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 19

Shortly before 8 a.m. Sean arrived at work and Sally pounced on him immediately. ‘Guv’nor.’

‘What is it, Sally?’

She spoke in a whisper. ‘Superintendent Featherstone’s been floating around asking for you.’

Sean rolled his eyes. ‘Thanks for the warning.’ No sooner had he entered his office than he heard a knock on the side of the open door. He walked to his chair and sat down before looking around. ‘Morning, boss. Aren’t you supposed to be at church?’ He pointed at a chair.

Featherstone accepted the invitation, sinking into the visitor’s chair with a slight groan. He was a tall man, over six foot two, heavily built, with red hair. ‘I haven’t been to church since my second wife left me.’ He spoke with no more than a trace of London in his accent. ‘How’s the Graydon investigation going? Any progress for me?’

Featherstone had hardly any detective experience, rising instead through the ranks as an accelerated promotion candidate, but he had hit a ceiling at superintendent after failing or refusing to become one of the new generic breed of senior officers in the Met. He was a little too rough around the edges; a little too outspoken and far too prepared to get his hands dirty. Realizing he could go no higher, he transferred into the CID.

Sean could do business with the man. He knew Featherstone was shrewd enough not to interfere too much with the way he conducted his investigations and that he would watch Sean’s back more than most.

‘We’re still waiting on forensics and fingerprints.’

‘How about other lines of inquiry? Any witnesses?’

‘We’ve spoken with a number of witnesses from the club. Some have supplied statements and elimination samples. Nothing of interest so far. The killer went to a lot of trouble to avoid leaving forensic evidence at the scene. It looks premeditated. Our best chance for now seems to be James Hellier, the potential blackmail target.’

‘Any solid proof yet that the victim was blackmailing him?’

‘No. Hellier’s clever. He’s covered his tracks well. That’s why I requested authorization for round-the-clock surveillance – it could be our only hope of catching him out.’

‘What about the victim?’ Featherstone asked. ‘If you can turn up some blackmail letters, prove he was trying to screw Hellier, then you’d be halfway there.’

‘Nothing on paper from the victim’s flat. The bods have his computer, but it’ll take time to recover his emails.’

‘Any other credible suspects?’

‘Well, one of the barmen from the club’s gone missing. Apparently he knew the victim and possibly could have been romantically linked to him. Other than that we’re trying to find a recently released nutter who did eight years for the attempted murder of a young gay man. He lives close enough to the scene to be a cause for concern. He also appears to have gone missing.’

‘At the very least they need to be found and eliminated.’

‘They will be.’

‘We need to be careful with this one, Sean. You can bet, with a gay victim, someone, somewhere will be watching the investigation’s progress, waiting for a chance to accuse us of being homophobic. Let’s not hand the media a stick to beat us with.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Sean.

‘Speaking of the media,’ Featherstone asked, ‘what about an appeal? Crimewatch? Save some shoe leather and let the television do the donkey work.’

‘It’s a bit too soon for that. I’d rather no one knew what we’re up to just yet.’

‘You still camera shy?’ Featherstone smiled. ‘If it comes to it, I can take care of that side of things. I know you’re not exactly a fan, but I’ve got some people in the media I can trust. We can do a piece for the papers and try to get a slot on Crimewatch. I’ll have my secretary make a few calls.’

‘No need. I’ll get it arranged and let you know when the telly people want you. Should be able to sort it out in a day or so.’ Sean hoped he’d bought some time.

Featherstone got to his feet. ‘Fine. Let my secretary know the time and place and I’ll be there. You can give me a full briefing beforehand.’

‘Not a problem.’

‘I’d better get myself up the Yard. Commissioner’s called an emergency meeting. On a Sunday − can you believe that?’

‘Sounds like trouble.’

‘Bloody Territorial Support Group, kicked the shit out of some student on the last anti-capitalist march. Turns out the kid’s parents are connected, so now we’re all going to be issued with foam truncheons. Wankers.’ Featherstone looked to the heavens and walked from the office heading for the exit.

Sally appeared at Sean’s door. ‘Problems?’

‘No,’ Sean told her. ‘Not yet.’

Donnelly ate his sausage sandwich. It was the best Sunday-morning breakfast he could hope for under the circumstances. He stood close to the small wooden hut in the middle of Blackheath where he’d bought his sandwich. It was a well-known spot, used mainly by hungry taxi drivers and police looking for a place to talk without being overheard.

He enjoyed the gentle cooling breeze that whipped off the flat, wide heath. In winter, it was the coldest place in London. He spotted the dark blue Mondeo pull up opposite. Detective Sergeants Jimmy Dawson and Raj Samra stepped from the car. They could only have been police.

The detective sergeants worked on the other two murder teams in South London. They carried out the same roles on their teams as Donnelly did on his. Meeting regularly helped maintain the strong bond between detective sergeants and engendered a feeling that they were the ones really running the police.

Donnelly smiled to himself and stuffed the remains of the sandwich into his mouth. He waited for the men to cross the road. ‘For Christ’s sake, Raj. You’re the only Indian in the Met who looks more like a copper than Jimmy here.’

‘I like looking like a copper. You should try it some time. Instead of looking like a bag of shit,’ Raj replied.

The trading of insults was routine. Jimmy joined the conversation. ‘What you doing in the middle of Blackheath on a Sunday morning, Dave? Exposing yourself to students again? If it isn’t that, then I’ll assume you want a favour.’

‘Jimmy, Jimmy.’ Donnelly sounded insulted. ‘Are the best sausage sandwiches in London not a good enough reason for you?’ Dawson didn’t reply. ‘And you, Raj. Thinking I would ask for favours. Me. Dave Donnelly.’

‘Well, I don’t eat pork, so it better be something other than the sandwich.’

‘I didn’t know you were a Muslim,’ Donnelly said.

‘I’m not. I’m a Sikh.’

‘You should wear a turban − you’d be a commander by now.’

‘I’m not interested in playing that game,’ said Samra.

Donnelly gave a short stunted laugh, before his face turned serious. ‘Okay, gentlemen, I’ll assume you know what sort of case my team’s working on. I want to know if anything similar comes up. If one of your teams gets it first, I want to be called to the scene immediately. Understand?’

‘If it looks linked, it’ll be passed to your team anyway. What’s the rush?’ Dawson asked.

‘No,’ Donnelly snapped. ‘I didn’t say I want my team informed immediately. I said I wanted to be informed immediately, before anyone else. Including DI Corrigan.’

Donnelly watched them exchange glances. He knew they would be happy to help, but not if it meant being dragged into a dangerous situation. Dangerous for their careers. He understood their concerns.

‘Don’t look so worried, boys.’ He tried to sound less serious. ‘I just want first crack at any new scenes. I’m getting a taste for this case. I need a wee glance at an uncorrupted scene. You know, before the circus arrives and takes the feel out the place. That’s all.’ His fellow detective sergeants stared at him blankly, their way of letting him know they didn’t believe a word he was saying. ‘Okay, for fuck’s sake. You boys drive a hard bargain. Listen, our prime suspect is a clever, slippery bastard. Any forensic evidence we find at the next scene may require a little helping hand, if you catch my drift. But it has to appear genuine. The forensic boys have to find it, not one of my team, so I’ll need to be in and out of there before anyone’s the wiser. Clear?’

‘Well why didn’t you just say so?’ Samra mocked. ‘We’d be happy to help,’ he added, and meant it, knowing that one day he or Dawson might require a similar favour from Donnelly.

‘I thought your job was shaping up to be a blackmail?’ Dawson asked.

‘I know Corrigan better than he thinks,’ Donnelly told them. ‘He thinks there’s more to our prime suspect than he’s saying. Forget the blackmail element. You get anything a bit nastier than usual, then I want to know.’

‘Okay,’ Samra said with a shrug. ‘I’ll make sure you’re called straight off.’

‘Good, but keep it quiet. Tell your teams to call you, then you call me. Keep it nicely between the three of us.’

‘If you want to take jobs off my hands, that’s fine and dandy with me,’ Dawson said. ‘But if anyone asks, we never had this conversation.’

Donnelly spread his arms to show his good intentions. ‘Boys, please,’ he pleaded. ‘I promise. Nothing dodgy. Trying to solve a murder here, that’s all.’

The two detectives were already crossing the road. Samra called back to Donnelly: ‘Drag me into anything naughty and you’ll be solving your own fucking murder.’

You just do as you’re told, Raj my boy, Donnelly thought to himself. Just do as you’re told.

It was mid-morning by the time Sean walked from his office into the briefing room where his team were assembled. He wasn’t in the mood to let the room settle naturally. Time to push along. ‘All right, all right. Listen up. I haven’t got all day. The quicker you listen, the quicker we can get on with it.’ The room settled into silence. ‘So far we have three possible suspects: Steven Paramore, Jonnie Dempsey the missing barman and James Hellier. The reasons why Paramore and Dempsey are suspects are obvious, so they need to be found and spoken to. Hellier’s more complicated,’ Sean told them. ‘My best guess is still that our victim was attempting to blackmail him. No other motives have come to light and we’ve pretty much spoken to all his friends and family. Any last lingering possibility that this could be a domestic hangs on whether the victim was having a relationship with Jonnie Dempsey, and so far no one’s been able to confirm whether he was or wasn’t. Dempsey is only a suspect in so far as he worked at Utopia, knew the victim and now he’s missing and can’t be found, so all other suggestions are welcome.’

‘Maybe we should consider a stranger attack,’ Donnelly spoke up. ‘A random killer.’

‘No forced entry, remember?’ Sean reminded him.

‘Maybe the killer posed as a client?’ Donnelly suggested. ‘Talked his way into the flat.’

Sean was beginning to suspect Donnelly knew his blackmail theory was little more than a smokescreen. A screen that allowed Sean time to think. Time to walk in the killer’s shoes – to feel him. To understand him. ‘From what we’re being told of our victim, he was too careful for that.’ Sean tried to steer Donnelly away from the possibility for a while longer, until he had things straight in his own mind.

‘But it has to be a possibility?’ Donnelly insisted.

He had to give Donnelly something. ‘Possibly,’ Sean answered. There was a ripple of noise around the room.

‘If it’s a possibility, then what are we doing about it?’ Sally asked.

‘We’ve released a national memorandum, police eyes only, checking for recent similar cases,’ Sean reminded them.

‘Maybe we should go further back?’ Sally suggested.

‘As it happens, I’ve already asked General Registry to send me a number of old files.’ He sensed Donnelly’s discontent. ‘I’ve asked them for anything involving vulnerable victims where an excessive use of violence was involved, going back over the last five years. But don’t get too excited, we’re doing these checks as a matter of protocol, not because I think we have a madman on our hands.’

‘That’ll be a lot of files,’ said Donnelly. ‘You’ll need some help going over them.’

‘No,’ Sean snapped. ‘I’ll read them myself.’

‘What about Method Index?’ Sally asked. ‘They may have data the General Registry doesn’t. Something older or something that never made it to court.’

‘Good,’ Sean said. ‘Look into it, Sally. Take some help if you think you’ll need it.’

‘And Hellier?’ Donnelly asked. ‘What about Hellier?’

‘Surveillance started on him this morning,’ Sean told them. ‘Link up with them as soon as you can and keep them on the right track.’ Donnelly nodded without speaking. He didn’t seem too happy. Sean raised his voice slightly. ‘Don’t lose focus, people. Hellier is still our prime suspect and blackmail our prime motive. We’ll look into other possibilities because we have to, but I don’t want anyone going off on a wild-goose chase when we have an obvious suspect right in front of us. As for Paramore and Dempsey, let’s get hold of Customs and Immigration – see if either have left or tried to leave the country. Paulo.’ DC Zukov raised his head. ‘You take care of it, okay?’ Zukov nodded once. ‘We’ve all got work to do, so let’s get on with it.’ The meeting broke up.

Sean reached his office just as Donnelly caught up with him. He knew Donnelly would want an explanation.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s really going through your mind?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Let’s not make a drama out of it, Dave.’

‘How long have you known this wasn’t about Hellier being blackmailed?’

Sean closed the door to his office. ‘I don’t.’

‘Come on, guv’nor. Protocol, my arse. If you’ve requested old files from General Registry then you’re looking for something else.’

Sean sighed. He could see no sense in keeping anything from Donnelly any more. ‘All right. Hellier wasn’t being blackmailed, but I still think he could be our man. The second time I met him I really began to believe it could be him.’

‘Can I ask why?’

‘Graydon wouldn’t have tried to blackmail him. From what we’ve learned about him, he was too passive to attempt blackmail. Especially someone like Hellier. He’s too intimidating. Too threatening.’

‘Then why have you got the team chasing the blackmail theory, not to mention Paramore and Dempsey?’

‘I need to make things appear straightforward, just for a while longer. It’ll buy me time to think the way I need to think. Once I show my hand, things will get a lot more complicated around here. I can’t see clearly when I’m crowded, and besides, Paramore and Dempsey must be found and spoken to. I could turn out to be wrong about Hellier.’

‘So you don’t think Hellier was being blackmailed, but you do think he could have killed Graydon.’

‘I do.’

‘Care to share?’

‘Because I don’t believe in coincidences. Hellier’s bad to the core. It’s simply in his nature. You know the type of animal I’m talking about. We’ve both dealt with them before. And now someone Hellier was connected to is dead.

‘If I’m right about him, then his motive for killing is the killing itself. He’s a very rare breed; the chances that Graydon crossed two such people are extremely remote, although not impossible.’

Donnelly slumped in a chair, exasperated. ‘Bloody hell, guv, this is all a bit loose. You wouldn’t want to take it to court.’

‘Agreed, but there’s another way to go after Hellier. He has no anxiety about this case. When I speak to him about it I can’t feel anything. No panic, concerns, doubt, nothing. He’s absolutely sure he’s got away with it.’

‘If he did it,’ Donnelly reminded him. Sean ignored the warning.

‘He was at his most confident when we were talking about the Graydon case. So long as we stuck to that, he was totally in his comfort zone. That tells me he’s left us very little, if anything.’

‘But?’

‘But at other times I’ve sensed his anxiousness.’

‘About what?’

‘About something else. Something that could betray him.’ Sean sat and faced Donnelly. ‘Something in his past. Maybe he’s—’

‘You think he’s killed before?’ Donnelly interrupted.

‘If he’s the type of animal I think he is, then there is a very real possibility he has. When I read the old case files from General Registry, hopefully some detail will stand out.’

‘You are aware of what you’re saying?’

‘Of course I am.’ Sean looked him in the eye. ‘That’s why this has to stay between the two of us for now. I’ll fill Sally in when I get a chance.’

‘God forbid the powers that be find out you reckon you’re on to a serial killer. This place will go fucking crazy with senior officers trying to get their faces on the telly.’

‘Then they better not find out.’

‘Indeed,’ Donnelly agreed as he stood up. ‘But there’s one thing that still doesn’t make sense to me.’

‘Go on.’

‘Why would Hellier kill Graydon if he knew we could connect them? Why would he pull us on top of him like that? Is he trying to play games with us? Is he one of those sick fuckers who wants to get caught?’

‘No,’ Sean answered. ‘Hellier absolutely doesn’t want to get caught. Trust me. There is nothing self-destructive about Hellier.’

‘Then why?’

‘For one of two reasons. Because he wanted to or because he had to.’

‘Well?’ Donnelly asked, his hands held apart. ‘Which one is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sean confessed. ‘I just don’t know. I keep going over it and over it, but every time I think I’m close to understanding why, it all melts away. There’s something not quite right, something I’m missing. Christ it’s so close I could fucking touch it, but I can’t see it yet.’

‘We’ll find out why soon enough,’ said Donnelly.

‘To be honest, with Hellier I’m not so sure.’ The doubt was unusual for Sean. ‘That’s why we go after his past. Identify his earlier offences. That’s where he’s vulnerable. I’m certain of it.’

‘If indeed he has offended before.’

‘He has,’ Sean insisted. ‘There’s no doubt. All I need to know is who, where and when. And why the hell his prints aren’t on file.’

‘I don’t know, boss,’ Donnelly admitted. ‘This all feels like a bit of a stretch for me. Maybe we shouldn’t be homing in on Hellier so much? Stretch our horizons a little. See if we can’t rake up a few more viable suspects.’

‘You think I’m fixating on Hellier?’ Sean snapped. ‘You think I’m putting the investigation at risk?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

‘But it’s what you’re thinking.’ Sean regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth. He wished he could explain to Donnelly how he could be so certain of something long before the evidence justified it. How he’d seen the killer strutting around Daniel Graydon’s flat, calm and content, the dead man lying in an ever-increasing pool of blood, of no concern to him now – an empty shell that had served its purpose. But he knew he couldn’t tell Donnelly what he had seen. He couldn’t tell Donnelly that when he looked into Hellier’s face he saw more than just skin, bone and flesh – he saw into the man’s soul and could see only darkness.

Sally walked into New Scotland Yard, a huge glass building just around the corner from Parliament Square. Standard searches of criminal intelligence and conviction databases had yielded nothing. It was time to try something a little different, which was why she’d come to check the Method Index. They kept records of serious and violent crimes, as well as unusual crimes. If an offender used the same peculiar method more than once, it was possible he or she could be identified here. Sally walked into the Method Index office and glanced around the small beige room. Wooden desks were squeezed together. Ancient, worn-out computers filled every corner. Large posters adorned the walls advertising what the department could do for you. Everything seemed old. The two people in the room looked surprised to have a visitor. One, a thin, bespectacled, middle-aged man nervously closed the filing cabinet he’d been tending and hesitantly moved towards Sally. He spoke shyly.

‘Are you looking for somebody?’ He had a Yorkshire accent, unblunted by years in London.

Sally realized they didn’t get many visitors. ‘Well, if this is Method Index, I guess I’ve found the right place.’ She tried to sound enthusiastic. ‘DS Sally Jones, from Serious Crime Group South.’ She held out her hand and hoped the mention of her unit might stir some interest. The nervous man seemed confused. ‘The Murder Squad,’ Sally added. ‘SCG is the Murder Squad.’

‘Oh,’ the man said. ‘That’s what you’re called now. They keep changing the names of things so much I can never keep up.’ He accepted the offer of Sally’s outstretched hand and shook it with a smile. ‘I’m DC Harvey Williams. Everyone calls me Harve. They put me in charge of this little team a few years ago and I think they’ve forgotten about me, to be honest.’ He pointed at a young man with long hair who was sifting through an ocean of paper files. ‘That’s Doug. He’s a civilian. The rest of the team are off today. In fact, the only reason anyone’s here is because we’re moving all our old paper files on to the computers. We don’t get much of a chance for overtime here, so when they offered …’

So this was the Met’s answer to the world-famous FBI Behavioral Science Unit. An ageing detective constable the world had forgotten about and a handful of unqualified civilian employees. She may have made a mistake coming here, but on the other hand what did she have to lose apart from an afternoon?

DC Williams continued. ‘How can we help you, DS Jones?’

‘I’m interested in any profiles of murderers that fit our case.’

Williams pursed his lips. ‘We don’t do profiles here, I’m afraid. We have methods of crime used by people. Not profiles of them.’

Sally understood the difference. A profile referred to a psychological profile of an offender. It was rarely used by the Metropolitan Police. Despite being highly publicized in the media and films, the truth was that psychological profiles were of very limited value. Matching methods of crime to offenders was far more useful.

‘I apologize. Slip of the tongue.’

‘No need to apologize,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Grab a seat. Anywhere you like. No small-time imperialists in this office. Now, tell me what you’re after. Spare me no details. The devil’s always in the details. Absolutely always in the details.’

London steamed. Sean couldn’t remember another summer like it. No rain. No wind. No relief. The devil’s own weather. His mobile was ringing. He kept driving and answered. ‘DI Corrigan.’

‘Hello, guv’nor.’ It was Donnelly. ‘Just to let you know, I’m with the surveillance team. Making sure they don’t spend a week following the wrong man.’

‘Good. Any movement from Hellier?’

‘Nah. He’s still at home. He hasn’t been out anywhere yet. He’s only looked out the window once. Didn’t seem to be checking for us, though.’

‘I’m coming to join you,’ Sean announced. ‘I’ll call your mobile when I’m in the area. If he moves, ring me.’ He hung up.

Donnelly turned to DC Paulo Zukov sitting next to him. Zukov spoke. ‘Problem?’

‘Nah, but be aware. The guv’nor’s on his way.’

‘So what makes you think Method Index can help with your murder?’ DC Williams asked. ‘Unusual, is it?’

‘A little unusual,’ Sally replied. ‘The victim was stabbed an excessively large number of times, having already been half-killed with a couple of blows to the head. The weapon used was an ice pick or stiletto knife of some sort. More importantly, the victim was a homosexual. Almost certainly a male prostitute.

‘I’m not interested in someone with a history of homophobic behaviour per se. I’m looking for something heavier. Really violent attacks. Possibly sexual attacks or attacks that could have some sexual overtones. Anything like that. Can you help?’

‘We can work with that. As for the drunken queer-bashing stuff, we wouldn’t have that sort of attack on our records anyway. Not distinct enough.’

DC Williams walked over to a large grey cabinet in a corner of the office. He talked as he thumbed through the files within. ‘Some of our records go back fifty years or so. The really sensitive ones. Preferred methods of terrorists, professional hit men, that sort of thing. But mostly our records refer to sex offenders, paedophiles. People most likely to re-offend. We don’t have too many murderers. Most are such dull affairs, one-off acts of stupidity. But you would already know that.’

Sally was relieved. She didn’t fancy spending the entire day reading through ancient files in the cramped office.

‘We’ve only got a few hundred on record,’ Williams added, grinning. Sally slumped. ‘Shouldn’t take too long if we both look through them.’

He pulled out as many files as he could manage and carried them to Sally’s desk. ‘That’s the last decade of interesting murders of homosexuals. Unfortunately, most of our records haven’t been transferred on to the computer system yet, so if you have a look at this little lot, I’ll see what we have got on our computerised records.’ He began to whistle as he tapped away on the terminal’s keyboard.

Sally took off her jacket and pushed all the files to one side of the desk. She picked the first one at random and began to read.

Hellier knew they were there. He could sense their presence. He couldn’t see them from his study, but it made no difference. They were there. They were good. Not clumsy. Not impatient. He wondered how many would be on the surveillance team. They called the officers on motorbikes Solos. Pathetic police jargon. Still, he had a problem. Things would get difficult if he was followed everywhere by these flat-footed fools. DI Corrigan was responsible, no doubt. Christ he was an irritating fucker. How best to deal with DI Corrigan?

Time to make another phone call. Maybe he would go for a run a little later, weaving through the Sunday crowds in Upper Street’s antique market before jumping on and off a few buses and underground trains, laughing at the police as they struggled and ultimately failed to keep up with him.

He spoke to the police he couldn’t see.

‘I hope you’re prepared for a long day, fuckers. You’ll have to improve your play, if you want to win the prize.’

Sally carefully read the first dozen files. It was clear why these particular murders had been deemed unique enough for Method Index’s files of infamy. Some were almost funny they were so bizarre, but most were just horrific.

Her thoughts began to drift to the victims. Had they had any idea of what was going to happen to them? Had they been scared, confused or even angry once they realized death was upon them? And why had they been selected? What had drawn their killers to them? The way they looked, moved or spoke? Or was it pure bad luck? The wrong place at the wrong time? Probably a little of each.

She’d been reading for over three hours. A couple of times something pricked her attention, but each time her interest faded away as she uncovered details inconsistent with what she was looking for. DC Williams’s voice broke her concentration.

‘DS Jones …’

‘What is it?’ Sally asked.

‘I think you should take a look at this. I may have found something.’

Sean had joined up with Donnelly and Zukov. The three men sat quietly in the unmarked Mondeo. Sean sat in the back staring out of the window, constantly re-evaluating the evidence, searching for anything he could have overlooked. The radio crackled into life with the voices of the surveillance team. ‘Target one still stationary in blue.’

‘Lima Two breaking for a natural.’

‘Received, Lima Two.’

‘Lima Three will cover.’

‘Received, Lima Three.’

Donnelly spoke for them all. ‘If Hellier moves off, I hope they stop chattering in that language of theirs, because I for one can’t understand a bloody word they’re saying.’

Sean’s mobile rang. He answered it quickly. ‘DI Corrigan.’

‘Guv’nor? Sally here.’

Sean sensed an increased degree of excitement in her voice. ‘You sound like you have something for me.’

‘I think I might have.’

Sean checked his watch. It was almost lunchtime. He was hoping to spend most of the day following Hellier. He felt as if the longer he was close to the man, the more he could think like him. ‘Can it wait till morning?’

‘I suppose so,’ Sally answered.

It was no good though and he knew it. If he didn’t find out what Sally had, he would never rest. ‘Can you give it to me down the phone?’

‘Sorry, sir. I’m driving and I need to show you this file. You’ll want to see it.’

‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘Dave and I will meet you back at Peckham as soon as, travelling time from Islington.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Developments?’ Donnelly asked over his shoulder.

‘Possibly. We need to get back to the office and meet Sally. The surveillance boys can handle this on their own.’

Their car pulled into the heavy North London traffic and slipped away seemingly unnoticed.

Sean leaned against the window frame. Sally sat on a standard-issue police station chair, wooden and rickety. Donnelly also chose to stand.

Sally rested a cardboard folder in her lap. She reminded Sean of a schoolteacher about to read a story. ‘I dug this out of Method Index’s files earlier today,’ she told them. ‘We entered the details of our murder into the system, looking for any similar crimes or methods. Eventually it threw up this character.’

Sally opened the folder and pulled out a criminal records file. ‘This is for a guy called Stefan Korsakov.’ She passed the printout to Sean, who quickly scanned the list of convictions. It didn’t take long.

‘Why? The man’s only got one conviction. For fraud. And that was almost ten years ago.’ Sean was puzzled. He shook his head and passed the printout to Donnelly.

Sally continued: ‘Convictions yes, but Method Index don’t only go on convictions. Here –’ Sally pulled a thick bunch of papers from the folder. Sean recognized the old-style forms. ‘Stefan Korsakov was accused of raping a seventeen-year-old boy back in 1996. The victim had a slight learning difficulty. Nothing serious apparently, but it made him a little naive.

‘Korsakov approached the boy while he was riding his bike around Richmond Park. He befriended him, gave him a can of beer laced with a stronger alcohol, then dragged him into a secluded area of the park, tied him up, gagged him and sexually abused him in just about every way possible, climaxing with the actual rape.

‘But the fact this was a violent assault by a predatory older male wasn’t the only similarity. He used a stiletto knife to threaten the boy.’

‘Similar to the weapon used on our victim,’ Sean said.

‘Well, well,’ Donnelly added.

Sally wasn’t finished. ‘But Korsakov’s luck ran out. He spent too long with the boy. A constable from the Parks Police was sneaking through the woods looking for flashers. Apparently they’d had a rash of them in the park. He came across more than he bargained for. The file says the constable initially thought it was a bit of al fresco gross indecency between consenting males. Then he saw the bindings around the boy’s wrists.

‘Korsakov sees the constable and makes a break for it, but the game is over and he gets nicked before he’s gone fifty feet. The arrest was made by Parks Police. CID at Richmond inherited the job. According to the investigating officer’s notes on the case, he came to the conclusion it was a planned attack: Korsakov had the laced beer with him. CID suspected he had previously targeted the boy, specifically because he had learning difficulties.

‘This is the bit you’ll like. The investigating detective noted how Korsakov had a heightened state of awareness of forensic evidence.’

‘Well, our boy certainly has that,’ Donnelly said.

‘He wore a condom throughout the assault. He also wore a pair of leather gloves that were brand new and he was wearing a waterproof jacket and trousers. He had an empty bin liner in his pocket.’

Sean understood waterproofs were usually made of tightly woven nylon and could be as effective at preventing forensic evidence transferring from the suspect to the victim and vice versa as a forensic suit.

Sally went on: ‘I’ve saved the best till last. When Korsakov was stripped and examined back at the nick, they discovered he’d shaved all his pubic hair off. He later claimed he’d had a dose of pubic crabs and had had to shave it all off.’

‘Shaved his pubes off,’ Donnelly said. ‘Now that’s dedication.’

‘But he wasn’t convicted?’ Sean asked.

‘No,’ Sally answered. ‘He wasn’t convicted of the rape. He was, however, convicted of serious fraud. His home was searched as part of the investigation and they found a shitload of papers relating to a pensions company he’d established. The investigating detectives took a dislike to him …’

‘I can’t think why,’ Donnelly chipped in.

‘… so they decided to stir up as much trouble as they could. Phoned around people who’d signed up to his pension company. Made some inquiries as to where he’d invested their money. Turned out the whole thing was a con. There was no pension company – or at least, not a real one. The money was going towards keeping Korsakov in the lifestyle he’d become accustomed to. Nice house, BMW and a Range Rover, villa in Umbria …

‘He’s a conman. A good one. An excellent forger of documents, too. He forged clients’ signatures and increased their payments without them even knowing. He’d also forged himself numerous official documents. Passports. Driving licences. All for different countries. There appears to be no end to his talents.

‘He’d stolen more than two million pounds. Mainly from the elderly. He was finally convicted after a three-month trial and sentenced to four years’ custody. The money was never recovered. Released from Wandsworth prison on 24 August 1999.

‘Since his release he’s not been heard of. No arrests or convictions. Nothing.’

‘Why wasn’t he convicted of raping the boy?’ Sean asked. ‘Seemed straightforward.’

‘The boy withdrew the allegation. His parents thought it would be best for him not to go through the courts. They were worried about the press finding out. Making the boy’s life a public freak show. So he walks on the rape, but the investigating officers do their best to screw him anyway and he goes down on the fraud charges.’

Sean spoke again. ‘Offenders who commit this sort of crime don’t strike once then never again. No matter what the risks, he would have re-offended. He couldn’t have remained dormant for so long.’

‘Agreed,’ Sally said. ‘Which means he’s either dead, left the country, found God and changed his ways or …’ She stopped short.

‘Or?’ Sean encouraged.

‘Or he’s become someone else. Used his forgery and fraud skills to create a new identity for himself. A new life.’

‘What’s Korsakov look like?’ Sean asked, a seed of an idea germinating in his mind.

‘I don’t know,’ Sally replied. ‘There’s no photograph on file. Only a description.’

‘Which is?’ Sean asked.

Sally checked the file. ‘Male, white. Back in ninety-six he was twenty-eight years old, slim, athletic build, short light brown hair and no identifiable marks, scars or tattoos.’

Sean and Donnelly exchanged glances. ‘Sound like anyone we know?’ Donnelly asked.

Sean shook his head. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but they can’t be the same person. This guy’s got a conviction, so his prints are on file. Hellier has no prints on file, so he can’t have been convicted of anything otherwise his prints would be too, no matter what name he’d been convicted under.’

Donnelly knew Sean was right. ‘Shame.’

‘However,’ Sean added, ‘it won’t hurt our case to look into it. Sally, you stay with it. First thing in the morning, start finding out all you can about Korsakov. See what Richmond have on him and track down the original investigating officer.’

Sean turned to Donnelly. ‘Have you still got that snapshot of Hellier I took?’

‘Aye,’ Donnelly answered and pulled the photograph from his jacket pocket, handing it to Sean who in turn handed it to Sally.

‘If you do track the investigating officer down, show him this,’ Sean told her. ‘See if he recognizes him.’

‘I thought you said it couldn’t possibly be Hellier?’ Donnelly argued.

‘No harm in double checking. Kill the possibility off once and for all.’ Sean turned to Sally. ‘Once you’ve done that, concentrate on this Korsakov character until you’re happy you’ve got enough to eliminate him as a viable suspect.’

‘And if I can’t eliminate him?’

‘You will,’ Sean assured her. ‘You will.’

Hellier only ventured out twice all day − once to the local shop for the Sunday papers and then later for an afternoon stroll with his family around the leafy suburban streets. Both his children held on to their mother’s hands as Hellier walked a few paces behind.

He couldn’t have made it easier for the surveillance team to follow him. He thought he had spotted some of them. Hard to tell, best to stay paranoid for the time being. Always assume the worst. That way he would never be caught cold.

Now he sat in his cream and steel kitchen watching his wife clear up after the evening meal. He pushed his half-eaten food away and sipped on a glass of Pauillac de Latour.

‘No appetite?’ Elizabeth asked, smiling. Hellier didn’t hear. ‘Not hungry tonight, darling?’ She raised her voice slightly.

‘Sorry, no,’ Hellier answered. ‘That was delicious, but just not feeling too hungry.’ He was with her only in body. His mind was outside with the surveillance team in the streets around his house, circling him as a pack of hyenas would an isolated lion.

‘Worried about something?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘No. Why would I be?’ Hellier didn’t like being questioned by anybody.

‘What about this identity fraud thing the police were looking into?’

‘That was nothing,’ Hellier insisted. ‘Like I told you, it was all a mistake. The police made a mistake, surprise, surprise.’

‘Of course,’ she backed down.

‘You did tell them I was at home all night, didn’t you?’ Hellier asked without apparent concern.

‘I said exactly what you told me to.’

‘Good.’ But Hellier could tell she needed more. ‘Look, I was at a very sensitive meeting that night. The company wanted me to meet some potential clients, very important clients, but they were a little worried about their backgrounds. Beware Africans bearing large amounts of cash, as we say these days. They wanted me to run the rule over them, that’s all, see if their wealth could be obviously identified as ill-gotten gains. If so, we wouldn’t touch them. All the same, we can’t afford to have the police sniffing around our affairs − it would be very bad for business. Our clients expect complete confidentiality and privacy. I couldn’t tell the police the truth. I’m sorry I dragged you into it, darling, but I really had no choice.’

Elizabeth seemed happy with that. Even if she didn’t entirely believe him, the explanation was itself at least believable. ‘You should have told me that straight away, dear. I would have understood. But I’d watch out for that DI Corrigan,’ she warned him. ‘He didn’t come across as the usual PC Plod. There was something unnerving about him. Some sort of animal cunning.’

Hellier felt rage suddenly swelling in his chest, his temples throbbing, his body trembling involuntarily, but the expression on his face never changed from calm and content. He couldn’t stand to hear his adversary being complimented. Even if his wife had meant it as an insult, it gave Corrigan more credibility in his eyes, even suggested he should somehow fear him. His fists clenched under the table as he imagined Elizabeth’s smashed and bleeding face, his own knuckles bleeding, shredded on her teeth.

He waited until the rage had swept over him and died, like a passing hurricane, before rising from the table. He kissed her softly on the cheek. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, darling,’ he said. ‘I need to do a little work. The price we have to pay.’

Hellier headed for his study. He went through the ritual of recovering the key to his safe and then opening it. He flicked through the small address book he’d pulled from inside and found what he was looking for. He called the number.

‘Hello?’ the voice answered.

‘You’d better call off your fucking dogs,’ Hellier hissed.

‘That’s not possible. I haven’t got that sort of influence.’ The voice sounded matter-of-fact. Hellier didn’t like that.

‘Listen to me, you fucking moron. As much as it amuses me having these incompetents trying to follow me, they might just stumble across something we’d both rather they didn’t. So you’d better think of something, and soon.’

‘I’ve already done more than I should,’ the voice protested. ‘I’ve stuck my neck out. I can’t do anything else. I won’t.’

‘Wrong again. I hope you’re not going to make a habit of slipping up. I think you know how costly your mistake could be.’

Hellier didn’t wait for a reply. He hung up. He heard his wife call out. She wanted to know if he wanted coffee.