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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ahead of the game. I touched little in his flat, and that which I did touch I wiped clean. People like Graydon are not to be trusted. He could have caused me problems.’
‘So you killed him before he had a chance to. Why not? You’d already killed Heather Freeman, but you were going to kill him anyway. You selected him as your next victim and a week later you killed him.’
‘No,’ Hellier shouted. ‘I didn’t kill any of them. You’re wrong. Completely wrong.’
‘We’re getting nowhere,’ Sean said, the frustration in his voice obvious. He was so tired he doubted he could properly structure a sentence let alone any intelligent questions. ‘We’ll take an hour’s break and try again.’ He reached for the off switch, but once more Hellier stopped him.
‘Does she have a guard?’ Hellier hurriedly asked. ‘At the hospital, your DS Jones. Does she have a guard?’
‘That’s not something I would ever be prepared to discuss with you,’ Sean answered.
‘Of course she does,’ Hellier continued. ‘Are they armed as well, these guards? I think so. I am right, aren’t I, Inspector? Which rather begs the question: why would you have her guarded by men with guns if you truly believe I am the one who would have her dead, when I’m safely locked up here with you? I just can’t work that one out. Can you?’
‘Standard procedure,’ Sean answered noncommittally.
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Hellier argued. ‘I really don’t think so. You have her guarded because you know I’m not the one. Her would-be destroyer is still out there, and you know it, don’t you? Don’t you, Inspector?’
‘I haven’t got time for this.’ Sean tried to push the fog of doubt from his mind.
‘I know who it is, Inspector. I know who killed these people and tried to kill DS Jones. The realization washed over me like a revelation. A moment of absolute clarity. It could only be him. Only he could know so much about me. Only he could watch me so closely.’
‘Who?’ Sean asked, voice rising. ‘Let’s play your little game. Tell me who.’
‘You already know.’ Hellier’s voice rose to match Sean’s.
‘Tell me, damn it,’ Sean demanded. ‘You need to tell me and you need to do it now, or this interview will be over and you’ll end up rotting in Broadmoor for someone else’s crimes.’
‘You already know,’ Hellier repeated. ‘If I know, you know. Use your imagination. Think as he thinks. Think as we think.’
Sean leaned forward to answer, but suddenly stopped, scene after scene suddenly playing in his mind, no longer under his control: the first time he entered Daniel Graydon’s flat; the body on the floor in a pool of blood; the autopsy; walking into Hellier’s office; the stench of his malevolence; Sebastian Gibran watching them. The photographs of Heather Freeman, her throat cut, blue staring lifeless eyes; Hellier’s snarling face when he arrested him at his office; Sebastian Gibran watching. Linda Kotler’s twisted and tortured body; Hellier admitting he practised sado-masochistic sex; Sebastian Gibran watching. Sebastian Gibran contacting Sally, meeting her, watching her. Sally attacked in her own home. The phone calls Hellier claimed to have received, the instructions he was given that denied him alibis; Sebastian Gibran watching, watching them all, playing them all – him against Hellier and Hellier against him, led by the nose like two lambs to the slaughter. But Hellier had worked it out, his hunger to survive driving him to the answer. And now the revelation washed over Sean too – Sebastian Gibran. Sebastian Gibran. Sebastian Gibran.
His eyes fell away to the ground as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place in his damaged mind. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he finally declared as the face formed behind his eyes. ‘I need to get to the hospital. I need to go now.’
Sean jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over, the sound of Hellier’s growing laughter tearing at his ears.
‘Run to her, Inspector,’ Hellier tormented. ‘Run to her before he beats you to the prize.’
Sean ran from the interview room, almost knocking Donnelly over as he headed for the exit to the custody suite and the car park.
‘Problem?’ Donnelly asked, bewildered.
‘I’ve got to get to the hospital. I’ve got to get to Sally,’ Sean carried on moving.
‘Why?’ Donnelly tried to keep pace. ‘And what about Hellier?’
‘Let him go.’
‘After what he tried to do to you?’
Sean glanced down at his swollen hand; the image of Hellier’s bloodied face flashed in his mind. ‘I’d say we’re even. Just get rid of him and tell him I never want to see him again.’ On reaching the exit, he turned to face Donnelly. ‘And then get to the hospital as fast as you can.’ He backed out of the exit and was gone.
Only the closing door heard Donnelly’s reply: ‘Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?’
21
Saturday afternoon
I sit on a bench in a pretty little garden in the hospital grounds. It’s where people recovering from amputations caused by cancer come to smoke. No one pays me much attention, dressed as I am in a dark blue male nurse’s uniform. A wig, moustache and spectacles conceal my true features, and the coiled cheese-wire handles dig uncomfortably into my hip as it hides in my pocket. A crude weapon, but quiet and effective in the right hands.
I begin to walk to Charing Cross Hospital’s main entrance, feeling the syringe taped to my chest pulling my shaved skin as I stride forward. The sheathed knife tucked into the small of my back feels uncomfortable, but reassuringly so.
I like to plan meticulously, but there’s been no time for that. I must be pragmatic, play things by ear. It will be dangerous for me, and even more so for anyone who gets in my way, but there is no choice, not now. If the pig bitch survives she will tell the world I was the one who visited her last night. My beautiful charade would be over. I would have to run … But if I am able to correct my mistake, I will remain anonymous.
It was easy enough to find out where she had been taken. Everybody in this area either gets taken to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, or as she had, to Charing Cross. A few phone calls were all it took to find out which, and that she was in the ICU unit. They were also kind enough to tell me it was expected that she would recover from her injuries. People really ought to be more careful with information they give out. You never know who you’re talking to.
I make my way confidently through the never-ending, winding corridors to the laundry room. Medical staff and porters wander in and out of here endlessly, nobody paying anybody else much attention. These giant hospitals are about as personal as a rush-hour train station. Their security is a joke.
I help myself to several clean and neatly folded sheets, all wrapped in transparent polythene, and make my way to the lift that will carry me straight to the Intensive Care Unit and her. As the lift rises my heart begins to race. The power surges through my veins. I feel giddy with excitement. It makes me want to lash out at the other people in the lift, pull the knife from the small of my back and cut them all to pieces, but I won’t. I keep control. I have other business to take care of today.
As the lift doors slide open I see the Intensive Care Unit stretch out before me. It’s different from the rest of the hospital: darker, warmer, and quieter. It feels safe. I step into its peace and allow the lift to fall away to rejoin the chaos. Immediately, I know which room she must be in, dutifully advertised by the armed police officer standing outside. I have anticipated it. Good. I’ll make good use of his uniform. Once I have that, I’ll be spending a few farewell moments with the little bitch. Then I’ll use the syringe I’ve brought to inject a bubble of air into her already fragile body and send her quietly to meet her maker. After all, who’s going