Читать книгу 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 - Страница 15

Sean drove the car through heavy central London traffic while Donnelly spoke, his notebook flipped open on his thigh. ‘The man we need to talk to works for some international finance company, Butler and Mason. After this morning’s briefing I popped into one of the nightclubs on the list. Place in Vauxhall. They were cleaning up last night’s mess, but the head of security was still there. He also works the door at the club during opening hours.’ Sean listened without interrupting. Donnelly checked his notebook. ‘Stuart Young’s the guy’s name. Now, he says he knew our victim; not bosom buddies, but he knew him to speak to and he knew he worked the club for clients too.’

‘He was okay with that?’ Sean asked.

‘Apparently so. As far as he’s concerned, it happens. If he tried to stop every bit of naughtiness that went on in the club they wouldn’t stay in business too long.’ Sean raised his eyebrows. ‘And young Daniel was apparently subtle about it, didn’t have too many clients, kept it all nice and low key.’

‘If I was a cynic, I might suspect Mr Young was turning a blind eye because Daniel was paying him to do so.’

Donnelly continued. ‘Either way, Young confirms that Daniel was in Utopia on Wednesday night.’

‘Was he with anyone particular?’

‘Afraid not. According to Young, Daniel spent some time with a couple of his regulars, guys who have been going to the club for years.’

‘Have we spoken with them yet?’

‘I spoke with them both myself. I gave Young my number and asked him to phone around the victim’s regular tricks. Amongst those who already got back to me are the men he was with Wednesday night.’ Donnelly flicked through his notebook again. ‘Sam Milford and a Benjamin Briggs. Both seemed pretty upset by the whole thing, both happy to provide samples. Neither great suspect material.’

‘Any other clients been in touch?’

‘They certainly have. The grapevine has been working nicely for me, but they all seem much of a muchness − all very upset, all willing to cooperate. No great suspects yet, but maybe that’ll change when I meet them face-to-face.’

‘But you don’t think so, do you?’

Donnelly shrugged. ‘The victim’s clients aren’t looking too likely, so I did a little bit more digging.’

‘And?’

‘Okay.’ Donnelly sounded like a mock game-show host. ‘Possible suspect number one – Steven Paramore, male, thirty-two years old, white. Sally had Paulo check local intelligence records and he found this guy, recently released from Belmarsh having just served eight years for the attempted murder of a teenage rent boy back in 2005. Apparently he almost beat the victim to death with his bare hands.’

‘Nice.’

‘After his release he went back to live with dear old mum, whom I’m sure must be fucking delighted.’

‘What’s his address?’

‘Bardsley Lane, Deptford.’

‘Close to Graydon’s flat,’ Sean said.

‘Close enough,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘And he’s a very angry man – served nearly a full sentence because of his bad behaviour inside. It’s also suspected he’s a closet homosexual himself.’

‘Is that what you think our killer is?’

‘What, a homosexual?’

‘No. Angry.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Maybe. Check him out anyway. In fact, have Paulo check him out – he dug him up.’

‘No problem. Now, moving on to suspect number two: Jonnie Dempsey, male, white, twenty-four years old, an Aussie, works as a barman in Utopia and is known to be a friend of Daniel’s, although no suggestion yet he was anything more, but … Anyhow, he was supposed to be working the night Daniel was killed, only he didn’t show. And he hasn’t been seen since. The manager’s been trying his mobile and home numbers relentlessly, but no joy. Jonnie Dempsey is very much missing. Daniel’s secret lover?’ Donnelly suggested.

‘I don’t know.’ Sean sounded unconvinced. ‘Like I said, this doesn’t feel like a domestic.’

‘Maybe it’s not,’ Donnelly half agreed. ‘Maybe there’s more to Jonnie Dempsey than anyone’s giving him credit for?’

‘Fine. Find him. Check him out. But neither Paramore or Dempsey look like they work at Butler and Mason International Finance, so why are we here? Whose day are we about to spoil?’

‘The guy we’re about to fall out with is called James Hellier.’ Sean noticed Donnelly didn’t have to refer to his notebook to recall the name.

‘And why should I be interested in James Hellier?’ Sean asked, trying to clear his mind of the avalanche of admin and protocol he’d had to deal with since the investigation began. He needed a clear mind if he was going to have any chance of thinking freely and imaginatively.

‘Show me a liar and a man with a lot to lose and I’ll show you a pretty good suspect – Hellier’s both those things.’

‘How so?’

‘Stuart Young told me that Daniel generally liked to play it safe, keep to established, regular customers, so it’s always a wee bit of a surprise when a new guy comes on the scene.’

‘And a new guy had come on to the scene?’

‘Aye,’ Donnelly explained. ‘Only appeared about a week ago. Kept himself to himself, didn’t mix, didn’t cause trouble either, but Young’s pretty sure he had relations of the paying kind with Daniel at least once. He says he saw them outside the club, before they headed off together.’

‘Go on,’ Sean encouraged, listening more intently now, a mental picture of the man they were about to meet beginning to form in his thoughts. Not of his physical appearance, but of his state of mind, his possible motivation, his ability or not to take the life of a fellow man.

‘Okay. Firstly, Young told me he had asked Daniel about this newcomer a few nights after he’d seen them outside together – nothing heavy, just small talk. Daniel told him that the man was called David, no surname mentioned, and that he worked in the City and lived alone somewhere out west. But then things get a little more complicated. You see, Young was working the door the night the newcomer first appeared, when a regular punter came in, a …’ Donnelly quickly checked his notebook again ‘… a Roger Bennett. Now Bennett, who’s known Young for years, sees this newcomer David and makes for the exit sharpish. Young asks him if there’s a problem and Bennett tells him there is, the problem being that Bennett knows our friend David.’

‘How?’ Sean asked unnecessarily.

‘Through work. Bennett works for a big men’s magazine in the West End – you know the type of glossy rag, all cars and tits. Anyway, this new guy’s been to his office a number of times to do their accounts.’

‘So?’ Sean was growing impatient.

‘The problem being, Bennett is gay, as you may have guessed, but he doesn’t want anyone at work to find out. Apparently it wouldn’t go down too well in his office. So he decamps from the club and asks Young to give him a ring if and when David disappears from the scene.

‘No big deal, but I figure if this David’s been with the victim, we need to speak to him anyway. So Young gives me Bennett’s number and I give him a ring and ask him where I can find this David. He tells me he doesn’t have the foggiest what I’m talking about, but when I remind him of the night he left the club on the hurry-up, etc. etc. it all comes back to him and he opens up. And guess what he tells me?’

Sean answered immediately. ‘He’s not called David and he doesn’t work in the City.’

Donnelly froze for a second, a little deflated that Sean had made the leap without needing any more information. ‘Dead right, Bennett reckons that David’s real name is James Hellier and he works for Butler and Mason International Finance. But you already knew that, didn’t you?’

Sean didn’t answer. ‘What you didn’t know,’ Donnelly continued, a satisfied smile spreading across his face, ‘is that, according to Bennett, Hellier also has a wife and a couple of kiddies. Interested?’

‘Hmm,’ Sean replied. He was interested. ‘Like you said, “Show me a liar and a man with a lot to lose …” But this doorman, Young, did he ever see Hellier in the club before that night, or after?’

‘No, but he doesn’t work there every night.’

‘CCTV?’

‘Their system’s ancient – still runs on VHS, if you can believe it. They reuse the tapes after seven days. The tapes from last week are already recorded over, but we can check the current tapes to see if he’s been there any time during the last few days.’

‘Get it done,’ Sean told him as they pulled up outside an old Georgian mansion block converted into exclusive offices. Identical buildings ran the length of the long road, all painted white with black windows, and doors adorned with heavy, shiny brass numbers. Pointed metal railings fenced off the entrances to the basements, curling up and along the short flights of stairs leading to the front door, where visitors were met by pristine brass plates announcing the company within. Only Arabs and the aristocracy could afford to actually live here now.

The two detectives climbed from their Ford and walked across the pavement to the building’s entrance. ‘Here we go, Butler and Mason International Finance. Shall we?’ Donnelly rang the outside security buzzer. They didn’t have to wait long. A female voice crackled back from the intercom. ‘Butler and Mason. Good morning. How can I help?’

‘Detective Inspector Corrigan and Detective Sergeant Donnelly from the Metropolitan Police.’ Donnelly deliberately avoided stating they were from the Murder Investigation Team. ‘Here to see a Mr James Hellier.’ He made it sound as if they had an appointment. It didn’t work.

‘Is he expecting you?’ came the voice through the small metal box. Donnelly looked at Sean and shrugged his shoulders. Time to put a little pressure on.

‘No. He’s not expecting us, but I can assure you he will want to see us.’

Whoever it was on the intercom wasn’t easily bullied. ‘Can I ask what it’s in connection with please?’

‘It’s a private matter concerning Mr Hellier,’ Donnelly told her. ‘We believe someone may have stolen some cheques from him. We need to speak with him before someone empties his bank account.’ The threat of losing money usually opened doors.

‘I see. Please come in.’

The door buzzed. Donnelly pushed it open. They passed through a second security door and into the reception of Butler and Mason, where they were met by a tall, attractive young woman. She wore expensive-looking spectacles and an equally expensive-looking tailored suit. Her hair was hazelnut brown and tied back in a perfect ponytail. Sean thought she looked unreal.

‘The voice on the intercom, I assume?’ Donnelly asked. She smiled a perfect, practised smile that meant nothing.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. If I could just see your identification, please?’

Neither Sean or Donnelly had their warrant cards ready. Donnelly rolled his eyes as they fished their small black leather wallets from inside jacket pockets and presented them flipped open to the secretary.

‘Thank you.’ She looked up at them after examining the warrant cards more closely than they were used to. ‘If you would like to follow me, Mr Hellier has agreed to see you straight away. His office is on the top floor, so I suggest we take the lift.’

Clearly Hellier was doing well for himself. They followed her to the lift where she pulled open the old-style concertina grid and then the lift doors. She stepped inside and waited for them to join her before pressing the button for the top level. They moved silently up through the building until the lift juddered to a halt. She opened the doors and another grid. Sean was losing patience with the charade. They stepped out into the upper reaches of the building and walked along the opulent corridors without talking, the high ceilings providing plenty of wall space to hang portraits of people long since dead. The entire office reeked of money and was much bigger inside than they had expected. Eventually they arrived at a large mahogany door. The nameplate attached bore the inscription James Hellier. Junior Partner. The secretary knocked twice before pushing the door open without waiting for a reply. ‘Some gentlemen from the police to see you, sir.’

James Hellier was as elegant as the secretary. A little under six foot. About forty years old, athletic build. Light brown hair, immaculately cut. He looked healthy and fit in the way the rich do. Good food. Good holidays. Expensive gyms and skin-care products. His suit probably cost more than Sean earned in a month. Maybe two.

Hellier held out a hand. ‘James Hellier. Miss Collins said something about my cheques being stolen, but I really don’t think that’s likely, you see—’

The secretary had already left the office and closed the door. Sean cut across Hellier. ‘That’s not actually why we’re here, Mr Hellier. Your cheques are fine. We need to ask you a few questions, but we thought it best to be discreet until we had a chance to speak with you.’

Sean was studying him. In an inquiry like this a witness could turn into a suspect within seconds. Was he looking at the killer of Daniel Graydon?

‘I hope you haven’t come here to try and obtain client details. If you have, then I hope you’ve brought a Production Order with you.’

‘No, Mr Hellier. It’s about your visits to the Utopia club.’

Hellier sat down slowly. ‘Excuse me. I’m not familiar with that club. The only club I belong to, other than my golf club, is Home House in Portman Square. Perhaps you know it?’

Sean was trying to judge the man. He was sure Hellier was lying, but he sounded remarkably confident. ‘DS Donnelly here’s been making some inquiries at the club. You’ve been recognized.’

‘Who by?’ Hellier asked.

‘I’m not prepared to tell you that at this time.’

‘I see,’ Hellier said, smiling. ‘A silent accuser then.’

‘No. Just someone who wants to remain anonymous for now.’

‘Well, whoever it is, they’re lying. I can assure you I’ve never heard of a club called Utopia.’

‘Mr Hellier, I’ve had all the club’s CCTV tapes from the last couple of weeks seized. As we speak, some of my officers are going through them. They’ll be producing stills of all the people on the tapes. How sure are you that when I look through those stills I am not going to see a picture of you? Because if I do, I am going to start wondering why you’re lying. Do you understand?’

There was a long pause before Hellier answered. ‘Who put you up to this?’ he eventually asked in a calm voice. ‘Who paid you to follow me? Was it my wife?’

Sean and Donnelly looked at each other, confused. ‘Mr Hellier,’ Sean explained. ‘This is a murder investigation. We’re police officers, not private investigators. I’m investigating the murder of Daniel Graydon. He was killed on Wednesday night, Thursday morning, in his flat. I believe you knew Daniel. Is that correct?’

‘Murdered?’ Hellier asked through gritted teeth. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea. How did it …?’

Sean watched every flicker in Hellier’s face, every hand and finger movement, every sign that could tell him whether Hellier’s shock was genuine. Did he sense any trace of compassion? ‘He was stabbed to death in his own flat,’ Sean told him and waited for the reaction.

‘Do you know who did it – and why, for God’s sake?’

‘No,’ Sean answered as his mind processed Hellier’s performance − and that was what he was sure it was. As polished as it was, as convincing as it was, a performance nonetheless. ‘Actually, we thought you might be able to help us with the who and why.’

‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t see how. I hardly knew Daniel. I know nothing about his life. We had a brief physical relationship, nothing more.’

‘Did he know you were married?’ Sean asked.

‘No, I don’t think so. How could he?’

‘You’re a wealthy man. Did he know anything about your financial circumstances?’ Sean picked up the pace of his questioning.

‘Not as far as I’m aware.’ Hellier answered quickly and confidently.

‘Did Daniel Graydon at any time try to extort money or other favours from you, Mr Hellier?’

‘Look, I think I know where you’re going with this, Inspector … sorry, I can’t remember your name.’

‘Corrigan. Sean Corrigan.’

‘Well, Inspector Corrigan, I think my solicitor should be present before I say anything.’

Donnelly leaned in towards him. ‘That’s fine, Mr Hellier. You can have a panel of judges present, for all I care, but you’re a witness right now. Not a suspect. So why do you need a solicitor? And I don’t know for sure, but I suspect your wife is unaware of your nocturnal activities. And what about the other partners here at this lovely firm? Do they know you have a taste for young male prostitutes? I guess it’s all a question of how much you trust your solicitor to show absolute discretion. And me too.’

Hellier stared hard at the two intruders into his life, small intelligent eyes darting between the detectives, before suddenly standing up. ‘All right. All right. Please keep your voices down.’ He sat down again. ‘I went there once, about a week ago, but please, my wife mustn’t find out. It would destroy her. Our children would become a laughing stock. They shouldn’t be punished for my weaknesses.’ He paused. ‘It may be difficult for you to understand, but I do love my wife and children, I just have other needs. I have suppressed them for more than twenty years, but recently I … I couldn’t seem to stop myself.’

‘When did you last see Daniel Graydon?’ Sean asked.

‘I can’t remember exactly.’

‘Try harder.’

‘A week or so ago.’

‘We need to know exactly when and where, Mr Hellier,’ Sean insisted.

‘Try checking your diary, iPhone, or whatever it is you use,’ Donnelly suggested.

‘It won’t be in my diary,’ Hellier told them sharply. ‘I’m sure you understand why.’

‘But something will be,’ Sean said. ‘A false business meeting, a dinner with clients that never took place. You would have put something in there to cover yourself.’

Hellier studied Sean, their eyes unconsciously locked together. He reached for his iPad with a sigh. His finger slid around the screen and within seconds he found what he was looking for − a false overnight meeting in Zurich. ‘The last time I saw Daniel was a week last Tuesday – eight days ago.’

‘Where?’ Sean pressed.

‘In Utopia.’

‘Did you ever go to his flat?’

‘No.’

Sean felt like being cruel. ‘And did you pay him to have sex with you in the club or somewhere else?’

‘I pay for sex because it’s less complicated. Keeps things simple. I can’t risk being involved in a relationship. That would make me vulnerable. You needn’t look so disgusted, Inspector. I don’t like the fact I pay for sex. I don’t like the fact I abuse the trust of family and friends. I keep things simple for all our sakes.’

‘So where did you have sex with him?’

‘I’ve admitted having sex with him – isn’t that enough?’

‘Are you absolutely sure you didn’t go back to his flat, ever?’ Sean asked.

‘Positive.’

‘And Wednesday night. Where were you Wednesday night?’ Sean continued.

Hellier paused before answering, his eyes narrowing. ‘You don’t … you don’t seriously think I had anything to do with his death, do you?’ He looked both incredulous and frustrated.

‘I just need to know where you were,’ Sean repeated with an almost friendly smile.

‘Well, if you must know, I was at home all night. I had a pile of paperwork to catch up on, so I left here at about six and went straight home, where I spent most of the night working in my study.’

‘Can anyone verify that?’

‘My wife. We had dinner together, but, like I said, I spent most of the night working, alone.’

‘Then we need to speak to your wife,’ Sean insisted.

‘Look,’ Hellier snapped. ‘Am I a suspect or not?’

‘No, Mr Hellier,’ Sean answered. ‘You’re a witness, until I say otherwise. But we’ll still need to speak with your wife.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Donnelly reassured Hellier. ‘We won’t tell her what we’re investigating.’

‘Then what will you tell her?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. That we’re looking into an identity fraud, a case of mistaken identity,’ Donnelly offered. ‘The sooner she can confirm you were at home Wednesday night, the sooner we can clear the whole mess up. Fair enough?’

‘You do want to help us, don’t you, Mr Hellier?’ Sean asked.

Hellier sat silently for a time before leaning forward and snatching a pen and paper. He quickly scribbled something down and pushed the paper towards Donnelly. ‘My wife’s name and my home address,’ he said. ‘I’ve assumed a phone call wouldn’t satisfy you gentlemen.’

‘Much obliged,’ Donnelly said, slipping the note into his jacket pocket.

‘Will she be at home now?’ Sean asked.

‘Possibly,’ Hellier answered.

‘Good,’ was all Sean replied.

‘And when my wife verifies that I was at home, I’m assuming that will be the end of it.’

Sean almost laughed. ‘No, Mr Hellier, it’s a little more complicated than that. We need you to come to the station within the next two days. Whenever is convenient to you will be fine. Bring that solicitor too, if you want.’

‘But I’ve told you all I know,’ Hellier argued. ‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you.’

‘You had sex with a young man who’s now dead,’ Sean told him. ‘Murdered. We’ve taken samples from the victim’s body. Forensic samples. If you had sex with him within the last couple of weeks, part of you could still be on the victim. We need to eliminate any foreign samples found on the body that may have been left by you.’

‘That really won’t be necessary. I always used a condom. I may be foolish, but I’m not mad. You won’t find any …’ Hellier stalled, trying to think of suitable words ‘… thing belonging to me on his body. You don’t need to examine me.’

Sean stood up and leaned in close to Hellier. ‘Oh yes I do, Mr Hellier. And you will give me what I need. If you don’t, then I’ll arrest you on suspicion of murder and take the samples anyway. I’ll get a warrant and search your home. I’ll search this office – and we won’t be as discreet about our business as we’ve been so far.’

He wasn’t bluffing; the more serious the offence, the more he could stretch his powers to the limit. He opened his wallet, took out one of his business cards and threw it on the desk. ‘That’s my office and mobile numbers. You have a day to call me. And I’ll require a full written statement from you at the same time. You’ll have to tell us about your relationship with Daniel Graydon. Absolutely everything. One day to call, Mr Hellier, and then—’

The door to Hellier’s office unexpectedly swung open. Another well-dressed man entered the office without asking. Sean assumed the rich-looking man in his late thirties or early forties had to be Hellier’s boss. He looked the man over, taking in details only a cop would see. He did it to everybody nearly all the time, an occupational hazard he was almost unaware of. The man had purpose and poise, not just because of his physical presence: he was at least six foot tall, strong and fit, his tailored suit not disguising his deep chest and slim waist. But he also had an aura about him, a sense of power and control. Sean knew the man would be the sort of boss his underlings would both fear and love.

‘James.’ The well-dressed man spoke into the room. ‘I heard about the theft. I trust you got hold of your bank before the bastards had a chance to cash any cheques?’ The man’s voice matched everything else about him: authoritative and dominating, but soothing and reassuring at the same time. Sean felt it was almost gravitational, drawing whoever he was talking to towards him, like a brilliant actor performing on the stage.

‘Yes. Yes I did. Panic over,’ Hellier told him.

The well-dressed man thrust out a hand toward Sean and Donnelly. ‘Sebastian Gibran. Senior Partner here. Always a pleasure to help the police in any way we can. Any idea who you’re looking for?’

‘No. Not yet,’ said Sean, shaking his hand, feeling a little thrown off centre by Gibran’s very presence. The handshake was firm, but not overpowering, although Sean believed Gibran could have crushed his hand if he’d wanted to.

‘Well, anything we can do to help, just let me know.’ Gibran’s smile was perfect – straight white teeth that shone almost as brightly as his eyes − and radiated warmth and charm, all wrapped in a protective sheath of power.

‘Thank you. I will,’ Sean replied. ‘Don’t get up, Mr Hellier. We’ll let ourselves out. And thanks for your time.’ Both detectives stood to leave the office.

‘Allow me to show you out,’ Gibran offered.

‘We’ll be fine,’ Sean said, keen to be away so that he and Donnelly could begin to speak freely. ‘I’m sure you’re very busy.’

‘I insist,’ Gibran argued, once again flashing his mouthful of brilliant white teeth. ‘Please, follow me.’

Sean and Donnelly followed Gibran, who smiled and nodded his acknowledgement to staff members they passed, using Christian names to greet each and every one. Sean had worked in the same office for over two years and still struggled to remember everyone’s names. Gibran’s smoothness only made him dislike him all the more. When they were alone, Gibran spoke again. ‘Where did you say you were from?’

‘We informed Mr Hellier where we are from,’ Sean responded.

‘I’m sure you did,’ Gibran replied. ‘But you didn’t tell me.’

‘Our dealings with Mr Hellier are confidential,’ Sean said firmly. ‘If he wants to tell you more, that’s up to him.’

‘If James is involved in anything that could damage the reputation of this institution, then I should be informed, Inspector,’ Gibran argued. ‘Look,’ he took a conciliatory tone, the smile back in place, ‘a lot of people rely on me for their welfare and security in these uncertain times. It is my responsibility to protect their interests. The need of the many is greater than the need of the individual.’

‘Meaning, if Hellier looks like he’s going to be bad for business, you’ll throw him to the wolves,’ Donnelly accused.

Gibran stared hard at Donnelly before speaking again. ‘James is very privileged to have both a detective inspector and a detective sergeant investigating what appears to be a minor theft.’ He watched Sean and Donnelly look at each other; it was only a glance, but he noticed it. ‘Really, you didn’t think I was that stupid, did you?’

Sean had no answer and felt he needed to counter, to try and knock Gibran out of his stride. ‘What did you say you do here?’ Sean asked. ‘International finance – what exactly does that mean?’

‘Nothing the police need to be concerned about,’ Gibran answered. ‘We help people and organizations raise capital for various business projects, no more. You know, oil people wanting to move into the building and property markets, property people wanting to move into the tech markets, and now and then someone literally walks in off the street with a brilliant idea but no funds. We’ll help them obtain those funds.’

‘Well, that all sounds very noble,’ Donnelly chipped in.

‘We’re not part of the banking system,’ Gibran assured them. ‘There’s no need for animosity here.’

Sean looked him up and down. He had no more he wanted to say. ‘Goodbye, Mr Gibran. It was a pleasure meeting you.’

He could feel Gibran’s eyes watching them as they finally escaped into the lift, the streets below beckoning them. Sean needed to drag Hellier out of his natural comfort zone and into his world, away from protectors like Sebastian Gibran. Then and only then would they see the real James Hellier.

James Hellier stood by his office window looking down on the detectives in the street below. He was careful not to be seen. He paid special attention to Sean. He disliked him, sensed the danger in him, but he felt no anger towards him. In his own way he appreciated him – appreciated a worthy adversary who would make the game all the more fun to play. They thought they were clever, but they weren’t going to ruin things for him. He would make sure of it.

He cursed under his breath – somehow he’d been recognized at the damn nightclub and he wondered who by. He should have been more careful. It was unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected. He needed to stay calm. They had nothing on him. Police talk and threats meant nothing. He would wait and see if anything developed. He wouldn’t panic and run. There was no need. Not yet.

But he would have to be careful of Gibran too. Trust him to come and stick his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. He thought he was so fucking clever, senior partner at Butler and Mason, the self-appointed sheriff of the company. If it came to it he would be long gone before Gibran found out. Gibran should remember who gave him a job at Butler and Mason in the first place. It was Gibran who personally checked his references, glowing reports from previous employers in the United States and Far East. Only thing was, not a single one of them was real. If Gibran had actually got on a plane to check Hellier’s background properly, he would have eventually discovered that Hellier’s previous employment history was a myth. But he knew Gibran would rely on telephone calls and emails, all of which were easily arranged, especially for someone like Hellier: he had friends in low places and dirt on some in high places. Gibran had been no more difficult to fool than any of the others. And while Hellier might never have been to university to study accounts or high finance, what he’d learnt on the streets, what he’d learnt in order to survive, had left him more than qualified to work anywhere he liked.

Hellier moved away from the window and sat back in his desk chair, his hands pyramided in front of his face. He liked his life, he liked all the privileges being James Hellier brought and the cover it provided for his other activities, past, present and future. He wasn’t going to let either Inspector Corrigan or, for that matter, Sebastian Gibran, spoil it for him now, not after all these years. He loved to play the game. He enjoyed the money, but it was the game he loved, and this one wasn’t lost yet.

Sean and Donnelly sat in their car outside Hellier’s office building. ‘Well?’ Donnelly asked. ‘What d’you think about Mr James Hellier? Did you get a feel for him?’

‘He’s a smooth bastard,’ Sean replied. ‘And so was his boss, for that matter. Like a couple of fucking clones. But Hellier, he’s trying to be something he’s not, whereas Gibran’s persona seemed genuine, effortless. We’ll have to watch out for him. He looks like the sort who’ll be wanting to stick his nose into our investigation. As for Hellier, behind the suit and haircut there’s an angry man.’ He didn’t tell Donnelly about the animalistic odour he’d smelled leaking through Hellier’s skin. A musky smell, almost chokingly strong. The same odour he’d smelled on others in the past. Other killers. ‘But why is he so pissed off with the world?’

‘Pissed off with the world?’ Donnelly questioned. ‘I thought he was just pissed off with us.’

Sean realized he was moving too fast for Donnelly. ‘You’re probably right.’ He needed to give Donnelly something more tangible, more logical. ‘But there are already two possible motives for him. Firstly, he was having an intimate relationship with Graydon, and somewhere along the line it went wrong.’

‘So we’re back to a lovers’ tiff?’

‘Or,’ Sean continued, ‘Graydon was blackmailing him and Hellier thought, probably correctly, the only way to make it stop would be to get rid of him. He’s a walking blackmail victim and Graydon liked nice things − remember his flat?’

‘And the seventy-seven stab wounds?’ Donnelly asked. Those needed explaining. ‘If he just wanted him out of the way, why not do it nice and neat − one shot, one well-placed knife wound, strangulation? Makes me favour a domestic bust-up.’

‘No,’ Sean reminded him. ‘Remember what Dr Canning told us − the wounds were placed around the body, almost ritually, as if the killer wanted us to think it was a rage attack to get us chasing our tails looking for a jealous ex-boyfriend. Or even a motiveless stranger attack. That and the lack of forensics at the scene leave me thinking it was premeditated, which means blackmail was his most likely motivation. Or something else we haven’t thought of yet. Everything else was staged.’

Donnelly looked less than completely convinced. ‘Well, in the absence of anything better than a missing barman and recently released homophobic homosexual, it’s worth running with, so long as you’re convinced Hellier has it in him to kill.’

‘Let’s just say I get a very bad feeling about him,’ Sean replied. ‘His attempted show of compassion made me feel sick. Everything about him seemed off, as if he were hiding behind the façade of being a happy family man.’

‘Why are you so sure he was faking it? I thought he registered some real surprise that Daniel had been killed.’

‘False sincerity. I’ve seen that too many times.’

Donnelly had worked with Sean long enough to know that sometimes it was best to simply accept his word and move on. ‘You’re a scary individual,’ he said. ‘Now all we need is the evidence to prove your theory.’

‘That’s the hard part, as always.’

‘Arrest him. Search his house, office, car. Get a look at his bank accounts. Compare his prints and samples to anything and everything from the scene.’

‘No,’ Sean insisted. ‘I sensed no panic when we asked him about being in the flat. He knows he’s left it clean. Or maybe I’m wrong and he’s never been there. Anyway, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. I need to know more before I draw any lasting conclusions. Let’s have him followed for a while.’

‘Round-the-clock surveillance?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Starting as soon as possible,’ Sean confirmed. ‘He may have missed something. Something that could betray him. If we’re lucky he’ll lead us to something that’ll hang him or at least give us grounds to dig further.’

‘If we’re very lucky,’ Donnelly pointed out.

‘Right now we don’t have much else, so let’s start digging into his past. A man like Hellier doesn’t just appear. Have criminal and intelligence records checked, see if Mr Hellier here hasn’t got some skeletons in his closet.’

‘What about Inland Revenue, employment records, general background information?’

‘Not yet. We haven’t got enough for Production Orders. Let’s stick to our own records first − see what we can turn up.’

‘It’ll be done,’ Donnelly told him. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah,’ Sean answered. ‘You take the car and get back to the nick. Concentrate on tracking down the rest of the victim’s clients and let me know as soon as you turn up someone or something interesting.’

‘Fine. And yourself?’

‘I’m going to have a little chat with his wife.’

Sean took the Tube from Knightsbridge to King’s Cross, noting all possible CCTV points that Hellier could have passed, including those covering the taxi rank outside the station, where Hellier probably hopped into a cab for the last leg of his journey home, although from here their journeys differed – Sean travelling the rest of the way by bus. Black cabs were an expensive luxury for him, not a realistic mode of transport. Not so for Hellier. Even so, it hadn’t taken him long to get to Hellier’s place: 10 Devonia Road, Islington, close to Upper Street and the Angel underground station.

Hellier’s house was another beautiful Georgian terrace and looked like a much smaller version of the Butler and Mason office building. Sean was beginning to feel undervalued and underpaid, but at least the time alone had settled his racing mind and allowed him space to clear his thoughts. He bounced up the steps and gently tapped the chrome knocker twice. After an acceptable wait the door was opened. ‘Hello,’ was all she said. Sean had expected her to say more. He showed her his warrant card and tried to look as unofficial as he could.

‘Sorry to bother you, I’m Detective Inspector Corrigan, Metropolitan Police.’

‘Oh,’ she replied, attempting to feign surprise. So Hellier had called and warned her. No matter. Sean had assumed he would − that wasn’t why he was here. He was here for a chance at a snapshot into Hellier’s life.

‘Mrs Hellier?’ Sean asked, smiling.

‘Yes. Elizabeth. Is there a problem?’

Sean was struck by how much she looked and sounded like a female version of James Hellier: tall, slim, attractive, well spoken, the product of finishing school and two skiing holidays a year; the best of everything her whole life, but unlike with Hellier he could sense her naivety. Was that why Hellier had married her?

‘Nothing to worry about,’ Sean lied. ‘I’m just looking into an identity fraud case. We think someone may be trying to pass himself off as your husband James.’

‘Really?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid so. They tried to make a substantial purchase in Harrods on Wednesday evening. I’ve already spoken to your husband and he says he was home all night with you. If you could confirm that, then I’ll know for sure the person we have in custody is lying to us.’

‘But if you’ve already spoken to my husband, why do you need me to confirm he was at home?’

Naive, but not stupid, Sean thought. ‘I like to be thorough. Maybe we should discuss this inside,’ he suggested, hoping to see Hellier’s things, to walk in the skin of James Hellier, even for a few minutes.

‘That’s not really convenient right now. My children will be home from their tennis lesson any second. I wouldn’t want them to start worrying. I’m sure you understand. But I can tell you that James was here on Wednesday, although I hardly saw him. He was working in his office most of the night.’

Sean couldn’t stop himself looking past her into the house and sensed her trying to grow large to prevent him. She wanted him to stay out of her family’s life.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I understand – and thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Well, I’ll leave you in peace.’ He turned to leave, then quickly turned back, speaking before the door closed on the opportunity. ‘One more thing …’ He registered the annoyance on her face, the slight flushing of the facial capillaries, only minutely visible behind her tanned skin. He waved his finger randomly at the front of the house and spoke casually. ‘I was wondering, which room is your husband’s office?’

She stumbled. Clearly her husband hadn’t warned her to expect this type of question. ‘Does it matter?’

‘No,’ Sean replied, smiling. ‘Not really.’ He waited, not moving, knowing she would give in to the silence.

‘This one here,’ she surrendered, pointing to one of the front ground-floor windows, keen to be rid of him.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘If I had a house like this, that’s where I’d have my office too.’ Satisfied, he knew it was time to leave. He had sown the seeds of doubt in her and she would sow the seeds of fear into Hellier. He imagined the panicked conversation she would have with her husband later that day, both questioning each other, doubting each other. ‘Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Goodbye, Mrs Hellier. Tell James I said hello.’ She didn’t answer. He heard the door slam before he reached the last step.

Sean made the long journey on public transport from Islington back to Peckham, jealously watching the vast majority of his fellow commuters wearily heading off for the weekend while he was heading back to work, all thoughts of home and rest still just a distant hope. He’d had little more than six hours’ sleep in the last two nights and knew the next few days would be no better. Reminding himself to buy some caffeine pills, he used the public entrance to the police station and climbed the stairs to the incident room without acknowledging anyone. As he crossed the room towards his office he casually observed who was there and who was missing. He assumed those not there would be running down whatever inquiries Donnelly had assigned them. He entered his office and sat heavily in his chair. Within seconds Donnelly was at his open door, a heavy bundle of witness statements and completed actions cradled in his arms. He didn’t seem to feel the weight.

‘How d’you get on with Hellier’s trouble and strife?’

‘She’s lying for him,’ Sean answered. ‘Said he was home all night. I got the feeling it wasn’t the first time she’s covered for him.’

‘Aye, but does she know what we’re investigating?’

‘Not unless Hellier’s told her, which I doubt.’

‘So technically he has an alibi.’

‘Yeah, but you could drive a bus through it. She said he was in his office all night, alone. It’s on the ground floor next to the front door. He could have slipped out and back easy as.’

‘But you don’t think he went home, do you?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Sean confirmed. ‘What have you turned up?’

‘Well, from a criminal records point of view, Hellier’s as clean as a whistle. Not even a parking ticket, as far as I can tell. He’s been working at Butler and Mason for a few years now; before that he was working for some American company in New York, and prior to that he worked in Hong Kong and Singapore.’

‘Where d’you get all that from?’ Sean asked, impressed.

‘I googled him,’ Donnelly answered with a wry smile. ‘Technology. Our greatest friend and our greatest enemy. Oh, and I called a pal of mine at Revenue and Customs − asked for a cheeky favour. As far as they’re concerned, he’s legit. Since being back in the UK he’s paid his tax on time and upfront, no problems.’

Sean looked disappointed, although he hadn’t really expected anything else. ‘With his taste in after-work pleasures you’d think he’d be a little bit shy about plastering his face all over the Internet,’ Sean suggested.

‘No photographs,’ Donnelly told him. ‘Lots of info, but no photographs.’

‘He’s a careful one,’ Sean said. ‘Just like whoever killed Graydon. Very careful.’

‘Plenty of people working in the financial sector have taken their mugshots off the Internet since the banking crisis.’

‘Yeah, but Hellier’s a financier, not a banker.’

‘Guv’nor,’ Donnelly reminded him, ‘we live in a country where seventy per cent of the population don’t know the difference between a paedophile and a paediatrician.’

Sean sighed. ‘A good point well made.’ He rubbed his eyes hard enough to make them water, before rummaging in his desk drawers for painkillers. ‘What about the others who were with him on the night he was killed?’ he asked without looking at Donnelly.

‘Most have come forward now or been traced,’ Donnelly answered, ‘but nothing interesting. One or two are known to police, but all for minor stuff. We’ve gathered a small mountain of forensics and fingerprints for comparisons, so you never know.’

‘Maybe, but I’m not feeling particularly lucky right now,’ Sean sighed. ‘What about our two missing persons?’ he asked. ‘What were their names again?’

‘Steven Paramore and the barman, Jonnie Dempsey. We’ve checked at the home addresses of both. Paramore’s mum says he hasn’t been home for a few days now and Jonnie’s flat mates are saying the same about him.’

‘Untraceable suspects,’ Sean complained. ‘That’s all I need.’

‘Maybe this’ll cheer you up.’ Donnelly grinned as he dumped the heavy pile of papers he’d been holding on Sean’s desk.

Sean spread his arms in protest. ‘What’s this?’

‘Witness statements so far, completed actions and other assorted shit that you ought to read. Superintendent Featherstone wants a full briefing in the morning.’

Sean sank deep into his chair, all thoughts of home comforts slipping further and further away. It was going to be another long evening alone, with only the image of Daniel Graydon’s defiled body for company.

Hours later Sean eventually arrived home exhausted but wide awake, the worst possible combination. He was in need of a strong drink, something that would instantly slow his mind and body without filling his bladder. If sleep came he didn’t want it chased away by having to get up to urinate.

Kate had waited up for him. He wished she hadn’t. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted a drink, a sandwich and to watch some trash on TV. He passed the living room where his wife sat, speaking into the room as he headed for the kitchen. ‘It’s only me.’

After a few seconds Kate followed him into the kitchen. ‘You’re back late,’ she said, her tone neutral.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sean replied, conscious he seemed to be saying that more and more. ‘You know what it’s like when I get a new case − first few days are always a nightmare.’

‘A nightmare for who?’ Kate asked, her words more provocative than she had intended.

‘I don’t know,’ Sean answered. ‘For me? For you? For the guy who’s just had his skull smashed in, dead before his life’s even started? For his parents who have to come to terms with the fact their only child is gone and never coming back?’

An oppressive silence gripped the room. Kate took a breath. ‘Are you okay?’

Sean accepted the truce. ‘Yeah. Of course. I’m tired and grumpy, that’s all. Sorry. Are the kids asleep?’

‘It’s gone eleven. What sort of mother would I be if they weren’t?’ She moved towards him. He had his back to her while he looked around for a glass. She put her arms around his waist. He was in good shape for a man in his late thirties. He had the physique of a middleweight boxer, a legacy from his teenage years. The sport had been one of the things that had kept him out of trouble while too many of his childhood friends turned to a life of crime. ‘I’m glad you’re home,’ she said. He leaned back into her.

‘I’m glad too. Sorry. I should have called. Must have lost track of time. How’s Mandy? Will she forgive me?’

‘Well, she’s only three. You’ve plenty of time to make it up. But never mind little Miss Mandy. What about me? How are you going to make it up to me?’

Sean was smiling slightly. ‘I’ll buy you a bunch of flowers.’

‘Not good enough, Detective Inspector. I was thinking of something a bit more immediate and a lot more fun.’

Kate led him to the stairs and made for their bedroom. As Sean’s foot reached the top step he heard a voice coming from Mandy’s room.

‘Daddy.’

He looked apologetically at his wife. ‘I’d better stick my head in,’ he whispered.

Kate slipped her shirt off, her brown skin shining in the semi-dark. ‘Don’t be long,’ she said. ‘I might fall asleep.’

Sean quietly entered Mandy’s room, the night light illuminating a small pyjama-clad figure. She grinned uncontrollably when she saw him. ‘Daddy.’

‘Hey, hey, sweetie. You’re supposed to be asleep,’ Sean reminded her.

‘I was waiting for you to come home, Daddy.’

‘No, you mustn’t do that, because sometimes Daddy doesn’t get home until very late.’

‘Why don’t you get home till late, Daddy?’

‘Now is not the time to talk about it, honey. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’

‘Mummy says you’re catching bad men.’

‘Does she?’ Sean said, not meaning it to be a question.

‘What have the bad men done, Daddy?’

‘Nothing that you should be worried about,’ he lied. ‘Go to sleep now. Daddy is here. Daddy is always here.’

Sean found himself stroking her hair. He watched her eyes flicker shut, but even when he knew she was asleep he couldn’t leave her. Kate would understand. He needed this – needed something to balance the horror of what he dealt with day in, day out. Needed something to suppress the darkness that always lurked just beneath the surface.