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 21

Sean hauled himself from his uncomfortable chair, stretching and yawning as he looked out of his office window at the flat roofs of the surrounding buildings, their surfaces littered with the detritus of man and nature. He hadn’t slept well the previous night, too many unanswered questions swimming around his mind. His body ached miserably. A hopping bird caught his eye, drawing his attention to the nearest of the rooftops, its blue-black feathers shining in the sunlight, making its white patches barely visible. The magpie took over-sized steps towards what had brought it to this desolate place, its head constantly jerking into new positions as it checked for danger and opportunity. Sean saw what it was moving towards – the half-concealed body of another bird − and assumed it had come to feast on a dead pigeon, but as it grew closer he realized it held something in its beak, something shiny, like a polished stone. He watched fascinated as the bird placed the object next to the body, then squawked loudly and sorrowfully before flying away. He squinted against the sun and focused as hard as he could on the small corpse below, the black and white feathers confirming what he’d already suspected. As he continued to watch the sad little drama more magpies came to see their fallen kinsman, each bringing gifts of twigs and shiny objects, food and things precious to their kind, always chasing away any pigeons that dared to approach the lifeless body, pecking violently at their eyes, prepared to kill to protect their dead. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t look away, until Donnelly burst into his office holding a set of car keys, shattering his temporary escape. ‘Going somewhere?’ Sean asked.

‘Drop your linen and stop your grinning. Fingerprints finally got back to us. They’ve matched a single print from the victim’s flat to Hellier. He was in the flat. There’s no mistake.’

‘A single print?’ Sean asked, confused. ‘Is it a partial?’

‘No,’ Donnelly reassured him. ‘It’s a full match.’

‘Just one print.’ Sean could tell he was alone in his scepticism. ‘Where did they find it?’

‘On the underside of the door handle for the bathroom. The outside handle,’ Donnelly informed him. ‘You don’t look overly excited,’ he added.

Sean chased the doubts from his mind and tried to concentrate on the fact that finally he had usable, tangible evidence. His aches and pains faded as his excitement grew. ‘No wonder he didn’t want to give his fingerprints. Get hold of the surveillance team and find out where Hellier is now, and get Sally to sort out a couple of search teams. Once he’s nicked I want his office and home searched. No shit once-over. Full searches. With forensics too. You take one team and do his house. I’ll do his office with the other.’

Donnelly spun on his heels and left Sean’s office.

They always make a mistake, Sean thought. They always make a mistake.

The three unmarked police cars drove fast towards Knightsbridge. The surveillance had confirmed Hellier was at his office. The blue lights attached to the roofs of the cars whirled while the sirens screamed at the mid-morning traffic to clear the way.

Sean sat in the trailing car. He felt exuberant. He remembered this was why he had joined the force. Driving fast through traffic. Lights flashing, sirens wailing. Envious looks from other drivers. Children pointing. It just didn’t happen enough.

They would arrest Hellier at his office and then search the entire place. Inch by inch. It didn’t matter to Sean who knew Hellier had been arrested. He wasn’t about to be subtle.

Maybe Hellier would confess when faced with the fingerprint evidence. If not, how was he going to talk his way out of it? With luck, Hellier would be charged with murder before dark.

Other officers, led by Donnelly, were on their way to Hellier’s house in Islington. They would wait until Sean sent word that Hellier had been arrested. As soon as he was, they would have the legal power to search his home for evidence relating to the murder of Daniel Graydon. Sean thought they had a better chance of finding something incriminating in Hellier’s office. Surely he wouldn’t risk leaving anything for his wife and kids to stumble across at home.

The three cars braked hard outside Hellier’s Knightsbridge office. They didn’t bother to look for parking spaces, just left them to block the road. A driver remained with each. The car doors seemed to open simultaneously. Nine police officers including Sean and Sally stepped out on to the tarmac. The heat had made it sticky.

They moved menacingly across the pavement to the front door of the building housing Hellier’s office. Sally pressed the buzzer for the ground floor. No need to forewarn Hellier.

The intercom spoke. ‘Good morning. Albert Bray and Partners. Do you have an appointment with one of our consultants?’

‘I’m a police officer and I need immediate access to this building.’ There was a silence. Sally continued: ‘This doesn’t concern your company or any of your employees.’

The door buzzed and Sally pushed it open. The detectives moved quickly and quietly into the entrance hallway. Two remained close to the front door. The other seven walked fast up the stairs.

They reached Butler and Mason and another locked door. Sean pounded on it. Time to ruffle some well-groomed feathers. Within a few seconds the door was opened by the perfect-looking secretary. He swerved past into the office itself. Her mouth dropped open. Sean thought she was about to protest.

‘Is Mr Hellier in his office?’ She was struck dumb. ‘I said, is Mr Hellier in his office?’ Nothing. ‘I’ll assume he is. Jim. Stan.’ Two detectives looked at him. ‘You boys stay here and cover the front door. The rest with me and Sally.’

They strode along the corridor towards Hellier’s office. Finally the secretary found her voice. She chased after them. ‘You can’t go in there. Mr Hellier is in a very important meeting.’

‘Wrong,’ was all Sean said.

‘You need a search warrant,’ she argued.

‘Wrong again,’ Sean told her without looking.

He threw open Hellier’s door and walked straight in. The other detectives waited outside. Hellier sat at his desk, and Sebastian Gibran, who’d disturbed their last meeting, sat next to him, watching them as closely as Sean watched Hellier. Two other men Sean didn’t recognize sat opposite; they seemed terrified. Hellier never flinched. Sean kept moving. He was almost at Hellier’s side. He showed Hellier his warrant card.

‘James Hellier, I’m Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan. This is Detective Sergeant Jones and Detective Constable Zukov. I’m arresting you for the murder of Daniel Graydon.

‘You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so. However, it may harm your defence if you fail to mention something when questioned that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence against you.

‘Do you understand the caution, Mr Hellier?’

By the book, Sean thought. Best way with a slippery bastard like Hellier, especially with three witnesses sitting there with stunned expressions on their faces.

Hellier stared hard at him. Sean saw a flash of pure hatred. Hellier smiled and addressed the three men sitting opposite. ‘If you’ll please excuse me, gentlemen. It appears the police need me to help them with their inquiries.’ He stood slowly, as if bored, and dramatically held out his wrists. ‘Aren’t you going to handcuff me, Inspector?’

‘I would,’ Sean said, ‘but you’d probably enjoy it.’ He took hold of Hellier’s upper arm. Hellier felt strong. Solid. Sean was a little surprised. ‘Let’s go.’

Gibran tried to intervene, stepping in front of them. ‘Is this necessary?’ he asked, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. Forever Butler and Mason’s chief negotiator and protector. ‘Surely this heavy handedness is unwarranted?’

‘Sorry, I don’t remember your name,’ Sean said, leaning uncomfortably close to the man.

‘Really?’ Gibran said. ‘That’s odd. You don’t strike me as the sort of man who forgets very much about anything.’

‘Keep your nose out of our business, Mr Gibran,’ Sean warned. ‘And let us decide what is and isn’t necessary.’

Gibran slowly stepped aside, holding out an upturned palm, indicating they could pass, as if they somehow needed his permission.

Sean and Zukov marched Hellier out of the office along the corridor. When Hellier was certain no one else could hear or see him, his expression changed to a snarl, showing Sean a glimpse of the monster he knew lived beneath the mask. ‘Just get me my fucking solicitor.’ He spat the words into Sean’s face.

Donnelly and the other officers were already inside Hellier’s house. Donnelly was rifling through the drawers in the lounge, well-practised eyes scanning over papers, letters, everything. DC Fiona Cahill was at his side, handing him more papers she had found elsewhere in the room.

Elizabeth Hellier had recovered from mild shock and was now running around talking incessantly. Complaining and threatening. Her threats were idle. They could take the house apart and there would be little she could do about it.

Donnelly could bear her twittering no longer. ‘Mrs Hellier, this is gonna happen with or without your objections. The quicker and easier this is, the sooner we’ll be out of here. Why don’t you take a seat in the kitchen? Have a cup of tea and stay out of the way.’

He steered Mrs Hellier into the kitchen, guiding her on to a stool. Another detective peered around the kitchen door.

‘Dave,’ he said, ‘we’ve got a locked door.’

‘My husband’s study,’ Mrs Hellier said. ‘He always keeps it locked during the day. I don’t know where the key is. I think he takes it to work.’

‘Fine,’ Donnelly said. He turned to the detective. ‘Break it open.’

‘What?’ Mrs Hellier almost squealed. ‘Please, contact my husband. He’ll open it for you, I’m sure.’

‘I think he’s probably got other things on his mind right now, Mrs Hellier.’ As Donnelly spoke, he could hear the unmistakable sound of splintering wood.

Sean left the others to complete the search of Hellier’s office. It would take hours. He’d travelled back to Peckham police station with Hellier, who had stared out of the window all the way. Hellier hadn’t responded to any approaches Sean had tried and he’d tried plenty. Disgust. Aggression. Threats. Compassion. Understanding. It had been Sean’s only chance to go one-on-one with Hellier before the rules took over. Nothing had moved him. Yet.

Even when he was booked into the custody area, Hellier never spoke except to give his name and the details of the solicitor he demanded to speak with immediately. The custody officer assured him the solicitor would be called. He was about to have Hellier taken to his cell when Sean spoke. ‘One other thing …’

‘Yes?’ the sergeant asked.

‘We want the clothes he’s wearing. All of them.’

‘Okay. Take him to his cell – number four’s free. Forensic suits are in the cupboard at the end of the cell passage.’

Sean knew where the white paper suits were. Replacement clothing for suspects whose own clothes had been seized. They marked suspects who’d been arrested for serious crimes. Rapists. Murderers. Armed robbers. Police and other prisoners alike always paid more attention to men in white paper suits.

‘Is there anyone I can call to have some replacement clothes brought for you, Mr Hellier?’ the sergeant asked. Hellier didn’t reply. The sergeant shrugged his shoulders. ‘He’s all yours, guv’nor.’

Sean nodded his appreciation and led Hellier to his cell.

DC Alan Jesson followed Sean and Hellier into the miserably dreary cell. He carried the brown paper bags all clothing exhibits were sealed in. Plastic bags caused too much moisture. Moulds could grow quickly and destroy vital evidence. Paper let the clothes breathe. Kept evidence intact.

‘Strip. Take everything off and then put this on.’ Sean threw the white paper suit on the stone bench.

Hellier smiled and began to undress. The detective constable carefully folded Hellier’s Boss suit, Thomas Pink shirt and the rest of his clothing, then slid them into the brown paper bags. The detective wasn’t concerned about creasing the clothes; he was taking care not to lose any forensic evidence that might be entwined in the fibres of the clothing.

Sean glanced at Hellier’s virtually naked body. He had the physique of an Olympic gymnast, only slimmer, denser and more defined. Physically he would be more than a match for Sean, and that rarely happened.

Hellier looked at him. He spoke silently in his mind. Enjoy your moment, bastard, because you will pay for this. I swear I will destroy you, Detective Inspector Corrigan. I will end you.

Donnelly and his team had been searching Hellier’s home for over three hours. They had bagged and tagged most of Hellier’s clothing and shoes, but had found nothing startling.

Donnelly was searching through Hellier’s desk drawers. They’d had to break them all open, one by one. Elizabeth Hellier had sworn she didn’t have keys.

All their search had turned up was further evidence that Hellier was as wealthy as he looked. He had a number of bank accounts: Barclays, HSBC, Bank of America, ASB Bank in New Zealand. Each containing in excess of a hundred thousand pounds or the foreign equivalent. Donnelly let out soft whistles as he added up the sums, but other than that he found nothing.

He needed to stand and stretch. As he pushed the chair back from the desk he felt a stinging pain in his thigh. He looked down and saw a rip in his trouser leg.

‘Oh, you bastard,’ he declared. ‘What the bloody hell was that?’ He put his hand under the desk and felt around. He touched something. It was small and cold. Something metal.

He pushed the chair away and ducked under the table. He saw them immediately. Not one, but two shiny keys taped underneath the desk. He didn’t touch them.

‘Peter – get the photographer in here. I need a picture taken.’

Only when the keys had been photographed and fingerprinted did Donnelly remove them from under the desk. The tape used to hold them in place had been carefully removed and sealed in a plastic evidence bag. Who knew how many microscopic pieces of evidence clung to its sticky back?

He held the keys up and asked the room a question. ‘Now. What do we use keys for?’ Slowly he looked down at the drawers they’d broken open. The locks remained intact. He winced as he put one of the keys into the drawer lock. It didn’t fit. He tried the other. It fitted. He grimaced before turning the key. The lock clicked open. ‘Ooops,’ he said. ‘I think we might be getting a bill for some broken antique furniture.’

He tried the other drawers. The key fitted them all. He dropped it into an evidence bag and sealed it straight away. He tossed the other key around in the palm of his hand and called out across the office. ‘Anyone finds a locked anything, let me know.’

A detective searching the walnut cabinets attracted Donnelly’s attention. ‘Hold on, there could be something under here.’

Donnelly moved closer and watched over his shoulder. He pulled back the carpet at the base of the cabinet. They stared at the floor safe. They looked at each other, then at the key in Donnelly’s hand.

He pushed the key into the lock. He could feel it was precision-made. It slid into place as if it had been oiled. The heavy door opened upwards.

The first things he saw were bundle of cash, neatly rolled and held in place with rubber bands. He touched nothing. He could see they were mainly US dollars. Hundred-dollar bills. Some sterling too − fifty-pound notes − and Singapore dollars, again in fifties. How much in total, he could only guess. He saw the unmistakable red cover of a British passport. He flicked it open − it was in Hellier’s name. This man could leave the country in a hurry if he had to.

There was something else, lying under the passport. A small black book. An address book? Donnelly was still on his knees. He looked up at the detective who’d discovered the floor safe.

‘You’d better get that photographer back in here. And the fingerprint lady, too. I don’t know what all this is about, but it’s got to mean something.’

Sally’s search team had arrived back at about 2 p.m. She sat with Sean in his office briefing him on what they had found and seized, the main thing being Hellier’s computer that would be sent to the electronics lab where the boffins would interrogate the system’s innards. Maybe they could find something, but it would take time.

Sean’s phone rang. ‘Hello, this is DI Corrigan.’

‘Front office here, sir. There’s a Mr Templeman wants to see you.’

‘Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.’ Sean hung up. ‘Hellier’s brief’s here,’ he informed Sally as he set off for the front office. He walked quickly along the busy corridors and skipped down the stairs, nodding to the stressed-looking civilian station officer before waving Templeman past the waiting queue of customers. Templeman wasted no time with pleasantries. ‘I demand immediate access to my client.’

‘Of course,’ Sean agreed, and guided him through a side door into the station. ‘I’ll take you to the custody suite. Follow me.’

‘And when do you plan on interviewing my client? Soon, I hope.’

‘When the Section Eighteen searches are complete and I’ve had time to assess the evidence.’

‘How long, Inspector?’

‘Two or three hours.’

‘That’s totally unacceptable,’ Templeman argued. ‘Clearly you’re in no position to interview my client, therefore I suggest you release him on bail until such time as you are ready. Later this week, perhaps.’

‘I’m investigating a murder,’ Sean reminded him, ‘not some Mickey Mouse fraud. Hellier stays in custody until I’m ready.’

Sean typed in the code on the security pad attached to the outside of the custody suite. When the pad gave out a high-pitched beep, he pushed the door open, immediately looking for a gaoler to take Templeman off his hands.

‘Murder or fraud, Inspector, everyone is entitled to a fair and vigorous defence,’ Templeman continued. ‘And that’s what I’ll ensure my client gets.’

‘Everyone except the dead,’ Sean replied coldly. ‘Everyone except Daniel Graydon.’ He grabbed a passing gaoler before Templeman could reply. ‘This is Hellier’s brief,’ he said. ‘He would like to see his client as soon as possible.’

‘No problem,’ the gaoler responded. ‘If you follow me, sir, I’ll sort that out for you.’

Sean was already walking away, Templeman calling after him: ‘I need to see any relevant statements you have. I’m entitled to primary disclosure, Inspector. I’m entitled to know what evidence you have against my client.’

‘And you will,’ Sean answered, already looking forward to the moment when he would reveal Hellier’s fingerprint had been found in Daniel Graydon’s flat, but undecided who he was most looking forward to seeing squirm: Hellier or Templeman.

Sean bounced up the stairs and back along the corridors to the incident room, tired legs suddenly alive again. He reached the incident room in time to hear the volume within rising. It could mean only one thing: Donnelly’s search team were back. Sean headed for his office, passing Donnelly en route. ‘My office, when you’ve got a minute, Dave.’

Donnelly dumped several evidence bags on his own desk and headed straight for Sean’s office.

‘What have you got?’ Sean said.

‘We’ve seized every bit of clothing he owns and his shoes. We’ll get that lot up to the lab tomorrow.’

‘I need something now. Something for the interview. I want to charge Hellier tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.’

‘Sorry, boss. No smoking gun in the house. But it’s all wrong there − he keeps his office locked all day when he’s not in there, even when he’s at home. His wife says she doesn’t know where he keeps the keys. She also says she knew nothing about the floor safe.’

‘Floor safe?’ Sean asked.

‘The jewel in the crown. Guy’s got a floor safe in his study.’

‘Plenty of rich people have got floor safes. Doesn’t mean much.’

‘True, but how many keep rolls of US dollars in them, with their passports? There was an address book too.’

‘So he’s prepared to leave in a hurry. Who knows why? If it was a crime not to trust banks, we’d all be in jail.’

‘For someone who doesn’t trust banks, he’s sure got plenty of money in them. Close to half a million, from what I could tell. God knows how much the final total will be.’

‘What about the address book?’ Sean asked. Often it was the smaller, less dramatic items that held the vital clues. A scrap of paper with a number written on it amongst pristine bank statements. An old person’s collectable in a young man’s flat. If it seemed out of place, no matter how slight, it could be the biggest lead of all.

‘I just had a cursory glance. Nothing more than initials and numbers. If they’re phone numbers, then they’re definitely not local. Probably overseas. It’s not arranged alphabetically. I’ve already checked for the victim’s initials, DG. Not in there.’

‘Hellier could be using codes,’ Sean said. ‘Get every number in there up to SO11 and have them run subscribers’ checks on the lot anyway. Tell them we need names and addresses by tomorrow lunchtime at the latest.’

‘I’ll ask, boss, but that’ll be tight.’

‘Do it anyway. In the absence of anything else, I’ll press on and interview Hellier. Let’s see what he’s got to say about his fingerprint being in the victim’s flat.’

Donnelly sat in on the interview, but it would be Sean who’d ask most of the questions. The interview room was barren. A wooden table, four uncomfortable chairs. The walls were dirty beige. No pictures. The room smelled of rubber flooring and stale cigarettes. A double-deck tape recorder lay on the table. Microphones were pinned to the wall.

Sean, Hellier and Templeman sat quietly, watching Donnelly break the cellophane tape around two new audio cassettes. He put both into the recorder and slapped the machine shut.

Sean broke the silence. ‘When we press “start”, you’ll hear a buzzing sound. That’ll last about five seconds. When that noise stops, we’re recording. Do you understand?’

Templeman spoke for Hellier. ‘We understand, Inspector.’

Sean could feel a ‘No Comment’ interview coming his way. He nodded to Donnelly, who pressed the ‘record’ button. The two tape reels began to turn together, the buzzing noise louder than anyone had expected. Even Sean felt his heart skip a beat. After a few seconds the noise stopped. There was a second of silence before he found his voice.

‘This interview is being recorded. I’m Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan. The other officer present is …’ He let Donnelly answer for himself.

‘DS Dave Donnelly.’

Sean continued: ‘I am interviewing – could you please state your name for the tape?’ Sean spoke to Hellier. Hellier looked at Templeman, who nodded that he should speak. Hellier leaned forward a little.

‘James Hellier.’ He leaned away.

‘And the other person present is?’

Templeman knew his cue. ‘Jonathon Templeman. Solicitor. And I’d like to say at this point that I am here to represent James Hellier. I will advise him regarding the law and his rights. I am also here to ensure the interview is conducted fairly and to challenge any questions or behaviour by the police that I deem to be inappropriate, unfair, irrelevant or hypothetical.

‘I would also like to say that against my advice …’ Sean saw Templeman cast a quick glance at Hellier, ‘Mr Hellier has decided he would like to answer any questions you ask.’

Sean wondered if they’d staged this little performance. Templeman’s idea, probably. Cast Hellier in the role of the victim of circumstance. The innocent man out to prove it. Whatever it was, Sean hadn’t seen it coming. He continued with the pre-interview procedure.

‘You have the right to consult with a legal representative or solicitor. You can consult on the phone or have one attend the police station and this right is free. As we know, you have your solicitor, Mr Templeman, present here anyway. Have you had sufficient time to consult with your legal representative in private?’

Templeman continued to speak for Hellier. ‘Yes, we have.’

‘I must remind you that you’re still under caution. That means you do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so. However, it may harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be used in evidence. Do you understand?’

‘He understands,’ Templeman said.

Sean decided to break this routine. ‘I would like Mr Hellier to answer for himself. I need to hear that he understands from his own mouth.’

Templeman was on the verge of protesting, but Hellier spoke. There was no feeling in his voice. ‘I understand, Inspector. The time has come for explanations.’

Sean’s stomach tensed. Was Hellier about to spill? Had the burden of guilt caught up with him? Few had the strength to carry their darkest secrets all the way to the grave.

Hellier and Sean locked stares. Sean spoke. ‘Mr Hellier. James. Did you kill Daniel Graydon?’

Sally entered the Intelligence Office at Richmond police station where she was met by a uniformed constable. ‘Are you the DS from the SCG?’ he asked unceremoniously.

‘Yes. I’m DS—’ Sally was interrupted. The constable wasn’t interested.

‘So what is it you’re after?’

‘Information from your records,’ Sally told him. ‘Back in 1996 a man called Stefan Korsakov was charged here with a serious sexual assault and fraud.’

‘An unusual mix,’ offered the constable.

‘Yeah,’ Sally answered. ‘Later the assault charges were dropped, but he went down for the fraud. You should have a charging photograph of him. I need to see it.’

‘Back in ninety-six? You’ll be lucky if we still have a card on him. Unless he re-offended within the last five years, his old card wouldn’t have been transferred on to the new Intelligence System. It may have been shredded. We kept the more interesting ones, though. People most likely to come back and haunt us. What was the sexual assault?’

‘He raped a seventeen-year-old boy in Richmond Park. Tied him up and threatened him with a knife.’

The constable scratched the side of his face. ‘Hmm. That’s definitely the sort of person we should have kept. I’ll have to check in the archives. What did you say this bloke’s name was?’

‘Korsakov. Stefan Korsakov.’

The constable began to move alongside the metal filing cabinets, which were just big enough to hold the old intelligence cards. As he did, he spoke to himself: ‘K, K, K, K … here we are.’ He stopped and opened the cabinet containing records of people whose surname began with K. He fingered through the files.

‘Korsakov. Korsakov. Stefan Korsakov.’ He pulled a thin card from the cabinet. ‘You’re in luck. We kept his card.’ His smile soon turned to a frown. ‘Bloody typical.’

‘Problem?’ Sally asked.

‘The photographs. They’re not here. Some bastard’s taken the lot.’

‘Did I kill Daniel Graydon? No, Inspector, I didn’t. No matter how hard you find that to believe, it’s the truth.’ Hellier’s eyes were giving nothing away. Damn, he was difficult to read.

‘Why did you lie to us?’ Sean asked. ‘You told us you were never in Daniel Graydon’s flat, which leaves me very confused as to how your fingerprint ended up on the underside of his bathroom door handle.’

Hellier sighed. ‘I lied to you, and that was wrong. I was foolish to do so and I can only apologize for wasting your time. I pray to God I haven’t distracted you from catching the person responsible.’

Sean didn’t believe a word.

‘I have been to Daniel’s flat. I was a client of his. I’ve been so for the past four or five months.’

‘And on the night he died?’ Sean asked.

‘No. I didn’t see him the night he was killed. I didn’t go to his flat that night. I hadn’t been to his flat for over a week.’

‘You see,’ Sean said, ‘whoever killed Daniel got into his flat without breaking in. We believe Daniel let them in. Now what sort of person would Daniel let into his flat at three in the morning? A friend, perhaps? Or maybe …’ Sean paused a second to make sure he still held Hellier’s gaze ‘… a client? One who made regular visits. One he thought he could trust.’

Templeman could stay silent no longer. ‘These questions are totally hypothetical. If you have evidence …’

Hellier put a hand on Templeman’s forearm. Templeman fell silent. ‘I want to answer their questions. Any questions. I didn’t go to his flat that night.’

‘So why did you lie about never having been to Daniel’s flat? You knew this was a murder investigation. You must have known the serious consequences of lying to us. You’re not a stupid man.’

Hellier looked at the floor and spoke. ‘Shame, Inspector. I don’t expect you to understand. I only wish you could.’

Sean had had about all he could stomach. Most of his childhood he’d felt nothing but shame. Shame and fear. Listening to Hellier’s false pleadings made him feel physically sick.

‘You live a lie. You lie to your wife, kids, family, friends. You pay young men to have sex with you and then curl up in bed with your wife. You lie to the police, even though you know that may delay our investigation. And now you want me to believe you lied because you were ashamed of your sexual preferences. I doubt you’ve ever been ashamed of anything in your entire life.’

Hellier looked up from the floor. His eyes were glassy. ‘You’re wrong, Inspector. I am ashamed. Ashamed of it all. I’m ashamed of my life.’

Sean studied him for a few seconds, looking deep into the darkness that he knew seethed behind Hellier’s eyes. ‘So what was so special about Daniel?’ He wanted to keep it personal. ‘Why keep going back to the same boy?’ He used the word ‘boy’ deliberately.

‘I have needs. Daniel helped me with those needs.’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘I practise sado-masochistic sex. So did Daniel. I went to him for that. I generally saw him once every two to three weeks. That’s what I was trying to hide. I was a fool, I know.’

‘What did this practice involve?’ Sean asked.

‘That’s hardly relevant,’ Templeman interjected.

‘There are unexplained marks on the victim’s body. Mr Hellier’s sexual behaviour may explain those marks. It’s relevant.’

‘Nothing too shocking,’ Hellier answered. ‘I would tie him up, by the wrists usually. With rope. We used blindfolds, sometimes whips. Mainly it was role-playing. Harmless, but not something I wanted the world to know about.’

‘I can understand that,’ Donnelly said.

‘Did he ever tie you up?’ Sean asked.

‘No. Never.’

‘So when you say sado-masochistic, you filled the sadist’s role, yes?’

‘Not always. Daniel would beat me sometimes, but I never felt comfortable being in bondage. Daniel said I lacked confidence. He was probably right.’

Hellier had an answer for everything. Sean dropped the address book on the table. It was still in the plastic evidence bag. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘An address book,’ Hellier answered. ‘Obviously.’

‘It was pretty well hidden for an address book. No names either, just initials and numbers.’

‘It contains certain contacts of mine I would rather my wife and family didn’t know about.’ It was an answer that made sense. Like all his answers.

‘Is Daniel’s number in here?’ Sean asked.

Hellier hesitated. Sean noticed it. ‘No.’

Why would that be, Sean wondered. Here was his secret book, yet one of his biggest secrets wasn’t in it. That made no sense. ‘You sure his number’s not in here?’

‘Yes,’ Hellier said. ‘His number’s not in there.’

Sean decided to let it go for now, until he understood more. ‘And the cash: I believe it was about fifty thousand in mixed currency, mainly US dollars?’

‘I like to keep a decent amount of cash about. These are uncertain times we live in, Inspector.’

‘And the money spread across the world in various bank accounts belonging to you? Hundreds of thousands, from what we can see.’ Sean knew these questions would get him no further, but they had to be asked.

‘One thing I won’t do, Inspector, is apologize for my wealth. I work hard and I’m well rewarded. Everything I have, I earned. My accounts are in order. I can show you where the money came from and the Inland Revenue can unfortunately vouch I’m telling the truth.’

Sean was getting nowhere and he knew it. He needed to knock Hellier out of his stride – get personal and see how Hellier reacted. ‘Inland Revenue, your account, your job at Butler and Mason – it’s all very top end, isn’t it?’ He noticed a small, involuntary contraction of Hellier’s pupils that disappeared as quickly as it came. ‘And you, in your thousand-pound suits and three-hundred-pound shoes – you’re a polished act, James, I’ll give you that.’

‘I don’t know where you’re going with this,’ Templeman interrupted. ‘It hardly seems relevant or proper.’

Sean ignored him. ‘But underneath that veneer of yours, there’s an angry man, isn’t there, James? So what is it that’s really pissing you off? Come on, James, what is it? What are you trying to hide? A working-class background? Maybe an illegitimate child somewhere? Or did you disgrace yourself in some previous job – got caught with your hand in the cookie jar – everything was smoothed over, but still you were shown the door? Come on, James – what is it you’re hiding from me – from everyone?’

Hellier just stared straight into him, his eyes never blinking, lips sealed tightly shut, possibly the faintest trace of a smirk on his face as his muscles tensed, controlling his facial reactions, making him impossible to read.

‘You know, James,’ Sean continued, ‘you can have it all – the job, the money, the wife and kids, the Georgian house in Islington – but you’ll never really be like them. You’ll never be accepted as one of them, not really. You’ll never be like … like Sebastian Gibran, and you know it.’ Another contraction of Hellier’s pupils told Sean he’d hit a raw nerve. ‘You can try and look like him, even sound like him, but you’ll never be like him. He was born into that role. He’s the genuine article, while you’re a fake – a cheap imitation − and you can’t stand it, can you?’

He leaned back, but still Hellier wouldn’t break, sitting silently, his hands resting on the table, one on top of the other, seemingly unmoved.

Sean tapped a pen on the table. He had one other question he was burning to ask, something that just didn’t make sense about the fingerprint they’d found, but some instinct warned him that it wasn’t the right time yet. Like a champion poker player knowing when to slap his ace down and when to hold back, a voice screamed in his head to save the question until he himself understood its significance.

‘We’ll have to check on what you’ve said, so unless you’ve anything to add, then this interview is concluded.’

‘No. I have nothing to add.’

‘In that case, the time is seven fifty-eight and this interview is concluded.’ Donnelly clicked the tape recorder off.

‘Now what?’ Templeman asked.

‘No doubt you’d like another private consultation with your client, and then he’ll be returned to his cell while we decide what’s going to happen to him.’

‘There’s no reason to keep Mr Hellier in custody any longer. He’s answered all of your questions and should be released immediately. Without charge, I should add.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Sean dismissed him.

Templeman was still protesting vigorously as Sean and Donnelly left the interview room. A uniformed police constable guarded the door. Sean and Donnelly headed back to their murder inquiry office.

Sean felt deflated. The interview hadn’t gone well. Except for one thing. Why wasn’t Daniel’s name in Hellier’s secret book? That made no sense. Somehow and in some way it was another piece of the puzzle.

Sally quickly studied the man who opened the front door of the detached Surbiton house. He looked about fifty years old, five-nine. His slim arms and legs, combined with a beer belly, reminded her of a spider. His hair was thick and sandy coloured, his eyes green and sharp. Sally saw an intelligence and a confidence behind them. She reckoned that Paul Jarratt had been a good detective during his years as a Metropolitan Police officer.

‘Mr Jarratt?’ Sally held out a hand. Jarratt accepted it. ‘DS Sally Jones. Sorry to call unannounced like this, but I was in the neighbourhood and wondered if you wouldn’t mind helping me out with a case I’m working on.’

‘A case?’ Jarratt was surprised.

‘A murder, actually,’ Sally told him. ‘A few years ago you dealt with a case involving a man who could be a suspect for our murder.’

‘You’d better come in then,’ said Jarratt.

She entered the tidy house and followed Jarratt to a large, comfortable kitchen. ‘Tea? Coffee? Or something cold?’ he offered.

‘Tea would be good. Milk and one please.’

‘I’ll make a pot,’ Jarratt said, smiling.

‘So how long you been out for?’ she asked. Half the force dreamed of being out. The other half dreaded it. Which was Jarratt?

‘About four years now. Ill health. An old back injury finally caught up with me five years short of my thirty. I qualified for a full pension and some medical benefits, so I’m not complaining. I get a bit bored at times, but you know … Anyway, what can I help you with?’

Sally recognized the cue to get down to business. ‘I’m investigating a murder. A bad one. Young gay man, Daniel Graydon, stabbed and beaten to death.’

‘A homophobic attack?’ Jarratt asked.

‘No, we don’t think so. Something else, although we’re not quite certain what. Which is where you may be able to help.’

‘Well, I’m not sure about that,’ Jarratt answered. ‘I spent most of my time on the Fraud Squad. Number-crunching was my game. Not murders.’

‘I appreciate that, but other than working on the Fraud Squad you also did a spell in the CID office at Richmond.’ It sounded like a question, but it wasn’t.

‘Yes. That’s right. From about ninety-five till about ninety-eight, as best as I can remember. Then I got back on the Fraud Squad.’

‘It was a case you dealt with at Richmond that interests me − a man called Stefan Korsakov, back in ninety-six. He’d been arrested by Parks Police for …’

‘Raping a young boy,’ Jarratt interrupted. ‘He bound and gagged him in Richmond Park. Threatened him with a stiletto knife, then raped him. I shouldn’t think I’ll ever forget Stefan Korsakov. And if you’d met him, you wouldn’t either.’

There was silence in the kitchen. The comment was unusual. Police officers never exaggerated the impact criminals had on them. Sally wondered what it could have been about Korsakov that had Jarratt so spooked. She tried hard to think when a suspect had ever affected her in that way. Nothing came to mind. She sensed Jarratt’s fear of Korsakov was personal.

‘What made him so memorable?’ she asked.

‘No remorse. Absolutely none. His only regret was that he got caught. And that only bothered him because it meant he was off the street and wouldn’t be able to do the same thing again to someone else.

‘He never said so during interview – in fact, he never said anything during interview – but I knew he would have killed that young lad if he hadn’t been disturbed. There’s no doubt. It was a hell of a blow when the boy’s family wouldn’t let us prosecute him for the rape. I can still remember the smirk on Korsakov’s face when I told him the charge had been dropped. Talk about the devil looking after his own. It would have been better for everyone if he’d taken a long fall from a high window. Know what I mean?’

Sally smiled uncomfortably, but didn’t answer. Jarratt sensed her reaction. He stood and moved to the sink, pouring his tea away as Sally watched him and tried to sense his emotions. Jarratt’s nausea looked real enough.

‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what it feels like to watch an animal like Korsakov walk away, knowing it’s only a matter of time before he rapes again, or graduates to murder.’

‘But he didn’t walk,’ Sally reminded him, ‘he went down for the frauds. I hear you made certain of it.’ It was a compliment.

‘Yes, I made certain he went down for something. I got a sniff of Korsakov’s little fraud operation and dug in. He went down, all right, but it was a hollow victory. He got four years. That was all. All those people he screwed. And we never recovered the money. No matter what we tried, we couldn’t find it.

‘I even had a couple of old friends from the Serious Fraud Squad in the City who owed me a favour help me look for it, but nothing. He was a clever bastard. I’ll give him that.’

Sally was interested in the fraud. It helped build the picture of Korsakov. But she was more interested in his violent nature. That was the road that could lead to his capture.

‘Did he show awareness of forensic evidence or police procedures?’ Sally asked.

‘Definitely,’ came the unhesitating reply. ‘The clothes he wore, the use of a condom, the victim he picked, and even the venue was pretty good. He just got unlucky, and thank God he did.

‘And he would have learnt. He would have got better and better. He was clever enough to learn from his own mistakes. Very organized too. His frauds were brilliantly simple. And as I’ve already mentioned, clever enough to hide the cash where no one could find it.

‘That’s not easy to do these days,’ Jarratt continued. ‘Billionaire drug dealers, bent City accountants, corrupt governments – they all spend fortunes trying to hide the money in the legitimate banking system. You can’t keep millions of pounds under the mattress and, even if you could, no one accepts cash any more, not for major purchases. Cash makes people nervous. You’ve got to get it into the banking system. That’s where we so often catch them out and recover the money, but not with Korsakov. He was too cunning.

‘So tell me, DS Jones. He’s committed another rape or murder, hasn’t he?’

Sally hesitated before answering. She was unsure why. ‘We don’t know if it’s Korsakov. There are similarities between your case and one we’re investigating. So we’re doing a little background digging. One thing’s bothering me though.’

Jarratt looked at her, expressionless. ‘Go on.’

‘Everything points to Korsakov being a repeat offender. You said it yourself, that he’d offend again.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yet he hasn’t come to police notice at all. No convictions, arrests, no information reports. Nothing.’

‘Then he’s either out of the country or he’s dead,’ Jarratt answered. ‘Only pray it’s the latter.’

‘Or maybe we just haven’t caught him.’

Jarratt gave a low laugh. ‘I know we’re not perfect, but there’s never been a repeat offender who hasn’t been caught within a couple of years. Even in the dark ages, before computer cross-referencing, DNA, Crimewatch, we still caught the people eventually. They would always make a mistake.

‘No. If he was in the country he would be offending. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself any more than we could stop treating everybody with suspicion. It’s in his nature. Or he may have become a ghost, never keeping one identity too long, never staying in one place longer than a couple of months. He’s capable.’

‘I’ll check with public records,’ said Sally. ‘See if they have anything on him. And thanks to you, we’ll have a set of fingerprints for him. I’ll have them compared to any marks recovered from our scene.’

Jarratt’s eyes narrowed. ‘If it’s a death certificate or fingerprints you find, then please call me. If he’s sunning himself in Thailand, I’d rather not know.’

Sally thought Jarratt suddenly looked old. She wouldn’t push him any further. ‘Well, thanks for your time,’ she said, and stood to leave. ‘Oh, one more thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘You did take photographs of Korsakov, when you charged him?’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s just, when I checked his intelligence records at Richmond, there were no photographs attached.’

‘Unfortunate, but not unusual,’ Jarratt replied.

‘Can you think of anyone else who may have wanted or needed photographs of Korsakov?’ Sally asked. ‘Maybe I can still track them down.’

‘Not really,’ Jarratt answered. ‘No one’s ever approached me about him.’

Sally sighed. ‘Oh well, never mind.’

Jarratt led her to the front door. His hand rested on the handle, but he didn’t turn it. ‘Can I ask what put you on to Korsakov?’ he asked. ‘What put you on to me?’

‘Method Index,’ Sally told him. ‘You were down as the officer in the case.’ Jarratt said nothing. ‘Oh shit,’ Sally suddenly said, fumbling in her handbag. ‘I almost forgot. Could you do me a favour and have a look at this photo?’ She pulled the surveillance photograph of Hellier out and handed it to Jarratt. ‘Do you recognize him?’

Jarratt held the photograph and looked at it without interest. Sally saw nothing in his face. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Is it someone I should know?’

‘Just a loose end I wanted to tie up, and now I have. Anyway, thanks for your time.’

‘Anytime,’ Jarratt said. ‘It’s nice to feel useful again.’ They shook hands before Sally left and headed to her car.

‘He’s a sly one, all right,’ Donnelly said, ‘thinking on his feet. Covering our evidence as we find it.’

‘Then we’ll have to find more,’ said Sean.

‘How about DNA? Body samples?’

‘Irrelevant,’ Sean reminded him. ‘He admits to having sex with the victim, and now he admits to being in his flat − any samples we find prove nothing. That wouldn’t matter if we were to find the victim’s blood on Hellier or his clothing, but it’s going to take the lab days to process the things we seized today.’

‘So what are we going to do – just let him walk out of here?’

‘That’s exactly what we’re going to do,’ Sean answered. ‘We charge him now, we’re saying we’ve got enough evidence to convict him. We both know that’s the rule. Once he’s charged, we lose the right to question further or to take more samples. We charge him now and we couldn’t even make him take part in a fucking identification parade. I’ve made that mistake before. I’m not going to make it again. We have to come at him from another angle. One he won’t be expecting.’

‘You’re talking about identifying another crime he’s committed?’ Donnelly asked, without enthusiasm.

‘I am,’ Sean confirmed, noting Donnelly’s scepticism. ‘Something occurred to me during the interview. What if he’s making it up – the whole story about having an ongoing client-customer relationship?’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘What if he wasn’t having any sort of relationship with Graydon? What would that mean?’

Donnelly shrugged in confusion.

‘It could mean he’d selected Graydon. Simply picked him from the crowd and killed him. All this bollocks about seeing him every few weeks, Graydon taking care of his physical needs, it’s all a smokescreen, trying to confuse us – throw us off the scent. He’s trying to lead us by the nose in the wrong direction. Maybe it’s so much simpler than we were thinking: he went looking for a victim and found one, then he killed him. But he made mistakes – he was recognized in the club and he left a single print at the scene. Now he’s covering his tracks, trying to make up for those mistakes. He knows that if he admits he’s only ever seen Graydon once, then he’s flagging himself up as a predator. He’ll bring us right down on top of him. Much better this way. He thinks he’s smart enough to get away with it, and that will be his downfall.’

‘But we know he did see the victim at least once before,’ Donnelly reminded him. ‘The doorman, Young, saw them together outside the club, remember? He was a distance away, but he was sure it was them and he was sure they headed off together, so he couldn’t have just picked him up the night he killed him.’

Sean had already considered everything Donnelly had said. ‘Of course he’d seen him before. Been with him before. That was important to him.’

‘Why?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Because that made the victim real. He needed to taste him and feel him. Fantasize about him. So he picks him up inside or outside the club, it doesn’t really matter, and they probably go back to Graydon’s. They have sex. Hellier drinks it all in – absorbs everything − and once he’s sure Graydon is worthy of his special attentions he leaves, but watches him. He watches him for days, his excitement building, the fantasy in his mind growing increasingly violent and depraved until he can stand it no more, so he waits for him, outside the club. When Graydon eventually appears, alone, he follows him. Stalks him. Maybe he followed him all the way home or maybe he stopped him in the street – the victim wouldn’t be too afraid; after all, they’d already had paying sex together. But whatever happened once they were back at the flat, Hellier made his fantasy come true. Only, as we know, he made two mistakes: the fingerprint and being seen with the victim. So he spins us this story about some sort of relationship he was having with the victim and has us chasing our tails, desperately trying to establish some logical reason why he would want to kill Graydon, knowing we’ll never find one, because there isn’t one. And while we’re looking for it we’ll miss the real reason he killed Daniel Graydon – because he wanted to. Because he had to.’

‘Christ,’ Donnelly cursed. ‘So what now?’

‘Take someone with you and bail Hellier out. Tell him to come back in two weeks. His brief will ask why he needs to come back. Tell him we’ll be checking his story. That Hellier hasn’t been eliminated yet.

‘And scramble the surveillance team again. I want Hellier picked up the second he steps out of the station. We run twenty-four-hour coverage. We keep the pressure on and wait for him to drop the ball. Sooner or later he’s going to hang himself. Who knows, maybe he already has.’

Hellier stood in the corridor of the police station, waiting to exit the building. First Templeman went outside to ensure no one was about. When he returned, the news wasn’t good.

‘I’m sorry, James. Looks like the media’s got hold of this.’

‘What?’ Hellier snapped. ‘You sure they’re here for me?’

‘I’m afraid so. They’ve already asked me for a statement. They know you’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder.’

‘That bastard Corrigan. He told them. He’s trying to destroy me.’ Hellier’s words were venomous.

‘Listen,’ said Templeman, ‘you need to stay calm. I’ll speak to them, deny you’ve been arrested, tell them you’re helping the police with their inquiries. You stay in here until I’m finished, then I’ll bring the car around. And I also recommend you cover your face when we leave.’

‘What?’ Hellier’s voice was raised.

‘Just in case there’s a photographer sneaking about. You can use my raincoat.’

‘You want me to crawl out of here with that over my head, like some paedophile? You might as well tell them I’m guilty.’

‘Please, James, try and stay calm.’ Templeman almost had his hands on Hellier’s chest. ‘A name’s nothing if they don’t have a face to go with it.’

Hellier sounded cold. ‘Fine, but hear this. No one humiliates me without paying the price.’

‘I wouldn’t be talking about revenge if I were you, James,’ Templeman advised.

A look of disgust spread across Hellier’s face. He put his face close to Templeman’s. Templeman could smell a virile, animal stench on Hellier’s breath. ‘You do as I fucking tell you and get me out of here. I’m expected at the damn industry awards dinner tonight. There’ll be hell to pay if I’m not there. Sebastian’s already on my back.’ Hellier stretched the stiffness out of his neck, the cracking noise making the lawyer shudder. He snatched Templeman’s coat from him and gave him a final order. ‘Get me a damn taxi.’

By the time Sally arrived back at the murder inquiry office it was already early evening and she was keen to catch up on developments. The place was all but deserted, except for Sean who sat alone in his office. Sally knocked on the door frame, making him look up. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked.

‘Wonderful,’ Sean answered sarcastically.

‘I take it Hellier didn’t confess then.’

‘Correct.’

‘And his fingerprint in the victim’s flat?’

‘Said he’d lied earlier. He now admits to having been there on several occasions in the past.’

‘That’s exactly what I’d say if I was in his position.’

‘Me too,’ Sean agreed. ‘We bailed him, pending further inquiries. Anyway, how did you get on with what’s-his-name?’

‘Korsakov,’ she reminded him. ‘I managed to track down one of the original investigating officers, which was interesting enough, but he couldn’t tell me much more than Method Index had. The intelligence record at Richmond was a bit thin, no photographs either.

‘If you have no objections, I thought I’d have Korsakov’s prints compared to any recovered from the scene. You never know your luck.’

‘Be my guest,’ Sean told her. ‘The identification officer dealing is IDO Collins. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go home before my kids forget what I look like. You should go home too. Get some sleep.’

‘I will,’ she said, then hesitated. ‘If he’s guilty, we’ll get him sooner or later. It’ll only be a matter of time before we can prove it.’

‘Of course we will,’ Sean assured her. ‘We always do, in the end. By the way, speaking of Hellier, did you show your man the photograph?’

‘I did.’

‘And?’

‘Meant nothing to him. Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Sean said. ‘It was a long shot anyway.’

Jarratt sat at home with his wife and daughters. An article on the local evening news programme caught his eye. Somebody had been arrested for the murder of Daniel Graydon. That was the name DS Jones had mentioned. The name of the murder victim.

The reporter standing outside Peckham police station had used the term, ‘helping police with their inquiries’. Jarratt knew that meant he’d been arrested.

It was only a small item on the news. The death of a prostitute caused little stir in London these days. He listened to the reporter’s closing statement.

‘Although the police have so far refused to comment, it is believed that the man helping with their inquiries is one James Hellier, a renowned accountant and partner with the respected firm of Butler and Mason, whose offices are in the exclusive Knightsbridge area of central London.

‘The solicitor representing the man believed to be Mr Hellier claimed his client had nothing to hide and was happy to assist the police in every way possible, although he declined to confirm the man was indeed James Hellier.’

This was disastrous. Everything he feared most was becoming reality. Jarratt’s chest was close to exploding. He excused himself and went to the kitchen. He poured too much whisky into the first glass he saw. His hands shook as he took large sips. He needed to calm down, get control of himself and the situation. He thought he might be about to have a heart attack. He knew what was coming next.

Sean sat quietly staring at the television without really watching it. He’d chosen to sit on a chair instead of next to Kate on the sofa. She could feel his tension.

‘Sean,’ she called across to him. Nothing. She called again. ‘Sean.’ He rolled his head to face her. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asked.

Sean puffed his lips and exhaled. ‘Not really.’

‘It might help to talk,’ she persevered.

‘It’s nothing,’ he lied. ‘I thought I had our prime suspect today, but he wormed off the hook.’

‘You’ll get him. Remember what you always tell me: it’s only a matter of time, no matter how difficult it may look at first.’

‘Yeah, but this one bothers me. Every time I think I’ve got him cornered, he worms his way out. At first I thought he was just thinking on his feet, coming up with answers to fit the evidence against him as and when he had to, but now I’m not so sure. I think he has a strategy. The moment he knew we were on to him, he invented a story to lead us into a blind alley – and it’s my fault. I showed my hand too soon. I should never have let him know he was a suspect. I should never have gone to his office in the first place. I should have watched him. Watched and waited for him to lead us to the evidence. Now I have to play the game with him, and from what I’ve seen so far he’s a bloody good player. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was even enjoying it.’

Sean sprang from his chair and made for the kitchen. He grabbed a glass and filled it with water. Kate followed him. She’d seen him like this before, usually during difficult cases, but not always. It was better to get him to talk than allow him to dwell on matters. She wouldn’t let him slip away into the dark places his past could take him. ‘Don’t let it get on top of you,’ she warned. To anyone else it would have been an innocent enough comment, but not to Sean.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked.

Kate realized her mistake. ‘Nothing. I only meant don’t let this case get too personal.’

‘It’s always personal,’ Sean told her. ‘For me, it’s always personal. It’s how I stop them.’

‘I know, but you need to be careful. Don’t try and do everything alone.’

‘Why?’ Sean asked. ‘Afraid I’ll lose it?’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘Isn’t it?’ he said, his voice calm.

She knew his past, about his childhood, his father. The beatings and abuse. Everything. Sean had always been honest with her about that. She understood that the rage and hate from his childhood was still inside him somewhere. How could it not be? But she knew he was nothing like his father, like the people he hunted. If she’d had any doubts, no matter how small, she would never have married him, let alone had his children. This was just Sean venting his frustrations. She’d dealt with it before and she knew she’d have to deal with it again.

‘Don’t do this, Sean,’ she pleaded. ‘I don’t deserve this.’

It was enough to make Sean pause. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He sipped his water. ‘Do you ever think about it though? Aren’t you ever a little afraid I may become like him?’

Kate knew he was talking about his father. ‘No. Never. You realized you had this thing inside of you, and you wanted to stop it, stop it before anyone got hurt, and you did.’

‘With a lot of help,’ he reminded her.

‘None of it would have worked if you hadn’t wanted it to.’

‘Christ,’ Sean said, before taking another swig of water, ‘sometimes I feel like such a fucking stereotype: boy is abused by his father, the boy grows into a man only to become an abuser himself. From victim to offender. It’s all too fucking predictable.’

‘But you didn’t,’ she reminded him. ‘You grew up to be a cop. You use your past to help people, not to hurt them.’ A silence fell between them. Kate moved towards him and held his face in her hands. ‘Your past is a curse, but it has left you with a gift. You can think like these people. You can recognize them when others see nothing. You can predict them.’

‘Not this one,’ Sean told her. ‘I can’t see through his eyes yet. I don’t know why, but I can’t. Whenever I try, it’s like someone pulling a screen across, blocking me.’

‘It’ll come,’ she assured him. ‘Give it time and it will come.’

There was a silence, then Sean spoke again. ‘Do you know what it’s like, being able to think like them?’

‘No,’ Kate answered. ‘I look at you when you’re like this and I thank God I can’t. Who would want that burden?’

‘I can feel what they feel,’ he said. ‘I can sense their excitement, their relief. Pain. Confusion.’

Kate stroked his hair, the way a mother would a child. ‘And you use it to stop them. To stop them hurting people.’

‘Sometimes I feel like I’m too close. So close that I could slip into darkness any second.’

‘Then perhaps you should see Dr Richardson? It has been a while since you spoke to her.’

‘No,’ Sean snapped a little. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll sort it out myself. I just need you to remind me now and then. To remind me who I really am.’

‘You know who you are,’ Kate reminded him. ‘Ever since you decided you were going to be a policeman. Ever since that moment, you’ve known exactly who you are.’

‘I suppose so,’ he answered unconvincingly.

‘There’s something else though, isn’t there? You’ve got that look on your face you always get when something’s drilling a hole in your head. So what is it?’

‘I saw something strange today,’ he confessed.

‘The jobs we do, we see strange things every day.’

He ignored her interruption. ‘Outside my office window, on the flat roof below, in amongst the ventilation outlets. It was a dead bird. At first I thought it was just another dead pigeon, but then I realized it was a magpie. I knew it was a magpie because other magpies kept landing next to it. I assumed they’d come to feed on its body, but I was wrong – they were bringing it gifts: twigs, small shiny stones, things to eat. I watched them for a while and then I realized, I realized what they were doing. They were mourning its death. Magpies mourn their dead. I never knew that.’

‘And that upset you?’ Kate asked.

‘No. Not upset me; made me wonder, that’s all.’

‘Wonder what?’

‘We don’t judge them, do we? Magpies. When they’re feeding on roadkill or killing the chicks of other birds as they try to hide in their nests, we don’t judge them. We don’t judge them because, as far as we’re concerned, they’re only doing what’s in their nature to do. They’re just animals, after all. But that’s what I thought separated us from animals, the fact that we mourn our dead. Only now I know magpies do too. A murderous, heartless killer that mourns its dead.’

‘Meaning?’ Kate asked.

‘Meaning maybe we’re not as different from the animals killing each other to survive as we’d like to think. Meaning maybe that’s what the men I hunt are doing? Killing because it’s in their nature to. They were born to do it, yet we pass judgement on them as if they were normal like you and …’ He stopped before including himself.

‘Whether it’s in their nature to do it or not, someone has to stop them, and right now that someone is you.’

‘I know.’

Kate sighed. ‘I’m proud of what you do. I’m proud it’s you who goes after them. It scares me sometimes, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.’

Sean pushed his glass away. ‘Thank you,’ he told her softly. ‘Thank you for putting up with me. Promise me one thing though.’

‘What?’ Kate asked.

‘Don’t ever let me go. Don’t give up on me.’

Kate slipped her hands around the back of his neck and pulled him closer. ‘That’ll never happen,’ she promised. ‘I love you. Just don’t push me away. Don’t ever push me away.’

Sebastian Gibran sat at his table in the middle of the Criterion Restaurant in Piccadilly Circus, an exclusive, expensive and cavernous former ballroom in the heart of the West End. Usually the reserve of the rich, famous and wannabes, tonight it was for the exclusive use of London’s financiers. The lights were dimmer than usual, but Gibran could still make out pretty much everyone in the place. As he absentmindedly joined in with small talk he searched the room for Hellier. He couldn’t see him and checked his watch again. Hellier was already late, appetizers had been served and eaten. Soon the various speeches would begin. He knew he wouldn’t be the only one who had noticed Hellier’s absence. His searching was disturbed by the restaurant manager appearing at his shoulder, leaning in to speak quietly in his ear.

‘Excuse me, sir, but some gentlemen would like to see you in the private bar.’ Gibran knew who the gentlemen were and he had a good idea why they wanted to see him. He nodded once to show the manager he understood while pushing his chair away to stand, throwing the napkin from his lap on to the table.

Gibran moved inconspicuously across the restaurant and up a short flight of stairs to the private bar, various security and waiting staff casually moving out of his way, as if they’d all been warned of his coming. Two gorillas in thousand-pound suits held the doors open for him as he entered the bar and was immediately ushered past the most senior people in the world of finance he’d ever seen assembled in one place to a corner where two ageing men sat in large comfortable chairs, at a table made up for their exclusive use. The men had brown skin and silver hair, crystal-clear, sharp, intelligent eyes, and wore platinum watches vulgarly encrusted with diamonds. Gibran could imagine the cars they drove, the houses they lived in and the call girls they would sleep with later that night. One had a glass of blood-red wine on the table in front of him and the other a martini; the latter was smoking a fat Cuban cigar and nobody told him he couldn’t. Gibran recognized them as two of the owners of Butler and Mason. He’d seen them twice before and spoken with them only once.

Neither of them stood to greet him. The one sucking the cigar spoke first. ‘Sebastian.’ He had an Austrian accent. ‘Sorry to drag you away from dinner, but it’s been such a long time since we’ve had a chance to speak.’

Gibran resisted the temptation to remind them that they never had really spoken. ‘It certainly has,’ he managed to reply, but instantly noticed the old men’s displeasure at his answer, as if he was somehow disrespecting them. ‘But I understand how busy you must be and I’m kept well informed of everything I need to know.’

‘Of course,’ the wine drinker reassured him in an Eastern European accent, ‘and we hope you understand how valued you are to our organization.’

‘I’ve always felt I belonged at Butler and Mason.’ Gibran told them what he knew they wanted to hear. ‘I believe in what we do, and that’s the most important thing for me.’

‘Excellent,’ the smoker declared. ‘But now we hear that one of our employees has drawn unwanted attention to our business. Unwanted attention from the police.’

Gibran found he needed to clear his throat before speaking. ‘Bad news travels fast,’ he said, but it prompted no response. The smoker puffed on his cigar and stared at Gibran through the thick clouds that floated from his mouth. ‘It won’t be a problem,’ he tried to reassure the old men. ‘I believe it’s a simple case of mistaken identity. I expect the police to clear things up very soon.’ Gibran could feel their eyes dissecting him and knew that if he made one wrong move now, by morning his desk would have been cleared for him and his name wiped from the company records. But the pressure didn’t disturb him: he was used to it. He enjoyed it and the old men knew it, that’s why they paid him as well as they did.

‘Should we suspend him while we wait for this … this misunderstanding to be cleared up?’ the wine drinker asked.

‘Best not to,’ Gibran explained. ‘We don’t have enough evidence of any wrongdoing and neither do the police, or so his legal representatives tell me. They’re keeping me fully informed of any developments. For now, I’d rather keep him where I can see him.’

‘Does this employee know you’re talking to his legal people?’ the smoker asked.

‘No. He believes he has client confidentiality.’

‘Good,’ the wine drinker eventually said. ‘We know you’re aware of your responsibilities.’

Another veiled warning, Gibran thought: clear up the Hellier problem or don’t expect to be around too long at Butler and Mason. ‘I’m always aware of my responsibilities, gentlemen,’ he replied calmly. ‘Believe me, there’s nothing I take more seriously.’

‘Of course you are,’ the smoker agreed. ‘You have a great deal to offer. Which is why we were wondering if you have ever considered becoming involved in politics?’

Gibran found it difficult to hide his surprise. ‘Politics?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. I’m not a political animal.’

The man with the cigar laughed, smoke spilling from his gaping mouth. ‘Trust me, to be successful in politics, it’s better not to be too political.’

The wine drinker laughed in agreement, but Gibran didn’t see the joke, just their self-assured arrogance and condescending belief that somehow they understood how everything worked. No, it went beyond that; they believed they controlled how everything worked.

‘We’re not asking you to consider becoming an MP, merely whether you’d be interested in a role as a Special Government Advisor. It could be arranged. You’ll find all governments are desperate for the advice someone like you could offer them, otherwise all they have are civil servants whispering in their ears about things they know nothing about.’

‘Which political party did you have in mind?’ he asked them.

Again the mocking laughter of wisdom from old men. ‘Whichever one you want,’ the wine drinker answered. ‘Our organization makes very generous donations to both the main players. We feel a man like you could almost immediately be placed into a position of real influence at government level. Advisor to the Minister for Trade, perhaps?’

‘Or perhaps the Foreign Secretary would interest you?’ the smoker offered. ‘We have to plan for the future to remain competitive. To have someone of influence in the heart of government would be very useful for our organization.’

‘Well, I’ll certainly take it under consideration,’ Gibran promised, ‘but I’ve always enjoyed working away from the limelight. I like to make things happen without being seen. It seems to suit my personal ambitions better.’

‘Fine,’ the smoker replied. ‘But don’t take too long to make up your mind. What we’re offering you is something very special. Remember, Sebastian, religion is dead. These days it’s not down to priests and popes to tell us who to worship. Heavenly gods are dead to mankind. It’s the gods made of flesh and blood that people worship. Urban gods. Would you like to be an urban god, Sebastian?’

Was that what these old men thought they were, Gibran asked himself. Gods? And did they really believe he would ever want to be like them, old and weak? Their power was an illusion, built on markets that could disappear overnight.

The smoker didn’t wait for him to reply. ‘And don’t forget to take care of that little problem we discussed, before it gets, embarrassing.’

‘Of course,’ Gibran said. ‘But we should bear in mind that this particular employee knows a great deal about our, shall we say, business practices. If it was felt we needed to move him on, then I think it would be best to move him to one of our less high-profile offices, in say Vancouver or Kuala Lumpur. Somewhere we could still keep an eye on him. I would be uncomfortable having someone with that amount of knowledge potentially working for a rival.’

‘Agreed,’ was all the wine drinker said.

Once again the restaurant manager appeared at his shoulder, speaking softly into his ear. Gibran nodded once that he understood.

‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,’ he addressed the old men while getting to his feet, ‘it appears to be speech time.’ They said nothing as they disappeared behind a cloud of heavy, white smoke.

Hellier entered the Criterion shortly after 9 p.m., late, but unconcerned. He took his seat at the table and was relieved to see Gibran wasn’t there: at least now he could order himself a proper drink. He nodded at the other people around his table, some of whom he knew and others he didn’t. He didn’t care either way, and neither did he care what they thought of him. He grabbed a passing waiter.

‘Large Scotch with ice,’ he demanded. ‘And make sure it’s single malt.’ He released the waiter and searched the room for Gibran, who was nowhere to be seen. He was probably hiding in a toilet somewhere, preparing his annual speech. Hellier wished they’d let him make a speech. He’d like nothing more than to tell a room full of sanctimonious shits a few home truths.

As he waited for his drink and the next speaker his mind kept wandering to Corrigan. Hellier knew cops, he understood how they worked, but there was definitely something about Corrigan that disturbed him, warned him to be more careful than usual. He must beware of hubris, stay focused and stick to the script. There was to be no ad-libbing on this one. Corrigan was dangerous to him, he sensed it. His thoughts were disturbed by someone in a dinner jacket and bow tie tapping a microphone on the small stage.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our next speaker tonight, Sebastian Gibran from Butler and Mason International Finance.’ The room applauded generously, if politely, while Hellier groaned inside. Thankfully his drink arrived at the same time. He swallowed half of it in one go.

Gibran raised his hand to bring an end to the applause. ‘As most of you know,’ he began, ‘I’m not one for making public speeches. But it is always a special privilege to be invited to address so many influential people from our industry.’

Modest applause rippled through the room, drowning out the obscenities Hellier was muttering under his breath.

‘Thank you,’ said Gibran, feigning modesty. ‘Thank you.’ He waited for the applause to cease. ‘I’ve worked in finance all my adult life, but never in more trying times − times where the creation and ownership of wealth are seen as morally corrupt, not just by those consumed with the politics of envy, but by power-hungry politicians who are all too keen to appease the non-contributing majority. They assume so much and know so little.

‘A long time ago, one of the richest men in the world, when he was close to death, gave away everything he had, absolutely everything. When asked why, he said, “There is no greater sin than to be the richest man in the graveyard.”’ Laughter floated around the room. Gibran continued before it had stopped. ‘The thing is, he was right. There is no point in wealth for wealth’s sake. This is not merely my personal ideology, this is the ideology of my organization.

‘Since the banking sector abandoned all caution and reason in the pursuit of quick individual profits, people have lost faith in anyone even remotely connected to the financial markets, and that includes us. We have become fair game for anyone looking to ascribe the blame for their own failings to the mistakes of others, and we need to be aware that this is the brave new world in which we all now live. Only the other day I was having dinner with my wife and friends when a woman boldly informed me that the trouble with people like me is we have no product, that all we do is make money for our masters who reward us with money. That essentially we produce nothing. We’re never going to make a beautiful piece of furniture or educate a child. We don’t build houses or save the lives of the sick. We create nothing and therefore have no value ourselves.’

Hellier watched Gibran as his words silenced the audience who sat waiting for him to continue, waiting for him to assure them that they did have value, did have a place in the greater society. Hellier realized how different he was to everyone else in the room, how the mere thought of exclusion from anything terrified them, whereas he was able to embrace it when necessary, to make it his greatest ally. But even he was drawn into the speech and found himself eagerly awaiting Gibran’s next words. Study him, Hellier told himself. Watch Gibran perform and learn from it. Study his speech patterns and changes in tone. Study his pauses and body movements, the way he looks around the room, searching for eye contact. If he ever had to make a speech he would imitate Gibran, imitate him exactly. His mind flashed back to the interview with Corrigan – the accusation that he was no more than a cheap imitation, a generic copy of Gibran. Corrigan had an insightfulness almost as acute as his own. He must never forget that – if he wanted to win the game.

‘So,’ Gibran continued, ‘I explained to that person that our very essence was about creating product. I explained to her that without people like us there would be no Microsoft Corporation. Bill Gates’s brilliant idea would have remained just that: an idea. It took finance raised by companies like ours to make it reality. And what about pharmaceutical companies and the drugs they make that save millions of lives: would any of them exist without finance to make their birth possible? No, they would not, and nor would any other non-state-owned business, be that a company making millions of cars or a family business making postcards. They all needed finance to exist in the first place. So, I told this woman, don’t ever tell me that I have no product.’ He took half a step back from the microphone, triggering enthusiastic applause.

‘But we must do more than this,’ Gibran continued. ‘There is no point in having a small, separate class of the super-wealthy if the rest of society is reduced to a disillusioned underclass of the jealous, living their lives without hope or aspiration. In my heart I’m a socialist, but I believe all men and women should be equally wealthy, not equally poor. However, no government can ever achieve this. Their hands are tied by four-yearly elections and the need for short-term success. To build a society of the future worth living in takes time. It takes decades, not four years, which is why we must accept responsibility for things that have been too long left for the government to control. We should be financing the building of private but affordable schools. And in those schools we should be educating children who want to learn in environments free of disorder and dysfunction.’

Gibran paused to allow applause as Hellier looked around at the audience, who were warming to Gibran’s rhetoric.

‘And we should finance the building of affordable private community hospitals, where those who are sick and injured through no fault of their own can receive immediate and expert care, unhindered by the need to treat smokers, drinkers and the obese. And we should finance the building of private housing estates with their own private police, paid to protect the families and homes of those who live on them. Areas that will be safe from rioters and looters. And eventually everyone will want this better way of life. They will no longer be prepared to send their children to failing schools or their elderly relatives to failing hospitals. And through the ethical use of profits, insurance and payment protection, the public sector and the billions it sucks up and wastes will become obsolete. Through finance, the private sector will succeed where every government to date has failed.’

Applause erupted in the room, making Hellier laugh inwardly at how expertly Gibran had played them. But his mood soon began to darken as he realized he was witnessing the birth of Gibran as a worthy adversary; a dangerous adversary. So now he had two: Corrigan and Gibran. But which one should he be most cautious of? At least Corrigan was obvious and predictable, the raging bull who would keep coming straight at him until he was defeated or victorious. But Gibran was the snake in the grass, waiting to strike. He was the shark that swam below a calm sea, waiting until he smelled blood in the water. Hellier would respect the threats they represented, but he would never fear them. He watched as Gibran’s speech drew to a close.

‘However,’ Gibran warned his audience, ‘such ambitions can only be achieved in a new climate of competitive cooperation. Clearly, we cannot be seen to be forming cartels, but true progress cannot be achieved by individual businesses working towards individual goals. Cooperation is the key; but remember, we can only ever be as strong as our weakest link.’

Gibran’s eyes suddenly looked through the crowd and came to rest on Hellier, who felt them burning into his skin as if Gibran was publicly branding him a liability. Hellier resisted the temptation to smile: Gibran might think he was smart, but he’d just showed Hellier his hand. No matter what happened next, Hellier would be ready for him. When the time came, he would be ready.