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 23

Early morning and Sean was already at his desk. The office was growing increasingly active as the detectives drifted into work. A knock at his open door made him glance up. Superintendent Featherstone waited to be invited in.

‘Boss,’ Sean acknowledged. ‘How’s it going?’

Featherstone held two takeaway coffees. He placed one in front of Sean then sat down. ‘Never known a DI turn down a free coffee.’

‘Thanks,’ said Sean. As he lifted the drink, he realized why Featherstone was there. Sean hadn’t consulted with him prior to arresting Hellier. Technically, he should have. ‘While you’re here, there are a few things I need to update you on.’

‘You don’t say,’ Featherstone said. ‘Such as the arrest of a suspect, maybe?’

‘Amongst other things …’

‘An arrest I learned about from the television.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Sean. ‘That shouldn’t have happened, and it won’t happen again.’

‘I know things can get a bit manic at times,’ Featherstone said, ‘but I’m here to keep those that would otherwise interfere off your back so you can do what you have to do. I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s going on. In future, make a quick call. Okay?’

‘Of course,’ Sean agreed. Featherstone was as good a senior officer as Sean could hope for and he knew it. He needed to keep him onside.

‘This James Hellier character,’ Featherstone asked. ‘You sure he’s our man?’

‘As sure as I can be, but that means nothing without some usable evidence.’

‘If there’s evidence to find, then you’ll find it. Whatever course of action you decide to take will get my backing.’

‘Appreciated.’

Featherstone stood to leave. ‘By the way, this Hellier − he sounds like the sort of man who may have connections, if you understand my meaning.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind, guv. Before you go, are you still able to front a media appeal for me?’

‘You should do it yourself,’ Featherstone answered. ‘It would do you no harm to increase your public profile. If you ever want to go for your chief inspector’s, it’s the sort of bollocks they love to see on your CV.’

‘Not really my thing,’ Sean demurred.

‘Your call. So, what do you have in mind?’

‘I think it’s time we did a press conference. I’ll arrange it and let you know where and when.’

‘I’ll be there,’ Featherstone replied without enthusiasm. ‘We’ll speak soon.’

Hellier listened to Sebastian Gibran drone on from the other side of an obscenely wide oak desk, flanked by two old men rarely seen in the office. He assumed they were two of the owners of Butler and Mason, about whom little was known, even amongst the employees. They had olive skin and spoke only passable English. Hellier thought they looked old and weak.

‘It’s important for you to understand, James,’ Gibran urged, ‘that we fully support you in what must be a very difficult time for you and your family, and I speak for the entire firm when I say none of us believe these ridiculous allegations.’

Hellier was almost caught daydreaming. He realized just in time he was expected to answer. ‘Yes, of course, and thank you for your support. It really means a lot to my family and me.’ He sounded suitably genuine.

‘James,’ Gibran insisted, ‘you have been one of our most valuable employees since you joined us. You needn’t thank us for supporting you now.’

Sanctimonious bastard. One of their most valuable employees – I’ve made these fuckers millions. And they never cared how the money was earned either, so long as it kept rolling in. Support me during these difficult times. What fucking choice do you fools have? You need me a hell of a lot more than I need you.

‘Well, all the same, I’m very much indebted to you. To you all,’ Hellier lied. ‘I feel very much part of the family here and would hate for that to change.’

‘So would I,’ said Gibran, although his tone and expression were less than reassuring. ‘But incidents such as your late arrival at what is possibly the most important annual event in our diary will not go unnoticed. I’m sure you understand.’

‘I understand,’ Hellier lied. ‘And I apologize for being late, unreservedly. Once this whole mess with the police is cleared up, I’ll be able once again to give a hundred per cent to this firm.’

‘Good,’ said Gibran. ‘Because not only are you important to the company, you’re important to me personally, James, as a valued friend.’

Sally had been at the Public Records Office all morning. She was bored and frustrated. The clerk helping her search for records relating to Stefan Korsakov seemed bored too. He was no more than twenty-five and still had traces of acne. He wasn’t impressed with Sally’s credentials. Sally didn’t know his name. He hadn’t told her.

These days the bulk of the records were on computer, with only the clerk having access to the system. That was fine with Sally, so long as she didn’t have to wait much longer amongst the millions of old paper records stacked from floor to ceiling in the dark, cavernous building.

She heard footsteps approaching along the corridors of shelving and she was relieved to see the clerk return holding a piece of paper, but he wasn’t smiling.

‘I’ve found the person you’re interested in. Stefan Korsakov, born in Twickenham, Middlesex, on the twelfth of November 1971.’ He put the paper on a desk and smoothed it out for Sally to see. ‘Stefan Korsakov’s birth certificate,’ he announced. ‘This is the person you’re interested in?’

‘Yes,’ Sally answered. ‘I was beginning to think I’d imagined him.’

‘Excuse me?’ the clerk asked.

‘Never mind. Don’t worry about me.’

‘Really.’ The clerk sounded bored again.

‘Is he still alive?’ She looked up at the clerk. ‘If he’s dead, I need to see his death certificate.’

‘Do you know where he might have died?’

‘Not a clue,’ Sally answered honestly. ‘Does that help?’

‘I take it you want me to do a national search?’

‘Sorry. Yes.’ Sally sensed the clerk’s annoyance rising.

‘That’ll take days. Maybe weeks. I’ll have to send out a circular to the other offices around the country. All I can do is wait for them to get back to me.’

‘Fine.’ Sally pulled a business card from her handbag and gave it to him. ‘Here’s my card. My mobile number is on there. Call me as soon as you know. Any time. Day or night.’

‘Will there be anything else?’

‘No.’ The word was barely out before Sally changed her mind. ‘Actually, you know what, while I’m here there is one more thing I’d like you to check for.’

‘Such as?’

‘I’d like you to find birth and death certificates, if they exist, for this man.’ She wrote a name and date of birth on some paper and handed it to the clerk.

He read the name. ‘James Hellier. It’ll be done,’ he said. ‘But—’

Sally finished for him. ‘It’ll take time. Yes, I know.’

Hellier made his excuses and left the office shortly after his meeting with Gibran. No one had questioned why or where he was going. He knew no one would.

The police still had his address book. They hadn’t let him take a photocopy of it either. His solicitor was working on recovering it, or at least getting a copy. No matter. If DI Corrigan wanted to be a tough fucker, then that was fine. He had contingency plans.

He had no sense of being watched this morning. Strange. Maybe his instincts were jaded. He was tired. Yesterday had been a long day, even for him. Maybe Corrigan had accepted what he said in interview as the truth, but he doubted it. So where were they, dug in deep or simply not there?

He walked along Knightsbridge, past Harvey Nichols towards Harrods, turning left into Sloane Street, walking fast towards the south. Suddenly he ran across the road dodging cars driven by irate drivers. A black-cab driver blasted his horn and shouted an obscenity in a thick East End accent.

He ran at a fast jog along Pont Street, like a businessman late for a meeting, hardly noticed by the people he ran past. He turned right into Hans Place and jogged around the square.

On the corner with Lennox Gardens was a small delicatessen. Hellier went in and asked for a quarter kilo of Tuscan salami; while being served, he examined the other two customers in the shop. He could tell instantly they weren’t police. As the shopkeeper wrapped the meat, he suddenly ran from the shop at full speed. The shopkeeper shouted after him, but Hellier didn’t stop. After about a hundred and fifty metres he slowed and walked into the middle of the street, standing on the white lines, the traffic sweeping either side of him. He studied the entire area around him, each pedestrian, every car and motorbike, but nobody caught his eye uncomfortably. Nobody checked themselves as they walked. No car swerved away into a side street.

He wasn’t being followed, he was convinced of it. And even if they had been following him, he’d lost them. They’d underestimated him, assumed he wasn’t aware of surveillance and counter-surveillance, and now they’d paid the price. But he knew next time they would be more aware. More difficult to shake off.

Sean studied Dr Canning’s post-mortem report. Some detectives found it easier to look at photographs rather than spend time at the scene. He realized the value of having everything logged photographically, but preferred to be confronted with the real thing than these cold, cruel pictures. At the scenes he felt something for the victims: sorrow and regret – sadness. But when he studied the photographs they felt almost more real than the scenes themselves – the stark coldness of what they depicted and the harshness of the colours somehow even more unnerving than the actual scenes.

The report was excellent, as usual. Dr Canning had missed nothing. Every injury, old and new, had been observed, examined and described. Sean was totally engrossed. Finally he noticed DC Zukov loitering at his door.

‘What is it, Paulo?’ he asked.

‘This little lot just arrived in dispatch for you, guv.’ He held up several dozen paper files.

‘Stick them down here.’ DC Zukov dropped them on to Sean’s desk and retreated. They were the files from General Registry he’d asked for. Each held details of a violent death. These weren’t like the files Sally had studied at Method Index that concentrated on unique and uncommon crimes. These were case files of daily horrors. Young men stabbed to death outside pubs. Children tortured to death by their own parents. Prostitutes beaten to death by their pimps. The cases in front of him all involved excessive use of violence, but would they contain some detail that would leap out at him? Would one reek of the killer he hunted? Of Hellier?

He was about to begin studying the first of many when Donnelly burst in. ‘Bad news, guv’nor. Hellier’s lost the surveillance.’

‘What?’ Sean couldn’t believe what he was being told.

‘Sorry, boss.’

‘Tell them to get back and cover his office and home. He’ll turn up eventually, and they can pick him up again.’

‘Not that simple, I’m afraid,’ Donnelly said wearily. ‘All the surveillance teams have been pulled away on an anti-terrorist op. Sign of the times, eh?’

‘Give me some good news, Dave. What about the lab? Any news?’

‘All samples taken from the victim and his flat have been matched to people who admit to having sexual relations with him, but the lab found no blood on any of those individuals or their clothes. Only Hellier is anything like a genuine suspect. In short, the lab can’t help us. They still haven’t processed Hellier’s clothes, but I won’t be holding my breath.’

‘Fingerprints?’ Sean asked.

‘Spoke with them this morning. There’s three sets of prints they can’t match to anyone. All the others came back to the same people who’d left body samples there.’

‘What about these three unmatched sets? Do they come back to anyone with convictions?’

‘No. They’re no good to us unless we come up with other suspects we can match them to.’

‘Bollocks. Okay, we cover Hellier ourselves. Who have we got that’s surveillance trained?’

‘I am,’ Donnelly said. ‘And I think a couple of the DCs are: Jim, and maybe Frank.’

‘Good,’ Sean said, in spite of the fact it was anything but. ‘We’ll split into two teams and do a twelve-hour shift each. Dave, you lead Team One and get Jim and Frank to run the other.’

‘Hold on a minute, guv’nor,’ Donnelly argued. ‘We’re talking about two teams of what, maybe five people. Almost none of whom are surveillance trained. We’d be wasting our fucking time – and I haven’t even mentioned the fact he’s seen more than half the team when he got arrested.’

‘That’s why I won’t be with you,’ Sean said. ‘I’m gambling he was concentrating on me when he was arrested. You need to exercise special care too. I doubt he’s forgotten what you look like. No offence.’

‘None taken,’ Donnelly replied. ‘But this is still little better than hopeless.’

‘We’ve got no choice.’ Sean sounded desperate. He was. ‘So let’s get on with it. Take whatever cars and radios you need. Apologize to the troops for me. I’ll speak to them myself later.’

‘Fine,’ Donnelly said.

Sean could hear the dissatisfaction in the DS’s voice. He understood it, even if there was nothing he could do to quell it. They had to try something. What else could he do?

Hellier arrived at the antiques shop in the Cromwell Road at about 1 p.m. The shopkeeper recognized him immediately.

‘Mr Saunders. It’s been a while,’ he greeted Hellier. ‘And how has life been treating you lately, sir?’

‘Fine,’ Hellier said without smiling. ‘I need to make a collection. I trust it’s safe.’

‘Of course, sir.’

The shopkeeper disappeared into the back.

Hellier wandered slowly around the empty shop. He ran his trailing hand across the fine wooden furniture. He stopped to lift and examine several china pieces. Their value alone would have stopped most people from touching them. Hellier handled them as if they were Tupperware. He breathed in the scent of the shop. Leather, wood, riches and age. He deserved it all.

The shopkeeper reappeared carrying a metal safety box. ‘Do you confirm that your property is kept in box number twelve, Mr Saunders?’

‘I do.’

‘Excellent.’ Pulling a key from his waistcoat pocket, he unlocked the padlock then stood back for Hellier to open the box’s lid.

Hellier removed a small white envelope and another larger one. He quickly checked the contents, which included a passport for the Republic of Ireland. Satisfied, he slipped both envelopes into his pocket and closed the lid.

‘Do I owe you anything?’ he asked.

‘No. Your account is still very much in credit, Mr Saunders.’

Regardless, Hellier pulled five hundred pounds in new fifty-pound notes from his wallet. He placed them on the desk next to the till. ‘That’s to make sure it stays that way.’

The shopkeeper licked his lips. It was all he could do not to grab at the cash. ‘Will you be returning the property today, sir?’

Hellier was already heading for the door. He answered without looking back. ‘Maybe. Who knows?’

With that he was gone.

The shopkeeper liked the money, but he hoped it would be the last time he saw Mr Saunders. He was scared of Mr Saunders – in fact, he was scared of lots of the people he kept illicit safety deposits for. But Mr Saunders scared him the most.

Sally drove back towards Peckham alone. It had been a long and uninteresting morning at the Records Office. Truthfully, she was beginning to feel a little left out of the main investigation and now she also had to put up with the frustration of waiting days for the results of her searches − all of which meant she had yet to eliminate Korsakov. She knew Sean wouldn’t be best pleased.

Her mobile began to ring and jump around on the passenger seat. In defiance of the law, she answered it while driving. ‘Sally Jones speaking.’

‘DS Jones, this is IDO Collins from fingerprints. You sent a request up yesterday, asking for a set of conviction prints for Stefan Korsakov to be compared with prints found at the Graydon murder scene.’

‘That’s correct,’ she confirmed, excitement growing in her stomach.

‘I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible,’ Collins told her.

‘What? Why not?’

‘Because we don’t have a set of fingerprints for anyone by that name.’

‘You must have,’ Sally insisted. ‘He has a criminal conviction − his prints were taken and submitted.’

‘I don’t know what to tell you,’ Collins replied. ‘I’ve searched the system and they’re not here.’

The possibilities spun around Sally’s mind. Korsakov was rapidly becoming the invisible man. First his charging photographs and now his fingerprints. Sally didn’t like what she was finding. She didn’t like it at all. She remembered what Jarratt had said: maybe Korsakov was a ghost.

IDO Collins broke her thoughts. ‘Are you still there, DS Jones?’

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I’m still here. In fact, you know what? I think I’d better come see you.’

Hellier hailed a black cab and directed the driver to take him to the Barclays Bank in Great Portland Street, around the corner from Oxford Circus. Tourists and shoppers jammed the pavements. Red buses and cabs jammed the roads. It was an unholy mess. Diesel fumes mixed with the smell of frying onions and cheap meat. The heat of the day kept the air heavy.

The cab drew up directly outside the bank. Hellier was out and paying before the driver knew it. He dropped a twenty-pound note through the driver’s window and walked away without speaking.

He went to a keen-looking female cashier in her early twenties. She would want to do everything by the book. So did he. He handed her the larger envelope he’d taken from the antiques shop. It was documentation of his ownership of a safe-deposit box held in the bank’s vault. ‘I would like access to my deposit box, please,’ he told her.

‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘Can I ask if you have any identification with you, sir?’ She sounded like every other bank clerk in the world.

He smiled and pulled out a passport for the Republic of Ireland. ‘Will this be okay?’

She checked the name and photograph in the passport, smiled and handed it back to him. ‘That’ll be fine, Mr McGrath. If you’d like to take a seat in consultation room number two, I’ll fetch the deposit box.’

Within a few minutes the clerk came to Hellier’s room and placed the stainless-steel box on the table. ‘I’ll leave you alone now, sir. Just let me know when you’ve finished.’ She turned on her heel and left the room, shutting the door with a reassuring thud.

Hellier pulled the smaller envelope from his jacket pocket, opened the flap and shook the contents out on to the table − a silver key. He couldn’t help but look around him as he put the key into the lock. It was stiff, causing him to feel a stab of panic as he jiggled it, eventually turning the lock and opening the box. Slowly he lifted the lid and peered inside. The box was as he had left it. He ignored the rolls of US dollars and pushed the loose diamonds out of the way, flicking a five-carat solitaire to one side as if it was a dead insect, until he found what he was looking for − a scrap of ageing paper. He lifted it closer to the light and examined it, relieved to see the number was still visible after all this time. He smiled, and spent the next ten minutes committing the number to memory. He ignored the first three digits – the outer London dialling code – but he repeated the remainder of the number over and over until he was sure he would never forget it.

‘Nine-nine-one-three. Two-zero-seven-four. Nine-nine-one-three. Two-zero-seven-four.’

Sean read through the files from General Registry. He’d found it difficult to concentrate at first, the logistical problems of the investigation severely hindering his free thinking, but as the office grew quieter he was able to lose himself in the files.

He’d already rejected several. They were all extremely violent crimes that remained unsolved, but they just didn’t feel right. Too many missing elements.

He picked up the next file and flipped open the cover. The first thing he saw was a crime-scene photograph. He winced at the sight of a young girl, no more than sixteen, lying on a cold stone floor, her dead hands clutching her throat. He could see she was lying in a huge pool of her own blood and guessed her throat had been cut.

He leaned into the file. The photographs spoke to him. The victim spoke to him. His nostrils flared. This one, he thought to himself. This one. He flicked past the photographs and began to read.

The victim was a young runaway. Came to London from Newcastle. Parents reported her missing several days before her body was found. Neither parent considered as a suspect. No boyfriend involved. No pimp under suspicion. Her name, Heather Freeman. Body recovered from an unused building on waste ground in Dagenham. No witnesses traced.

Sean rifled through the papers to the forensic report. It was ominously short. No fingerprints, no DNA, no blood other than the victim’s. The suspect had left no trace of himself other than one thing: footprints in the dust inside the scene. They were striking only because of their lack of uniqueness. A plain-soled man’s shoe, size nine or ten, apparently very new with minimal scarring.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered.

Sean checked the date of the murder. It predated Daniel Graydon’s death by more than two weeks. ‘You have killed before, you had to have, but how many times?’ His head began to thump. He searched for the name of the investigating officer and found it: DI Ross Brown, based on the Murder Investigation Team at Old Ilford police station. He bundled together his belongings and, taking the file with him, headed for the exit. He’d phone DI Brown once he was on his way.

Hellier walked along Great Titchfield Street, still in the heart of London’s West End shopping area, although it was a lot quieter. He soon found a phone booth and pumped three pound coins into the slot. He heard the dialling tone and punched the number keypad. Zero-two-zero. Nine-nine-one-three. Two-zero-seven-four.

The dialling tone changed to a ringing one. He waited only two cycles before it was answered. The person on the other end had clearly been expecting a call. Hellier spoke.

‘Hello, old friend,’ he said mockingly. ‘We have much to discuss.’

‘I’ve been waiting for you to call,’ the voice answered. ‘I expected it sooner.’

‘Your friends took my contact book,’ Hellier told him, ‘and you’re not listed in the phone book or with Directory Enquiries. Makes you a difficult person to find.’

‘The police have taken a book off you with my number in it?’ The voice sounded strained. ‘How the hell did you let that happen?’

‘Calm down.’ Hellier was in control. ‘All the numbers in the book were coded. No one will know it’s yours.’

‘They’d better not,’ the voice said. ‘So if they’ve got the book, how did you find my number again?’

‘You gave it to me, don’t you remember? When you first came begging to me. Cap in hand. You wrote it on a piece of paper. I kept it. Thought it might come in useful one day.’

‘You need to get rid of it. Now,’ the voice demanded.

Hellier wished he and the voice were face to face. He’d make him suffer for his insolence. ‘Listen, fucker,’ he shouted into the phone. A passer-by glanced at him, but quickly looked away when he saw Hellier’s eyes. ‘You don’t tell me what to do. You never fucking tell me what to do. Do-You-Understand-Me?’

There was silence. Neither man spoke. It gave Hellier a few seconds to regain his composure. He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed his shining brow. The voice broke the silence.

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Get Corrigan to call his dogs off,’ Hellier replied.

‘I don’t think I can do that. If I could think of any way … But I swear I don’t have that sort of pull.’ The voice was almost pleading.

‘You’re a damn fool,’ Hellier snapped. ‘Just wait for me to call you. I’ll think of something.’ He hung up.

Feeling better now, he rolled his head and massaged the back of his neck. He glanced at his watch. Time was passing. He needed to get back to work.

Sally sat in a side office at the Fingerprint Branch at New Scotland Yard. A tall slim man in his mid-fifties entered the room nervously. Sally stood and offered her hand. ‘Thanks for seeing me so quickly.’

‘No problem at all,’ said IDO Collins. ‘How can I help?’

Sally sucked in a lungful of air and began to explain herself. ‘This is a sensitive matter, you understand?’

‘Of course,’ Collins reassured her.

‘On the phone you said you couldn’t find Korsakov’s fingerprints. So what I need to find out is how the fingerprints of a convicted criminal could go missing.’

Collins smiled and shook his head. ‘Not possible. You can’t remove files from the computer database.’

‘Before that,’ Sally said. ‘Assume they went missing from the old filing system. Possible?’

‘Well, I suppose so.’ Collins began to chew the side of his thumb. ‘But they could only go missing for a period of time.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Well, on the old system, officers and other agencies would sometimes ask to look at sets of prints. Mostly they would view them here at the Yard, but occasionally they would have to take them away. For example to compare them with a person the Immigration Service had doubts about, or to compare them with a prison inmate if the Prison Service suspected funny business. Somebody trying to serve a sentence on behalf of somebody else. It does happen, you know. Usually for money, sometimes out of fear.’

‘Or to get away from the wife and kids?’ Sally half-joked.

‘Yes. Probably. I wouldn’t know.’ Collins laughed a little. He still sounded nervous. ‘Anyway. Prints might be taken away, but if they weren’t returned quickly, within a few days, we’d chase after them. We’d always get them back. Always. We simply wouldn’t stop pestering until they were returned. They’re too important to allow them to disappear.’

‘Then perhaps you can explain how this set vanished?’ Sally slid a file across the desk. ‘Stefan Korsakov. Convicted of fraud in 1996. He definitely had prints taken when he was charged. No mistake. Prints that you’re telling me have since disappeared.’

Collins looked shocked, but recovered quickly and smiled. ‘A clerical mistake. Give me a minute and I’ll search for them myself.’

She knew it made sense to double check. ‘If it’ll make you feel better, then it’ll make me feel better. I’ll be in the canteen. Give me a shout when you’re finished.’

DI Ross Brown waited at the old murder scene for Sean to arrive, the police cordon tape flapping loosely in the mild breeze, tatty and spoilt now.

It was getting late, but he didn’t mind waiting. His investigation had not been going well − stranger attacks of this type were extremely difficult to solve quickly. Unless you were out to make a name for yourself, they were every detective’s worst nightmare. And with only three years’ service remaining, DI Ross Brown wasn’t out to make a name for himself. If he thought Sean could help his case, he’d wait all night.

Sean found his way to Hornchurch Marshes and drove through the unmanned entrance to the wasteground. A single road wound its way over the desolate and oppressive land to a small outbuilding. Sean could see a tall, well-built man standing outside. He parked next to DI Brown’s car and climbed out. Brown was already moving towards him, his hand outstretched.

‘Sean Corrigan. We spoke on the phone.’

Ross Brown wrapped a big hand around Sean’s. His grip was surprisingly gentle. ‘Good of you to come all this way out east,’ he said.

‘I just hope I’m not wasting your time,’ Sean answered.

DI Brown pointed to the outbuilding. ‘She died in there. She was fifteen years old.’ He looked sad. ‘She’d run away from home. The usual story. Mum and Dad split up, Mum gets a new man, kid won’t accept him and ends up running away to London − straight into the hands of some sick bastard.

‘It’s not easy to get the homeless to talk,’ he continued, ‘to get their trust. But a couple of her friends have provided us with details of her last movements.

‘We’re pretty certain she was abducted in the King’s Cross area on the same night she was killed, about two weeks ago, give or take. We canvassed the area, but no one witnessed the abduction − our man is apparently extremely cautious and fast.

‘We tried to get the media interested, but we only got minimal coverage. It’s difficult to compete with suicide bombers, and they like victims to be the nice, top-of-the-class type, not teenage runaways.

‘The killer drove her to this waste ground. He took her into this abandoned building, stripped her, and then he cut her throat. One large laceration that almost cut the poor little cow’s head off.’

Sean could see Brown was disturbed. No doubt the man had teenage daughters of his own. The nearby giant car plant dominated the horizon. It all added to the feeling of dread in this place. ‘Poor little cow,’ Brown repeated. ‘What the hell must she have been thinking? All alone. Made to strip. There were no signs of sexual abuse, but we can’t be sure what he did or didn’t make her do. Fucking animal.’

‘The murder of Daniel Graydon occurred six days ago,’ Sean said without prompting. ‘His head was caved in with a heavy blunt instrument, not recovered. He was also stabbed repeatedly with an ice pick or similar, not recovered either. He was killed in his own flat in the early hours. No sign of forced entry. He was a homosexual and a prostitute.’

Brown frowned. He couldn’t see much of a connection to his investigation, if any. ‘Doesn’t sound like my man. Different type of victim, murder location, weapon used. I’m sorry, Sean. I don’t see any similarities here.’

‘No,’ Sean said, holding up a hand. ‘That’s not where the similarity lies.’ He began to walk to the outbuilding. DI Brown followed him.

‘What then?’ Brown asked.

‘The only usable evidence from our scene were some footprints in the hallway carpet. They were made by a man wearing a pair of plain-soled shoes with plastic bags over them. The forensic report said you recovered footprints.’

‘Yes,’ Brown said. ‘Inside the outbuilding.’

‘And no other forensic evidence?’ Sean asked.

‘Is that why you’re here?’ DI Brown asked. ‘Because neither of us have any forensic evidence, other than a useless shoeprint?’ Sean’s silence answered the question. ‘Then I guess we’re both in the shit,’ Brown continued, ‘because if you’re right and these murders are connected, then this is a really bad bastard we’re after here and he’s absolutely not going to stop until someone stops him.’

Sean’s phone interrupted him before he could reply. It was Donnelly. ‘Dave?’

‘Guv’nor, surveillance is in place at Butler and Mason, and guess who’s back?’

‘He’s at work?’

‘No mistake. I’ve seen him myself through the window. He’s not hiding.’

‘Okay. Stay on him. I’ll call you later.’ He hung up.

What the hell are you up to now? And where have you been that you didn’t want us to see?

‘Problem?’ Brown asked.

‘No,’ Sean answered. ‘Nothing that can’t wait.’

Sally saw Collins enter the canteen and gave a little wave to attract his attention. He sat opposite her, carefully placing an old index book on the table.

‘From a time before computers,’ he told her. ‘I’ve double checked both the computer system and searched manually, as well as checking the old records on microfiche. We have nothing under the name of Korsakov.’

‘Which means?’ Sally asked.

‘Well, normally I would have said that you were mistaken. That Korsakov’s prints could never have been submitted.’

‘But …?’

‘But I have this.’ He patted the index book. ‘This is a record of all fingerprints that are removed from Fingerprint Branch. We still use it as a back-up for our new computer records, and this way we actually get the signature of the removing party, which helps ensure their safe return. This volume goes back to ninety-nine.’

Collins went to the page showing all the fingerprints of people whose surnames began with the letter K that were removed that year. It was a comparatively short list. Fingerprints were rarely removed.

‘Here,’ he pointed. ‘On the fourteenth of May 1999, fingerprints belonging to one Stefan Korsakov were removed by a DC Graham Wright, from the CID at Richmond.’

‘So they were here?’ Sally asked.

‘They must have been.’

‘But this DC Wright never returned them?’

‘That’s the bit I don’t understand,’ said Collins, frowning. ‘They were returned. Two days later by the same detective, along with the microfiche of the prints, which he’d also booked out.’

‘Then where are they?’

‘I have no idea,’ Collins admitted.

Sally paused for a few seconds. ‘Could someone have simply walked in here and taken the prints and microfiche?’

‘I seriously doubt it. The office is always manned and all prints and fiches are locked away. Only someone who worked in the Fingerprint Branch would have that level of access.’

Why the hell would someone from Fingerprints want to make Korsakov’s records disappear? Had he corrupted someone there? Paid them for a little dirty work? But in May of 1999 he was still in prison, so how could he possibly have known whom to approach? No, Sally decided. Something else.

‘When fingerprints are returned, are they checked?’ she asked. ‘Before being accepted.’

‘A quick visual check, no more,’ Collins told her.

‘And the microfiche?’

‘No. That wouldn’t have been standard practice. So long as the fingerprints were in good order, that would have been that.’

Sean and Brown moved into the outbuilding. There was still light outside, but inside it was dim and damp. Sean could clearly see the last remains of that horrific night: a large circular bloodstain in the middle of the floor. It was rusty brown now. The inexperienced eye would have thought it nothing. He sometimes wished his eyes could be so innocent.

The arterial spray marks went from Sean’s left to right across the room. They’d almost hit the wall over twelve feet away. The detectives moved around slowly in the gloom. The scene had long since been examined and any evidence taken away, but Sean studied it closely nonetheless. He knew nothing would have been missed, but that wasn’t why he was there. He was seeing that night through the victim’s eyes. Through the killer’s eyes.

Brown broke the silence. ‘We know she was on her knees when he cut her,’ he said solemnly, ‘from the distance her blood travelled and the body’s final resting position. He pulled her head back and then slit her throat.’ Brown obviously didn’t enjoy recounting their findings. ‘You really think these murders could be linked?’

Sean didn’t answer. He knelt down. This was how Heather last saw the world. ‘We have a suspect,’ he announced suddenly.

‘A suspect?’ Brown asked.

‘Yeah,’ Sean said. He could feel the clouds lifting from his mind. Could see things he’d never considered before. Standing on the spot where Heather Freeman had died fired his mind, his imagination, the dark side he buried so deep. ‘James Hellier,’ Sean continued. ‘Up until this point he’s been hiding from us. Hiding behind a mask of respectability. A wife and children. A career. But he’s out now. He’s showing himself to us.

‘The gender of the victims doesn’t matter to him. Male, female – makes no difference. It’s not a matter of sex with Hellier. It’s about power. About victimization. The gender is coincidental. Two young and vulnerable victims. Easy targets.’

‘Why’s he not bothered about leaving his footprints,’ Brown asked, ‘if he’s so damn careful where everything else is concerned?’

‘No.’ Sean spoke softly. ‘He’s extremely concerned about footprints. He’s probably experimented with dozens of methods, maybe even hundreds, but each time he comes up with the same conclusion. No matter what he tries, no matter what shoes he wears, what surface he walks on, he nearly always leaves some type of print. Even if it’s the slightest impression in a carpet, like in Daniel Graydon’s flat.

‘He knows he’ll almost certainly leave prints at his scenes, so he gives up trying not to. Instead he masks them as best he can. He wears bland shoes, probably brand-new. He changes the size of the shoes he wears. He can’t change it too much, but he tries.’

‘Why doesn’t he just commit his crimes on solid surfaces?’ Brown asked. ‘That way he wouldn’t leave an impression.’

Sean fired the answer back: ‘Too restrictive. He would have considered it, but discounted it. He needs to spend time with them. In their own homes or somewhere like this. Spending time with them is more important to him than leaving a shoeprint. For him, the risk is worth it. And what’s he leaving us? Virtually unidentifiable, totally un-unique shoe marks. He’ll take that chance.

‘He knows how we link murder scenes,’ Sean continued. ‘We look for exact matches. Unique items. Same weapon. Same method. Same type of victim. Not “almosts”. So he picks victims of different genders. Kills them in different ways and in different types of locations. Your victim he abducts, ours he already knew. He keeps it mixed up.’

Sean kept talking. ‘Most repeat killers work to a pattern. To leave their calling card. When they settle on a method that works for them, they stick with it. Many only kill in their own neighbourhood, where everything is familiar, where they feel safe. When they attempt to disguise their work, then you know you’re dealing with a killer whose primary instinct is not to get caught.’

‘And your suspect fits this profile?’ Brown asked.

‘He paid for violent sex – been doing so for years, no doubt. That probably kept his urges, his impulses suppressed for a while, but ultimately it wasn’t enough. He would have seen your victim. Fantasized about her. It’s more than he can bear. He plans it thoroughly. He’s extremely careful. He finds the planning thrilling, so he takes his time. Finally he grabs her. He uses a big car, or better still a van. He probably steals one or maybe rents one.

‘He brings her out here. He’d have been here, no more than a day or so previously. He wants his intelligence to be up to date. He brings her inside …’ Sean broke off and turned to Brown. ‘How much did she weigh?’

Brown stuttered, taken aback at the unexpected question. ‘I don’t know,’ he said with a shrug.

‘Was she big? Small?’ Sean pressed him.

‘She was small,’ Brown answered. ‘I went to the autopsy. She was tiny.’

‘Then he carried her in,’ Sean said. ‘It was quicker and quieter than dragging her.’ He snapped another question at Brown: ‘Was she tied or taped in any way?’

‘We believe she was taped,’ Brown replied. ‘There were traces of adhesive across her mouth, ankles, wrists and around her knees. The adhesive matches a common brand of masking tape. Nothing rare.’

‘Once inside, he dumps her on the ground,’ Sean continued. ‘He wants her untied, but he’s worried she’ll fight or scream. So how does he stop that happening?’ He looked at Brown.

‘He would have threatened her,’ Brown answered.

‘Absolutely. He would have threatened her,’ Sean repeated. ‘He would have almost certainly shown her the knife that he eventually used to kill her. Any defensive marks on the girl?’

‘No.’

‘Then he told her he wasn’t going to hurt her and she believed him. She did as she was told. If she’d thought he intended to kill her, she would have fought him or tried to run. She agrees to do what he tells her, so he removes the tape from her mouth and limbs … But why is that important to him? She wasn’t raped, so he could have left the tape around her ankles and knees. Why risk taking the tape away?’

Sean’s vivid narration stalled, as if someone had drawn a curtain across the window he’d been looking through. He moved around the room, staring at the floor. He moved like an animal locked in a cage. It was minutes before he spoke again.

‘He had to remove the tape because it was spoiling it for him. It was necessary when she was first abducted, but now it was spoiling his imagery. He’d imagined her a certain way for so long, imagined her dying a certain way, that he couldn’t settle for less. He needed to make life imitate his fantasy. So he makes her take her clothes off. All of them. He doesn’t even let her keep her underwear or a T-shirt on. He’s totally without mercy. Totally without compassion for her – but this is all for our benefit. He wants us to think there’s a sexual motivation for the killing, but there isn’t. He enjoyed the power he held over her, of course – and making her undress was a strong show of his power. But it was purely for us. To stop us linking him to other murders.’ He paused for a few seconds, allowing his imagination to again become the killer’s memory. ‘He makes her kneel down and tells her to perform oral sex on him, but he was never going to allow that to happen, never going to let her get that near to him. He was never going to risk leaving forensic evidence. So he grabs her by the scruff of the neck and cuts her once across the throat. He’s strong and fast. The knife is very sharp; again, probably brand-new. One hit is all it takes. What time was she killed?’

‘Between eleven p.m. and three a.m. is the best we can say.’

‘It would have been dark then,’ Sean pointed out. He looked around the building for lighting. There was none. The room would have been pitch black. ‘He had to have light to see.’

‘Maybe he used a torch?’ Brown said.

‘No,’ Sean replied. ‘He needed both hands free, and the light from a torch wouldn’t be right for what he wanted.’

‘What did he want?’ Brown asked.

‘He wanted to see her. He needed to see her die.’ Sean looked out of the window and saw his own car pointing towards the building. The headlight mountings glinted in the low evening sunlight.

‘He used his car headlights,’ Sean said. ‘He would have checked that ahead of time too. He went there on the night of the murder already knowing car headlights would give him all the light he needed.

‘And when she was dead, he stayed with her. He’d been dreaming about this for too long to just walk away from her now she was dead. He stood here and watched her bleed to death. Watched until her blood stopped running.

‘You didn’t find any signs the body was moved or mutilated after she’d died, did you?’ Sean told rather than asked Brown.

‘No,’ he answered. ‘She died where she fell and wasn’t touched.’

‘He didn’t want to spoil the perfect picture he’d created. All he wanted was to stand and watch her.’ Sean was silent for a while, troubled by the question forming in his mind. ‘Did you search this wasteland for used condoms?’

‘Not specifically for condoms, as far as I know, and I don’t recall seeing any listed on the lab submissions form. Why d’you ask?’

‘Because I think he would have masturbated while he watched her die, but he wouldn’t risk leaving his DNA, so he would have used a condom. Maybe he threw it away beyond where he thought we would search.’ Sean looked Brown square in the eyes.

‘Jesus! Where did you get that from?’ Brown asked.

Sean moved on without answering. ‘Then he left her. He didn’t cover her, not even partially. It would have been a sign of guilt. Remorse. He has no psychological need to try and make amends for his crimes. He felt nothing. He walked away feeling nothing more than a sense of relief, maybe even what for him amounts to happiness.’

‘But what’s his motivation?’ Brown asked. ‘Is it sexual? Is this the only way he can get a hard-on?’

‘Not sexual,’ Sean answered. ‘Power. With this one, motivation is all about power.’

‘But there’s so many sexual overtones to his crimes. Making her strip, making her go on her knees in front of him. You said it yourself: he probably masturbated at the scene.’

‘Because the power excites him, makes him feel alive. The sexual acts are merely symptoms, a way he can release the power he feels building up inside him.’

Brown seemed both impressed and unnerved by Sean’s analysis. ‘Done a few of these types before?’ he asked.

‘Some,’ Sean replied, managing a slight smile. ‘I do a lot of research.’

‘If I can make an observation of my own …’ Brown asked.

‘Go on.’

‘If my killer, our killer, is as clever as you say, as good at disguising his methods as you believe he is, then how do we know he hasn’t killed other people? How will we ever know?’

‘Truth is,’ Sean admitted, ‘unless he decides to tell us about them, we probably never will.’

They were back. Hellier could feel them before he saw them. Only these were clumsier than the last. Why would Corrigan put amateurs on him? Was the DI so arrogant that he thought these second-raters would be good enough to follow him?

My enemy’s mistakes are my greatest gains.

Hellier wasn’t in his own office. He had been earlier, long enough to let the surveillance see him, but now, unseen, he used the office of another junior partner. He’d let it be known he would be working late, to make up for his earlier absence. Truth was, he needed to access certain bank accounts held across the globe. He didn’t want to use the computer in his own office. The police had been in there. They could have somehow bugged his computer. They could be monitoring his online activities. He doubted they were smart enough, but why take the risk?

He was the only person left in the offices. Tonight it was essential to be alone and to move fast. The police had seized many of his bank details and they knew where most of his money was, but not all of it.

They would be moving to block his accounts, but that would require court orders and the banks would take time to comply with the orders’ instructions. That would burn up a few days, and by then it would all be a wasted exercise.

Hellier was skilled on the computer. Able to cover his electronic tracks extremely well. He called up a website on the Internet. It was one he’d set up himself two years ago, but it was no more than an illusion, a front, just like a restaurant or bar could be, and like them there was a back door. But you had to know how to find it. Hellier knew. Of course he did. The illusion was his design.

The site was entitled Banks and the small investor. There was a hidden command icon on the screen. Hellier carefully placed the cursor on the tail of the site’s symbol, a prancing horse similar to the Ferrari emblem. Pin the tail on the donkey and win a prize. He smiled again, pleased with his private joke.

He clicked the cursor twice and waited a second. A type box suddenly appeared in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, flashing, demanding a password.

Hellier typed: fuck them all.

When Sean arrived back at his Peckham office he found it deserted except for Sally. Ignoring the No Smoking signs, she was puffing heavily on a cigarette. She looked up from her paperwork and was relieved to see it was Sean. She held the cigarette up. ‘Do you mind?’

‘No,’ Sean answered. ‘What are you doing here this late?’

‘Trying to work a few things out.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as how did Korsakov’s fingerprints manage to get up and walk out of Scotland Yard all on their own?’

Sean didn’t understand and he wasn’t of a mind to ask for explanations. His thoughts were still with Heather Freeman.

‘And why are you back here so late?’ Sally asked.

‘I’ve been out east.’

‘Why?’ Sally sounded almost suspicious.

Sean hesitated before answering. ‘I believe I’ve identified another murder committed by our man.’

‘What?’ The surprise made Sally stand involuntarily. ‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as I can be.’

‘Another gay man?’

‘No. A girl. A teenage runaway. He abducted her from King’s Cross and took her out to some waste ground in Dagenham. He made her strip before cutting her throat.’

‘I don’t see a connection,’ Sally confessed. ‘Did Hellier also know her?’

‘I doubt it. But he watched her before killing her. Once he’d selected her, he watched her. Learned her movements. Planned everything very carefully. Then he took her.’

‘So she was a stranger, yet Daniel Graydon was someone he knew.’

‘I’m not so sure any more.’

‘Not so sure of what?’

‘That he knew Graydon – or at least, not as well as he’d have us believe.’

‘I really don’t understand,’ Sally admitted.

‘I think he picked Graydon at random. A week or so before he killed him, he went to the nightclub and he selected him. He paid to have sex with him so that on the night he killed him he could approach Graydon without spooking him. Then they went back to the flat and he killed him, just like he was always going to do.’

‘Why didn’t he kill him the same night he first met him?’

‘Because he needed to kill him in his own flat. It was how he’d seen it – fantasized about it. But for that to happen he needed Graydon’s trust, he needed him to feel comfortable, so he approached him inside the club, surrounded by witnesses and people who knew the victim. If he’d killed him the same night, it would have been too easy for us to work out what must have happened: stranger arrives in gay nightclub and leaves with known prostitute, next morning prostitute is found murdered. Too easy – too simple. Hellier likes things complicated, layer upon layer of possibilities and misdirection, endless opportunities to bend the evidence away from proving he’s the killer. But above all, there was no way he was going to miss out on a week of fantasizing about how it would feel – killing Daniel Graydon. For him, that would have been every bit as important as the killing itself. Once he’d killed the girl in Dagenham he’d opened Pandora’s Box – there’s no going back for him now, even though he knows we’re watching him. He won’t stop, he can’t. Knowing we’re watching him merely heightens his excitement – makes him even more dangerous.’

‘Did he leave any evidence at the Dagenham scene?’ Sally asked.

‘No. Just a useless footprint.’

‘Then how are we going to convict him?’

Sean thought silently before answering. ‘If Hellier has a weakness, if he has one chink in his armour, it’s his desire for perfection.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Sally, frowning.

‘He can’t leave things half-done, untidy, incomplete. Look at his clothes, his hair, his office, his home. Everything immaculate. Not a thing out of place. He couldn’t have that. It’s the same when he kills. Everything has to be perfect. Exactly how he imagines it.’

Sally puffed on her cigarette. ‘How do you know all this?’ she asked. ‘I’ve watched you study crime-scene photographs in the past, and suddenly it’s like you’re there. Like you’re the …’ A look from Sean stopped her before she’d finished.

‘I see things differently, that’s all,’ he explained. ‘Most people investigate crimes two-dimensionally. They forget it’s a three-dimensional thing. They seek the motive, but not the reason for the motivation.

‘You have to question the killer’s every move, no matter how trivial. Why choose that victim? Why that weapon? That location? That time of day? Most people are happy just to recover a weapon, to identify the scene, but they’re missing the point. If you want to catch these poor bastards quickly, then you have to try and think like them. No matter how uncomfortable that may make you feel.’

‘You feel sorry for them?’ asked Sally.

Sean hadn’t realized he’d shown sympathy. ‘Sorry?’

‘You called them “poor bastards”. Like you felt sorry for them.’

‘Not sorry for what they are now,’ he told her. ‘Sorry for what made them that way. Sorry for the hell that was their childhood. Alone. Scared to death most of the time. Terrified of the very people they should have loved. Fearful of those they should have been able to turn to for protection. Sometimes, when I’m interviewing them, I don’t see a monster in front of me. I see a child. A scared little child.’

‘Is that what you see when you look at Hellier?’

‘No,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘Not yet. It’s too soon. I haven’t broken him down to make him face what he really is. When I do, I’ll know if he’s a product of his past or something else.’

‘Something else?’ Sally asked.

‘Born that way. Whether he was born bad. It’s rare, but it happens.’

‘And you already suspect that’s the case with Hellier.’ It wasn’t really a question.

‘Go home, Sally,’ he said quietly. ‘Get some rest. I’ll call Dave and set up an office meeting for the morning. We’ll talk then, but right now you need to go home, and so do I.’

Hellier typed the password fuck them all. The false screen began to break away by design. When it was gone it was replaced by a screen filled with twenty-four different banks’ insignia. Many of the major banks of the developed world were shown, as well as several more specialized ones. They all held accounts belonging to Hellier: some in that name, others in aliases he’d invented. He had excellent forged documents hidden across Europe, Northern America, the Caribbean, the Middle East and South East Asia.

He’d created this website, which appeared to offer advice to private individuals considering purchasing stocks and shares, particularly shares in financial institutions; its main purpose, however, was to hide his complex network of bank accounts and the locations of the false identities that would allow him to access them. There were so many he could never have hoped to remember them all. But with this hidden guide, no matter where he was in the world, provided he could access the Internet he could access his funds.

The priority was to empty his UK and USA accounts. The others couldn’t be touched by UK authorities. Fucking Americans, he thought, always happy to slam shut accounts on the flimsiest of suspicions. Always so keen to help Scotland fucking Yard. Sycophants.

He worked fast. He would be at the terminal for hours, but by the time he was finished the vast majority of his considerable wealth would have been transferred to South East Asia and the Caribbean. Out of the reach of the police. Now, if he had to run, he wouldn’t have to be poor too. There were many places in this world where a man’s tastes were only restricted by the depth of his wealth.

Donnelly and DC Zukov were hidden in the office building almost directly opposite Hellier’s. Donnelly was half asleep on the sofa when he felt the phone clipped to his waistband vibrate. The display told him it was Sean. ‘Guv’nor.’

‘Where’s Hellier now?’

‘Still at work, like us.’

‘He’s up to something.’

‘I’m sure he probably is.’

‘I’ve found another murder Hellier may have committed.’

‘What?’ Donnelly sat bolt upright.

‘About three and a half weeks ago. A teenage runaway found dead out by the Ford factory.’

Donnelly’s eyes darted left and right as he thought hard. ‘I remember. It was on the news, right?’

‘Yeah, but it’s still unsolved. No suspects. I met the DI running the inquiry. They’ve got nothing.’

‘How though …’ Donnelly was a little confused. ‘How did you connect it to ours?’

‘Long story, bad time,’ Sean said. ‘Phone around and organize an office meeting for the morning. I’ll update you then.’ Sean hung up before Donnelly could ask any more questions.

‘Fuck it,’ Donnelly said out loud.

DC Zukov lowered his binoculars and turned to Donnelly. ‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘Aye, son,’ Donnelly replied. ‘But nothing we can’t handle.’

Hellier sat in the deep leather chair. It creaked satisfyingly. He’d completed the transfers. It had taken him less than three hours to move over two million pounds out of his UK and American accounts. He’d left a nominal few thousand in each, to keep them fluid.

He buried the account details in the concealed web page and exited the Internet. He was happy with his night’s work. Extremely happy. He couldn’t help laughing. God, if they could see him, sitting here in the dark laughing to himself, they really would think him mad. He was anything but.

It was time to get home. He cleaned up the desk and took one last look around the room to make sure nothing had been overlooked, then returned to his own office. Leaving the lights on, he went to the window and peeked out the corner of the venetian blinds. They made a plastic tinkling sound.

He had an excellent view of the road below. It was always busy, no matter what time of day or night. He could still feel the police close by. It was of no matter tonight; there were others of more concern to him than the police. The press. The vile media. They had the power to ruin him merely by rumour. They wouldn’t be interested in proof. They wanted a story to titillate the masses. Something for people to drool over at breakfast. They wanted him. He couldn’t afford to let them take a single photograph. He couldn’t afford to be recognized.

Sally parked close to the entrance of the building where she lived in Fulham, West London. She let herself in and moved quickly through the communal areas. Dim hallway lights helped her. She tried to keep the noise down. She was a good neighbour. She entered her flat and locked the door.

Following her usual routine, she turned on the lamp in the far corner first. She preferred its gentle light to the overheads. Next she flicked the TV on, for company, then moved into the kitchen, opened the fridge and scanned the contents before closing it again. Maybe she’d have more luck in the freezer. She did. A freezing bottle of raspberry vodka rested on its side. Grabbing it by the neck, she looked around for a clean glass. There was one by the sink. She poured a good measure of the thick vodka and threw the bottle back into the freezer.

Sally sat at her kitchen table and rocked back on her chair, kicking her shoes off, the drink in front of her. She pulled the cigarettes from her handbag and lit one. It must have been the thirtieth of the day. She thought about stubbing it out, but hey, cigarettes cost a fortune these days. Covering a mortgage on a flat in this part of London didn’t leave much in the kitty for luxuries.

Staring at the walls suddenly brought on pangs of loneliness. Being thirty-something and single hadn’t been part of her life-plan. The partner thing had just never happened. There had been lovers, two of whom had been close to measuring up to her standards, only to fall away as the stakes were increased.

The fact of the matter was most men were simply intimidated by her. Being a female police officer was bad enough, but a detective sergeant – that scared the crap out of them. The only ones who weren’t scared off were policemen, but the idea of never being able to escape The Job was unbearable. No, they had to be completely unconnected with the police or it would be better to stay single. Besides, these last couple of years hadn’t left a lot of time for relationships.

Naturally, her parents were disappointed. They saw their chances of becoming grandparents slipping away. Didn’t they understand modern women were choosing to have a career first and then children later in life? There was still hope on that front. After all, she didn’t need a permanent partner to have children. Catching herself fantasizing about potential sperm donors, she shook the faces from her thoughts.

‘Fuck it,’ she declared out loud. ‘I’m getting a cat.’

Hellier could see two of them at the front of the building. One had a camera, the other didn’t. One photographer and one journalist, but there would be more. The victim was of no interest to the media, no story there. Rent boy dies, who gives a fuck? He was the story. Wealthy, respected businessman investigated for murder. A sordid murder at that. This story would grow and grow. It was only a matter of time before the national media started to run with it. Once his face hit the papers and TV sets, life would be intolerable. He needed his anonymity. Daniel Graydon had been a mistake, but it was a mistake he would survive.

There would be more journalists covering the rear exit to the building, through the basement car park. There was only one way out. He’d found it within days of starting work at Butler and Mason. He always liked to know alternative ways of leaving a building. Just in case.

He took his house keys and wallet from his briefcase, then slid it under his desk. It would be too cumbersome for what he had in mind. Making his way to the emergency stairwell, he climbed to the top floor. He looked up at the hatch that led to the roof. It was secured with a bolt.

The next bit was the most difficult. He had to climb on the stair rail and keep his balance until he could stretch his hands to the ceiling and hold himself in place. He managed that much. His feet twisted a little on the thin metal banister as he fought to keep his balance. He reached out to the bolt with his right arm. His left hand was still pressed to the ceiling.

The bolt came out after a series of solid jerks. Each jerk almost threw Hellier’s balance. If he lost it now, he would either fall three feet forward to safety, or tumble backwards down the stairwell, six flights.

He pushed on the roof exit cover. It gave way easily. He used his fingers to caterpillar the wooden cover away from the exit. Every sinew of his body was already stretched to breaking point.

The cover removed, he sprang off the banister and hooked both hands over the outside edge of the square hole in the roof. His body dangled below as he pulled himself up and through the roof exit. Hellier was in excellent physical condition. He’d worked hard to build his strength and develop the physique of an acrobat.

He replaced the cover, making a mental note to push back the bolt in the morning before anyone noticed. He took a few seconds to straighten his clothes and admire the view from the rooftop. He felt alone, but strong. Safe. He sucked in the warm night air, heavy and moist. Time to go. He moved fast and silently across the roofs.