. Sean spotted the handle of a cricket bat protruding from one of the bags. A man had recently been living in the flat. Had he lived with the victim? Probably. Was he a jilted lover? Almost certainly. A suspect? He would have to be.
If the room held little for the victim, then it would hold less for her killer. Sean couldn’t feel him in this place. He left, pulling the door back as he found it, careful not to touch the handle.
He moved slowly down the hallway and pushed the next door on the left open. The bathroom. It smelled like a woman’s bathroom. Dozens of bottles of brightly coloured liquids could be seen all over. Creams, make-up, cotton wool, lotions and potions of all descriptions had found their way on to most of the flat surfaces. Sean thought about how a single man’s bathroom would look in comparison. A comb, razor, shaving foam, maybe some hair and shower gel. Aftershave, if he really cared about his appearance. The victim clearly liked to spend time in this room. The room reminded him of Kate. He shook the thought away. His wife had no place here.
The bathroom was very personal to the victim. Was it therefore personal to the killer? He would have definitely been in here, but did he stay? What would have attracted him? What was so personal to her that he may have had to touch it? Maybe he held it up to his face, to his nose, to be as close to her scent as he could. Maybe he had to taste her? Maybe he licked something? If he did, he would have left his DNA.
Sean looked hard at the items in the bathroom. Nothing particularly caught his attention. She kept it cluttered but clean. There was nothing here the killer couldn’t have resisted. A hairbrush that still had some hair in the bristles was the most likely, but Sean wasn’t hopeful. Nevertheless, it might be worth special attention. Send it to the lab for DNA and fingerprints instead of dusting it on site.
As he turned towards the door a sunray hit the catch on the small sash window. The reflection was wrong. Uneven. There should have been one starburst of light off the chrome catch, but Sean could see dozens.
The window was directly above the bath. Sean didn’t want to have to climb into the bath to get closer. If the killer somehow came in or went out through this window he would have almost certainly had to put a foot in the bath. Sean wouldn’t risk stepping on a print. He couldn’t see one with the naked eye, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
He examined the window frame from where he was. No deadlocks, only the catch. Easy to open. Horribly easy. A novice burglar could do it in seconds. Sean couldn’t help but think how a ten-pound deadlock might have saved her life. He felt sick at the thought.
He imagined the killer climbing in and out of the window. Where would he have been least likely to touch? He decided on the area of wall directly below and central to the window. He crouched down and reached across the bath with his left arm. He placed the side of his gloved palm