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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These were newborn.
There would be a drainpipe outside the window. This was the bathroom so there had to be a drainpipe. He would check the outside, but he already knew what he’d find.
Another change of method, Sean thought. This man’s already thinking of court. A decent defence solicitor would have a field day with this one. The police trying to say three completely different murders were all linked. Sean wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.
He knew more than ever he needed something to hang Hellier with. Some piece of indisputable evidence. If he could at least prove Hellier had committed one murder, maybe he would confess to the others. Appeal to his ego. If he didn’t confess, no one would ever know how clever he’d been. How he’d outfoxed the police. If Sean could prove one, he’d run with it. He wouldn’t wait to be able to prove the others. But a sudden chill froze him, as he pictured the image of a man snaking in through the bathroom window – a man who wasn’t James Hellier. The sudden unexpected doubt momentarily terrified him – was he derailing the investigation with his own prejudice against Hellier and all his perceived type stood for? No. He shook the doubt away, remembering how he felt every time he was in Hellier’s presence, the animalistic scent of a survivor, a predator that he’d smelled on him the very moment they first met. He was right about Hellier – he had to be. He mustn’t allow himself to be confused by Hellier’s camouflaging tactics.
Memories of Hellier’s lies and all-too-convenient alibis reassured him, his considerable efforts to avoid their surveillance and the crucial fact that he knew at least one of the victims – Daniel Graydon. Sean had no doubts. Hellier was psychopathically bad to the core, so if Hellier hadn’t killed Graydon then that would have to mean Graydon had not only randomly come into contact with one killer, but two. The chances of that were negligible. Satisfied, Sean breathed out a long sigh.
Carefully, he moved out of the bathroom and back into the corridor. The bedroom loomed before him. He had another room to see first. He crossed the hallway and entered the kitchen, again standing to the side to preserve any evidence on the floor. He was suddenly aware of a crushing thirst. But he wouldn’t use a tap at the scene, fearful of destroying evidence that might be hiding in the drains of the sink, just waiting to be found. His thirst would have to wait.
The kitchen was small and a little dingy. The units were from the early eighties and badly needed a facelift. The oven was old too, made of white metal and free-standing. The killer wouldn’t have liked this room, Sean decided, but he would have come in here. Maybe he took a knife from a cupboard to threaten the victim with? Maybe he took a knife to kill her with, only to change his mind? If he was to be true to form he’d want to change the way he killed as well as the way he entered. All the knives in the kitchen would be taken away for examination as a matter of routine.
Sean didn’t stay in the kitchen long. Neither had the killer. He stepped backwards into the hallway. The door to the bedroom was closed, but not shut altogether. Had it swung shut itself, on uneven hinges? Or had DS Simpson or DC Watson pushed it to in an attempt to show the victim some last respect?
Sean put the side of his left palm on the place the suspect was least likely to have touched, the very top centre, between the two oblong panels. He pushed gently. The door swung silently open.
Donnelly and Sally stood next to their car, smoking. Sally had found a café nearby that sold good coffee. It didn’t taste like the coffee sold in the cafés around Peckham. Her mobile rang. She flicked her cigarette away before answering. ‘Sally Jones speaking.’
‘Detective Sergeant Jones?’
‘Who’s asking?’ She hadn’t recognized the voice.
‘You probably won’t remember me. My name is Sebastian Gibran. We met at my office when you came to see an employee of mine – James Hellier.’
She remembered now. It was the senior partner from Hellier’s finance firm. ‘I remember,’ she told him. ‘But what I don’t remember is giving you this mobile number.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, I phoned your office first, but you weren’t there. Another detective was good enough to give me your number.’
She wasn’t impressed. Giving out a team member’s mobile number to unseen parties was a definite no-no. ‘What is it I can do for you, Mr Gibran?’
‘Not something I want to discuss over the phone, you understand? I feel it’s better if we meet, somewhere private. It’s a sensitive matter.’
‘Why don’t you come to the police station?’
‘I’d rather not be seen there, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Where then?’ Sally asked.
‘Can you meet me for lunch tomorrow? I know a place that’ll fit me in at short notice. We’ll be able to talk freely there.’
Over-confident bastard, but what was there to lose? ‘Okay. Where and when?’
‘Excellent,’ Gibran responded. ‘Che, just off Piccadilly, at one o’clock tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be there,’ Sally told him.
‘I look forward to it.’ She heard him hang up. Her expression was pensive.
‘Problem?’ Donnelly asked.
‘No. At least I don’t think so. That was Sebastian Gibran, Hellier’s boss. He wants to meet for a chat.’
‘Well, well. Maybe Hellier’s fancy friends are getting set to abandon him to his fate.’
‘The ritual washing of hands,’ she declared. ‘Not to mention a free lunch for yours truly.’
‘Do you want some company at this little get-together?’
‘No. I get the feeling it’ll go better if I meet him alone.’
‘Fair enough, but don’t forget to run it past the boss before you go,’ Donnelly warned her.
‘Naturally. Listen, I need to follow up on something over in Surbiton. The boss can do without me here for a while. I’ll check back with you later, okay?’
‘Suit yourself,’ Donnelly replied. ‘I’ll let the guv’nor know you’ve commandeered his vehicle.’
‘No doubt that’ll make him very happy,’ she said. ‘Almost as happy as when he finds out I still haven’t eliminated Korsakov as a possible suspect.’
‘You will.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means, the more I look into it, the more I don’t like it. Something’s not right – I don’t know what it is yet, but I know it’s something.’
‘Christ. You’re getting as bad as the guv’nor.’
‘No, seriously,’ Sally argued. ‘It’s like everything to do with Korsakov has disappeared, as if someone made him vanish.’
‘Why would anyone do that?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe, for some reason, they’re hiding him, so he can commit further offences without being identified. Or maybe …’
‘Go on,’ Donnelly encouraged her. ‘You’re amongst friends here.’
‘Or, maybe someone got rid of him – killed him.’
‘Like who?’
‘One of his victims, or someone connected to one of his victims, someone looking for revenge.’
‘An eye for an eye,’ Donnelly suggested.
‘Or,’ Sally continued, ‘someone got rid of him so they could commit crimes they knew we would eventually blame him for, because of the similarity of the method – have us chasing a dead man we’d never be able to find.’
‘Now