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 29

Sean had kept the briefing quick and simple. They would drive from Peckham to Hellier’s house in Islington. Sean would arrest him. Sally would direct another search of the house. He knew the audience of bleary-eyed detectives wouldn’t be able to absorb much information at 6 a.m. − most looked like they’d opted for one last drink instead of stocking up on the most precious commodity to a detective: sleep. If they felt tired now, it would be worse for them later.

Donnelly banged on the front door of Hellier’s Georgian terrace. The thick black paint shimmered like water with each knock. Sean and Sally were right behind him. The rest of the arrest team stood further back. No one expected Hellier to fight.

James Hellier appeared in front of them. He was almost fully dressed and ready to leave for work. He looked good. Fit and strong. Immaculately groomed. He was casually threading a gold cufflink through his sleeve.

Sean stepped forward, and before he spoke he could smell Hellier’s expensive cologne. It seemed to take Hellier a second to recognize him. When he did, he began to smile.

Sean held his warrant card close to Hellier’s face. He didn’t back away.

‘James Hellier. I’m Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan, these other officers are with me.’

‘Please, Inspector,’ Hellier cut in. ‘There’s no need for introductions here. I think we all know each other.’

Sean wanted to hit him. If Hellier didn’t stop smiling, he thought he probably would. Instead he pushed him back into the house and spun him around to face the hallway wall. He could see Elizabeth Hellier coming down the stairs.

‘Who is it, James?’ she called out. ‘What’s going on?’ Her panic growing.

‘Nothing to worry about, darling,’ Hellier called up to her. ‘Just call Jonathon Templeman and tell him I’ve been arrested again.’ He turned to Sean. ‘I am being arrested, aren’t I, Inspector?’

Sean pulled Hellier’s arms behind his back and clipped a handcuff tightly round each of his wrists. ‘This time you’re mine,’ Sean whispered into Hellier’s ear. He stepped back and spoke so everyone could hear, especially Hellier’s wife. ‘James Hellier, I’m arresting you for the murder of Linda Kotler.’

Hellier was still smiling. ‘What?’ He didn’t attempt to hide his disdain. ‘This is pathetic. I’ve never heard of the woman.’

‘You do not have to say anything unless you wish to.’ Sean spoke over Hellier’s protests. ‘But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.’

‘Tell me, Inspector,’ Hellier was almost shouting, ‘are you going to arrest me for every crime you can’t solve?’

‘Anything you do say may be used as evidence,’ Sean continued.

Hellier craned his neck so he could see Sean over his right shoulder. ‘You’re a damn fool. You’ve got nothing on me.’ His smiling face and sweet breath made Sean feel nauseous.

‘Who are you?’ Sean asked him. ‘What the fuck are you?’

Hellier’s grin only broadened. He spat the words into Sean’s face:

‘Fuck you.’

Sean peered through the spy hole into Hellier’s cell. The smug bastard was sitting bolt upright on his bed, as if in some kind of a trance. If only there were some way to find out what he was thinking. Sean moved away from the cell door and headed back to his office. He would interview Hellier when his solicitor arrived.

He sauntered into the inquiry office. The team sensed his mood. It transferred to them. Sean had the upper hand now.

‘Any news from the lab, Stan?’ Sean shouted across the office.

‘Three days for a DNA match, guv,’ Stan called back. ‘Two, if we get lucky. They’ll need our suspect’s samples by midday if they’re to have any chance of doing it that fast, but it’ll only be an initial comparison which won’t give us a definitive match. A full comparison and definitive match will take a week. Minimum.’

‘Not good enough,’ Sean replied. ‘Call the lab back and tell them one in forty thousand isn’t good enough. I need better odds than that and I need them by this time tomorrow at the latest.’

The phone in Sean’s office was ringing when he entered. He snatched it up. ‘DI Corrigan.’

‘Morning, sir. It’s DC Kelsey, from SO11 telephone subscribers’ checks. You left some coded numbers with me a while ago. I said I’d have a play with them.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, I worked out the code,’ DC Kelsey said matter-of-factly. ‘It was relatively simple, but effective.’

‘Have you run the subscribers’ checks too?’

‘Yes. Some are overseas numbers, so we don’t have them back yet. I’ll email what I have across to you. Be warned, there’s a fair few to go through.’

‘Thanks. And good job,’ Sean said warmly. ‘Let me know when the overseas numbers come back.’

‘No problem.’

‘And thanks again.’

Sally appeared at his office door. ‘Hellier’s brief’s here,’ she announced. ‘They’re in consultation.’

‘Good. When they’re ready, you can help me interview.’ Sally made a show of checking her watch. ‘You need to be somewhere?’ he asked.

‘As a matter of fact, I have a lunch appointment today. I was hoping Dave could do the interview with you.’

‘Lunch appointment?’ Sean sounded surprised.

‘It’s not what you think. I’m supposed to be meeting Hellier’s boss, Sebastian Gibran. His idea. I can only assume he wants to discuss Hellier.’

Sean studied her in silence for a while. ‘I’m not sure about this, Sally,’ he said. ‘These people look after their own. I doubt he wants to help us. Unless he has some other motivation for meeting you.’

‘Such as?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I guess you never know your luck.’

Again Sean studied her for a while. ‘Okay. Meet him. See what he has to say.’

‘There’s something else too,’ Sally continued. ‘Remember the suspect Method Index turned up – Stefan Korsakov.’

Sean shrugged his shoulders. He thought that little problem had been dealt with. ‘Yes.’

‘I’ve been trying to put it to bed, but it hasn’t been that easy.’

‘In what way?’

‘His conviction prints should be at the Yard, only they’re not.’

‘Borrowed?’

‘The original investigating officer told me the prison holding Korsakov had requested the prints, only I checked with them and they didn’t.’

‘So he’s lying to you. Any idea why?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Do you want to get Ethics and Standards involved?’

‘Maybe,’ Sally answered. ‘But maybe we should start treating Korsakov as a viable suspect, until we know for sure he isn’t?’

‘Fine,’ Sean agreed. ‘But if he does start looking like a reality, you tell me straight away. Don’t go running off solo, trying to be Cagney without Lacey.’

‘I won’t. I promise.’

Sally turned on her heels and headed out of the office. ‘By the way,’ Sean called after her, ‘have a nice lunch.’

Hellier and Templeman sat close together in the interview room that served as their private consultation room.

‘I need to be out of this fucking dungeon by six at the latest,’ Hellier told him. ‘No excuses, Jonathon. You have to get me out.’

‘It’s difficult to make that promise,’ Templeman answered nervously. ‘The police won’t tell me much. Until I know what they’ve got, I can’t be expected to judge our position.’

‘Our position?’ Hellier asked. He put his hand on Templeman’s thigh and squeezed hard. Templeman winced. ‘No matter what, you’ll be walking out of here. It’s me they want to nail to the wall. Keep that in mind.’

Hellier released his grip and gently laid a hand on Templeman’s shoulder. He knew the man was scared of him. ‘I know you’ll do your best.’ He spoke softly. It only added to his menace.

Templeman swallowed his fear and spoke. ‘Before we can even think about bail, we have to prepare for the interview. If they’ve re-arrested you, they must have something. If you know what that could be, you need to tell me now. They want to start the interview as soon as they can, but they’re only telling me the minimum they’re legally obliged to. You have to help me to help you. We don’t want to walk into a trap. You should answer everything “no comment”.’

Hellier could barely disguise his contempt. ‘Trap! You think they’re clever enough to trap me? They’ve got nothing, and Corrigan knows it. He’s trying to make me panic. Well, let him do his worst. You just keep your mouth shut and try and look professional. Let me do the talking and follow my lead. If Corrigan wants to play, fucking let him. Tell them we’re ready to be interviewed.’

Sean began the interview with the usual formalities, Hellier responding with a nod when asked if he understood the caution and his other legal rights. He nodded again when Sean repeated that he had been arrested for the suspected murder of Linda Kotler. His face was expressionless.

In an effort to gain credibility with Hellier, Templeman immediately went on the offensive: ‘I would like it recorded that it has been almost impossible for me to properly instruct my client, as the investigating officers have told me nothing about the allegation. Nothing about any evidence they may have that indicates my client could in any way be involved in this crime.’

Sean had been expecting as much. ‘The allegation is one of suspected rape and murder. It occurred less than thirty-six hours ago. I’m sure your client will be able to answer my questions without being given prior knowledge.’ Sean waited for a protest. None came. ‘I’ll keep the questions simple and direct.’ He and Hellier locked eyes across the table, then Sean launched into the interrogation: ‘Did you know Linda Kotler?’

‘No,’ Hellier answered.

‘Was that a no comment or a no?’

‘That was a no. I don’t know anyone by the name of Linda Kotler.’

‘Have you ever been to Minford Gardens in Shepherd’s Bush?’ Sean was trying to shut him in.

‘I don’t know. Maybe,’ Hellier answered.

‘Maybe?’

‘I’ve been to Shepherd’s Bush, so maybe I’ve been there.’

‘Minford Gardens?’ Sean repeated.

‘Wherever.’

‘Have you ever been to number seventy-three Minford Gardens?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘Positive.’ Hellier sounded bored.

‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Sean had to be precise. Any ambiguity now would be exploited later by the defence. Hellier didn’t answer. ‘I’ll take that as confirmation. But you’re lying. You have been there,’ Sean continued.

Hellier gave no reaction other than raising one eyebrow slightly. Sean noticed it.

‘You met Linda Kotler. You met her the same night you killed her.’

‘Really, Inspector,’ Templeman jumped in. ‘If you have evidence to support your allegation that my client was involved, then why don’t you just say so and tell us what it is. Otherwise this interview is over.’ Sean ignored him. Throughout the interruption he maintained eye contact with Hellier.

‘Where were you the night before last?’ Sean asked.

‘You mean you don’t know?’ Hellier tormented him. ‘All those policemen following me and you have to ask me where I was. How galling that must be for you.’

‘No games.’ Sean was trying to keep the pace going. ‘Where were you?’

‘That’s my business,’ Hellier snapped.

Good. His calm was breaking.

‘And now it’s mine,’ said Sean. ‘Who were you with?’

‘No comment.’

The questions and answers came quickly. Templeman kept on the lookout for a break, a chance to object, but he knew neither Sean nor Hellier would listen to him. This was between the two of them. Personal.

‘If you’ve got an alibi, you’d better give it now,’ Sean told him.

‘I don’t have to prove a damn thing,’ Hellier retorted.

‘You weren’t at home.’

‘Your point?’

‘And you weren’t at work.’

‘So?’

‘So between seven p.m. and three a.m. the next morning, where were you? During the time Linda Kotler was murdered, where were you?’ Sean’s voice was rising.

Hellier fought back. ‘Where were you, Inspector? That’s what people will really want to know. Would she be alive now if you’d done your job properly? You’re desperate and it shows. You stink of fear. It’s blinded you. What have you got? Nothing but theories.

‘So you don’t know where I was the night this woman was killed. That proves nothing.’ Hellier leaned back, satisfied.

‘How long did you watch her for?’ Sean suddenly asked. ‘For a week, like you did with Daniel Graydon, or was it longer? Did you spend days and days fantasizing about killing her, the images in your mind growing ever more vivid until you could no longer wait? You followed her home, didn’t you, James? Then you watched her windows, waiting for the lights to go out. And when they did, you waited until you were certain she was asleep before you scrambled up the drainpipe and climbed through her bathroom window. Then you knocked her unconscious, tied her in your favourite bondage position and raped and sodomized her. And when you were finished, you strangled her – didn’t you?’

Hellier made as if to answer, but Sean held up his hand to stop him as the images in his mind revealed further details. ‘No wait, I’m wrong – you didn’t strangle her after you’d raped her. You killed her while you were still inside her, didn’t you? Her death and your climax happening simultaneously – that’s how it had to be for you, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?’

Hellier’s eyes raged inside his stony face, the muscles in his cheeks visibly flexing as he fought to keep control. Finally he spoke. ‘That’s a nice little story you’ve cooked up, Inspector. But it proves nothing – nothing whatsoever.’

‘You’re right.’ Sean sounded humble. ‘It doesn’t prove a thing. But these will.’ He slid a copy of a form across the table. ‘Item number four,’ Sean said. ‘Item number four should be of particular interest to you.’

Hellier scanned the list of items submitted to the forensic laboratory. He saw that item number four was two hairs. He shook his head as if he failed to realize their importance. ‘This concerns me how?’

‘We need samples of your hair and blood, for DNA comparison,’ Sean informed him.

‘You’ve already taken samples.’

‘I can’t use those. This is a different case. I need fresh samples.’

Hellier looked across at Templeman, who nodded confirmation that Sean was telling the truth.

‘Fine,’ said Hellier. ‘Take your samples and get me out of here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sean said. ‘Get you out of here? No, that won’t be possible. You’re staying in custody until the DNA comparison’s complete.’

‘Fuck you,’ Hellier exploded. He was standing now. ‘You can’t keep me locked in this fucking cage.’ Templeman pulled him back into his seat.

Sean spoke for the benefit of the tape recorder. ‘Interview terminated at twelve twenty-three p.m.’ He clicked the machine off. ‘I’ll arrange for someone to take your samples.’ Then he walked out of the interview room leaving Donnelly to deal with Templeman’s protests. He smiled as he closed the door behind him, listening to the raised voices fading in the background.

Featherstone sipped a coffee as he waited outside the custody suite. He knew Sean would head that way eventually. Much as he liked the guy, even believed in him, he was aware that, so far as the top brass were concerned, Sean had a tendency to sail way too close to the wind.

‘Sean,’ Featherstone surprised him as he clattered through the door. ‘You got a minute?’ He gestured towards an unoccupied room.

‘Can this wait?’

‘Best not. We won’t be long.’

Reluctantly, Sean followed Featherstone into the room.

‘It seems some influential people are beginning to stick their noses into your investigation,’ Featherstone warned him. ‘Calls have been put in to the Yard and the brass are getting nervous. I’ll keep the hounds at bay, but you’d better make sure you’ve got some evidence to back up any move you make.’

‘We found hairs at the latest scene,’ Sean told him. ‘We can get DNA off them. We match them to Hellier and then it’s all over.’

‘That’s a start,’ Featherstone said. ‘But we can’t hold a suspect in custody while we wait for a DNA comparison. So what’s the plan?’

‘I need to keep him rattled. Keep him off balance. Let me keep him locked up for a few hours.’ Sean spoke quietly, suppressing his anger. ‘Then I’ll bail him, once he’s nice and wound up, not thinking straight. The surveillance team can pick him up the second he leaves the station.’

Featherstone inhaled deeply. ‘Okay. We’ll play it your way, but be careful with this one, Sean. Hellier has some very powerful friends.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’

‘One other thing,’ Featherstone said as Sean turned to leave. ‘What’s this I hear about the victim in Shepherd’s Bush saying she’d met you the night she was killed?’

‘You heard?’

‘There’s not much I don’t get to hear about.’

‘Hellier likes to play games.’

‘You need to be careful,’ Featherstone warned him again. ‘Be very careful. People are watching this case. People are watching you. My advice – make sure you can prove where you were and who you were with the night Linda Kotler was killed.’

‘You can’t be serious?’ Sean asked, incredulous. ‘You don’t actually think …?’

‘Not me,’ Featherstone assured him. ‘But this investigation is turning out to be more complex than anyone expected. It’s making the powers that be very nervous, Sean.’

Sean felt a huge weight pressing down on him, as if Featherstone’s words and inferred suspicion were slowly crushing the life out of him. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said curtly, turning his back on the superintendent and walking out of the room.

He made his way along the corridor and into the communal toilet. After checking to make sure he was alone, he filled a sink with cold water and bent low over it, scooping up handfuls and burying his face in it before straightening to meet his own reflection staring back. His eyes were sunken with tiredness and dehydration. Featherstone’s words still ringing around inside his head. He reached out for the reflection, but the image looking back at him kept distorting to someone else: to the disfigured image of Daniel Graydon, the horrified face of Heather Freeman, and finally Linda Kotler, contorted with agony and fear. He rubbed the mirror, smearing it with water then waiting for it to clear. When it did, it was his own face again, staring back and asking the question: could he have killed Linda Kotler? He swallowed drily, remembering the images he’d seen in his head at the murder scenes and other murder scenes in the past. Not for the first time he found himself asking another question: were these images from his projected imagination, or were they memories – memories of crimes he had committed?

‘You were at home with Kate the night Linda Kotler died, and the same when Daniel Graydon was killed – you were at home.’ Desperately he tried to remember where he’d been the evening Heather Freeman was killed, but he couldn’t. He felt the panic seeping through his very soul. ‘You were with your wife,’ he hissed into the mirror, but he couldn’t chase away the doubt, the possibility he was no different from half the inmates of Broadmoor. Could it be that his home life was a fantasy, his wife a figment of his imagination, his entire family nothing more than a mirage – a projection of what he wanted most but could never have?

‘No,’ he banged the mirror with the underside of his fist. ‘For Christ’s sake, get a grip. You’re tired, that’s all. You solved those other murders. The people who did them are locked up for life because of you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Hellier killed these people, not me. I’m real. My life is real. It’s real.’

Suddenly the door was thrown open by a uniformed officer desperate for the toilet. He stalled for a second at the sight of Sean standing in front of the mirror, face dripping wet, hands gripping the basin. With a brief nod at Sean, he disappeared into a cubicle. When the door closed behind him, Sean quickly dried his hands on a bunch of paper towels and made for the exit.

Sally entered Che shortly after 1 p.m. and immediately spotted Gibran seated at a table, sipping a glass of amber-coloured wine. He stood when he saw her. A waiter pulled a chair out for her as Gibran indicated for her to sit with a wave of his hand and a smile.

‘DS Jones. I’m very grateful you were able to see me.’

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Call me Sally.’

‘Sally, of course. And you must call me Sebastian – deal?’

‘Deal,’ Sally agreed.

‘Can I get you a drink? Or is that against the rules? I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.’ He gave Sally a boyish grin full of mischief. She already felt relaxed in his company.

‘Why not? Whatever you’re having will be fine.’

Gibran nodded once at the nearby waiter, who scuttled away immediately. ‘The venison here is excellent,’ he informed her, ‘but a little fussy for my taste. You’ll find I’m a simple man with simple tastes, except when it comes to people, of course.’

It seemed to Sally that he was trying to impress her with his modesty and down-to-earth attitude, despite his obvious wealth and influence. She was duly impressed, but she wasn’t about to let it show. Not yet.

‘So, what is it I can do for you, Sebastian?’

‘Straight to the point.’ He stalled while the waiter served Sally’s wine. ‘I hope you like it. Dominico here tells me it’s a very fine Sancerre and as I am nowhere near as well informed in these matters, I’m completely in his hands.’ Gibran waited for the wine waiter to leave before speaking again. ‘You must tell me if the wine’s any good, then I’ll know whether Dominico’s been ripping me off the last few years.’

She took a sip and smiled at him, holding his gaze for a little too long. She concentrated on sounding businesslike. ‘It’s very nice, thank you. Now, why am I here?’

‘I wish I could say it was purely for pleasure, but I’m guessing you’ve already assumed that’s not the case.’

‘I’m a detective. I try not to make assumptions.’

‘Of course. Sorry,’ Gibran said with natural charm. ‘We’re here because we have a mutual interest in a certain party.’

‘James Hellier?’

‘Yes,’ he confirmed, his expression suddenly serious, the flirtatious, boyish personality evaporating in an instant.

‘Mr Gibran − Sebastian. If you’re here to try and somehow influence my opinion of Hellier’s involvement in this case, then I should warn you—’

‘That’s not my intention,’ Gibran insisted, tapping his glass while speaking. ‘I wouldn’t insult your intelligence. I thought you should know my feelings on the subject, that’s all.’

‘Your feelings on the subject would only be of interest to me if they were somehow relevant to our investigation. So, are they?’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure if it’s relevant or not. I just thought someone connected to the investigation should know, which is why I called you.’

‘Why didn’t you contact DI Corrigan?’

‘I get the feeling he’s not my biggest fan.’

‘Well, I’m here,’ Sally said with an air of resignation. ‘So what is it you think I should know about?’

‘How can I put this?’ Gibran began. ‘When James first came to us, he was a model employee. He served the firm above and beyond all expectations for several years.’ He paused. ‘However …’

‘However what?’ Sally encouraged.

‘I’m sorry.’ Gibran shook his head. ‘It’s not in my nature to talk out of school. I would imagine it’s the same in your job: rule number one being to look out for each other.’

‘Well, you haven’t broken any rules yet, because so far you haven’t told me anything.’

‘And under normal circumstances I wouldn’t tell you.’ Gibran’s blue eyes drilled deeply into Sally’s, showing her a flash of his true power and status. She found him no less attractive for it. ‘It’s just that, lately, well, I’ve found his behaviour to be somewhat … erratic. Unpredictable. Troubling, even. Half the time I don’t know where he is, or who he’s with. He’s missed several high-profile meetings the last few weeks, all of which is out of character.’ Gibran appeared genuinely concerned.

‘When did you first become aware of this change in personality?’ Sally asked.

‘I suppose it started a couple of months ago. And now this latest episode, the police raiding our office, dragging James away like a common criminal. Not exactly the image we’re hoping to portray at Butler and Mason.’

‘No. I don’t suppose it is.’

Gibran leaned across the table, and spoke quietly. ‘Do you really believe he killed that man? Is James capable of such a thing?’

‘What do you think?’ Sally asked.

Gibran leaned away again before replying. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. Not now. My head’s spinning a little at the moment. I’m coming under some fairly intense pressure from above to resolve this situation.’

‘Has something happened to make you feel that way?’

Gibran sipped his wine before answering. ‘The other day, I went to James’s office to speak to him, to see what I could find out.’

‘I hope you haven’t been playing amateur detective,’ Sally warned him. ‘That could cause us procedural difficulties, especially if you’ve questioned him at all.’

‘No,’ Gibran replied hastily. ‘Nothing like that. But you should understand that I am responsible for a great many things at Butler and Mason and a great many employees. I am, if you like, Butler and Mason’s own internal police force. I will do whatever I have to do to protect the firm and the people within it. If James is putting either at risk, then …’ Gibran let his statement linger.

‘You do what you have to do. But make sure you don’t cross over into our criminal investigation. That would leave us both in a compromised position.’

‘I understand,’ Gibran assured her. ‘You’ve made yourself clear. I have no wish to fall out with the police, especially you.’

‘Good,’ Sally ended the debate. ‘So what did Hellier have to say for himself during this little chat you and he had?’

‘Nothing specific. He seemed very distracted.’

‘Not surprising,’ Sally said dismissively.

‘Indeed. But it was more a feeling I had,’ Gibran explained. ‘I’ve known James for several years and this was the first time I’ve ever felt … well, uncomfortable in his presence, even a little intimidated.’

‘Go on.’

‘I almost felt as if for the first time I was meeting the real James Hellier, and that the person I’d known up till now didn’t really exist.

‘Tell me, Sally,’ Gibran asked, his tone suddenly light-hearted, ‘are you familiar with the work of Friedrich Nietzsche?’

‘I can’t say that I am,’ Sally admitted.

‘Not many people are.’ Gibran dismissed Sally’s lack of knowledge before it could make her uncomfortable. ‘He was a philosopher who believed in men being ruled over by a select group of benevolent supermen. Nonsense, of course. I was talking to James about it, trying to relax him, make him feel less like he was being interviewed, but I almost felt as if James believed in it. I mean, really believed it. He started talking about living his life beyond good and evil, as Nietzsche had decreed. Normally I would have dismissed it, but given all that’s happened, suddenly it sounded … sinister.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Like I said,’ Gibran replied, leaning back into his comfortable chair, ‘it was just a feeling.’

‘Well,’ Sally said after a long pause. ‘If you find or feel anything else, you know how to get hold of me.’

‘Of course.’ Gibran looked around him uncomfortably. ‘You take someone under your wing. You trust them, think you know them. Then all this happens.’ He sipped his wine. ‘He’s not the man I used to know. He may seem the same, but he’s different. To answer your original question: do I think James could be involved in killing those people? The truth is, I simply don’t know any more. The fact I can’t dismiss it out of hand is bad enough, I dread to think …’

‘One way or another, we’ll all know the answer soon enough.’

‘Excuse me?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly, recovering herself. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Good,’ he declared. ‘Now that’s out of the way, we can enjoy our lunch. I do hope you don’t have to run off anywhere. It’ll make a change to have a civilized lunch with someone who isn’t boring me out of my mind with their latest get-rich-quick idea.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m due a break. Besides, I don’t think I could stand the sight of another sandwich.’

‘Then here’s to you,’ he said, raising his glass slightly. ‘Here’s to us.’

Sally returned the toast with a cautious smile. ‘To us.’

‘It must be difficult,’ said Gibran, suddenly cryptic.

‘What must?’

‘Learning how to use all that power you have without abusing it. I mean, I meet a lot of people who truly believe they’re powerful, but power through money and influence has its limits. Being a police officer, to have the power to literally take someone’s human rights away from them, to take their freedom from them – now that’s real power.’

‘We don’t remove people’s human rights; we can only temporarily remove their civil rights,’ Sally explained.

‘All the same,’ Gibran continued, ‘it must be very difficult.’

‘Maybe, at first. But you get used to it, and before long you don’t even think about it.’

‘I’m guessing it can make relationships with men very difficult. So many are intimidated by powerful women. We like to think the power is always with us, so to be involved with a cop would be, I guess, challenging.’

‘And are you?’ Sally asked. ‘Intimidated?’

‘No,’ Gibran answered, his face as serious as Sally had seen him. ‘But then again, I’m not like most men.’

Sally looked at him for as long as she could without speaking, trying to read his thoughts. Gibran broke the silence.

‘One thing that’s always fascinated me,’ he continued, ‘is how people who seem to have been born to kill somehow find each other, as if they can recognize their own kind when they meet them: Hindley and Brady, Venables and Thompson, Fred and Rosemary West, and God knows how many others. How do they find each other?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Sally answered. ‘That’s my boss’s field of expertise. He’s a bit more instinctive than most.’

‘DI Corrigan? Interesting,’ Gibran said. ‘When you say he’s instinctive, what do you mean?’

‘Just that he seems to know things. He sees things that no one else can see.’ Sally suddenly felt uncomfortable discussing Sean with an outsider, as if she was somehow betraying him. Gibran sensed her mood.

‘An interesting man, your DI Corrigan. Do you think perhaps it’s his dark side that makes him so good?’

Sally was impressed. It struck her that many of the same qualities she saw in Sean were present in Gibran. She decided that if Sean could ever get beyond his preconceived ideas of Gibran, he would probably like him.

‘DI Corrigan’s a lot of things, but I’ve never seen anything you would call a dark side. It’s more a question of him being willing and able to search for answers in those dark places the rest of us are too afraid to go, in case we see something about ourselves we don’t like.’

Gibran nodded his understanding and approval. ‘It’s because he’s prepared to accept his responsibilities,’ he said. ‘And it sounds as if we have more in common than either of us understood. Perhaps when this is all over and he sees me for what I am and not what he thinks I am, we’ll have a chance to speak on friendly terms.’

‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Sally warned him.

‘No,’ Gibran answered, ‘I don’t suppose I will.’ Again they took a moment to look at each other silently before Gibran spoke again. ‘But there’s one thing I must make clear to you − I cannot and will not let anything or anybody put the reputation of Butler and Mason at risk. Of course, I respect the fact your police investigation must take priority, but other than that I will do what must be done to finish this matter with James one way or another, for better or for worse for him.’

Sally glanced away for a second as if considering his words. Then she looked him in the eye. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘You do that. Provided you tell us everything we need to know about Hellier, you have my word we won’t interfere in any internal decisions your company makes about him. But tread carefully, Sebastian, for both our sakes.’

Hellier glanced at his watch. Almost five thirty p.m. The police had been deliberately slow in bailing him. DI Corrigan had been conspicuous by his absence. No matter. He had enough time. Just.

He wore the clean clothes that Templeman had arranged. The police had seized the ones he’d been wearing and once again they’d emptied the wardrobe and drawers back at his house. They didn’t have much to take this time around. He was still in the process of refilling them after the first raid when they’d seized every item of clothing he possessed. Corrigan was costing him a fortune.

There was no time to go home first. Never mind. He had done well to plan in advance. He had a change of clothes, his phone and the weapon waiting for him. Not that he was expecting a fight. He was the master of gaining instant control. Years of practice ensured that his strength was seldom matched. He feared nothing and nobody, but the gun was nice insurance all the same.

He stood on the front steps of Peckham police station. He’d already exchanged farewells with Templeman, who had no idea how final Hellier had meant it to be. One more thing to take care of and then he would be gone. He didn’t anticipate needing Templeman’s services again.

He scanned up and down the street. They were back. Did Corrigan never learn his lesson? Fine. If they wanted him to make fools of them again, he was happy to oblige. He looked for a black cab. This was Peckham. There were none. Realizing that he stood out far more than he wanted to, he began walking towards what passed for the centre of this south-east London suburb.

Hellier entered the first mini-cab office he came across. A group of elderly, cheerful West Indian men sat around smoking and laughing loudly at some joke Hellier had just missed. One of the men spoke. He spoke slowly and thoughtfully, curbing his accent enough for Hellier to understand.

‘Yes, sir. What can I be doing for you today?’ he asked.

‘I need to get to London Bridge.’

‘No problem, sir. I’ll take you myself,’ the cabbie replied. Seconds later the car pulled away, and as it did so, six other cars and four motorbikes began to move with it. The driver was unaware he had become the focus of so much police attention, but Hellier knew they were there. Occasionally he stole a glance in the nearside wing mirror. He spotted one of the motorbikes, nothing else; but he didn’t have to see them to know they were there.

‘Lovely day,’ Hellier said to the driver.

‘Yeah, man,’ the driver beamed. ‘Just like being back in Jamaica.’ They both laughed.

Sean was back at his desk, weighing up the options. So far he’d come up with a dozen what ifs, but none of them helped the investigation. None of them helped him. He’d had no choice but to let Hellier walk away on police bail. Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself to be patient. When the DNA results came back he could bury Hellier. He was certain of it.

He rubbed his tired eyes with the sides of both fists. For a second he couldn’t see properly. When they cleared, he found himself focused on his computer screen, reminding him he needed to check his emails. It was the first chance he’d had to check his inbox. Amongst the dozens of emails there was one from SO11. The details of the telephone numbers from Hellier’s address book. He wasn’t in the mood to start ploughing through names and numbers; his quota of patience had been used up hours ago. He peered out into the main office, looking for anyone he could delegate it to, but everyone appeared busy. His conscience got the better of him and he started to read through the list himself.

Most appeared to be the numbers of banks, both in the UK and abroad. Other numbers were of accountants, diamond dealers, gold merchants, platinum traders. Hundreds of names, but only a handful of personal numbers. He paid particular attention to these. He read through the names slowly and deliberately. Daniel Graydon’s number was there, as he’d expected: both his home and mobile numbers. So what? It meant nothing, now that Hellier admitted knowing him. He checked for the names of the two other victims, Heather Freeman and Linda Kotler. He didn’t expect to find the runaway’s name, but perhaps Kotler’s. It wasn’t there. He was disappointed, but not surprised.

The mini-cab dropped Hellier off on the outside concourse at London Bridge. He was delighted to see thousands joining the great commute home and even considered waving along the street at the police following him. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they would be able to see him. A little wave would get them thinking, but he resisted the temptation – this was no time to show off. Soon he’d be gone, but first he had some business to take care of. Top of the list being his mysterious friend.

He’d considered leaving, not even bothering to meet the man, but he wasn’t a gambler. He only played when he could manage the risks, and that meant finding out what this man knew, if anything. Could he damage him? Hurt him? Hellier had to find out. No loose ends, he reminded himself. Leave things nice and tidy, just how he liked it. That didn’t mean there wasn’t time for one last thrill. One last indulgence.

Hellier walked fast into the train station, ducking into WH Smiths, watching the main entrance through the magazine shelf, waiting for the surveillance team to enter. They were good, only one standing out as she scanned the crowds for him. Commuters never looked around. They were on auto-pilot. She stood out like an amateur, but the others were invisible.

He took the other exit from the shop and walked back across the inside concourse and out the same exit he’d entered, all the while trying to remember the faces he passed. If he saw them again he would assume they were police. He crossed the short distance to the underground station, stopping suddenly at the top of the stairs and spinning around. No one reacted. A smile spread across his lips. They were very good indeed.

Once again he descended into the underground that had served him so well in the past. He followed his normal anti-surveillance pattern, tactics designed to lose even the best: travelling short distances on trains and then stepping off at the last moment, walking swiftly through tunnels, past zombified commuters, on to another train and away again. Over and over he repeated the procedure, but they stayed with him, leaving him both annoyed and impressed. No matter. As always, James Hellier was one step ahead.

Finally he arrived in Farringdon and made his way to the bar he had chosen the day before. It was busy enough but not heaving. Ideal. He headed straight to the toilet unnoticed. The cubicle he wanted was unoccupied. Two customers stood at the urinals, not noticing him as he shut the door. He didn’t have time to wait for them to leave – in fact, it was better they were there. Soon the police would be here, inside the bar looking for him. He began to undress.

Sean’s mobile vibrated on the desk in front of him. He kept reading the email as he answered absentmindedly. ‘Hello.’

‘Guv. It’s Jean Colville.’ Sean recognized the surveillance team’s DS. ‘Your man certainly knows his counter-surveillance tactics.’

‘I noticed,’ said Sean ironically. ‘Where are you?’

‘Farringdon. Trying to keep up with your target. He’s in a bar in Farringdon Road. He gave us the right run around, but we’re still on him. Bit thin on the ground, but the others are doing their best to catch up.’

‘Is the bar covered?’ Sean asked, concerned.

‘Just. I got one unit around the back – there’s only one exit there. Three in the bar and two more out the front. Apparently your man’s in the toilet. There’s no other way out of there other than the door leading to the bar. So as long as he stays in there, we’re solid.’

‘Good.’ Sean breathed easier. ‘Don’t give this one an inch. If you can’t see what he’s doing, assume he’s doing something we’d rather he wasn’t.’

‘Understood. I’ll call you if the situation changes.’

‘It’ll change,’ Sean warned her. ‘Just be ready when it does.’ He hung up.

‘Problem?’ Donnelly asked, appearing at Sean’s open door.

‘Not yet,’ Sean replied. ‘They’ve followed Hellier to Farringdon.’

‘Well, so long as they don’t lose him this time. By the way, you should know Jonnie Dempsey has turned up. Handed himself in at Walworth. The locals are holding him for us. Apparently he’s telling them that he’d been helping himself to a portion of the night’s takings from his till on a regular basis. He thought the management were on to him, so he took off. When he heard the place was crawling with Old Bill, he decided to lay low. But eventually he decided things were getting a bit too serious to ignore and thought it best to hand himself in.’

‘Scratch one suspect,’ Sean said.

He saw Sally enter the main office. He hadn’t spoken with her since that morning. He caught her eye and beckoned her over. ‘How did your meeting with Gibran go?’ he asked.

Sally took a seat without being invited. ‘It was interesting enough. He certainly didn’t give me any reason to suspect Hellier less. Said he’d been acting out of character lately, missing appointments and so on, and that he felt he was only now seeing the real James Hellier. That the other Hellier, before this all started happening, was the fake. He also said Hellier had been rambling on about living his life beyond good and evil.’

‘Nietzsche,’ Sean spoke involuntarily.

‘Pardon?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Nothing,’ said Sean. ‘It’s not important. Anything else?’ he asked Sally.

‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘He was probably just trying to find out what we knew.’

‘So long as he paid for lunch,’ Donnelly said.

‘As a matter of fact, he did,’ Sally told him. ‘Which is more than you’ve ever done,’ she added.

‘Harsh, but fair,’ said Donnelly.

‘What did you do with the rest of the afternoon?’ Sean asked, not meaning to sound as though he was checking on her.

‘Lunch took longer than I’d expected.’ She blushed, recalling her time with Gibran and how she’d been in no rush to end their meeting. ‘After that I chased up some inquiries at the Public Records Office, but they didn’t have my results yet. I hear Hellier’s been bailed.’

‘We can’t hold him until the DNA results are confirmed,’ Sean explained. ‘Takes too long.’

‘And if the DNA isn’t Hellier’s?’ she asked.

‘Then I’ll be in the shit,’ Sean said bluntly. ‘So don’t be standing too close.’

Hellier had been in the toilet for less than a minute. He could hear people coming and going outside the cubicle. He moved quickly now. Unconcerned about noise. He stood in only his underpants and socks.

He lifted the lid of the toilet cistern and placed it on the toilet seat. He pulled the plastic bag from the cistern and untied it. Carefully he undid the parcel and laid out the gun and spare magazine. He checked his watch. Six forty-five. Fifteen minutes to spare. He clicked the battery back into the mobile phone. He would turn it on once he’d left the bar.

He dressed in the tracksuit, T-shirt and trainers. He stuffed the gun in the back of his waistband and tied the trouser cord tight. He put the phone in one of the top’s pockets and the spare magazine in the other.

Finally he unwrapped the remaining cloth. He twisted the lid off the tube of theatrical glue and rubbed a little on the back of the fake moustache. He stuck it under his lip, using touch to ensure it was placed perfectly. Next he did the same with the matching eyebrows. The wig he donned last. He didn’t need a mirror to know his appearance had been transformed. He smiled to himself.

He neatly folded his discarded clothes and placed them along with his shoes into the plastic bag. He replaced it in the cistern. He might need it later. You could never tell. He delicately replaced the cistern’s lid. One last deep breath to compose himself and he left the cubicle. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he left. He smiled. He walked out of the toilet and then he walked out of the bar.

DS Colville checked her watch. Ten minutes had passed and still the only updates she was hearing on her team’s covert body-set radios were ‘No change.’ Sean’s words rang loudly in her head. She spoke into the radio.

‘I don’t like this. Tango Four, check inside the toilet.’

Her radio made a double-click sound. The officer code named Tango Four had received and understood her transmission. She waited for an update. Two minutes passed. They seemed like two hours. Her radio hissed into life.

‘Control. Control. Tango Four.’

‘Go. Go,’ she instructed.

‘We have a problem, Control.’

DS Colville gritted her teeth. ‘Expand, over.’

‘Target One isn’t in the toilet, over.’

‘Does any unit have eyeball on Target One?’ she called into her radio. Silence was her only answer. ‘Look for him, people. Does anyone have eyeball on Target One?’ Silence.

She turned to the detective driving their unmarked car. ‘I don’t believe this,’ she muttered. ‘Okay. Target is a loss. Repeat target is a loss. All units bomb burst. Foot units search the bar. Everyone else swamp the surrounding area. Find him.’

Throwing the radio on to the dashboard in disgust, she reached for her mobile phone. She searched the phone’s menu for Sean’s number.

Sean listened as DS Colville told him what he most dreaded hearing. Hellier was on the loose once more. ‘How?’ he said into the phone.

‘We don’t know,’ DS Colville replied. ‘We had him cornered in the toilet one minute, then, he disappears. No one sees him leave. We didn’t miss anything. He just disappeared. We’ll keep searching the area until we pick him up.’

‘Save yourselves the bother,’ Sean said wearily. ‘You won’t find him until he wants to be found. Cover his house and office. Call me when he turns up.’ He hung up.

‘Please tell me that wasn’t what I think it was?’ Sally said.

‘I wish I could.’

‘How?’ Sally asked.

‘It doesn’t matter how.’

‘What now?’ Donnelly asked.

‘We keep our heads,’ Sean told them. ‘Hope he resurfaces. In the meantime, contact Special Branch and get a photograph of Hellier to them. Make sure they circulate it to all ports of exit, planes, trains, everywhere.’

‘You think he’ll try and skip the country?’ Sally asked.

‘DNA evidence is difficult to argue against. Hellier knows that. Perhaps he’s decided he has no choice but to run.’

‘Is that his style, to run?’ Sally didn’t look convinced.

‘He’s a survivor,’ said Sean. ‘He’ll do whatever it takes to survive. If that means running, then he’ll run.’

Hellier sat on a bench in Regent’s Park waiting for the friend to call. He had said he would call at seven. It was now almost half past.

What was this damn game? Hellier had no friends. No real friends. Most likely it was a journalist, trying to set him up. He stared at the phone in the palm of his hand, willing it to ring. He had to know who the friend was. His overpowering need to control everything meant he simply had to know. Once he knew, once he decided whether they were a threat or not, he would deal with them accordingly. After that, home. The children he would leave alone, but his wife; she would be his parting gift to DI Corrigan.

The police would be watching his home though. He would have to be careful. He would let his wife take the children to school in the morning. He would fake illness. When she returned, he would be waiting for her. After he’d finished with her he’d spend the rest of the day running the police around town. He would lead them a merry song and dance for hours. They could never stay with him for that long. Not him. He knew their tactics too well. And once he was certain he had lost them, he would disappear.

By the time they became suspicious and broke into his house, it would be too late. He would be thirty thousand feet above their heads. A false passport was already waiting for him in a Hampstead fine china shop. Once he collected the tickets, he would catch a train to Birmingham. His flight for Rome left at 8 p.m. After a two-hour wait at Rome Airport he would board a connecting flight to Singapore. Two flights later he would arrive in his new home.

His phone began to vibrate. He answered it calmly. ‘James Hellier.’

‘It’s me,’ said the friend’s voice. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘I don’t like being kept waiting.’ Hellier wanted to dominate. ‘This is your last chance to impress me.’

‘Oh. You’ll be impressed. I can guarantee that.’ Hellier sensed a change in the friend’s voice. He thought he could detect an arrogance that hadn’t been there previously. There was a hint of danger, too. He didn’t like it.

‘I’m going to ask you a question,’ Hellier responded, determined to take charge, show his strength. ‘You will answer yes or no. You have three seconds exactly to answer. If you answer no or fail to answer in the time allowed, I will hang up and we will never contact each other again. Understood?’

‘I understand.’ The voice didn’t argue. Hellier had expected he would.

‘Will you meet me?’ Hellier asked. ‘Tonight?’

‘Yes,’ the friend answered on the count of two. ‘As long as you promise you’ll do one thing.’

‘I don’t make promises to people I don’t know,’ Hellier answered.

‘Stay away from other people until we meet,’ the voice asked regardless. ‘No bars or restaurants, and don’t go home or to your office. The police will be waiting there. Stay alone. Stay hidden.’

Now Hellier understood. In that second it had become all too clear to him. It all made sense. His eyes opened wide as he realized who he was speaking with. Who else could it be?

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll do as you say until we meet.’

‘I will call you, later tonight, and let you know when and where. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’ Hellier hung up.

What did his friend expect? That he would hide in a bush in the park, like a frightened, wounded animal? Not him. This was London, one of his favourite playgrounds. And he had so little time left to play.

No. He had better things to do than cower and wait.

‘I know who you are, my friend.’ He spoke to himself. ‘And when we meet, you’ll tell me a thing or two. Then I’ll feed you your own testicles, before I gut you like a pig.’

Sean arrived home late, again. He’d hoped Kate would be in bed, but as he quietly opened the front door he could sense her presence. He followed the glow coming from the kitchen and found her tapping at her laptop, hair tied back, heavy glasses adorning her fine-boned face. ‘You’re up late,’ was all he could think of to say.

‘You’re not the only one who has to work late. I work too, remember?’ This was not how Sean wanted the conversation to begin. He’d had enough conflict for one day. ‘I need to get this plan for restructuring the A and E Department finished or I might not be part of the new structure myself.’ Again Sean didn’t answer. ‘You’re not really interested, are you?’

‘Sorry?’ Sean asked over his shoulder.

‘Never mind,’ she snapped, shaking her head with disapproval. ‘We’ve been invited to dinner at Joe and Tim’s next weekend, so make sure you book the night off, all right?’

‘Err …’ escaped Sean’s lips.

‘Well, I’m overwhelmed by your enthusiasm at the thought of spending an evening with me,’ Kate said sarcastically.

‘It’s not you,’ Sean tried to assure her.

‘I thought you liked Tim, and there’ll be other people there too,’ Kate encouraged.

‘I don’t know Tim. I’ve met him, but I don’t know him.’

‘Come on, Sean,’ Kate appealed. ‘Just book the time off.’

‘It’s not that easy, is it?’

‘Why?’ Kate asked. ‘Can’t you bear being away from your police friends even for one night?’

‘They’re not my friends,’ Sean answered too quickly.

‘Whatever, Sean, but you know and I know that you can’t stand to be with “non-police” people,’ Kate simulated quotation marks with her fingers, ‘because you’re all so fucking important that the rest of us mere mortals might as well not exist. True?’

Sean waited a long time before answering. ‘Don’t swear. I don’t like it when you swear.’

‘Well stop giving me so fucking much to swear about.’ Sean turned his back. ‘Come on, Sean,’ Kate softened. ‘I don’t sell insurance for a living, I’m a doctor in Guy’s A and E. Whatever awful things you’ve seen, I’ve seen them too, but I manage to lower myself to speak to people who live normal lives – so why can’t you?’

‘Because they’re …’ Sean managed to stop himself answering truthfully, but it was too late.

‘Because they’re what?’ Kate pursued him. ‘Because they’re boring, because they bore you?’

‘Jesus, Kate,’ he protested. ‘Give it a rest, will you?’

‘So you’re never going to speak to anyone again who isn’t a cop?’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘No, it’s not. It’s the truth.’

Sean grabbed a bottle of bourbon from one of the kitchen cupboards, a glass from another and poured himself a generous measure. He took a sip before speaking again. ‘Christ, you know what it’s like. As soon as people find out what I do, all they want to talk to me about is the job, fishing for the gory details. They haven’t got a bloody clue. If they did, they wouldn’t ask.’

‘Maybe it’s us who haven’t got a clue, Sean,’ Kate said quietly. ‘Maybe we’re the ones who’ve got it all wrong, wasting our lives knee-deep in life’s crap.’

‘Why, because we know the truth? Because we know life isn’t really a shiny advert?’ Sean argued. ‘I’d rather be awake and live in isolation than be like all those mugs out there, walking around without a fucking clue.’

Kate breathed in deeply and cleared her head. She’d dealt with this before and knew she’d have to deal with it again. ‘Is this about your childhood or about being a detective?’

‘Oh, come on, Kate. Let’s not get into that, not now,’ Sean answered.

‘Okay,’ Kate agreed. ‘But if you ever need to talk about it, I’m here.’

‘I’m tired, that’s all. I’m fine,’ Sean insisted. ‘I’m just very tired.’

‘Of course you’re tired,’ Kate agreed. ‘You haven’t slept more than three hours a night since this new one started. Look, I’m going to bed. Why don’t you come with me?’

‘I need a minute or two to unwind,’ Sean told her. ‘I’ll be there soon.’

‘Come now,’ Kate pleaded. ‘I’ll rub your shoulders while you fall asleep.’

‘I’ll be there in a few minutes – promise,’ he lied. The thought of tossing and turning, fighting the ever-present demons was unbearable.

‘Don’t be long,’ she said, turning from him.

He watched her move from the kitchen table and glide towards the stairs, once looking over her shoulder to smile at him, the harsh words of seconds ago forgotten, at least by her. Once she was out of sight, Sean reached for the bottle of bourbon and poured another generous measure.

Sally parked her car close to her flat. Sean had sent them all home. They might as well get a few hours’ sleep before Hellier turned up again, if he ever did. She searched for her front door keys buried deep in the bottom of her handbag. Breaking one of her own rules – never stand at the front door fumbling for house keys.

‘For God’s sake,’ she grumbled, losing her grip of her handbag and spilling the contents on to the ground. She stared at the disaster. ‘Fucking great.’

Sally knelt down and began to collect the debris. At least she’d found her keys. Something made her spin around. Still kneeling, she surveyed the area around her. Suddenly she couldn’t remember what had startled her. She gave a nervous laugh and gathered the rest of her belongings.

She stood and looked along the street. It was almost unnaturally quiet. The way only city streets could be in the night. Somewhere streets away a dog barked. The sound somehow made her feel better. She unlocked the communal front door, entered and closed it behind her. She pressed the light timer switch in the hallway, giving her thirty seconds of light before the darkness returned.

Hurriedly she climbed the stairs to her first-floor flat, again fumbling for her keys and cursing herself. Why was she nervous? Slow down. Put the key in the lock and turn it. The door opened. She almost fell in to the flat. She hadn’t realized she’d been leaning on the door so hard. Closing the door behind her, she threw the bolts across the bottom and top.

She disliked the harsher overhead lights, choosing instead to walk across the dark room she knew so well to the lamp in the far corner. She reached for the lamp switch, but something touched her hand. Material. Silk or nylon. She didn’t understand. She recoiled as if she’d touched a spider’s web, but curiosity overcame her fear. She moved her hand through the darkness to the lamp. Again the material. She pushed her hand through it, finding the switch and turning the lamp on. Light shone through the red silk neck scarf that was now draped over it. It had been a present to herself for Christmas. The room glowed red. This wasn’t right. A cool breeze brushed against her face. It came from the kitchen. That shouldn’t be. The window shouldn’t be open.

She felt him behind her. Close enough to hear him breathing. She almost fainted. Then she almost vomited. He was waiting for her to make her move. Like a snake lying within striking distance, but she was frozen. Fear controlled her.

Finally she forced her body to move, turning towards him, inching herself around, desperately trying to recall her self-defence training. Aim a knee for his groin. God help her if she missed. A knee in the groin and then run.

She forced herself to speak. ‘Please.’ Her voice was almost inaudible. ‘Please. You know what I am. Leave now and this won’t go any further. I promise.’ She was face to face with him. She almost fainted again. He stood above her. He was only about five foot ten, but he looked like a giant.

He wore a dark tracksuit and rubber gloves. A tight-knit woollen hat covered his hair. She could see every muscle in his body was tense, his arms rigid by his side. The red lighting made his teeth shine like rubies.

Sally studied his face. It was distorted by the light and his contorted muscles, but she could see him clearly. He was letting her see his face. She knew who he was. Knew he wasn’t going to let her live. She was going to die and nobody else in the world knew. She had so many things she wanted to do. Wanted to say to people, but now she was going to die.

He moved so quickly she hardly saw him. She had no time to react. A hand gripped around her neck, slowly crushing her throat. He was so strong. Was this how he would do it? Crush her throat. The other hand flashed a blade in front of her face. She thought she recognized it from her own kitchen. He pulled her so close she could see the fine wrinkles in his skin.

‘Make a sound you die. Struggle you die. Do as I say and you live.’

It was a lie. She wasn’t like the others. Clinging to the hope that he could be telling the truth, they’d have done anything for the chance to live. But she had seen his face. She knew he would never let her live. She nodded her head anyway.

‘Do you know how lucky you are to have been chosen?’ He spoke slowly through clenched teeth. He held the knife to her throat and released his grip.

‘I’ll do as you say. I promise,’ she pleaded.

He smiled and licked his lips. She felt the knife drop away from her throat slightly. Only a few millimetres. It would have to be enough.

Without warning she smashed her right fist as hard as she could into the underside of his jaw. The knife flashed across her throat, but she’d already leaned back. It slashed through the air. She brought her knee up into his groin. He began to bend double. She sprang for her front door. She would live.

The top of her head suddenly burned with pain. Her run jarred to a stop as her legs fell from under her. He gripped her by the hair, twisting it around his fist as he pulled her back. She could feel the tears stinging the back of her eyes. She had to scream.

She filled her lungs as he spun her in his grip to face him. She saw him make a quick move, his free arm jabbed towards her. The air in her lungs deserted her, yet she hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t been able to.

It felt like a punch, like having the wind knocked out of you. Nothing more than a dull ache in her chest. Her head was forcefully bent forward. He wanted her to see the knife buried to the hilt in the right side of her chest. He tugged the knife free. It didn’t come easily. Her chest muscles had gripped the foreign body, trying to stem the breach. She wheezed horribly. She could physically feel the air from her lung rushing out through the wound.

He pulled her closer. ‘Fucking bitch. Slut, bitch. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This is not as I saw it. This is not how it was supposed to be.’

Pushing her away, he held her at arm’s length. Another flash of his hand. She felt the same dull pain, but something else too. The knife had hit a rib. He pulled to free it, but it wouldn’t move. It was jammed in her rib.

The pain and shock were too much. She fell unconscious. The only thing stopping her falling to the floor was his grip on her hair and the knife wedged in her chest. Finally he let her slip to the floor. He placed a foot on the left side of her chest and pulled on the knife. It wouldn’t move.

‘Fucking pig whore,’ he hissed. He wanted to spit on her, but wouldn’t risk leaving his DNA in the saliva at the scene.

He stood over her, watching the crimson spreading across her white blouse. Her breathing was shallow, but she was alive. Suddenly he was hypnotized by her. He cocked his head to one side like a bird of prey watching its kill writhing, trapped under its talons.

But it was spoilt. This was not how he had foreseen it. No matter. He calmed himself. He would finish her quickly and leave. All great men suffered frustration, he reassured himself. He would learn from his mistakes.

He pulled at the knife protruding from her chest. Still it wouldn’t move. She was all but finished, but he wouldn’t take the chance and leave her like this. He peered through the living room to the kitchen. His mind tried to recall what other knives he had seen in the drawer when he had selected the one now embedded in Sally’s chest. Most had felt blunt. He recalled running a finger carefully along their cutting edges, blunt. She hadn’t taken care of them. So be it. He would cut her throat with a blunt knife. It would take longer. It wouldn’t be clean and neat. She only had herself to blame.

He studied her once more. Air leaking from her chest puncture made the blood around the entry wound bubble and hiss. It reminded him of when he was a boy, fixing punctures on his pedal cycle. Should he drag her to the kitchen, keep her close? No. Quicker to leave her there.

Decision made, he turned and strode to the kitchen. Despite the disappointment, he still felt magnificent. Powerful. Untouchable. Like a god. He knew which drawer to open. The knives weren’t organized. He shifted the knives around with a gloved hand, ignoring the large carving ones. Trying to find something with a four-inch blade. Smooth or serrated edge, it didn’t matter, but it had to be rigid. Thick and strong from hilt to tip. A chopping knife would be best. He’d already used the best one, but he found a substitute. A black-handled vegetable knife. He held the knife up to his face, slightly above his eyeline. It would do.

He turned back towards the living room, expecting to see Sally’s head and upper body lying on the floor, the rest of her obscured by the sofa. Instead he saw her open the front door and stagger into the communal hallway. Somehow she had got to her feet. He saw the blood smear around the top door bolt. He had underestimated her strength. Her will to live. To survive. It had been a mistake.

Should he flee? He glanced over his shoulder at the open window in the kitchen. He looked back at Sally. Could he reach her before she started pounding on the neighbour’s front door? Would she reach their door? It was less than ten feet away, but it would feel like a marathon to her. He willed her to collapse.

He couldn’t let this happen. She had seen him. His grip tightened around the knife. He watched her stagger sideways, but remain on her feet. He began to walk towards her, long confident steps propelling him forward.

She fell, crashing into her neighbour’s door, and banged her fist twice, as hard as she could, on the door. Still he strode towards her, cutting through the dim red light that now spilled into the hallway. She had to die. She could destroy him. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

It was gone eleven p.m. when George Fuller, inside flat four, heard something crash into his front door. The surprise made him jump and spill some of his beer. The cold drops fell on to his wife’s face as she slept in his lap on the sofa. He had been watching a bad sci-fi film. She woke with a moan.

‘George,’ Susie Fuller complained, ‘you’ve spilt beer on me.’

He was annoyed his wife had been woken. Now she would want to watch the other channel. ‘It’ll be that bloody woman from across the hall again.’ He was already up and heading towards the front door. He was a big man. His two favourite places were the gym and the pub. The results were intimidating. ‘She must be a prostitute or something, the hours she keeps.’

He was only steps away from the front door when he heard the two thumps. They came from lower down on the door. As if someone was sitting on the other side. Someone in trouble maybe? Someone drunk? Drunk, he decided.

‘George,’ he heard his wife enquiring. ‘Who is it? What’s going on?’

‘Stay there,’ he told her. She could hear the anger in his voice. He reached the door and yanked it open. His chest was full, ready to power a verbal onslaught at whoever he found. The door opened wide in one sweep. Sally’s still body slumped heavily on to the floor at his feet. He could see she was bleeding, but didn’t see the knife.

He sensed danger. Five years as an officer in the Parachute Regiment had tuned his instincts. He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. He bent over fast and grabbed Sally’s arm. He began to drag her back into his flat. A movement caught his eye. Something in Sally’s flat opposite. He looked up into the dim red light. Something moving fast. Too fast. Was that a man? The dark shape slithered through the small kitchen window and was gone.

He snapped himself back into action, dragging Sally into his flat and slamming the door shut. He bent to examine her then turned his attention to the front door. He secured every lock he could see. His wife appeared in the hallway.

‘George?’ she asked. The worry was loud in her tone.

‘Call the police,’ he shouted, loudly enough to make Susie hug herself. ‘And get a fucking ambulance.’ He was back in Afghanistan, shouting orders at teenage soldiers.

His wife was staring at Sally lying on her floor. She started to cry with fear. ‘What’s happening, George? What was it?’

George looked at his own bloody hands. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ His voice grew calmer. ‘I saw something out there. A dog, or a fucking big cat or something. It escaped through her window.’

He examined Sally more closely. His battlefield medical trauma training came back to him as he rolled her on to her side and checked for the wounds. He saw the knife, making him recoil. It had been a man he saw.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered quietly. ‘Get me some tape and plastic bags.’ He was shouting again. ‘Come on. Come on,’ he spoke to Sally. ‘Hold on, girl. Help’s on the way. Just a little longer. Just a little longer.’

The mobile rang loudly. Kate woke first. Sean slept deeply, sedated by alcohol. He’d hit the bourbon pretty hard after Kate had left him. It was the only way he could chase their argument and Hellier from his mind long enough to get to sleep. She turned the bedside lamp on and looked at her husband sleeping. She wished she could leave him, but a phone call at two a.m. would have to be important. She shook him as gently as she could while still waking him.

‘Sean.’ She spoke softly. She wanted to wake him, not the children. ‘Sean.’

He moaned and rolled over to look at her, his eyes vacant, wandering between the real and dream worlds. He didn’t hear the phone yet.

‘Your phone,’ Kate whispered.

‘What time is it?’ he asked.

‘About two. And keep your voice down.’

Sean moaned again then grabbed the phone. ‘Hello.’

‘Sorry to call at this hour.’ He didn’t recognize the voice. ‘I’m Inspector Deiry, the Night Duty Inspector for Chelsea and Fulham. I’m trying to trace a Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan.’

‘You’ve found him,’ Sean said. His head thumped mercilessly. The nausea spread from his stomach to his throat. He remembered why he rarely drank more than a glass or two of beer.

‘I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this …’ The Inspector sounded grim. ‘Do you work with a DS Sally Jones?’

Sean’s mouth was as dry as his heart was frantic. He managed to answer. ‘Yes. She’s on my team. What’s happened to her?’

‘She was attacked, earlier tonight. In her flat. She’s very badly hurt.’

The blood rushed from his head, then just as quickly flooded back. He’d never felt so cold. ‘But she’s alive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Sean said. ‘Where is she?’

‘Charing Cross Hospital. She’s still in surgery.’

Sean checked his watch. ‘I’ll be there in less than an hour.’

He hung up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, staggering a little as he stood. Kate noticed it.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

‘Sally’s been attacked. In her own flat. She sounds bad. I’ve got to get to Charing Cross Hospital.’

‘Oh my God. Who would want to hurt Sally?’ Sean looked at her without speaking. ‘Not the man you’re after?’ Kate asked. ‘You told me they never came after police.’

‘This one’s different.’

‘Different how?’

‘In every way imaginable,’ Sean said. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Get a shower,’ she insisted. ‘Then I’ll drive you.’

‘No. I’m fine.’

Kate was already out of bed. ‘I’m phoning Kirsty. She can watch the kids till morning.’

‘Don’t bother,’ he argued. ‘I can drive myself.’

She grabbed the sides of his face in her hands and locked eyes with him. ‘The last thing Sally needs is for you to drive under a bus pissed. I’ll drive you. After you’ve had a shower to sort yourself out.’

Sean knew she would have her way. He headed for the shower, reeling under the effects of the shock. He had to call Donnelly. The team needed to know what had happened. Any one of them could be next.

By the time Kate had driven them to Charing Cross Hospital the last effects of the alcohol had almost faded. Kate and he met the uniformed inspector in the Casualty Department waiting room. He was with a female uniformed sergeant. Sean introduced himself to the inspector. He didn’t introduce Kate and the inspector didn’t introduce the sergeant.

‘Where is she?’ Sean sounded harsh. ‘Can I see her?’

‘No. She’s still in surgery,’ the inspector told him. ‘It’ll be a few hours before anyone can see her.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She hasn’t spoken since the neighbour found her. All we know is she was attacked in her own flat. And she has two very serious stab wounds to her chest, both on the right side. It’s a life-threatening situation, but she’s holding on.’

‘Who’s the neighbour?’

The sergeant referred to her notebook: ‘George Fuller. Ex-paratrooper captain. Now works for the local council. Found her at about eleven, slumped in the communal area against his door. Two chest wounds. The knife was still in her.’ She glanced up from her notes in time to see Sean wince. ‘Mr Fuller was a medic in his army days. He used Sellotape and plastic shopping bags to seal the wounds and keep her chest cavity air-tight. The admitting casualty doctor said he had undoubtedly saved her life.’

‘Where is he now?’ Sean wanted to see the man who had saved Sally.

‘He went home,’ the inspector answered. ‘He insisted on coming with DS Jones in the ambulance, but I sent him home a little while ago.’

‘What’s happened to her flat?’ Sean asked.

‘Nothing,’ said the inspector. ‘We’ve sealed it off for the time being.’

‘Good. Post a guard on the flat. No one is allowed in without my say so.’

The inspector looked quizzical. ‘I’m sorry, but this is a local matter. Our CID will be in charge of the investigation. The scene’s secure. There’s no need to guard it.’

‘Wrong.’ Sean was feeling angry and tired. He didn’t want his instructions to be questioned. ‘I’m the officer in charge of this investigation. Any problems with that, phone Detective Superintendent Featherstone, Serious Crime Group South.’ He gambled the inspector wouldn’t. Not at this hour. ‘I’ll liaise with your CID and put them in the picture.’

Sean could see the inspector needed more. ‘This attack is linked to a series of murders I’m investigating. DS Jones was part of that inquiry team. Whoever committed those murders is the same man who attacked her. So get me the guard on the flat,’ Sean demanded. ‘What security have you put in place here?’

‘I’ve posted a uniformed officer to stay with her,’ the inspector explained.

‘I want at least two officers watching her,’ Sean insisted.

‘I’ll do what I can.’ The inspector looked shaken.

Sean spied Donnelly thundering along the corridor. He charged up to them.

‘That bastard’s dead,’ were his first words. ‘I’ll tell you that for nothing. He’s going straight out the fifth-floor window. Aye, I fucking promise you that.’ His Scots accent had suddenly grown stronger.

Sean held a hand up and was on the verge of telling him to calm down when he was distracted by his mobile ringing.

‘Sean Corrigan.’

‘It’s DS Colville, sir. Sorry about the time, but I thought you’d want to know, Hellier’s just arrived home.’

Sean and Donnelly approached Hellier’s house. The local night-duty CID had arrived to assist them. That made four of them in total. They met in the street, fifty metres short of the house. They swapped names and shook hands.

‘Is this it?’ Sean asked. He had hoped the local station, Islington, would have provided more assistance.

‘We’ve already got a couple of uniform lads hiding round the back,’ one of the DCs informed him.

Donnelly looked at Sean. ‘Your call, boss. We could wait for back-up. We could have a firearms team within an hour.’

Sean would have preferred to take Hellier by himself, have some time alone with him. Clearly he didn’t have the guts to come after him or Donnelly, so he went for Sally. Well now they’d come after him.

‘Let’s do it,’ Sean said. ‘No more waiting.’

The younger Islington detective opened the boot of their car and pulled out a heavy metal battering ram. It was known as an Enforcer. ‘We brought this,’ he announced. ‘Just in case.’

‘Shame to waste it,’ Sean said grimly. ‘Listen, he may not look much, but he’s killed at least three people already. And now he’s gone after one of ours. Don’t drop your guard.’

They all nodded their understanding and walked silently but rapidly towards the house. Carefully they opened the black wrought-iron gate and moved to the front door. There were three stone steps. The older detective spoke to the officers at the rear of the house on the radio, his voice just above a whisper.

‘Units at the rear. Units at the rear. We’re going in through the front.’

The radio crackled but they all heard the reply. ‘Understood and standing by, over.’

The young detective holding the Enforcer nodded to Sean. Sean counted him down with his fingers. Three. Two. One. The detective smashed the Enforcer into the centre door lock. It exploded, but the door held. It had top and bottom deadlocks. He stood and hit the top lock hard. The door began to flap open. He crouched and took out the final lock. The door imploded.

They poured in through the door holding extendible metal truncheons and screaming, ‘Police! Police! Police!’

Sean and Donnelly ran to the staircase. The Islington detectives ran through the ground floor. As Sean neared the top of the stairs Hellier appeared. Sean saw him just in time. He partially avoided the kick aimed at his head. It stung his cheekbone as it impacted. He slumped against the staircase wall for a second, shaking off the effects of the kick, but was after Hellier before Donnelly could overtake him.

Hellier climbed the next flight of stairs and disappeared. Sean followed, but slowed as he approached the top. He wouldn’t be caught again. He warned Donnelly to slow down. From below came the sound of the Islington detectives beginning to climb the steps.

Sean moved on to the second-floor landing. Hellier was there somewhere. He found the light switch on the wall and flicked it on. There were five rooms.

Someone appeared at the door closest to him. Instinctively he almost lashed out, but realized in time it was Hellier’s wife. He leaned forward and grabbed her, dragging her to the floor where he pinned her before she could speak.

‘Stay there and don’t move,’ he shouted. She was too scared to move or argue. Too scared to speak.

He moved carefully along the landing. His back pressed against the wall. Donnelly and the other detectives followed. The element of surprise was lost. Now they needed stealth.

He flicked the light on in the room Hellier’s wife had come from, pushing the door wide open so that he could peer inside before entering. A glance over his shoulder told him Donnelly was close. The Islington detectives had begun to search the rooms across the landing. They moved cautiously.

He slipped into the room, back to the wall. Donnelly followed. Sean dropped into a press-up position and checked under the bed. Nothing. He moved across to the wardrobe, stretching to grasp the handle without exposing himself to a full-frontal attack. He yanked the doors open. Clothes still wrapped in plastic dry-cleaning bags swooshed into the room. Nothing.

He’d had enough. His heart needed a rest. He nodded for Donnelly to check behind the curtains. Donnelly did so. Nothing. He nodded towards the door and led the way out. They moved to the next room.

A child’s voice called from the landing below. It sounded stressed. The mother looked at him, appealing. He put his finger to his lips. The last thing he wanted was a crying child walking into the middle of this.

The distraction had been enough. Hellier seized the opportunity. Sean felt an incredible pressure close around his right wrist. He tried to hold on to the telescopic truncheon, but the grip forced his fingers open. His weapon fell to the floor. He was pulled into the room and spun around by one powerful jolt. He felt his right arm twist up his back. Cold metal pressed into his throat. Some instinct told him not to move. Told him he was teetering on the edge of a cliff.

He felt Hellier’s bristles rub against his ear. He could smell his sweet breath. It made him want to vomit, to pull away. Hellier pressed the blade harder into his throat.

‘Ah, ah, Inspector.’ He recognized Hellier’s voice.

Someone flicked the light on in the room. It was Donnelly, who froze when he saw them. Hellier smiled. Donnelly re-gathered himself.

‘Put the knife down, man.’ It sounded like a request, not a demand. Hellier gave a shallow laugh. He turned his face to Sean, but kept his eyes on Donnelly. His tongue curled from his mouth. Slowly, deliberately he licked the side of Sean’s face, his body quivering with the thrill of tasting Sean’s fear. He gripped the ear lobe in his teeth and closed his eyes in ecstasy. He released his grip and stopped smiling. He looked deadly serious. He whispered in Sean’s ear.

‘Remember who let you live.’

Hellier threw the knife on the floor and stepped away, placing his hands behind his head. Sean spun around and caught him full in the mouth with a left hook. His amateur boxing days made the move effortless.

Hellier fell backwards into a dressing cabinet. He fell hard. Framed pictures smashed under his weight. The mirror shattered. He rolled on to the floor, landing on all fours and looked at Sean, smiling through bloody teeth. Sean stared back, only he didn’t see Hellier’s face, he saw his father’s. His torturer’s.

Sean delivered a powerful kick to the rib cage that lifted Hellier off the floor. He landed on his back, but still he smiled. Sean kneeled next to him and began to pile punches into Hellier’s face. He didn’t know how many he landed before Donnelly pulled him off, or that he had been screaming ‘Bastard!’ as each punch found its target. Nor had he realized he’d broken a bone in his right hand and that his knuckles had been sliced open on Hellier’s teeth.

It took him a while to come back to the world. When he did, he shrugged himself loose from Donnelly’s hold and stared at the bloody mess that was Hellier’s face. Hellier was lying on his back, only partly conscious, spitting blood from his mouth. His nose was broken.

The two Islington detectives ran into the room. They saw Hellier lying in his own blood. The knife on the floor. Sean breathing like a mad man. His hands bloody and swollen. They didn’t ask questions.

Saturday, ten a.m., and news had spread of the night’s events. The office buzzed. Hellier had come after one of them.

Sean pressed an ice pack wrapped in an old T-shirt to the swelling Hellier’s kick had left on the side of his face. The other hand was badly swollen. His little and ring fingers were taped together, as were his index and middle fingers. He refused to go to hospital and have it put in a cast. The police surgeon had done her best. He used the broken hand to press the phone to his ear. The hospital updated him on Sally’s condition.

She had survived her operation, the first of several. Still in intensive care. She hadn’t regained consciousness. Drugs would ensure she didn’t. For the time being at least.

A familiar silhouette appeared at his door. Featherstone had come to see and be seen. He entered Sean’s office without ceremony.

‘You look like shit.’ He sounded unconcerned.

‘Thanks,’ Sean replied.

Featherstone’s expression turned serious. ‘How is she?’

‘Too early to say. She’s in intensive care.’

‘Well, if there’s anything I can do.’ He let the offer hang. Sean said nothing. ‘And you – should you be at work?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘If you want someone to steer the ship for a couple of hours while you get some rest, let me know.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Sean repeated.

‘Of course you will.’ He paused before continuing. ‘Do we have enough evidence to charge Hellier?’

‘I have a team searching Sally’s flat and another going over Hellier’s.’

‘What about his office?’ Featherstone asked.

‘No need.’ Sean was blunt. ‘Surveillance confirms he didn’t return to his office. We’re concentrating on his house and Sally’s.’

They were interrupted by Donnelly banging on the door. ‘Lab’s on the phone, guv’nor.’ Sean could tell Donnelly was excited, an excitement that leapt across the office and into Sean’s chest. His heart rate accelerated, becoming irregular. ‘They’ve got a match to the hairs found in Linda Kotler’s flat.’ Donnelly paused, enjoying the drama. ‘They’re Hellier’s.’

Sean slumped back into his chair. Featherstone slapped his thighs and smiled. It was over. Sean had his critical evidence. The few seconds of pulse-racing excitement were replaced by an overwhelming relief. Finally it was over. He’d been proved right. Hellier was finished.

A female detective appeared in the doorway: ‘Someone on the phone for DS Jones, guv.’

‘Transfer them to my phone,’ he instructed. She nodded and left. He waited for the ringing and answered. ‘DI Corrigan speaking. I’m afraid DS Jones isn’t available. Is there something I can help you with?’

‘This is the Public Records Office at Richmond calling,’ the male voice explained. ‘DS Jones had me run a couple of inquiries. I have the results for her.’

‘I’ll take them,’ said Sean. He grabbed a pen. ‘I’ll see DS Jones gets them.’

‘She wanted birth and death certificates for two individuals: a Stefan Korsakov and a James Hellier.’ Sean felt his heart miss a beat. ‘I have a birth certificate for Korsakov, but no death certificate, so if he’s still in the country, he’s alive.’

‘And Hellier?’ Sean asked.

‘Both birth and death certificates for him. Poor little chap never got past his first birthday.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘He died in childhood.’ The possibilities rushed into Sean’s mind.

‘What year was Korsakov born?’

‘Nineteen seventy-one,’ came the answer.

‘When did Hellier die?’

‘Interesting,’ the clerk said. ‘Also nineteen-seventy-one.’

It had to be. Somehow Sean knew it. It had to be. ‘Thank you,’ he managed to say. ‘I’ll have someone collect them.’ He hung up and turned to Donnelly. ‘Remember the suspect Sally was working on?’

‘The one from Method Index?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Yes, Stefan Korsakov. Do you know where she kept the inquiry file?’

‘In her desk, I presume.’

Sean moved quickly across the office to Sally’s desk. Donnelly followed, intrigued. Sean tugged at the locked drawers. ‘Have you got a skeleton key for these damn things?’ Most good detective sergeants did, although they would rarely admit it. Donnelly didn’t look too happy about it, but produced the key anyway. Sean hurriedly unlocked the top drawer. A brown file with the name ‘Korsakov’ written across the front lay inside. He flicked it open and began to read.

‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Did Sally discuss this inquiry with you?’

‘Not really.’

‘Anything at all?’ Sean persisted.

‘Only thing she told me was that someone was lying to her.’

‘When did she tell you that?’

‘I think it was Thursday.’

Sean continued to search through the file, forwards and backwards, almost oblivious to Donnelly’s presence. Finally he looked up. ‘Bastard has been getting help.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Sally told me his fingerprints had gone missing from the Yard. His photograph from his intelligence file. She told you she was being lied to – but who by?’

‘Guv’nor,’ Donnelly kept his voice down, ‘what are you talking about?’

‘Don’t you understand?’ Sean asked unfairly. ‘Hellier is Korsakov, the man Sally identified through Method Index as being a possible suspect for our murder. Stefan Korsakov is Hellier, but everything she needed to make that connection disappeared. In spite of that, she was getting closer, closer to finding out the truth, even if she didn’t know it herself.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Donnelly pleaded. ‘Hellier is Stefan Korsakov?’

‘I’d bet my fucking life on it,’ Sean answered. ‘When Korsakov got out of prison he needed to reinvent himself or he was finished in this country. He’d have to take his money and run. That’s not his style. All it took was a new identity and someone in the police to make his past as good as disappear. The new identity is easy enough. He goes to a graveyard and picks someone who was born in the same year as he was, but who died in childhood, the younger the better. Less history.’

‘And he gets a bent copper to make his photos and fingerprints disappear,’ Donnelly finished for him. ‘That’s why Hellier attacked Sally, because she was getting too close to finding out his secret.’

‘Hellier wouldn’t be the only one that would want to stop Sally. Whoever was helping him had as much to lose as Hellier.’

‘Our bent police friend,’ Donnelly surmised.

‘It has to be a possibility,’ Sean admitted.

‘Then perhaps the attack on Sally isn’t connected to the other attacks?’

‘It is,’ Sean assured him. ‘They’re all connected somehow. We just need to complete the circle of events. Once we do that, we’ll know how this all fits in.’

‘Where do we start?’

‘We find this bent copper.’

‘How?’

Sean scanned the file. He found what he was looking for: the name of the original officer in the case. Detective Sergeant Paul Jarratt. ‘I know that name.’

‘Come again?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Paul Jarratt, the original investigating officer, I know that name.’

‘Maybe you used to work with him?’

‘No,’ Sean muttered. ‘Something recent. Something I’ve seen.’

Sean studied the man who opened the door of the neat Surbiton home. He and Donnelly showed their warrant cards and introduced themselves. Jarratt seemed nervous, but composed.

‘I believe you know a colleague of mine,’ Sean said. ‘DS Sally Jones?’

‘Yes,’ Jarratt answered. ‘She called around here a couple of times, asking about an old case of mine.’

‘I know,’ Sean told him. ‘Unfortunately I have some bad news concerning DS Jones.’

‘Bad news?’

‘I’m afraid she was attacked and seriously injured last night. She’s stable, but critical. I thought as you’d been helping her you should know.’

‘Yes,’ Jarratt stuttered. ‘Thank you. Thank you for thinking of me. Can I ask how it happened?’

‘You can,’ Donnelly said, nodding his head towards the inside.

‘Yes, of course,’ Jarratt answered. ‘Please, come in.’ He led them to the kitchen and sat. Sean and Donnelly remained standing.

‘I don’t know a lot of details,’ Sean explained. ‘We know she was attacked with a knife in her own flat and received two serious injuries. She managed to escape and make it to her neighbour’s. She’s lucky to be alive.’

‘My God,’ Jarratt said. ‘Who would attack a copper in her own home?’

‘Maybe you can help us with that?’ Sean asked. Jarratt’s jaw dropped slightly. Sean noticed it.

‘Of course,’ Jarratt answered. ‘I’ll help in any way I can, only I’m not sure how.’

‘DS Jones was trying to trace a suspect – Stefan Korsakov, a man you’d had dealings with some years ago.’

‘Yes.’

‘Only she was having trouble locating his fingerprints.’

‘Yes, I remember her mentioning it.’

‘Her inquiries led her to discover that you had requested the fingerprints be removed from Fingerprints Branch. Apparently Wandsworth Prison needed them to make copies for their records.’

‘Yes, I told DS Jones all this.’

‘And you’re positive the prison requested them?’ Sean asked.

‘Yes. My colleague at the time, Graham Wright, collected the prints for me and returned them. Perhaps he could help you.’

‘Do you know a man called James Hellier?’ Sean asked without warning.

Jarratt was silent for a while. He appeared to be struggling to recall the name. ‘No, I don’t think I know anyone by that name.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘It’s not a name that means anything to me,’ Jarratt answered.

Sean pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. ‘Will you do me a favour?’ he asked. ‘Take a look at these photographs. Tell me if you recognize the man in them.’ Sean emptied the surveillance photographs of Hellier on to the table in front of Jarratt.

Jarratt leaned forward and shuffled the photographs around, apparently uninterested. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t recognize this man. I’ve already told DS Jones I don’t know this man, when she showed me a photograph of the same man when she first came to see me.’

‘Are you sure?’ Sean asked. ‘Are you absolutely sure the man in these photographs isn’t Stefan Korsakov?’

‘Stefan Korsakov?’ Jarratt asked, disbelief in his voice. ‘This isn’t Stefan Korsakov.’

‘If not Korsakov, then what about James Hellier? Is the man in this photograph James Hellier?’ Sean persisted.

‘I don’t know anyone called James Hellier, so I wouldn’t know if this was or wasn’t him,’ Jarratt answered, the increasing anxiety in his voice palpable.

Sean said nothing, instead he tossed a piece of paper in front of Jarratt. ‘What’s this?’ Jarratt asked.

‘Take a look,’ Sean told him.

Jarratt lifted it from the table and began to read through the list of names and telephone numbers on the printout of the email from SO11. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘What’s the matter?’ Sean asked. ‘Don’t you recognize your own name, your own telephone number?’ He leaned over Jarratt and stabbed his finger into the printout. ‘Right there: Jarratt, Paul. And here: your address and your number.’

‘What is this?’ Jarratt asked.

‘This is a list of telephone numbers taken from a notebook belonging to one James Hellier, who is currently under investigation for murder. What is your telephone number doing in his notebook, Mr Jarratt?’

‘I have no idea,’ Jarratt pleaded. ‘So he has my telephone number, what does that mean? There could be any number of reasons why he has my number.’

Sean fell silent. He sat next to Jarratt. ‘If it was only the telephone number in his book, I might believe you,’ he said. ‘But you’ve already hung yourself. You see I found out that DS Jones checked with the prison and they told her they never requested Korsakov’s prints. You lied.’ Jarratt didn’t respond. ‘And then there are these,’ Sean continued, tapping the photographs of Hellier. ‘On our way to see you, we called in on an old colleague of yours, DS Graham Wright, and I showed him these very same photographs. And you know what he told me, without any hesitation whatsoever? He told me that the man in these photographs is Stefan Korsakov. The same Stefan Korsakov who now goes by the name of James Hellier. But you already know that, don’t you, Mr Jarratt?’

‘I … I …’ Jarratt struggled, trapped.

‘It’s over,’ said Sean. ‘You were a detective once. You know when the show is over. It’s time to save yourself. Talk to us. Did Hellier attack Sally? You warned him she was digging around his past and he got worried she was getting too close, so he tried to stop her the only way he could – by killing her.’

‘No,’ Jarratt insisted. ‘He didn’t attack her.’

‘So you admit to knowing him?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Yes … I mean no.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Donnelly demanded.

‘All right, for Christ’s sake. Yes, I’ve been in contact with him,’ Jarratt admitted. ‘But I’ve got nothing to do with DS Jones being attacked.’

‘But you made Korsakov’s photographs and fingerprints disappear, yes?’ Sean asked.

Jarratt’s body slumped. ‘If I talk, you’ll look after me, agreed? You guarantee me no prison time and I’ll talk.’

‘I can’t make that sort of promise, but I’ll do what I can. Now talk.’

‘Shortly before Korsakov was due to be released from prison I decided to visit him.’

‘Why?’ Sean asked.

‘Because we’d never recovered the money from his frauds. Millions of pounds outstanding.’

‘And you fancied helping yourself to an early retirement present, eh?’ Donnelly accused.

‘No,’ Jarratt claimed. ‘It wasn’t like that. Or at least, not at first. It’s often worth visiting people shortly ahead of their release to remind them that you’re watching them. Make it clear to them that as soon as they start spending their ill-gotten gains you’ll be there to seize everything they have.’ Sean was aware of the practice. ‘Sometimes you can cut a deal, get them to surrender most of the monies, in return for allowing them to keep a proportion as a reward for playing the game. All very unofficial, but everybody wins. We get to show monies recovered, the victims get some compensation and the thief gets a little sweetener.

‘But that’s not the way Korsakov wanted to play it. He wasn’t about to hand over a penny. However, he could see the point in making sure the police weren’t on his back.’

‘Go on,’ Sean encouraged.

‘He offered me a cut. All I had to do was make a few things disappear.’

‘Like fingerprints and photographs?’

Jarratt shrugged.

‘How much did he pay you?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Initially, ten thousand, with further instalments to follow, but …’ he paused. ‘The next time we meet, he shows me photographs. Some were of the two of us together, with me counting the cash.’

‘He set you up?’ said Donnelly.

‘Yes, but there was more. He had other photographs – of my kids, for God’s sake, at school, in the park, in my own garden.’

‘He threatened them?’ Sean questioned.

‘He didn’t have to,’ Jarratt replied. ‘I knew what he was capable of. I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life watching over my shoulder, waiting for the inevitable.’

‘As soon as he did that, you should have stopped it, cut your losses and stopped it,’ said Sean.

‘And end up in prison? Old Bill don’t have it good inside. I decided to bide my time and hope that eventually Korsakov would move on and forget about me. Then all of a sudden your DS comes sniffing around, asking all the wrong questions. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Korsakov contacts me, asks me to get you off his back. It was like a nightmare coming true.’

‘You warned him about DS Jones?’ Sean accused. ‘Let him know she was asking about Korsakov?’

‘No,’ said Jarratt. ‘Why would I do that? If I’d told him, he would have asked me to do something about it. Things were bad enough without me making matters worse.’

‘Are you saying Hellier didn’t know Sally was looking for Korsakov?’ Sean asked.

‘He had no idea, as far as I know. He was convinced I’d all but made his past disappear. I thought the same, until your DS came to see me and I realized I’d missed something. His file held at Method Index. I didn’t even know his details had been sent to them. Graham must have decided Korsakov would be of interest to them and sent them the details of his crime, but he never told me he had so I never knew, until now.’

‘He did,’ said Sean. ‘I guessed you couldn’t have known about it, otherwise it wouldn’t still exist. So I asked Wright and he confirmed he was the one who sent the file to Method Index.’

‘And the fingerprints?’ Donnelly asked. ‘How did you make them disappear?’

Jarratt smiled for the first time since they’d met him. ‘Korsakov’s idea. I had Graham pull the prints for me, but we knew Fingerprints would want them back so Korsakov had me destroy his real prints and replace them with another set, all correctly filled out on the proper forms, everything kosher. Only we used a novelty ink Korsakov bought at a joke shop. Within two days the ink disappears and you’re left with a blank piece of paper, or in this case a blank fingerprint form. When Graham returned them, they looked fine and no doubt got filed. Then they simply faded away to nothing. Korsakov thought it was hysterical.’

Sean and Donnelly stared at each other in disbelief.

‘You are joking?’ Donnelly asked.

‘You know Korsakov?’ Jarratt asked. ‘Or I suppose I should say Hellier. He’s as intelligent as he is vicious. Imaginative and dangerous, but he didn’t attack DS Jones and I doubt he killed the other people you think he did.’

‘Why?’ Sean asked.

‘Because he would have told me.’

‘Why would he want to do that?’

‘To remind me of what I had become. To remind me that I belonged to him.’

Sean and Donnelly looked at each other in silence. Finally Sean spoke.

‘Mr Jarratt, it’s time you met a friend of mine.’ A short, stocky figure dressed in a scruffy dark suit walked into the kitchen. ‘This is Detective Inspector Reger, Professional Standards and Ethics, or as you may remember it, Complaints Investigation.’

Reger casually showed Jarratt his warrant card. ‘Paul Jarratt, you’re under arrest for theft and assisting an offender. Get what you need – you’re coming with me.’

The two tape cassettes in the recorder turned simultaneously. Hellier had said nothing. He sat silently. Face badly bruised, his broken nose taped open to let him breathe. He refused to confirm his name. Let Templeman do the talking until he felt it necessary to speak himself. First he would wait and see if the police were wasting his time, again.

DC Fiona Cahill sat at Sean’s side. He wanted to have a woman police officer in the interview, so he could see how Hellier reacted to the allegation that he’d attacked Sally. If his eyes darted to DC Cahill, it would be a good indication he felt some guilt. Could Hellier ever feel guilt?

Sean was looking forward to this interview. Until now, he’d been at a disadvantage, but the discovery that Hellier was Korsakov had tipped the balance in his favour. He completed the pre-interview procedure, eager to get underway.

‘Mr Hellier, James, it’s time for you to talk to us,’ Sean began. ‘It’s over.’ Hellier said nothing. ‘It will go much better for you if you talk to us,’ Sean continued. ‘Help me understand why you did these things.’

Nothing.

‘Why did you kill Daniel Graydon?’ Sean asked. ‘Why did you kill Heather Freeman? Why did you kill Linda Kotler? Why did you try and kill Detective Sergeant Sally Jones?’

Sean knew he had to keep going. He knew Hellier wouldn’t be able to remain silent much longer. His ego wouldn’t allow it.

‘What did these people mean to you?’ he persisted. ‘Did you know them? Had they done something to make you angry? Did they deserve to die?’

‘You know nothing,’ Hellier snapped.

‘Why did you kill these people?’ Sean demanded, his voice raised now.

Hellier regained his stoicism. ‘No comment.’

‘She’s still alive you know. DS Jones is alive – and she’s tough. She’ll pull through. She’ll confirm it was you who attacked her.’

‘Really,’ Hellier said.

‘Yes. Really.’

‘Ha.’ Hellier laughed. ‘You’re a damn fool.’

‘You’re just damned,’ Sean countered.

‘Probably.’ Hellier seemed pleased at the prospect. ‘But right now I’m just bored.’

‘Maybe I can get your interest? At your last interview, you gave us samples of blood and hair. Remember?’

‘No comment.’

‘You can answer that question,’ Templeman advised. Hellier turned his head slowly to him. He stared at him, eyes slit.

‘No comment.’

‘For the benefit of the tape,’ Sean explained. ‘Mr Hellier was arrested yesterday on suspicion of having raped and murdered Linda Kotler. On that occasion he provided samples of hair and blood for forensic comparison to hair samples found in Linda Kotler’s flat. Does that refresh your memory?’ Hellier feigned disinterest. ‘Those samples have since been analysed at our forensic laboratory. It has been confirmed that the samples taken from the scene are a DNA match to samples provided by you.’

At this, Hellier focused on Sean, eyes narrowed, head turned slightly to one side. Sean noted the reaction.

‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘No more games. You can’t argue with DNA evidence. Like I said, it would be better for you if you start talking.’

Hellier said nothing. Sean spoke almost sympathetically: ‘Tell us about the things you’ve done,’ he encouraged. ‘I want to hear about the … exceptional things you’ve done.’

‘No comment.’

‘What was the point in doing the things you did if you don’t tell the world?’ Sean tried to appeal to his ego.

‘You and I both know you’re lying, Inspector. You couldn’t have matched my DNA to this woman because I’ve never set eyes on her.’

Hellier’s response surprised Sean. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected such a definitive denial. He’d assumed Hellier would try and talk his way around the DNA evidence, as he had with Daniel Graydon. In spite of everything, the man was capable of knocking him back, souring what should have been his moment of triumph. No matter, the DNA evidence alone would hang Hellier.

Hellier studied Sean. His eyes twitched with the concentration.

‘You think I’m lying?’ Sean asked. ‘Mr Templeman will confirm I’m not allowed to lie about evidence. Only suspects are allowed to lie.’

‘I think we’re at the stage where you should be specific about the DNA evidence you have,’ Templeman said.

‘Two hairs,’ Sean answered confidently. ‘Both recovered from the crime scene at Linda Kotler’s flat. One on the body. One next to the body. We could tell by their positions that they had very recently been deposited, and both those hairs belong to you, Mr Hellier.’

Hellier was without emotion. ‘No comment.’

‘Can you explain how your hair came to be in Linda Kotler’s flat?’ Sean asked.

Hellier glared at him contemptuously. ‘No comment.’

‘This is physical evidence from the scene. I want to remind you that if you fail or refuse to explain here and now how your hair came to be in Linda Kotler’s flat, then a jury can draw a negative inference from your failure or refusal to do so. Do you understand, Mr Hellier?’

‘No comment.’

Sean leaned across the table, closer to Hellier. ‘I don’t blame you for not answering. And I know why you won’t, because there is only one explanation, isn’t there? That you went to her flat and you killed her.’

‘No comment,’ Hellier answered quickly.

‘You raped her and killed her.’

‘No comment.’

‘You raped her. You tortured her. And you killed her.’ Sean’s anger was rising.

‘No comment,’ Hellier raised his voice to match Sean’s.

‘Do one decent thing in your life,’ Sean snapped. ‘If you can find one shred of humanity in your body, then use it to help the people whose lives you’ve shattered. Give the victims’ families some closure. Admit to these crimes.’

‘If you have the evidence, then you give them closure,’ Hellier taunted. ‘Charge me. Tell them you’ve put the man who killed their darling daughter or son behind bars. Why do you need me to confess? Do you lack belief, Inspector?’

‘Belief’s got nothing to do with it, James – or should I start calling you by your real name, Mr Korsakov? Mr Stefan Korsakov?’

Sean waited for Hellier’s reaction. A slight smile, nothing more.

‘Like I said, it’s not about what I believe. It’s about what I can prove, and I can prove who you really are and that ex-Detective Sergeant Jarratt has been helping you cover your crimes for years.’

‘So the pig finally squealed,’ Hellier spat. ‘How appropriate.’

‘And that’s why you tried to kill DS Jones. You had to. You knew she was getting close to the truth. Jarratt warned you, so you had no choice. She was going to bring your whole house of cards crashing down, so you broke into her flat and you tried to kill her.’

‘You’re delusional. You think I’d kill to protect Jarratt?’

‘No. To protect yourself.’

Hellier leaned forward as close to Sean as the table they sat across would allow. ‘I don’t care if you think you know who I am, or even if you do know who I am. I can be anyone I want to be. I can go anywhere I want to go. Do anything I want to do. Jarratt, a corruptible cop – ten a penny, Inspector. Not reason enough to kill your little pet.’

Sean swallowed his mounting anger as best he could. ‘Nice touch, by the way,’ he told Hellier.

‘What are you talking about now?’ Hellier asked. ‘More delusions, Inspector?’

‘Using my name when you approached Linda Kotler. Telling her you were me. Did you have a false warrant card with you? Or did Jarratt provide you with a real one, in my name? Did you show her the card when you were telling her you were me?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re insane, man.’

‘No,’ said Sean, icy calm. ‘Not me. It’s you who is insane. You have to be.’ The room fell silent, Sean and Hellier locked in combat while Templeman and DC Cahill looked on uncomfortably, aware they were little more than intruders in a private duel.

‘I think this interview’s gone on long enough,’ Templeman interrupted, his head spinning with new revelations, even if Hellier’s was not. ‘Given the injuries Mr Hellier suffered while being arrested, I feel this interview should be stopped until such time as my client has received further medical treatment.’

Sean’s broken hand was throbbing to distraction. The double dose of painkillers he’d swallowed two hours ago was wearing off. He was in no hurry. They would take a break. He checked his watch.

‘The time is now one thirty-six and I’m suspending this interview so that Mr Hellier can have his injuries examined by a doctor. We’ll continue the interview later.’ Sean moved to press the off button. Hellier stopped him.

‘Wait,’ he insisted. ‘Just wait a second.’

What now? What the hell was Hellier up to? Was he finally ready to end the charade?

‘I don’t care what your laboratory says or doesn’t say. I didn’t kill these people and I didn’t attack your precious Sergeant Jones.’

‘We’re not getting anywhere,’ Sean interrupted. ‘This interview is over.’

‘We’re both being used, Inspector,’ Hellier snapped back. ‘Last night, the night your sergeant was attacked, I received a call from a man. I received the call at about seven thirty. It was the same man who called me the night the Kotler woman was killed, at about seven p.m. He always called me on my mobile, except the first time. That was earlier in the afternoon, also on the day the Kotler woman was killed. On that occasion he telephoned my office. The secretary can confirm it.

‘Whoever made those calls was ensuring I had no alibi. He always arranged to meet me in places where there was nobody about who would remember me, but he never turned up. He made sure I went to great pains to lose the police surveillance. He always insisted I lost the surveillance – and now I know why.’

‘And I suppose this same mystery man planted your hair at the murder scene of Linda Kotler?’ Hellier shrugged his shoulders. ‘I haven’t got time to listen to this crap,’ Sean snapped.

‘I’m afraid you have no choice,’ Hellier reminded him. ‘It is your duty to investigate my defence statement, as I’m sure Mr Templeman was about to point out. You have no choice but to try and discover who it was that called me on those days at those times, whether you think it’s a waste of your precious time or not. If you don’t, then there’s not a judge in the land who wouldn’t throw the case against me out of court.’

Sean knew Hellier was right. As ludicrous as the alibi was, he had to investigate it. He had to prove it false.

‘Fine,’ Sean said. ‘I’ll need the number of the caller.’

‘I don’t have it.’

‘You said he called you on your mobile, so the number would have been displayed on the screen.’

‘Whenever he called, the number was blocked. The display said nothing.’

‘Did you try dialling one-four-seven-one?’

‘Same result. The number was withheld.’

‘Then there’s not much I can do.’

‘Come, come, Inspector,’ Hellier said. ‘You and I both know that with the right tools the caller’s number can be obtained. You already have my mobile phone. I suggest you have your lab rats examine it.’

‘It’ll be done,’ Sean said. ‘But it’ll take more than that to save you. This interview is concluded.’ Sean reached for the off switch, but stopped when he heard a sudden urgency in Hellier’s voice.

‘I sense your doubt,’ said Hellier. ‘Behind your determination to prove me guilty of crimes I didn’t commit, I know that really you’re not sure, are you? Something grinding away inside you, pulling you in a direction you don’t want to go, pulling you towards the belief that maybe, just maybe you’ve got the wrong man. And although you wouldn’t give a fuck if I rotted in prison, that thought would always be with you, wouldn’t it? The thought that someone out there got away with murder.’

Sean shook his head and gave a slight laugh. ‘You know, in a strange way I thought there would be more to you than this. I don’t know what exactly, but something. But it turns out you’re just another loser trying to save his worthless neck. There’s nothing special about you. You thought you couldn’t be caught, that you never made mistakes, but you did – not only the hair at Linda Kotler’s murder scene, but the fingerprints in Daniel Graydon’s flat.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Hellier said coldly. ‘Like I told you, I knew Graydon, I’d been to his flat. Anything belonging to me you found there means nothing.’

‘That’s true,’ Sean agreed. ‘But one thing’s been eating away at me about that ever since we found your fingerprint in the flat, and it’s exactly that: the fact we only found one print, on the underside of the bathroom door handle.’

‘What’s your point?’ Hellier asked.

‘One print? That makes no sense,’ Sean explained. ‘If you had no reason to conceal the fact you’d been there, then why didn’t we find more of your prints? We should have found dozens. You know what this says to me? It says you cleaned up the scene, wiped down everything you touched, but you missed one thing: the door handle.’

‘Daniel was very house proud,’ Hellier argued. ‘My other prints must have been wiped away when he cleaned.’

‘No,’ Sean snapped. ‘He couldn’t have, because we found multiple prints belonging to other people who had been in that flat after the date when you said you’d been in there. Daniel didn’t wipe your prints – you did. And why would you do that if you hadn’t killed him? Why, James?’

‘Because that’s the way I have to live my life,’ Hellier answered. ‘I look after myself. I’ve always had to. No one has ever done anything for me, ever.’

It was the first chink in Hellier that Sean had seen. The first crack in his persona, allowing a second’s glimpse into his soul. And in that second he could see that Hellier was made the way he was by some terrible circumstances in his past. What those circumstances were, Sean would probably never know, but now he knew that Hellier wasn’t born bad, someone else had made him that way. He felt a pang of empathy for the man, but this was no time to wonder about the boy Hellier had once been. A boy whose childhood may very well have mirrored his own.

‘I like to stay paranoid,’ Hellier continued, bringing Sean back to the present. ‘It keeps me ahead of the game. I touched little in his flat, and that which I did touch I wiped clean. People like Graydon are not to be trusted. He could have caused me problems.’

‘So you killed him before he had a chance to. Why not? You’d already killed Heather Freeman, but you were going to kill him anyway. You selected him as your next victim and a week later you killed him.’

‘No,’ Hellier shouted. ‘I didn’t kill any of them. You’re wrong. Completely wrong.’

‘We’re getting nowhere,’ Sean said, the frustration in his voice obvious. He was so tired he doubted he could properly structure a sentence let alone any intelligent questions. ‘We’ll take an hour’s break and try again.’ He reached for the off switch, but once more Hellier stopped him.

‘Does she have a guard?’ Hellier hurriedly asked. ‘At the hospital, your DS Jones. Does she have a guard?’

‘That’s not something I would ever be prepared to discuss with you,’ Sean answered.

‘Of course she does,’ Hellier continued. ‘Are they armed as well, these guards? I think so. I am right, aren’t I, Inspector? Which rather begs the question: why would you have her guarded by men with guns if you truly believe I am the one who would have her dead, when I’m safely locked up here with you? I just can’t work that one out. Can you?’

‘Standard procedure,’ Sean answered noncommittally.

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Hellier argued. ‘I really don’t think so. You have her guarded because you know I’m not the one. Her would-be destroyer is still out there, and you know it, don’t you? Don’t you, Inspector?’

‘I haven’t got time for this.’ Sean tried to push the fog of doubt from his mind.

‘I know who it is, Inspector. I know who killed these people and tried to kill DS Jones. The realization washed over me like a revelation. A moment of absolute clarity. It could only be him. Only he could know so much about me. Only he could watch me so closely.’

‘Who?’ Sean asked, voice rising. ‘Let’s play your little game. Tell me who.’

‘You already know.’ Hellier’s voice rose to match Sean’s.

‘Tell me, damn it,’ Sean demanded. ‘You need to tell me and you need to do it now, or this interview will be over and you’ll end up rotting in Broadmoor for someone else’s crimes.’

‘You already know,’ Hellier repeated. ‘If I know, you know. Use your imagination. Think as he thinks. Think as we think.’

Sean leaned forward to answer, but suddenly stopped, scene after scene suddenly playing in his mind, no longer under his control: the first time he entered Daniel Graydon’s flat; the body on the floor in a pool of blood; the autopsy; walking into Hellier’s office; the stench of his malevolence; Sebastian Gibran watching them. The photographs of Heather Freeman, her throat cut, blue staring lifeless eyes; Hellier’s snarling face when he arrested him at his office; Sebastian Gibran watching. Linda Kotler’s twisted and tortured body; Hellier admitting he practised sado-masochistic sex; Sebastian Gibran watching. Sebastian Gibran contacting Sally, meeting her, watching her. Sally attacked in her own home. The phone calls Hellier claimed to have received, the instructions he was given that denied him alibis; Sebastian Gibran watching, watching them all, playing them all – him against Hellier and Hellier against him, led by the nose like two lambs to the slaughter. But Hellier had worked it out, his hunger to survive driving him to the answer. And now the revelation washed over Sean too – Sebastian Gibran. Sebastian Gibran. Sebastian Gibran.

His eyes fell away to the ground as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place in his damaged mind. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he finally declared as the face formed behind his eyes. ‘I need to get to the hospital. I need to go now.’

Sean jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over, the sound of Hellier’s growing laughter tearing at his ears.

‘Run to her, Inspector,’ Hellier tormented. ‘Run to her before he beats you to the prize.’

Sean ran from the interview room, almost knocking Donnelly over as he headed for the exit to the custody suite and the car park.

‘Problem?’ Donnelly asked, bewildered.

‘I’ve got to get to the hospital. I’ve got to get to Sally,’ Sean carried on moving.

‘Why?’ Donnelly tried to keep pace. ‘And what about Hellier?’

‘Let him go.’

‘After what he tried to do to you?’

Sean glanced down at his swollen hand; the image of Hellier’s bloodied face flashed in his mind. ‘I’d say we’re even. Just get rid of him and tell him I never want to see him again.’ On reaching the exit, he turned to face Donnelly. ‘And then get to the hospital as fast as you can.’ He backed out of the exit and was gone.

Only the closing door heard Donnelly’s reply: ‘Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?’