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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wedged in her chest. Finally he let her slip to the floor. He placed a foot on the left side of her chest and pulled on the knife. It wouldn’t move.
‘Fucking pig whore,’ he hissed. He wanted to spit on her, but wouldn’t risk leaving his DNA in the saliva at the scene.
He stood over her, watching the crimson spreading across her white blouse. Her breathing was shallow, but she was alive. Suddenly he was hypnotized by her. He cocked his head to one side like a bird of prey watching its kill writhing, trapped under its talons.
But it was spoilt. This was not how he had foreseen it. No matter. He calmed himself. He would finish her quickly and leave. All great men suffered frustration, he reassured himself. He would learn from his mistakes.
He pulled at the knife protruding from her chest. Still it wouldn’t move. She was all but finished, but he wouldn’t take the chance and leave her like this. He peered through the living room to the kitchen. His mind tried to recall what other knives he had seen in the drawer when he had selected the one now embedded in Sally’s chest. Most had felt blunt. He recalled running a finger carefully along their cutting edges, blunt. She hadn’t taken care of them. So be it. He would cut her throat with a blunt knife. It would take longer. It wouldn’t be clean and neat. She only had herself to blame.
He studied her once more. Air leaking from her chest puncture made the blood around the entry wound bubble and hiss. It reminded him of when he was a boy, fixing punctures on his pedal cycle. Should he drag her to the kitchen, keep her close? No. Quicker to leave her there.
Decision made, he turned and strode to the kitchen. Despite the disappointment, he still felt magnificent. Powerful. Untouchable. Like a god. He knew which drawer to open. The knives weren’t organized. He shifted the knives around with a gloved hand, ignoring the large carving ones. Trying to find something with a four-inch blade. Smooth or serrated edge, it didn’t matter, but it had to be rigid. Thick and strong from hilt to tip. A chopping knife would be best. He’d already used the best one, but he found a substitute. A black-handled vegetable knife. He held the knife up to his face, slightly above his eyeline. It would do.
He turned back towards the living room, expecting to see Sally’s head and upper body lying on the floor, the rest of her obscured by the sofa. Instead he saw her open the front door and stagger into the communal hallway. Somehow she had got to her feet. He saw the blood smear around the top door bolt. He had underestimated her strength. Her will to live. To survive. It had been a mistake.
Should he flee? He glanced over his shoulder at the open window in the kitchen. He looked back at Sally. Could he reach her before she started pounding on the neighbour’s front door? Would she reach their door? It was less than ten feet away, but it would feel like a marathon to her. He willed her to collapse.
He couldn’t let this happen. She had seen him. His grip tightened around the knife. He watched her stagger sideways, but remain on her feet. He began to walk towards her, long confident steps propelling him forward.
She fell, crashing into her neighbour’s door, and banged her fist twice, as hard as she could, on the door. Still he strode towards her, cutting through the dim red light that now spilled into the hallway. She had to die. She could destroy him. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
It was gone eleven p.m. when George Fuller, inside flat four, heard something crash into his front door. The surprise made him jump and spill some of his beer. The cold drops fell on to his wife’s face as she slept in his lap on the sofa. He had been watching a bad sci-fi film. She woke with a moan.
‘George,’ Susie Fuller complained, ‘you’ve spilt beer on me.’
He was annoyed his wife had been woken. Now she would want to watch the other channel. ‘It’ll be that bloody woman from across the hall again.’ He was already up and heading towards the front door. He was a big man. His two favourite places were the gym and the pub. The results were intimidating. ‘She must be a prostitute or something, the hours she keeps.’
He was only steps away from the front door when he heard the two thumps. They came from lower down on the door. As if someone was sitting on the other side. Someone in trouble maybe? Someone drunk? Drunk, he decided.
‘George,’ he heard his wife enquiring. ‘Who is it? What’s going on?’
‘Stay there,’ he told her. She could hear the anger in his voice. He reached the door and yanked it open. His chest was full, ready to power a verbal onslaught at whoever he found. The door opened wide in one sweep. Sally’s still body slumped heavily on to the floor at his feet. He could see she was bleeding, but didn’t see the knife.
He sensed danger. Five years as an officer in the Parachute Regiment had tuned his instincts. He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. He bent over fast and grabbed Sally’s arm. He began to drag her back into his flat. A movement caught his eye. Something in Sally’s flat opposite. He looked up into the dim red light. Something moving fast. Too fast. Was that a man? The dark shape slithered through the small kitchen window and was gone.
He snapped himself back into action, dragging Sally into his flat and slamming the door shut. He bent to examine her then turned his attention to the front door. He secured every lock he could see. His wife appeared in the hallway.
‘George?’ she asked. The worry was loud in her tone.
‘Call the police,’ he shouted, loudly enough to make Susie hug herself. ‘And get a fucking ambulance.’ He was back in Afghanistan, shouting orders at teenage soldiers.
His wife was staring at Sally lying on her floor. She started to cry with fear. ‘What’s happening, George? What was it?’
George looked at his own bloody hands. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ His voice grew calmer. ‘I saw something out there. A dog, or a fucking big cat or something. It escaped through her window.’
He examined Sally more closely. His battlefield medical trauma training came back to him as he rolled her on to her side and checked for the wounds. He saw the knife, making him recoil. It had been a man he saw.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered quietly. ‘Get me some tape and plastic bags.’ He was shouting again. ‘Come on. Come on,’ he spoke to Sally. ‘Hold on, girl. Help’s on the way. Just a little longer. Just a little longer.’
The mobile rang loudly. Kate woke first. Sean slept deeply, sedated by alcohol. He’d hit the bourbon pretty hard after Kate had left him. It was the only way he could chase their argument and Hellier from his mind long enough to get to sleep. She turned the bedside lamp on and looked at her husband sleeping. She wished she could leave him, but a phone call at two a.m. would have to be important. She shook him as gently as she could while still waking him.
‘Sean.’ She spoke softly. She wanted to wake him, not the children. ‘Sean.’
He moaned and rolled over to look at her, his eyes vacant, wandering between the real and dream worlds. He didn’t hear the phone yet.
‘Your phone,’ Kate whispered.
‘What time is it?’ he asked.
‘About two. And keep your voice down.’
Sean moaned again then grabbed the phone. ‘Hello.’
‘Sorry to call at this hour.’ He didn’t recognize the voice. ‘I’m Inspector Deiry, the Night Duty Inspector for Chelsea and Fulham. I’m trying to trace a Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan.’
‘You’ve found him,’ Sean said. His head thumped mercilessly. The nausea spread from his stomach to his throat. He remembered why he rarely drank more than a glass or two of beer.
‘I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this …’ The Inspector sounded grim. ‘Do you work with a DS Sally Jones?’
Sean’s mouth was as dry as his heart was frantic. He managed to answer. ‘Yes. She’s on my team. What’s happened to her?’
‘She was attacked, earlier tonight.