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 25

By 7.30 a.m. Sean was back at work. A few hours’ sleep, a shower and clean clothes had partially revived him. He would be briefing half the team soon. The other half were still across London, watching Hellier’s office. Apparently Hellier hadn’t gone home all night. He’d stayed in his office. He was definitely up to something.

Sean’s office phone rang. ‘DI Corrigan speaking.’ He tried to disguise his tiredness.

‘Morning, sir,’ a voice on the other end replied. ‘I’m DC Kelsey, calling from SO11.’ The name meant nothing to Sean. ‘You sent some numbers to us. Telephone numbers in an address book taken from a James Hellier. You wanted subscribers’ checks on them?’

Sean remembered. ‘Yes, of course. How can I help?’

‘Just a courtesy call, really. To let you know we did the checks and none of them came back as a trace. Basically, they’re not telephone numbers as such.’

‘“As such”?’ Sean asked.

‘Yeah. I think they could be telephone numbers ultimately, but they’re probably coded.’

Sean stood up. He’d expected as much. So that was why Hellier denied having Daniel Graydon’s number in the book. If he’d admitted to that, he would have had to declare his code and then they could have deciphered every number in the book. They could have traced all his secret contacts. It would have told them a great many things. Hellier was careful. The killer was careful.

‘Could you decipher the code?’ Sean asked.

‘We don’t do deciphering at SO11,’ DC Kelsey replied.

‘Any idea who does?’

‘There isn’t anywhere specific that I know of. You need to find your own expert. MI5, a university lecturer, something like that.’

‘Tell me you’re joking?’ Sean said, without knowing why he was so surprised.

‘Afraid not. But I get some quiet spells, sometimes. I could have a play with them for you, if you like.’

‘You’re a good man,’ Sean replied. ‘Call me as soon as you get anything.’ He hung the phone up only for it to immediately ring again. At the same time Sally appeared at the door. He held his index finger up to stall her and grabbed the phone.

‘DI Corrigan.’ Still early morning and already his telephone-answering manner was degenerating.

‘Guv’nor, it’s Stan.’ It was DC Stan McGowan, the detective in charge of the second makeshift surveillance team. ‘I don’t know what happened here last night,’ he went on, ‘but someone on the other surveillance crew fucked up.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘I was told Target One didn’t leave the office last night.’ Stan used surveillance language to describe Hellier.

‘That’s what I heard.’

‘Then why did we just see Target One enter it?’

Sean sat slowly. ‘Impossible.’

‘Impossible or not, I’ve seen him with my own eyes. It’s been confirmed by O.P. One and Three. And he’s wearing fresh clothes too. Sorry, boss. Someone fucked up.’

Sean knew what it meant. Hellier had been running free again. All night. Would there be a price to pay for their mistake? Had it cost someone their life?

Donnelly appeared in his doorway as he was slamming the phone down. ‘Problem?’ he asked.

Sean gave a long sigh before answering. ‘Whoever was covering Hellier last night lost him.’ He sprang to his feet and began moving toward the briefing room. Donnelly and Sally followed.

‘No way,’ Donnelly insisted. ‘Not while I was covering him, no fucking way. He made it easy for us and stayed at work all night, too scared of the press to show his face.’

‘Sorry, Dave.’ Sean spoke without looking at him. ‘It’s been confirmed. No mistake. Hellier slipped past you. I need you to work out how that could have happened and when it could have happened.’

‘I don’t fucking believe this,’ Donnelly protested.

‘It’s done, Dave.’ Sean still didn’t look at him. ‘Let it go.’

Sally tried to help. ‘There were no murders last night. I’ve already checked.’

‘You mean there were no murders discovered last night,’ Sean pointed out. ‘There’s a difference,’ he added unnecessarily. ‘Let’s hope there’ll be no more cock-ups today.’

‘Wait a minute, guv’nor,’ Donnelly protested. ‘I said this half-baked surveillance was a waste of time. I had five tired detectives to cover a target. It was never going to be enough.’

Sean realized his mistake. ‘Okay. Okay. I know you and the team would have done your best. Maybe there’s another way out of the building?’

‘There is,’ Donnelly snapped. ‘Through a basement car park, but we had that covered.’

‘Something else then.’ Sean wanted to leave the subject.

‘Maybe,’ Donnelly conceded.

They swept into the briefing room. There were only five detectives waiting for them. Sean was running out of people. The surveillance effort was putting pressure on his resources.

What chatter there had been died down quickly. Everybody automatically took a seat. Sean decided not to mention that Hellier had slipped through their surveillance. He’d let Donnelly tell them later. He knew where Hellier was now, so there was no point making more of it. He could ill afford divisions in his team.

Conscious of time closing in on him, he got straight to business: ‘We may well have linked our boy to another murder,’ he informed the small audience of detectives. There was a murmur around the room, but no looks of surprise. Sean had told Donnelly the night before. He must have spread the news already.

‘On what grounds?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Three things,’ Sean replied. ‘The lack of usable forensic evidence. The fact a shoeprint belonging to a plain-soled shoe approximately the same size as those found at our scene was recovered. And the type of victim.’

‘Hold on there, guv’nor,’ Donnelly said. ‘I thought the victim out east was a teenage girl.’

Sean felt the eyes of the room watching him, waiting for a response. ‘I don’t think the sex of the victims is relevant.’ He knew he had to convince his team that he was right. It was vital that he took them with him. If he lost their confidence now, he would be alone. Isolated.

‘Okay,’ Donnelly said. ‘How we going to move this thing forward?’

‘Publicity,’ Sean answered. ‘It’s the one tool left in the box that we haven’t used. It’ll spread the inquiry wider than we can without it. I’m hopeful it’ll turn up a key witness. Someone placing Hellier at or near the victim’s home on the night of the murder. Maybe he used a cab. Maybe we’ll get lucky.

‘You sort out a press conference, Dave,’ Sean continued. ‘But make sure you keep our Press Bureau informed. I don’t want to piss on anybody’s chips. Sally, you’ll take care of Crimewatch.’

‘Gonna be a TV star, eh, Sally?’ Donnelly teased. Sally flicked him a middle-finger salute.

‘The Murder Investigation Team investigating the East London killing will do their own press stuff,’ Sean announced. ‘At this time we’re not going to mention there could be a link between the two.’

‘Why?’ Donnelly asked.

‘We don’t want to panic the public,’ Sean told him. ‘We want to use the press in a controlled fashion. We’re not out to make headlines here.

‘Secondly, and more importantly, we don’t want the killer knowing we’ve made a link. If it is Hellier, then let’s leave him thinking we’re only looking at him for the one. Keep the pressure on him for our murder and maybe he’ll be distracted and make a mistake with the other. No point in showing him our hand. The next time I interview Hellier, I want to be able to take him to pieces, bit by bit. If we can get the evidence, then I’ll be able to break through to him and get him talking – and if I can get him talking, I can bury him. If I can get him talking, he’ll bury himself.’

‘What about the other two suspects?’ Zukov asked before the detectives scattered. ‘Paramore and Jonnie Dempsey?’

‘Anything, anybody?’ Sean asked.

‘Paramore’s still missing,’ said Donnelly, ‘but Fiona’s dug something up on Dempsey. Fiona …’

DC Fiona Cahill, a tall, slim detective in her mid-thirties with short, neatly cut hazel hair, got to her feet, her slightly deep voice and cultured accent further setting her apart. ‘I’ve been working my way through Daniel’s friends one by one. I spoke to a guy called Ferdie Edwards who tells me that Dempsey did indeed know Daniel and that they were friends, but he also told me they were more than just that.’

‘Lovers?’ Sean jumped in, a flicker of excitement in his heart.

‘No,’ said Cahill. ‘Business partners.’

‘What?’ Sean asked disbelievingly.

‘Apparently, Dempsey worked as a kind of middle-man. If he heard of a customer in the club who might be willing to pay for sex, he’d steer them towards Daniel – for a cut of the money, of course. He’d also look out for Daniel, watch his back, so to speak.’

‘This is all very interesting,’ Sean said impatiently, ‘but where are we going with it?’

‘Well, Edwards reckons that Daniel was getting a bit fed up with the arrangement.’

‘You mean he was getting fed up handing over a share of his hard-earned cash to Dempsey,’ Donnelly guessed.

‘Exactly,’ Cahill confirmed. ‘Edwards said they’d had at least one heated argument over it – Dempsey telling our victim he’d have him banned from the club if he didn’t keep paying up, and Daniel telling Dempsey he already had someone else in the club watching his back who would make sure he was never barred from entering.’

‘Do we know who?’ Sean asked.

‘No. Not yet.’

‘Probably one of the bouncers,’ Donnelly said.

‘Probably,’ Sean agreed. ‘What a bloody mess.’

‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave when we practice to deceive,’ Donnelly added.

Sean took over: ‘Jonnie the barman has just taken a significant step forward as a viable suspect, so let’s find him. And let’s find out who else had Daniel’s back at the nightclub. And while we’re at it, let’s find Paramore too. We need to speak to all of them – and soon.’

‘All right, everybody,’ said Donnelly, stepping on as soon as he judged Sean had finished. ‘You’ve all got plenty to be getting on with, so let’s hustle. And make sure you return all completed actions back to me as soon as they’re ready. You get the jigsaw pieces and I solve the puzzle, remember?’

The meeting broke up, the few detectives who had been there swiftly exiting the briefing room. Other than Sean, Donnelly was the last to leave. He nodded to Sean on his way out, moving a little faster than normal, but not so anyone would have noticed. Instead of returning to the incident room with everyone else, he headed for the fire exit and walked down two flights of stairs to the main part of the station. Still moving fast, he made his way to a small room that housed two old photocopying machines. It also had a phone. The room was empty. Donnelly picked up the phone and dialled.

DS Samra answered. ‘Hello.’

‘Raj. It’s Dave.’

‘David.’ Samra sounded cautious. ‘What you after?’

‘That little matter I discussed with Jimmy Dawson and yourself …’ He let it hang, waiting for Samra to respond.

‘I remember,’ Samra confirmed.

‘Change of plan.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I’m not just interested in homosexual murders now. I need to know about anything nasty, and I need to know first.’

‘How nasty we talking?’

‘Stranger attacks. Lack of motive, lots of mess. Anything sexual too. I’m not interested in domestics, gang-related, drugs or drunks.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Raj said.

‘Same as before,’ Donnelly continued. ‘Spread the word, but keep it quiet. Remember, I need to know first.’ He hung up.

Raj looked at his phone for a moment, then he began to make some calls. He called DS Jimmy Dawson first. If Jimmy was happy to do as Donnelly said, then so was he.

Hellier stood by the window in the office of one of the other junior partners. They drank coffee and shared a few sexist jokes. Their perfect secretary was the brunt of much of their posturing and sexual boasting. It was as well she couldn’t hear them.

Hellier meant little of what he said. It was important to engage in this sort of social discourse with his colleagues once in a while. Especially now, following his arrest. The innuendo that he was gay could be more damaging than being suspected of murder. Ridiculous people.

His mood was excellent this morning. He would have paid a considerable sum to have been a fly on the wall when Corrigan found out he’d slipped past them. They’d look like fools a few more times before he was finished.

And then, when the time was perfect, he’d disappear. Leave this God-cursed place and start again. But first Corrigan needed breaking. He’d sworn it. Corrigan had humiliated him and now he would pay a heavy price. The Italians say revenge is a dish best served cold. He didn’t agree. His would be served scalding hot.

The perfect secretary knocked on the open door. He shook the daydreaming from his head.

‘What is it, Samantha?’ Hellier’s colleague asked.

She looked at Hellier. ‘It’s actually Mr Hellier I need to see.’

Hellier stood away from the window sill. He smiled pleasantly. ‘Fire away.’

‘I have someone on the phone for you, sir, but they won’t give me a name or tell me what it’s about.’

Fucking journalists. Fucking Corrigan. ‘Well, get rid of them then.’

Strangely, Samantha hesitated at the door, her obedience faltering.

Hellier saw the hesitation. ‘Well?’ he asked.

‘They sound quite desperate, sir. They claim to have very important information for you. They’ll only speak to you personally and in private.’

Hellier’s eyes narrowed. ‘Put the call through to my office.’

Sally walked to the Headquarters of the National Criminal Intelligence Service, known as NCIS, situated in Spring Gardens, Lambeth, close to both the forensic laboratory and the nightclub where Daniel Graydon had spent his last night. NCIS remained low profile. You wouldn’t know they were there unless you were looking hard.

She had abandoned her car to the mercy of traffic wardens and small-time thieves. Life still functioned at the base level in Lambeth. Survival of the fittest was the nature of the game here. Any respect or fear the local population had for the police had long since disappeared. They lived by their own laws now.

Security was expectedly tight at the NCIS building. Sally buzzed the video intercom and waited. A soulless male voice eventually answered.

‘State your business, please.’

‘DS Jones, Serious Crime Group. Here to see DS Graham Wright. I believe he works in Counterfeit Currency.’ She held her warrant card up to the camera. The door was opened after a slight delay. She walked to the reception desk. The security guard was already waiting for her. He gave her a visitor’s name tag and directions to the Counterfeit Currency section. She nodded thanks and moved towards the lift.

When she reached the office she found DS Wright sitting at his desk. He was a fit-looking man in his early forties. His dark hair was matched by clear olive skin. She found him attractive. ‘DS Graham Wright?’ she asked.

He glanced up from his desk. ‘Yes. That’s me.’

‘I’m DS Sally Jones, from SCG.’ She felt Wright’s eyes scan her from head to toes and back.

‘And what can I do for you, DS Jones?’

‘Please,’ she told him. ‘Call me Sally.’

‘Well, Sally?’

‘Fingerprints,’ she said. ‘Missing fingerprints.’ She studied him for a reaction. Maybe a hint of confusion, but nothing more. ‘Back in ninety-nine, you took a set of fingerprints out of the Yard.’

‘Ninety-nine?’ Wright protested. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to remember back that far. Whose prints were they?’

‘Stefan Korsakov’s,’ she answered. Wright flushed a little. She noticed it. ‘You remember?’

‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘I remember.’

‘How come? It was a long time ago.’

‘Because I helped put the bastard away. If you’re here to tell me he’s dead, then you’ll make me a happy man.’

‘Maybe he is,’ said Sally. ‘We’re trying to find that out. But for now, you remember taking the prints out of the Yard?’

‘Yeah. And I remember taking them back just as clearly.’

Sally picked up the speed of the questions. ‘Why did you pull them out in the first place?’

‘I was doing someone a favour. The prints weren’t for me.’

‘Who were they for?’

‘Paul Jarratt. He was a DS at Richmond at the time. I was still a DC. We worked the Korsakov case together. He asked me to pull the prints, so I did.’

‘Did he say why he wanted them?’

‘I can’t remember. Maybe he said the Prison Service had asked for them, but I’m not sure. All I know is that if someone has lost his prints, it wasn’t me. If you want to know why DS Jarratt needed the prints then perhaps you should ask him.’

‘You know what?’ Sally told him. ‘I think I’ll do exactly that.’

The phone was ringing on Hellier’s desk as he entered his office. He closed the door before answering.

‘Hello. James Hellier speaking.’

‘Mr Hellier,’ the voice on the other end began. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you at work. It was the only way I could think of contacting you.’

The voice belonged to a man. He sounded mature, in his forties perhaps. He spoke quite well. Hellier could hear no trace of an accent. He didn’t recognize the voice, but suspected it was being artificially disguised. It sounded concerned. He could sense no harmful intent, but was as cautious as ever.

‘You’re not a journalist, are you?’ Hellier barked the question. ‘Because if you are, I’ll find out who you work for and by this evening you’ll be looking for a new job that you won’t find.’

‘No. No.’ The man’s voice was slightly pleading. Hellier still sensed no threat.

‘Then who are you?’

‘A friend,’ the man answered. ‘A friend who knew Daniel Graydon. And now … now I’d like to become your friend. A friend who can help you.’

Hellier said nothing.

‘Listen to these instructions. Follow them exactly if you want to meet me, but be careful. Your enemies are everywhere.’

Hellier listened hard to the instructions, memorizing every detail. When the voice had finished, the phone line went dead. Hellier sat in silence with the phone pressed to his ear. His new friend had to be a journalist. He wouldn’t put it past Corrigan to have put the vermin on to him in the first place, trying to panic him into making a mistake, but it wouldn’t work. He knew how to deal with journalists and he knew how to deal with Corrigan. After a minute or two he was brought back to the world by a knock at his door.

‘Come in,’ he said, his voice a little hoarse. The door opened as Sebastian Gibran let himself in and pulled a chair close to Hellier’s desk. Hellier found himself leaning back, as far away from Gibran as he could.

‘Thought I’d see how you were. See how things were going with the police. Make sure you were okay. Nothing getting on top of you too much?’

‘I’m fine, thank you, Sebastian. Despite everything, I seem to be bearing up.’ Hellier found it harder than usual to play the corporate game. The voice on the telephone had been an unwelcome complication.

‘Good. I knew it would take more than jealous allegations to upset a man like you.’

‘Jealous allegations?’

‘Of course. People will always be jealous of people like us. They want what we have, but they’re never going to have it. It’s not just wealth, it’s everything. They can win their millions on the lottery as much as they like, but they’ll never be like us. Never walk amongst other men as we can, safe in the comfort of our own superiority. It’s our right. You do understand, don’t you, James?’

‘A king will always be a king. A peasant will always be a peasant.’

‘Exactly.’ Gibran beamed. ‘That’s why I brought you to this firm in the first place, James, because I knew you had what it takes. When I first spoke to you at that conference all those years ago, I knew. I’d met hundreds of financial superstars that week, but I knew you were different. I knew you belonged here at Butler and Mason – and I made damn certain I got you.’

‘I’m forever grateful,’ Hellier managed, but he was a little disturbed by this side of Gibran he’d never seen before − the perfect corporate manager and visionary seemingly replaced by a more arrogant, self-serving elitist. Was he finally meeting the real Sebastian Gibran − or was Gibran trying to trick him into lowering his guard, looking for a reason to move him on to pastures far less green?

‘Any gratitude owed has already been repaid,’ Gibran told him. ‘You know, James, none of us are immune from making mistakes. The very nature of our business is risk orientated. We accept that people will make bad decisions from time to time. Those decisions will sometimes cost us a great deal of money, but we accept it.’

Hellier listened, trying to predict the moment when the conversation would become specific to him.

‘But other mistakes, errors of judgement not related to work, are less tolerated. The people who own Butler and Mason like to portray a very particular image: they like their employees to be married, settled, and they encourage people to have children by creating a pay structure that rewards a family life. The image of this company has emerged by design, not accident, and they guard it jealously. If an employee has elements in their life that do not fit easily with our company ethos, then they would be expected to bury those …’ Gibran searched for an appropriate word, ‘those habits, where they would never be seen. If they failed to do so, then their position here might not be tenable. If someone was to draw unwanted attention to our business, even if it was by accident, even if it was later shown not to be that person’s fault, the company would nevertheless expect that person to bring that situation to a swift conclusion. We’re all clear on that philosophy, aren’t we, James?’

‘I understand perfectly,’ Hellier answered.

‘Listen,’ Gibran said, his voice and tone suddenly sounding more like the man Hellier recognized. ‘That was the corporate line – make of it what you will. This is from me: watch your back. I can only protect you so much. I like you, James. You’re a good man. Tread carefully, my friend.’

Hellier watched him for a while before answering. ‘I will. Thank you.’

‘As Nietzsche said, “Not mankind, but Superman is the goal … My desire is to bring forth creatures which stand sublimely above the whole species.” That is what we are expected to be, James. The failings of normal men are not a luxury we’re allowed.’

‘“To live beyond good and evil”,’ Hellier continued the quote from Nietzsche.

Gibran leaned slowly forward. ‘I knew we understood each other. You see, James, it’s our imaginations that truly set us apart. Without that, we’d be just like all those other sad fools wandering around soulless, aimless, pointless. Only fit to be ruled over by those fit to rule. That may sound arrogant, but it’s not. It’s reality. It’s the truth.’

Sean entered the press conference room at New Scotland Yard. He walked behind Superintendent Featherstone, who would head the conference. Sean was only there to deal with specifics, not the general presentation.

Other than the TV people there were about a dozen journalists there. A lot less than there would be for a celebrity or child murder, but more than there would have been for a run-of-the-mill killing. Most of them had been following the case since Hellier’s initial arrest, when Donnelly had leaked it to a contact in the media.

Featherstone introduced them and outlined the details of Daniel Graydon’s murder. He began to tell the journalists what the police wanted from the public. Sally would repeat it later that night on Crimewatch.

‘We’re appealing to anyone who may have seen Daniel meet someone outside Utopia nightclub that night. Perhaps a cab driver who took Daniel home. A friend or acquaintance who maybe gave him a lift,’ Featherstone explained.

‘We are also interested in anyone who may have heard or seen something later that night, close to Daniel’s flat in New Cross. Did anyone see a man acting strangely in the area? Again, maybe the man responsible for this terrible crime used a cab to leave the area. Can anyone remember picking up a passenger in the early hours? Someone who aroused their suspicions?’

Sean listened absentmindedly. Featherstone was doing a professional job, sticking to the script, but there was one thing the two of them hadn’t discussed ahead of the conference. A question from a journalist made Sean almost jump. ‘Do you have a description of the suspect?’

Featherstone was about to answer ‘No’ when Sean jumped in.

‘Yes,’ he said. It was the first time he’d spoken. Featherstone was surprised. His mouth hung a little open.

‘What’s the description?’ the journalist asked.

‘We believe we’re looking for a white male, in his forties. He’s slim, fair hair and smart in appearance.’ Sean was describing Hellier.

‘Where has this description come from?’ asked another journalist.

‘I can’t tell you that at this stage,’ Sean answered.

The journalists’ excitement grew. ‘Detective Inspector …’ The female journalist raised her voice above the increasing noise and competition for answers. ‘Inspector.’ She caught Sean’s eye. ‘Have you just described James Hellier, Inspector?’

‘No comment,’ Sean answered.

Another journalist pursued the question. ‘Is Mr Hellier no longer a suspect in this murder, Inspector?’

‘For legal reasons, I can’t answer that.’

‘Why was Mr Hellier not charged?’ another asked.

‘This is an ongoing investigation, which means I can’t answer that at this time.’

‘Is Mr Hellier a witness in this case?’

The journalists had revealed why they were there. Hellier was the story. Sean had known it from the beginning. He could feel that Featherstone wanted to get the conference back on track, which was fine by Sean. It had served its purpose. Hellier would hear about it and read between the lines. The pressure would be back on. It was revenge for Hellier embarrassing the surveillance operation. For trying to cause a split in the team. A piece on the chessboard had been moved and Hellier would have to respond. Another question came from the floor.

‘Was Mr Hellier having sexual relations with the victim?’

‘I think Detective Superintendent Featherstone will be best placed to answer your questions.’ He leaned back into his chair, signifying his involvement in the conference was over.

‘Superintendent,’ a journalist asked, ‘is James Hellier a suspect in this murder inquiry or not?’

Featherstone answered without hesitation, the media training paying off. ‘At this point Mr Hellier is helping us with our inquiries. I can’t reveal any more details than that until some time in the future, but I can assure you that it is my intention to conduct as open an investigation into the death of Daniel Graydon as possible, and of course the media will be kept informed. As I was about to say, we would also like the public’s help in tracing two other men that we need to speak to.’

Sean wasn’t listening any more and didn’t hear Featherstone giving the media the names of Steven Paramore and Jonnie Dempsey. The journalists were once again directing their questions to Featherstone, who dealt with them as beautifully as a conductor would his orchestra. Featherstone presented the user-friendly face of the police service. The clean shirt over an unwashed body. Sean sat quietly chewing the inside of his mouth, waiting for the show to come to a natural end, thinking of Hellier. Seeing him kneeling next to Daniel Graydon, pushing the ice pick through his skin. Standing over Heather Freeman as he swept the knife across her stretched throat.

Hellier had followed the instructions given on the phone exactly. He’d left work at 6 p.m. and walked out of the front door in full view of the surveillance team. He hailed the first cab he saw and told the driver to take him to Victoria train station. Once there, he descended into the underground system, moving through the labyrinth of tunnels on foot, boarding trains travelling in one direction, then unexpectedly disembarking and doubling back, making it almost impossible to follow him.

An hour later he stood in Hyde Park looking up at the statue of Achilles. Large trees provided good cover. He could see the bandstand in the park about thirty metres away. The man on the phone had said he would be there at seven thirty. He would be carrying a small blue Reebok rucksack and wearing a yellow shirt.

Hellier kept his distance. He wanted time to observe the man before he approached him. A friend of Daniel Graydon. What did he know? What had Daniel told him? What did he know about Hellier? It had to be a journalist looking for a story to titillate the masses, but had they found out more than they’d bargained for? Something that could be dangerous to him? Had his phone been hacked? He doubted it. When it came to hacking a phone, he could teach any half-cocked journalist or private detective a thing or two; he was pretty certain his hadn’t been. He needed to find out what they knew about him and deal with it – deal with it with extreme prejudice.

His mobile rang. The display showed ‘private number calling’. He answered: ‘James Hellier.’

‘I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I’m going to be late. I won’t be able to get to you until about eight. You must wait for me. It’s vital that you wait for me.’

Hellier checked his watch. It meant waiting for almost an hour. ‘This had better be worth it.’

‘It will be,’ the man said. ‘Please believe me. It’s more important than you can possibly imagine.’

‘Who are you?’ Hellier asked.

‘Someone who has an interest in your current predicament. Someone who wants to help. Just be sure to wait for me.’

‘I’ll be here.’ Hellier didn’t attempt to disguise his annoyance. He snapped his mobile shut. It appeared he would have plenty of time to study his favourite London statue.

For the first time in a long while Sean went home at a reasonable hour. Kate found it a little strange at first. She’d become accustomed to him not being there.

Sally was doing the Crimewatch presentation that night. Several of the team would stay on at Peckham until midnight, answering any calls from the public the appeal might bring. Sean wasn’t hopeful. He only hoped Hellier was watching. He’d briefed Sally to use Hellier’s description as that of the possible killer, just as he’d done at the press conference.

He also wanted to see the presentation on the Heather Freeman murder. DI Brown would be on the show that night, but no mention would be made of the connection. How would that affect Hellier’s behaviour? He pictured Hellier laughing at their incompetence. Fine. Let him laugh.

His mobile began to ring. He groaned. Kate stared across the living room at him. ‘Hello. Sean Corrigan speaking.’

‘Bad news, guv’nor.’ It was DC Stan McGowan. ‘He left work at about six, but we lost him on the underground. He was definitely trying to shake us. We had no chance. Sorry.’

‘Why didn’t you call earlier?’ Sean asked. It was almost eight thirty now.

‘We’ve been running around trying to find him. I sent a couple of boys to his home address, but he either beat them there or he hasn’t gone home yet.’

‘Okay, Stan,’ Sean said. ‘You’ve done your best. Stay with it tonight. Concentrate on the home address. Tomorrow I’ll see if I can’t get a dedicated surveillance team back.’

‘Sorry,’ Stan said again. Sean hung up. He wondered if he could stay awake long enough to watch Crimewatch.

Hellier checked his watch. It was three minutes since he last checked. Ten past eight. The man had sworn he’d be there by eight. He was late. He hadn’t called. Damn it. Where was the fool? Hellier looked at his watch again.

What did the caller really want? He’d said he could help. Who could help him? Why would they want to? Were they going to try and blackmail him? That would at least be amusing. He checked his phone. No missed calls.

He wasn’t going to stand here all night. He had better things to do. He’d lost the police surveillance, but he needed to be careful. Journalists could still be a problem, even if the police weren’t. He felt excitement rising in him like an old friend. Time for a treat. He deserved one.

Kate watched Sean struggling to stay awake in his chair. A bottle of Stella Artois rested on his chest. She watched it rise and fall gently. If he fell asleep properly he would spill the beer. The cold liquid would wake him up quickly enough. She hoped it would happen. It would make her laugh, and Sean hadn’t made her laugh much lately.

He was losing the battle to keep his eyes open. Hearing the presenter mention a murder in South London, Kate shook Sean by the shoulder. ‘I think you’re on.’

‘Uh?’

‘You’re on,’ she repeated. ‘It’s your case next.’

Sean sat upright. He rubbed his face hard and shook his head. ‘Thanks.’

He watched the presenter outline the case. It was supposed to be informative only, the media helping the police to catch a killer, but the presenter’s background gave him away. He couldn’t help using gutter-press terminology. He tried to look shocked when describing the murder as ‘gruesome’. He dramatically paused as he informed the nation how Daniel had been stabbed ‘seventy-seven times’. The tabloid words flowed from his mouth: ‘Bloody …’ ‘Horrific …’ ‘Mutilated …’ He had them all. In truth, there was only one reason the programme existed. Ratings. The British public liked nothing better than watching other people’s suffering from a safe distance.

The camera switched to Sally. She looked a little nervous, but you couldn’t tell unless you knew her like Sean did. She was as professional as he knew she’d be. Informative, accurate, businesslike, but compassionate too.

She gave the description of Hellier as Sean had asked. He felt satisfaction at the thought of Hellier watching and listening to himself being described on national TV, but he had to remember that Hellier was like a poisonous snake. He was dangerous. It was important to keep a firm grip of his neck or risk being bitten.

The presenter tried to ambush Sally. He asked her if someone had already been arrested. If the police already had a ‘prime suspect’. Sally had been expecting it. Her answer sounded prepared. She told him a number of people had been helping police with the inquiry, but that they were still trying to trace the whereabouts of Steven Paramore and Jonnie Dempsey. The presenter backed off, closing the piece with the usual attempt at a heartfelt appeal for assistance. He read out the two telephone numbers that also appeared at the bottom of the screen. One for the studio and one for the incident room back in Peckham. Then he moved on to the next tragedy of the night.