Читать книгу DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 5-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network and The Toy Taker - Luke Delaney - Страница 27

Sean, Sally and Donnelly were back in Sean’s office. They were assessing the feedback from Sally’s appearance on Crimewatch and Sean’s press conference. It wouldn’t take long. The phone lines hadn’t exactly been set on fire − a couple of teenage prank calls and a few rough descriptions of men seen in the area of Daniel’s flat, possibly on the night of the murder, maybe not. Far from a deluge of information.

They’d expected as much: Hellier was too cautious to have allowed himself to be seen by witnesses at that time of night. But at least the dedicated surveillance team was back, so Hellier wouldn’t slip away quite so easily again.

Donnelly was called to the phone. He crossed the office, took the receiver from a young detective constable.

‘Dave Donnelly.’

‘DS Donnelly? How you doing?’ Donnelly didn’t recognize the voice. ‘I’m a friend of Raj Samra. He said you wanted a call if anything out the ordinary came up. Said you wanted a call before anyone else.’

‘That was my request.’ Donnelly was naturally suspicious. He didn’t know this man who was doing him a favour. He wasn’t about to let himself be set up. ‘Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.’

‘DS John Simpson. SCG out west. Murder Investigation Team.’

‘Can I call you back in a minute?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Sure,’ Simpson replied. ‘I’m on a mobile. Want the number?’

Donnelly scribbled the number on a small notepad. He wasted no time in calling Raj Samra. He confirmed DS John Simpson existed. He vouched for him too. That was good enough. Donnelly called him back.

‘DS Simpson.’

‘Sorry about that. I was right in the middle of something,’ Donnelly lied. ‘So, what have you got that may interest me?’

There was a worrying pause before Simpson answered. ‘A body. But I think you’d better come and see for yourself.’

Donnelly thought hard for a few seconds. Should he go? Was he sure enough yet? Probably not. ‘Okay,’ he answered. ‘I’ll come and take a look. Unofficially for now.’

‘I understand,’ Simpson reassured.

‘Where are you?’

‘It’s a flat over in Shepherd’s Bush. Seventy-three D, Minford Gardens.’

DC Zukov saw Donnelly appear on the pavement outside the crime scene and head towards him, moving nimbly, looking naturally strong. He stamped his cigarette out as Donnelly got closer.

‘You got one of them for me?’

Zukov pulled a squashed packet of Marlboro Lights from his trouser pocket. Donnelly seemed paler than usual. ‘Well?’ Zukov asked. ‘Did you do it?’

Donnelly lit up and took a deep drag. ‘No.’

Zukov went quiet. He looked Donnelly up and down. Had the big man lost his bottle? ‘Why not?’ he finally asked.

‘Because I’m not sure, that’s why.’

‘You’re not sure it’s linked?’ Zukov asked.

‘Oh, it’s linked,’ Donnelly said. ‘I’m sure all three are linked.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ Zukov was pushing way more than he’d done before. He wanted this done. He wanted to be part of a successful murder inquiry and he didn’t want to wait any longer.

‘I’m not sure Hellier is our man.’ He tossed the cigarettes back to Zukov. ‘Do you live alone?’ he asked.

‘Why?’ Zukov answered.

‘Just answer the question.’

‘Yeah. I live alone.’

‘Good,’ Donnelly said. ‘Then you won’t have to worry about somebody stumbling across this.’ He pulled the small sealed evidence bag containing Hellier’s hairs from the cigarette case he’d been concealing it inside. ‘I’m sick of carrying it around. Take it home with you and remember to keep it in your fridge. That way they’ll look fresh. I’ll tell you when I need them again.’ Zukov took the bag without complaining. ‘Now piss off and find us some coffee,’ Donnelly told him. ‘I’ve got a phone call to make.’

Sean moved to the rear of his car and pulled a full forensic suit from the boot. He struggled into the blue overalls before showing his warrant card to a severe-looking female uniformed officer guarding the cordon. He told her he was from the Murder Squad, he just didn’t tell her which one. He could feel the forensic team and local detectives watching him − they’d probably guessed he was the reason they’d been kept out of the scene. Their important work was being delayed and it was his fault.

He walked along the driveway towards the front door of number seventy-three Minford Gardens, his focus intensifying on the half-open front door. He felt tunnel vision overtaking, the usual surreal feeling that accompanied him when he approached a murder scene.

He gave the constable guarding the front door his name and rank. The constable didn’t ask why Sean needed to enter the scene. He should have. Sean began to climb the communal stairway to the first-floor flat. He could already smell murder.

Love, hate, terror were tangible things. Real things, not simple emotions. They left overpowering traces of themselves wherever they called. The horror and fear of the previous night had seeped out from the flat and stained the surrounding area with its overpowering odour. It was in the wallpaper, the cheap worn-out carpet. Now it was all over Sean. In his clothes, his hair. The longer he stayed in this place, the deeper it would penetrate him, and before too long it would be in his blood. Then he would feel cold and displaced all day until he could get home and shower, be with Kate, be with his children. And even then he might not be able to find his way back to the comfortable world most lived in.

He climbed the stairs silently. He could hear quiet, muffled voices coming from inside flat number seventy-three D. At least the detectives at the scene were showing respect for the dead. It wasn’t always the case. He reached the front door. One last deep breath, and he knocked gently on the door frame. The two men standing in the narrow hallway turned to face him. They were both wearing full forensic suits. Sean was relieved.

‘Hello, gentlemen.’ He was being as polite as he knew how. He had the rank, but he was the outsider. ‘DI Sean Corrigan. SCG South. My sergeant tells me you have a scene that may be of interest to us.’

‘Guv’nor,’ DS Simpson said. He seemed affable enough. ‘Come in, please.’ He and the other detective offered Sean rubber-gloved palms. They all shook hands. The other detective introduced himself as DC Zak Watson. Even in his forensic suit Sean could tell he was built like a boxer. Scarring to both his eyebrows suggested he’d been no stranger to the ring.

‘I read your circulation,’ DS Simpson said. ‘Said you were interested in anything out of the ordinary. Well, I’ve never come across a scene like this. I’ve been unfortunate enough to work dozens of murders, but this one’s …’ He struggled to find the appropriate words and gave up trying. ‘Anyway. Your circulation said contact you if we find anything out the ordinary and this is certainly that.’

Sean was looking around the hallway. Everything seemed normal. No signs of disturbance. No tipped-over furniture or ornaments. No blood smeared or sprayed on the walls. DS Simpson saw him checking it out.

‘The whole place is like that. Nothing out of place. Nothing at all. Except the bedroom. It all seems to have happened in there.’ He looked along the corridor to the room at the end. Sean followed his gaze.

There was no metallic scent of blood. Clearly she hadn’t been stabbed or cut. Something else. He could smell the faint odour of urine. He assumed from the victim. Had she fouled herself before or after she died? If it was before, then something, someone had frightened her enough to make her lose control of her bladder.

Sean wouldn’t rush his questioning of the two detectives. He wanted to jump to the end, but he wouldn’t. Keeping it chronological was the key to not losing yourself. Follow the timeline. It helped build up a clearer picture of how the horror had come and gone.

‘How did he get in?’ Sean asked. He meant the killer.

‘Not sure,’ DS Simpson replied. ‘We haven’t had a proper look around yet. We’ve been keeping everyone out, as you requested, so forensics haven’t had a chance to help us with that.’

‘Anything obvious?’ Sean asked.

‘Forced entry? Nothing we can see. The door was locked and all windows are secure.’

‘It was warm last night,’ Sean said. ‘But she kept the windows shut?’

DS Simpson shrugged. ‘We’re only on the first floor here. I’d probably keep the windows shut myself.’

Sean nodded in agreement. ‘Who raised the alarm?’

‘Her work,’ DS Simpson replied. ‘Apparently she was a real early bird. A bit of a workaholic. They expected her to turn up around eight, if not before. When she hadn’t arrived by nine thirty they rang her. No answer, mobile or home. No problems reported on her Tube line and she hadn’t suggested she would be late or taking the day off, so they began to get a little concerned.

‘She’s popular enough at work, so I’m told. Anyway, her boss sends a male colleague around here to make sure she’s okay. They guess she’s in bed with flu. There’s a bit of a summer virus going around. The male colleague’s a guy called Darryl Wilson …’ DS Simpson paused.

‘Is he all right?’ Sean wasn’t asking about Wilson’s welfare, he wanted to know if he was under any suspicion.

‘Yeah. He’s fine. Anyway, he gets over here mid-morning. No answer to the buzzer, so he goes round the side to see what he can see.

‘Her blinds still look at least half shut and there’s a faint red light on inside. He’s not happy so he borrows a ladder from a neighbour and puts it up to her bedroom window. He climbs the ladder and manages to peek through the blinds, sees her on the bed, shits himself, almost falls off the ladder and does what he should have done in the first place and phones us.’

‘Did he enter the flat?’

‘No way,’ Simpson replied. ‘He saw enough through the window to turn him into a quivering wreck. Wild horses wouldn’t get him inside after that.’

‘Neighbours see her come home with anybody? Hear anybody calling at her flat?’ Sean asked.

‘Too early to say.’

‘Who’s your DI?’ Sean should have asked earlier.

‘Vicky Townsend,’ Simpson told him.

That was good news. Sean knew her of old. He gave a slight nod.

Simpson saw it. ‘You know her then?’

‘Yeah,’ Sean replied. ‘We used to work together.’

‘She’s solid,’ Simpson said. It was a major compliment. She’d been solid when Sean knew her too. ‘She’ll be here soon. Shall we?’ Simpson pointed to the living room. The door was wide open.

Sean took the lead. He felt Simpson and Watson were about to follow him, but he needed to do this alone. ‘Listen,’ he said as pleasantly as he could. ‘You’ve already been through this place. Forensics won’t be happy if you walk through again just to help me. I’d rather not cause you any more grief than I probably already have, so best you wait here, or outside if you fancy some fresh air. I’ll find my own way around.’

The two detectives nodded to each other and headed for the front door. ‘I’ll send DI Townsend up when she arrives,’ Simpson told him.

‘Thanks,’ Sean replied. He was already in the living room. Leaving the outside world behind. Entering the killer’s world.

Hellier arrived home sometime after 3 a.m. to find his wife had been waiting for him. She had a lot of questions she wanted him to answer, but he’d insisted he needed to be alone, that the stress of the police investigation was getting to him. He’d told her he loved her, that she and the children were his life. She’d cried tears of both joy and fear.

But someone else had been waiting for him when he arrived home – the police. He could feel them easily enough. They must have been sitting out there all night waiting for him and now they didn’t know where he’d been for over nine hours. Had Corrigan slept at all? He had more unpleasant surprises for DI Sean Corrigan.

It was almost midday and he still hadn’t been to the office. He’d called them to say he’d be working from home in the morning. He’d be in this afternoon. He stood on Westminster Bridge and gazed north-west across the Thames at the Houses of Parliament. He never did buy himself a politician. A cabinet minister would have been handy. Not to worry. Maybe next time.

The midday sun sparkled on the surface of the Thames. It was quite beautiful. Parliament’s reflection was as impressive as the real thing. Most of the architecture along the banks of the great river pleased him. Especially the north bank. Some unpleasant monstrosities had somehow been allowed to appear on the south bank, but it was still magnificent. A river to rival any in the world. He made a note to himself. Wherever he went next must have a river running through its heart, or at least a dominating harbour. Yes, he could make do with a harbour. Or even a lake, surrounded by mountains.

His mobile phone rang in his breast pocket. He considered tossing the damn thing into the Thames. A symbolic gesture of leaving this city. Instead he answered it.

‘Mr Hellier? Mr James Hellier?’ It was the same nervous voice from the previous day. He recognized it immediately.

‘I don’t appreciate having my time wasted,’ Hellier snapped.

‘I was being followed.’ The voice sounded strained. ‘I couldn’t risk leading them to you.’

‘Who was following you?’ Hellier demanded. ‘The police? The press?’

‘I don’t know, but I need to see you. I’ll contact you soon.’

‘Wait. Why do you need to see me? Wait.’ The voice was gone. Hellier no longer felt tired. Who was this man, this man telling him he was a friend? James Hellier didn’t have any friends. If the voice belonged to a journalist, then what was he waiting for – what was his angle? Hellier couldn’t see it, and that bothered him. Maybe it was time to consider the possibility his friend was something entirely different.

Sean didn’t like being in the flat alone, but the quiet peace was a blessing. He could hear what the scene was telling him. He moved around the living room, keeping to the edges to avoid stepping on microscopic evidence. He touched as little as possible and made a permanent mental note of anything he did.

The room was comfortable, almost snug. Too much furniture. Too many colours. A real room. Years of impulse buying and fitting presents from family and friends into the space had produced an uncoordinated history of the occupier. Kate would have hated it. He quite liked it.

Did the killer come in here? If so, why? To be amongst her things? To spend a moment with the photographs of the victim that were scattered all over the room. Would he have put a light on to see better? Sean doubted it. Maybe he used a torch? If he did and if he was the same killer, it would have been the first time he used a torch. Again, Sean doubted it.

He’d been in here though. Sean was sure of it. He scanned the room over and over. Is this where the killer came to prepare himself? Not to put on his gloves and other protective clothing – he would have done that outside, before he entered. But to be amongst her possessions, the very heart of her life. To form a connection with her. The more he connected with her, the sweeter it would be when the moment came to move down the corridor to her bedroom.

Hellier had a connection with the second victim, Daniel Graydon, albeit a fleeting one. Did he have a connection with the first, Heather Freeman? Had the murder team in the east missed something? Sean resolved to go back and check. Was there a connection between the killer and this latest scene? Between Hellier and the third victim?

Did the killer touch anything in here? Take off a glove and touch anything? No. He was too controlled for that. Always in control. No mistakes. He would have confined himself to looking. So he’d stood and looked. Just as Sean was now.

Sean left the room and moved back into the hallway. He pushed a door open on his left. It was a small bedroom, being used for storage. Stuffed and tied bin liners littered the floor. The room wasn’t in keeping with the rest of the flat. It was cold and impersonal. Whoever lived here didn’t come in very often. What was in those bin liners? They appeared to be waiting for someone to come and take them away. Sean spotted the handle of a cricket bat protruding from one of the bags. A man had recently been living in the flat. Had he lived with the victim? Probably. Was he a jilted lover? Almost certainly. A suspect? He would have to be.

If the room held little for the victim, then it would hold less for her killer. Sean couldn’t feel him in this place. He left, pulling the door back as he found it, careful not to touch the handle.

He moved slowly down the hallway and pushed the next door on the left open. The bathroom. It smelled like a woman’s bathroom. Dozens of bottles of brightly coloured liquids could be seen all over. Creams, make-up, cotton wool, lotions and potions of all descriptions had found their way on to most of the flat surfaces. Sean thought about how a single man’s bathroom would look in comparison. A comb, razor, shaving foam, maybe some hair and shower gel. Aftershave, if he really cared about his appearance. The victim clearly liked to spend time in this room. The room reminded him of Kate. He shook the thought away. His wife had no place here.

The bathroom was very personal to the victim. Was it therefore personal to the killer? He would have definitely been in here, but did he stay? What would have attracted him? What was so personal to her that he may have had to touch it? Maybe he held it up to his face, to his nose, to be as close to her scent as he could. Maybe he had to taste her? Maybe he licked something? If he did, he would have left his DNA.

Sean looked hard at the items in the bathroom. Nothing particularly caught his attention. She kept it cluttered but clean. There was nothing here the killer couldn’t have resisted. A hairbrush that still had some hair in the bristles was the most likely, but Sean wasn’t hopeful. Nevertheless, it might be worth special attention. Send it to the lab for DNA and fingerprints instead of dusting it on site.

As he turned towards the door a sunray hit the catch on the small sash window. The reflection was wrong. Uneven. There should have been one starburst of light off the chrome catch, but Sean could see dozens.

The window was directly above the bath. Sean didn’t want to have to climb into the bath to get closer. If the killer somehow came in or went out through this window he would have almost certainly had to put a foot in the bath. Sean wouldn’t risk stepping on a print. He couldn’t see one with the naked eye, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

He examined the window frame from where he was. No deadlocks, only the catch. Easy to open. Horribly easy. A novice burglar could do it in seconds. Sean couldn’t help but think how a ten-pound deadlock might have saved her life. He felt sick at the thought.

He imagined the killer climbing in and out of the window. Where would he have been least likely to touch? He decided on the area of wall directly below and central to the window. He crouched down and reached across the bath with his left arm. He placed the side of his gloved palm against the wall and leaned forward so his face was only inches from the window catch.

Scratches. Dozens of small thin scratches. Fresh, without a doubt. Fresh cuts in metal were always screamingly obvious. They glared like shiny new wounds, but within days they dulled, rusted or stained. These were newborn.

There would be a drainpipe outside the window. This was the bathroom so there had to be a drainpipe. He would check the outside, but he already knew what he’d find.

Another change of method, Sean thought. This man’s already thinking of court. A decent defence solicitor would have a field day with this one. The police trying to say three completely different murders were all linked. Sean wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

He knew more than ever he needed something to hang Hellier with. Some piece of indisputable evidence. If he could at least prove Hellier had committed one murder, maybe he would confess to the others. Appeal to his ego. If he didn’t confess, no one would ever know how clever he’d been. How he’d outfoxed the police. If Sean could prove one, he’d run with it. He wouldn’t wait to be able to prove the others. But a sudden chill froze him, as he pictured the image of a man snaking in through the bathroom window – a man who wasn’t James Hellier. The sudden unexpected doubt momentarily terrified him – was he derailing the investigation with his own prejudice against Hellier and all his perceived type stood for? No. He shook the doubt away, remembering how he felt every time he was in Hellier’s presence, the animalistic scent of a survivor, a predator that he’d smelled on him the very moment they first met. He was right about Hellier – he had to be. He mustn’t allow himself to be confused by Hellier’s camouflaging tactics.

Memories of Hellier’s lies and all-too-convenient alibis reassured him, his considerable efforts to avoid their surveillance and the crucial fact that he knew at least one of the victims – Daniel Graydon. Sean had no doubts. Hellier was psychopathically bad to the core, so if Hellier hadn’t killed Graydon then that would have to mean Graydon had not only randomly come into contact with one killer, but two. The chances of that were negligible. Satisfied, Sean breathed out a long sigh.

Carefully, he moved out of the bathroom and back into the corridor. The bedroom loomed before him. He had another room to see first. He crossed the hallway and entered the kitchen, again standing to the side to preserve any evidence on the floor. He was suddenly aware of a crushing thirst. But he wouldn’t use a tap at the scene, fearful of destroying evidence that might be hiding in the drains of the sink, just waiting to be found. His thirst would have to wait.

The kitchen was small and a little dingy. The units were from the early eighties and badly needed a facelift. The oven was old too, made of white metal and free-standing. The killer wouldn’t have liked this room, Sean decided, but he would have come in here. Maybe he took a knife from a cupboard to threaten the victim with? Maybe he took a knife to kill her with, only to change his mind? If he was to be true to form he’d want to change the way he killed as well as the way he entered. All the knives in the kitchen would be taken away for examination as a matter of routine.

Sean didn’t stay in the kitchen long. Neither had the killer. He stepped backwards into the hallway. The door to the bedroom was closed, but not shut altogether. Had it swung shut itself, on uneven hinges? Or had DS Simpson or DC Watson pushed it to in an attempt to show the victim some last respect?

Sean put the side of his left palm on the place the suspect was least likely to have touched, the very top centre, between the two oblong panels. He pushed gently. The door swung silently open.

Donnelly and Sally stood next to their car, smoking. Sally had found a café nearby that sold good coffee. It didn’t taste like the coffee sold in the cafés around Peckham. Her mobile rang. She flicked her cigarette away before answering. ‘Sally Jones speaking.’

‘Detective Sergeant Jones?’

‘Who’s asking?’ She hadn’t recognized the voice.

‘You probably won’t remember me. My name is Sebastian Gibran. We met at my office when you came to see an employee of mine – James Hellier.’

She remembered now. It was the senior partner from Hellier’s finance firm. ‘I remember,’ she told him. ‘But what I don’t remember is giving you this mobile number.’

‘I’m terribly sorry, I phoned your office first, but you weren’t there. Another detective was good enough to give me your number.’

She wasn’t impressed. Giving out a team member’s mobile number to unseen parties was a definite no-no. ‘What is it I can do for you, Mr Gibran?’

‘Not something I want to discuss over the phone, you understand? I feel it’s better if we meet, somewhere private. It’s a sensitive matter.’

‘Why don’t you come to the police station?’

‘I’d rather not be seen there, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Where then?’ Sally asked.

‘Can you meet me for lunch tomorrow? I know a place that’ll fit me in at short notice. We’ll be able to talk freely there.’

Over-confident bastard, but what was there to lose? ‘Okay. Where and when?’

‘Excellent,’ Gibran responded. ‘Che, just off Piccadilly, at one o’clock tomorrow.’

‘I’ll be there,’ Sally told him.

‘I look forward to it.’ She heard him hang up. Her expression was pensive.

‘Problem?’ Donnelly asked.

‘No. At least I don’t think so. That was Sebastian Gibran, Hellier’s boss. He wants to meet for a chat.’

‘Well, well. Maybe Hellier’s fancy friends are getting set to abandon him to his fate.’

‘The ritual washing of hands,’ she declared. ‘Not to mention a free lunch for yours truly.’

‘Do you want some company at this little get-together?’

‘No. I get the feeling it’ll go better if I meet him alone.’

‘Fair enough, but don’t forget to run it past the boss before you go,’ Donnelly warned her.

‘Naturally. Listen, I need to follow up on something over in Surbiton. The boss can do without me here for a while. I’ll check back with you later, okay?’

‘Suit yourself,’ Donnelly replied. ‘I’ll let the guv’nor know you’ve commandeered his vehicle.’

‘No doubt that’ll make him very happy,’ she said. ‘Almost as happy as when he finds out I still haven’t eliminated Korsakov as a possible suspect.’

‘You will.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means, the more I look into it, the more I don’t like it. Something’s not right – I don’t know what it is yet, but I know it’s something.’

‘Christ. You’re getting as bad as the guv’nor.’

‘No, seriously,’ Sally argued. ‘It’s like everything to do with Korsakov has disappeared, as if someone made him vanish.’

‘Why would anyone do that?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe, for some reason, they’re hiding him, so he can commit further offences without being identified. Or maybe …’

‘Go on,’ Donnelly encouraged her. ‘You’re amongst friends here.’

‘Or, maybe someone got rid of him – killed him.’

‘Like who?’

‘One of his victims, or someone connected to one of his victims, someone looking for revenge.’

‘An eye for an eye,’ Donnelly suggested.

‘Or,’ Sally continued, ‘someone got rid of him so they could commit crimes they knew we would eventually blame him for, because of the similarity of the method – have us chasing a dead man we’d never be able to find.’

‘Now you really do sound like the guv’nor,’ Donnelly told her. ‘Speaking of which, have you discussed this with him?’

‘Sort of. But he’s so fixated on Hellier, I don’t think he took it seriously.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘But don’t let him stop you doing what you think you should be doing. Remember, it’s our job to keep him on the straight and narrow – anchor him a bit – you know?’

She knew. ‘I’ll catch you later,’ she said, and headed for the car.

The large bed was straight in front of Sean, the victim lying on it, a pretty red light softly illuminating the room. Sean checked for the source of the light. He found it in the far right corner of the room. A thin red silk dressing gown was draped over a lampshade. At night the red illumination would have been far stronger. Had the victim constructed the home-made light? Did it stir a childhood memory? Had her nursery been lit with a red light and now the colour helped her sleep?

No. The killer had made the light. He was sure of it. But had he made it after he’d killed her or before? And why? What did the victim look like as she died, painted with red light? Had the red been a replacement for her blood? But if blood is so important to him, why not cut her like the others? Method, Sean reminded himself. He’s changing his method again. Disguising his work.

The killer was showing his intelligence, his control and imagination. It was extremely rare for killers to have the ability to change methods so completely. They lack control. Their killings are repetitions. Some try and disguise their kills, but usually only after the murder. They’ll burn the body, place it in a car and push it off a cliff, sink it in deep water; but to plan the disguise from the outset, to ensure everything from the victim selection to the murder weapon changes every time – that was incredibly rare. It made the killer all the more dangerous.

Did this killer have enough control to simply stop? To walk away and never kill again? That would be the ultimate show of his strength. Had he killed enough now to live off his memories? Sean thought of Hellier’s public face. Absolutely calm, calculating and clever. But he had seen glimpses of the creature that hid behind Hellier’s public façade. The snarling, arrogant Hellier. Could that Hellier stop killing? Or would he have to be stopped? No, he decided. Hellier liked the game too much.

Staying as close to the walls as he could, he moved clockwise around the room towards Linda Kotler.

He passed a set of wooden drawers. They looked solid and expensive. One drawer was still open. He looked in without touching anything as he took one large step around them. He could see it was where the victim kept her tights and stockings. Had the killer or the victim opened the drawer? One glance at the body told him the killer had. He wouldn’t risk buying or stealing his own. A man buying stockings could easily be remembered by a sales assistant. A wife might become suspicious if her stockings or tights went missing. She might read about this murder and begin to suspect a husband, a boyfriend, a son. The killer would have been relatively sure he’d find what he was looking for inside the victim’s home. No need to risk bringing his own.

Sean kept moving around the room until he was no more than three feet away from the victim. He stopped. He wouldn’t go closer for fear of disturbing any forensic evidence. The three-foot circumference around the body would be the golden zone.

He studied the body, slowly and deliberately scanning it from head to toe and back. He tried to remain dispassionate, removed, as if the body wasn’t real, as if this was only an exercise.

She was lying on her left side. Naked and pale now. Lifeless. She looked anything but peaceful. The dead never looked peaceful, at least not until a skilled undertaker did their work. One eye was half open. The other was swollen shut. He tried to imagine her alive. She’d have been quite attractive, he thought, but it was hard to tell.

Her legs were bent painfully far back. The thin, tightly stretched tights bound her ankles. They had cut into the skin. They were connected to another pair that ran up her back to her neck. This was in turn connected to another pair of tights or perhaps a stocking, tightly bound around the neck and throat. The flesh of the throat bulged around the ligature, concealing most of the material. Her hands had been bound separately at the wrists with more of her own tights. The hands had become swollen by the tightness of the bindings. Why had the hands been tied separately? So elaborate. It reminded Sean of the rigging on a yacht. The knots used would have to be analysed. What sort were they? Were they used in sailing or some other sport or hobby?

Why did he need the bindings to connect so precisely? Bondage? Hellier’s favourite. Was he deliberately tormenting them?

She must have been in terrible pain. She would have called out in pain, screamed for help. Her killer wouldn’t have let that happen. He would have gagged her. But her mouth wasn’t covered. Sean leaned closer to her face. The area around the mouth was a little red. It looked sore. Had the killer used tape that he’d taken away with him? If so, he’d done that before. Heather Freeman had been taped across the mouth, but the tape had been removed and taken from the scene. The more he killed, the more similarities would start to appear. No matter how hard he worked at disguising his methods. The mouth area would need to be swabbed for traces of adhesive at the post-mortem.

The left side of her face was badly bruised and swollen. Judging by the level of bruising, the injury had been caused at least an hour before she died. He guessed this was the first blow, used to incapacitate her. The killer hit her as she rose up from her sleep, knocking her senseless. There was no blood or cut around the injury. He probably used a gloved fist.

A small amount of blood on the floor, by the back of the victim’s head, caught his attention. Nothing more than a slight smear. He carefully moved around the body to get a better look. He saw the telltale signs of a bleeding head injury. The sticky hair. Not much, but a definite injury.

He scanned the room for an obvious weapon. He saw something, on the wall behind the bed. He stood and bent towards it, careful not to step too close. There was blood on the wall. Not much, but he was sure it would later be confirmed as the victim’s. The killer had slammed her head into the wall to make certain she was unconscious, because he needed time to find the bindings and secure her.

And then what? She wasn’t killed quickly. The bruises to her face, ankles, wrists, neck: they all told the same tale of a slow, painful death. Was that what the elaborate bindings were for? To torture her before killing her? Spending time with them after the killing wasn’t enough any more? The killer had progressed to spending time with them before they died. Or was it merely another attempt to muddy the waters and confuse those who hunted him?

Unlike Heather Freeman, this victim was a grown woman. Fully developed. She’d been stripped naked and bound. Was she sexually abused? Raped while she was still alive? He was sure she had been. Forensic tests would no doubt confirm his hypothesis. Another progression, or another act of camouflage by the killer?

The longer he was alone in the room with Linda Kotler, the harder it was to treat the murder scene like an exercise. Her pain and sorrow had begun to penetrate his shield. The more he discovered, the closer, the more real the murder became. It began to run in his head like film footage. Now he had almost a full scene. The killer entering through the bathroom window, stalking through the flat. He finds her in bed and looms over her. She awakes and sees him standing there. A fist smashes into her face. Before she can recover, he lifts her and smashes her head into the wall. She falls unconscious. She awakes. She doesn’t know how long she’s been out for. She can’t move. She feels the pain of her bound limbs. Something around her neck stops her breathing properly. She desperately needs air. Something over her mouth stops her calling out. Stops her begging for her life. Then she feels him on her. He forces entry into her. It hurts like nothing before. She blanks it out of her mind. Staying alive is all that matters. But when he’s finished, he doesn’t leave. He spends time torturing her. And then, finally, he strangles her to death.

Sean could hear her voice in his head. Pleading with the killer to leave her alone. Pleading with him not to hurt her. Then pleading for her life. All wasted. The gag meant he wouldn’t have heard her. He would have liked to listen to her begging, but he couldn’t risk the noise.

A loud knocking on the bedroom door made him jump. Instinctively he reached for the telescopic metal truncheon clipped to his waist belt. Then he looked to the door and recognized DI Vicky Townsend standing there, grim-faced.

‘They told me it was a bad one,’ she said. ‘Seems they weren’t exaggerating.’

‘Bad enough,’ Sean replied.

DI Townsend made to cross the threshold of the bedroom. Sean shot a hand up, palm outstretched towards her. ‘Not dressed like that you don’t.’

She looked herself up and down. She was wearing one of her favourite suits, dark blue and tailored with two-inch heels to match. She feigned insult. ‘This is my best suit.’

‘Then you wouldn’t want me to take it off you and stick it in a brown paper bag as evidence.’

‘You would too, wouldn’t you?’ she asked. ‘Well, you certainly haven’t changed.’

‘You wouldn’t want me to.’

‘No, probably not.’

DI Vicky Townsend waited for Sean outside the flat in the street. She watched him pulling off the forensic suit and laughed a little as he carefully placed the suit and shoe covers into evidence bags and sealed them. Ever the professional, she thought. He’d always been the most meticulous detective she’d worked with. Back in his street clothes, he approached her.

‘How you been, Vicky?’ he asked.

‘Good, Sean. Good. Kids drive me mad, but you know.’

‘I’ve got two myself now,’ he told her. ‘Two girls.’

‘Still with Kate then?’ She’d only met Kate a couple of times, briefly. Most police liked to keep work and home very separate.

‘Yeah,’ Sean answered. ‘She’s good, you know. A good mother.’

‘Good,’ Vicky replied. They were both avoiding the obvious question. This was Vicky’s territory. It was up to her to challenge Sean, friend or foe.

‘So what are you doing over here, Sean? Why’s a DI from SCG South arriving at my murder scene before I know about it?’

Sean looked a little sheepishly at Vicky. She hadn’t changed much either. She kept her auburn hair short and neat, for the practicalities of being a mother rather than those of being a police officer. Her plain face was improved by lots of laughter lines.

‘I think this murder’s linked to others,’ he told her.

‘Linked in what way? A drug war? Gangland?’

‘If only. This is something else. A possible repeat offender.’ He hated using the term serial killer. It seemed to somehow glamorize tragedy.

‘As in Yorkshire-Ripper-type repeat offender?’ Vicky asked.

‘I suppose so.’

‘And you’ve been authorized to run a task force on this?’

‘My superintendent is happy for me to take on any suspected linked cases. He’ll square it with yours in due course. In the meantime, I could do with all the help I can get.’

‘Such as?’ Vicky asked.

‘I need a few things to happen straight away.’

‘Go on.’

‘Check the mouth area for tape residue. I think her mouth was taped and the killer took it away with him. Check the drainpipe at the side of the house, and the bathroom window needs special attention. That’s how he got in and out. And I would like you to use my pathologist. He’s the best in London and he’s worked one of the other victims. I can make the call to him and get him to look at the body while it’s still in the flat. After that he’ll probably want it taken to his own mortuary at Guy’s Hospital.’

‘All victims from West London should go to Charing Cross,’ said Vicky. ‘The post-mortem should be performed by the pathologists for this area. There’s a lot of red tape around things like that. People get pissed off pretty quick if you start to ignore protocols.’

‘I understand, But the man who did this is still out there and he doesn’t give a shit about our red tape. He doesn’t care if he kills in South London, East London or West London. He just kills, and he’ll do everything he can do not to get caught. So why don’t we stop helping the bastard and break a few rules ourselves? Because if we don’t, I reckon we’ve got about one or maybe two weeks before I’ll be standing outside some other flat in some other part of London having the same conversation with some other DI.’ He ended with a plea. ‘Let’s not let that happen. Please.’

Vicky studied him for a couple of seconds. ‘Okay,’ she said finally. ‘I have a pretty good relationship with the pathologist for this area. I’ll explain it’s an unusual situation.’

‘Thanks. Now we need to get started. Time is not my friend here.’

‘It never is,’ she reminded him. ‘And it never will be.’

Sally waited for the door to the Surbiton house to open. When it did she noted the look of surprise on Paul Jarratt’s face.

‘DS Jones,’ he said.

‘Sorry to disturb you again,’ she apologized, ‘but would you believe it, I just happened to be in the area when I suddenly remembered something I needed to check with you.’

‘Such as?’ Jarratt asked, before remembering his manners. ‘Please. Come in.’

Sally stepped inside and followed him to the lounge. ‘I spoke with an old colleague of yours, DC Graham Wright − only he’s a DS now.’

‘Graham?’

‘I was doing some digging into Korsakov’s history and was hoping to compare his conviction fingerprints with marks found at our murder scene.’

‘And?’

‘They’ve gone missing. Seems they got up and walked out of Scotland Yard all by themselves.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought that was possible.’

‘No. Nor would I,’ Sally agreed. ‘DS Wright told me that he’d taken the prints from the Yard at your request. Do you recall why you pulled the prints?’

‘I seem to remember the prison where Korsakov was doing his time wanted them, but I can’t remember the details. Although I do remember giving the prints back to Graham so he could return them.’

‘And return them he did, at least according to Fingerprints’s records.’

‘Then I don’t see how I can help you find them.’

‘It’s just that you requested them back in ninety-nine,’ said Sally. ‘Not long before Korsakov was released from prison. That seems a little unusual.’

Jarratt laughed. ‘DS Jones, everything to do with Korsakov was a little unusual. However, I remember now. The prison needed the prints to copy on to their records. They liked to keep fingerprints of prisoners they deemed to be more dangerous than the norm. I suppose they consider it to be some sort of deterrent.’

‘Why would they wait until a few months before his release before deciding Korsakov needed such a deterrent?’

‘That, I cannot answer,’ Jarratt told her. ‘You would have to speak to the prison.’

Sally sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any need for that,’ she lied. ‘At the end of the day it still wouldn’t explain how the prints went missing. Probably just an administrative cock-up at Fingerprint Branch. I’ve wasted enough of your time.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Jarratt.

They said their goodbyes and Sally made her way to her car. She drove a couple of blocks before pulling over and retrieving the Korsakov file from her bag. She flicked through it and found the number she was looking for. Then she paused momentarily, remembering that Sean knew nothing of her investigation’s progress. Perhaps she should call him now, put him in the picture; but he had so many other things on his mind it would be better to speak to him later. She dialled and waited a long time before a military-sounding voice answered.

‘Wandsworth Prison. What can I do you for?’

Sean and Vicky approached Barnes police station. They’d been outside the scene for a while, briefing the forensic team and liaising with the coroner’s office. Sean had arranged to meet Sally at Barnes and update her. The police building was as ugly as ever. They parked outside the four-storey construction, bright red bricks in too-straight lines. It was hard to spot a window. When you did it was blacked out.

Vicky led the way to her office. It was three times the size of Sean’s and ten times cleaner and more organized. Sally, having returned from Surbiton, was waiting for them outside the office. Sean introduced her to Vicky and vice versa. The two female detectives eyed each other with a little suspicion. Sean felt it.

Vicky lifted a note she found on her desk. She looked at Sean. ‘It’s for you. Your pathologist has arrived at the scene, a Dr Canning.’

‘Good.’

‘And we’ve traced a sister. The first detectives on scene, Simpson and Watson, found it in her address book. She’s already on the fast train up from Devon. Squad car will pick her up at the station and bring her straight here. Should be with us soon.’

‘Parents?’ Sally asked.

Vicky scanned the note. ‘Yeah. They live in Spain. Retired. Apparently they’ll be here when they can get a flight. That won’t be easy at this time of year. Do you want to see the sister?’

Sean glanced across at Sally. ‘Yeah. Why not?’

‘I’ll arrange it now. Meanwhile, why don’t you tell me about your suspect? What you got on him so far?’

‘James Hellier,’ Sean said. ‘A wealthy, polished act. Works for a fancy firm of financers in Knightsbridge. Self-confessed sado-masochist. Last night he took our surveillance team on a run-around. He lost them about six p.m. He wasn’t picked up again until he got home, sometime after three a.m.’

Vicky raised her eyebrows. ‘The man knows he’s under surveillance and still he travels to Shepherd’s Bush and commits murder?’

‘He can’t stop himself,’ Sean told her. ‘The fact he knows he’s under surveillance probably only adds to his pleasure.’

‘If you’re so sure, let’s arrest him, strip him, swab him and have forensics do the rest,’ said Vicky.

‘We’ve tried that,’ Sean explained. ‘With the first murder. We found samples matching him at the scene, but he had an answer for everything. Claimed to have been having a long-standing sexual relationship with the victim. It was a waste of time. We showed our hand too soon. Handed him the initiative.

‘The second scene was different,’ he continued. ‘A young girl called Heather Freeman, a runaway teenager. She was abducted and killed on waste ground out near Dagenham. He cut her throat, but still the scene was left as clean as a whistle. Nothing but a plain footprint.

‘So we wait. If we get alien samples from the scene, we’ll move and arrest Hellier, but we wait until then.’ Sean saw Vicky moving in her chair. He knew what she was thinking. He held a hand up. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But trust me. Hellier won’t be contaminated with anything from the scene. Any clothing he used will be destroyed by now.’

‘You’re absolutely certain of that?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Not absolutely, but certain enough. I need something irrefutable. Whether it’s from one of the scenes or whether it’s something Hellier leads us to, I don’t care. But I’m not going to have him dance circles around me in an interview again. I need something damning.’

‘It’s your call, Sean, but don’t forget the Stephen Lawrence inquiry. Those guys were slaughtered for not making early arrests and seizing clothing for forensics. If you go down, I go down with you.’

‘No you won’t,’ Sean assured her. ‘Make an official note of your objections. I’ll do the same, and then you’re covered.’

‘Hold on,’ Vicky said. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I know it isn’t,’ Sean replied. ‘But the branch I’m on is too thin for two people. You register those objections. They’ll be entered into my Decision Log.’

Vicky didn’t argue further.

‘I’d like to get a briefing out to the media today.’ Sean changed the subject. ‘You do it, Vicky. Keep my name out of it and don’t mention the link to other murders. Make it an appeal for public assistance. I want to see it in the Evening Standard tonight.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Vicky. ‘Their crime editor owes me a couple of favours.’

A knock at the door ended the conversation. Sean turned to see a detective he didn’t recognize. ‘Sister’s here, guv’nor,’ was all he said.

Sean’s hand hesitated as it rested on the handle of the witness room. Linda Kotler’s sister waited inside. Sally was with him, but he’d decided to do the talking this time.

Telling someone a loved one had died was one thing. As devastating as that news could be, it was nothing compared to telling them someone they loved had been murdered. That news would shatter lives. The living would be forever haunted, imagining the last moments of those now dead. The worst was telling parents a child had been murdered − few marriages survived that burden. The parents see their dead child every time they look at each other. Eventually they can take no more reminding, no more torture, and push each other away.

Sean gently nudged the door open. He wanted her to see him entering. Debbie Stryer looked up. She was younger than he’d expected, healthy and slightly tanned. Her country complexion made Sean conscious of his own ghostly city skin. She’d been crying. Her eyes were pink and rimmed bright red. She wasn’t crying now. It was a long trip from Devon. Had she run out of tears?

She began to stand before Sean or Sally could stop her. Her sore eyes darted between them. Sean had seen that look on the faces of other victims’ loved ones. Fear, disbelief; desperate for information.

She spoke first. ‘Hello. I’m Debbie Stryer. Linda’s sister. Stryer’s my married name.’

Sean nodded that he understood. Sally held out a hand. When Debbie Stryer took it, Sally gently pulled her hand forward and embraced it with both of hers.

‘I’m Sally Jones. I’m a detective sergeant. I’ll be helping to catch whoever did this to your sister. I’m so sorry for your loss. Everybody tells us Linda was such a good person.’ Sally waited for a reaction. The tears began to fall in heavy drops from Debbie’s eyes. Real tears, like those of a child in pain. ‘You need to know we’ll catch the person who did this to Linda,’ Sally promised her.

Sean looked on in admiration. His plan to take the lead just hadn’t happened. If he tried to emulate Sally now, he would sound clumsy. He would introduce himself and help explain any procedural matters Debbie might wish to know, but little more.

He waited for Debbie Stryer to take her hand away from Sally. It was a long wait. She was struggling to speak clearly through her grief.

‘Thank you,’ she told Sally. ‘Thank you.’ She turned to Sean. The awfulness of the day was beginning to break her. She seemed to be visibly shrinking.

He held out his hand. She accepted it. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in charge of this investigation.’ He wanted to say more, but couldn’t find the right words.

Debbie almost immediately stopped crying. She looked at him strangely. This was not what he had expected. He’d only introduced himself. Just said his name. He couldn’t have said the wrong thing already.

‘She told me about you,’ Debbie said. She couldn’t help herself checking Sean’s left hand. She saw his wedding ring and almost smiled. ‘She didn’t tell me you were married. That’s typical of Linda.’

Sean and Sally simultaneously turned to each other, confusion and surprise etched on their faces.

Sean had briefed DI Townsend on the meeting with Debbie Stryer. She had listened almost without speaking. The only thing she said was that there must have been some mistake. Sean knew better. He was being played. Hellier was laughing at him.

But Hellier was taking an unnecessary risk in doing so. Showing off came with a price. Debbie Stryer was able to tell them he had approached her sister close to her home, sometime between eight and nine, maybe a little earlier. Christ, he’d even had a conversation with her in the middle of the street. He was beginning to think he was uncatchable. His sociopathic arrogance was matched only by his violence.

Sean and Sally donned forensic suits and entered Linda Kotler’s flat. It looked very different to how Sean remembered it, forensic examiners going about their work making it seem full of life. They went directly to the living room, where Sean had seen the docking unit for Linda Kotler’s home phone. He examined it without touching and saw traces of aluminium powder on both the phone and the base. ‘Has this phone been dusted yet?’ he asked a middle-aged woman, shapeless in her paper suit. They all resembled workers in a nuclear power plant.

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I did it.’

‘Have the messages been listened to?’ Sean asked.

‘No. We’ll do that back at the audio lab, for continuity.’ But Sean had had enough of waiting. He pressed the message playback button and hit the ‘speaker on’ switch. ‘I don’t think you should be doing that,’ the woman protested.

‘DI Corrigan. I’m in charge of this investigation.’

The machine beeped long and shrill. A ringing tone could be heard. Linda Kotler’s voice filled the room. Everyone stopped and listened to the woman who had been murdered only two plaster walls away.

They listened as the sisters chatted. This was it. Sean’s heart was going faster and faster. He knew what was coming, but he didn’t want to hear it.

‘And does this man have a name?’ Debbie asked.

He could see Sally watching him out the corner of her eye.

‘Sean,’ Linda’s voice said. ‘Sean Corrigan.’

The middle-aged forensics officer was staring at him now. ‘Haven’t you got work to do?’ he snapped. She moved quickly away.

Sean stood and led Sally to the bedroom, where they found Donnelly wearing a forensic suit. Sean also recognized the slim figure of Dr Canning, kneeling over Linda Kotler’s lifeless form. A number of labelled specimen jars and exhibit bags were spread across the floor close by, within easy reach of the pathologist. DC Zukov was doing his best to assist Canning.

‘Anything interesting yet?’ Sean asked.

Dr Canning was stony-faced. ‘Inspector Corrigan. I shall assume you are responsible for dragging me halfway across London.’

‘Sorry, but I felt it was necessary.’

‘Because you believe you have two connected murders. Sergeant Donnelly here filled me in on the details.’

‘Three murders,’ Sean corrected him. The pathologist frowned. ‘There was another. The first of the series occurred about two weeks ago. Post-mortem’s already been done, but I’d like you to cast an eye over it.’

‘Very well,’ Canning replied. He went back to work. He talked as he examined the body.

‘So elaborate. Probably the most elaborate bindings and ligatures I’ve ever encountered.’

‘Why?’ Sean asked. ‘What’s the purpose?’

Canning pointed to the knot on the stocking that ran along the victim’s spine. ‘That’s a slip knot. My best guess at this time would be that it’s a type of harness.

‘He positions the victim face down on the bed, then by pulling the slip knot up and down he can control the tightness of the bindings around her throat and legs simultaneously. Quite the instrument of torture.’

‘Anything else?’ Sean asked.

Canning scanned the body, wondering where to begin. ‘You’ll have to wait until the post-mortem before it’s confirmed, but I’m sure the cause of death will be strangulation.’ He pointed to the victim’s neck. ‘You can see the ligature’s sunk into the flesh quite deeply. Far more deeply than was necessary to kill her. Quite a surprise the skin didn’t break. There’s other severe bruising too. Probably all caused by the same ligature.’ Canning took a deep breath. ‘This is a strong man you’re looking for, Inspector.’

‘What caused the other bruising around the neck?’ Sean asked.

‘I believe the killer repeatedly tightened the ligature around her neck, but released it before death.’

‘And before she passed out too,’ Sean added.

‘I wouldn’t be able to say.’

‘He wouldn’t have let her pass out,’ Sean assured him. ‘He wouldn’t have let her escape into unconsciousness. Not even for a second.’

Canning raised his eyebrows. ‘It would appear he had knowledge of auto-erotic asphyxiation,’ he continued. ‘Popular with sado-masochists.’

Hellier’s face flashed in Sean’s mind.

‘She was sexually assaulted, too. Raped both vaginally and anally by the look of things. No immediate signs of semen or a lubricant. I suspect he used a dry condom.’

Canning spoke to DC Zukov. ‘Could you pass me that halogen lamp, please, Detective?’ Zukov passed him a metal-cased lamp that was big enough to be a helicopter searchlight. Canning flicked the lamp on. It gave off a less bright light than expected, but that wasn’t its purpose. Held at the right angle, it would allow the naked eye to observe otherwise near-invisible marks. Fingerprints, footprints, hairs, tiny fragments of metal …

Canning began to slowly sweep the light across the body. He started at the lowest point. In this case it was the knees. The legs were still bent and tied back so her feet almost touched her buttocks. The light moved to her back. ‘Hello there.’ Canning had found something. He froze the light on the victim’s back. Sean moved two steps closer.

‘Careful,’ Canning warned him. ‘We haven’t examined the entire area around the body yet.’

Sean stopped and crouched down. He craned his neck to get a better view of the victim’s back. ‘What is it?’

‘If I’m not very much mistaken,’ Canning said, ‘it’s a footprint.’ He moved the lamp to another angle. ‘Yes. There.’ The shoe-shaped bruise came more into focus. ‘Definitely a shoe mark. Pretty plain, though. No ridges or pattern.’

‘A plain-soled man’s shoe, between size eight and ten.’

‘Yes,’ Canning agreed. ‘That would be my guess. I’ll have it photographed back at the mortuary. Should show up well enough.’

‘Why would he do that?’ DC Zukov asked the question, the disgusted look clear on his face.

Sean knew why, but he wouldn’t say. He knew Canning would work it out.

‘He pressed down on her back with his foot while pulling the ligatures tighter. That’s probably when the other marks around the neck were caused.’

‘Sick bastard,’ Zukov said. ‘Sick, evil bastard.’

No one disagreed.

Needing a break from the scene, Sally stood outside in the street smoking. She doubted whether the male officers felt what she did for the victim. Did they ever feel vulnerable and scared like a woman could? Did they ever consider how intimidating a big man could be to a woman, just by standing a little too close in a bar, at a bus stop? Probably not.

What must it have been like for Linda Kotler? Those last minutes, God forbid hours, of her life. Totally overpowered by this man, this wild animal. Did the male officers have any real idea how hundreds of thousands of women across London would feel when details of the latest murder were released to the press?

Many would stop going out at night until he, the killer, was caught. Others would rush to buy rape alarms, some would start to carry offensive weapons. All would check the locks on their doors and windows. They would want their men home before dark.

Sally would be no different. When she thought of Linda Kotler, the way she had died, she couldn’t help but see her own face on the body. She shivered repeatedly. The cigarette helped a little.

God, she wished she had a lover. Someone special to share her life with, good or bad. Her achievements and her failures. Her hopes and her fears. This wasn’t an easy job to do alone.

Her thoughts turned to Sebastian Gibran. Was that what he wanted? To be her lover? When they’d first met his eyes had definitely rested on her for longer than normal. She was pretty sure he would be married, but maybe that didn’t matter to him. How did she feel about being a mistress to a wealthy benefactor? Was the whole ‘something sensitive to discuss’ a ruse to get her to meet him for lunch? Wine and dine her? Seduce her? She couldn’t deny she had found him attractive: power and presence in a man were strong aphrodisiacs. She would find out soon enough.

The cigarette grew hot between her fingers, snapping her back to the present. She tossed it away and headed back inside the scene, all thoughts of pleasanter things a distant memory.

Dr Canning moved the halogen lamp to the victim’s head. He held a fine-toothed comb in his other hand, the better to groom the victim’s hair before the body was moved. A tiny, vital piece of evidence could easily be lost when moving a body. With the help of DC Zukov, he’d lifted the head very slightly and slipped a three foot by three foot white paper sheet under her head. He began to comb the hair slowly from the scalp outwards.

As he combed, a little of her hair fell on to the sheet. Then he saw it, floating the short distance to the sheet. It landed gently. He dared not breathe. He swapped the comb and lamp for a plastic evidence bag and a pair of delicate metal tweezers. He moved the tweezers stealthily closer to the hair. When he was no more than an inch or two away he suddenly moved quickly, grabbing the hair in the small metal claw. He allowed himself to exhale.

Sean had been watching intently. As Canning held the hair above his head, Sean could see it glistening. ‘The victim’s?’ Sean asked.

‘Definitely not,’ Canning replied. ‘Too long and too fair. And there’s a root on it. Your lab shouldn’t have too much trouble getting DNA off it.’

Sean hid the excitement swelling in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. The root of that hair could solve this murder on its own.

‘What are the chances it belongs to our killer?’ he asked.

‘Unless there was another person here with the victim last night, I’d say it’s almost certainly the killer’s,’ Canning answered. ‘This hair wasn’t buried deep in amongst the victim’s. It was virtually sitting on top of hers, waiting to be found.’

Sean was still concerned. He wanted it to be absolute. In court it would have to be absolute. ‘How could that be?’ he asked. ‘A hair, with a root, just lying there?’

‘Most likely caused by the killer removing a head cover of some description,’ Canning surmised. ‘When you remove a hat or similar there is always a good chance you’ll pull a hair out, and often the root will come with it.’

‘So you think he took his off?’ Sean asked.

‘Yes. Hairs like this, with roots attached, don’t fall out naturally.’

‘Why the hell would he take his head cover off?’ Sean wondered.

‘That I can’t answer,’ Canning said. ‘But if he did take a head cover off, then we’ve a good chance of finding more hair on the body or around it. That would further diminish the possibility of an accidental transfer of hair from body to body at some other point during the day at another location.’ Sean understood the importance of eliminating that possibility. Defence solicitors had become skilled in arguing their way around forensic evidence.

The pathologist handed the evidence bag containing the hair to DC Zukov. He handled it as if it was an unstable bomb. Canning picked up his lamp again and began to examine the area around the body. He bent so low his face was almost on the carpet. Sean hadn’t blinked for minutes. He watched as Canning’s eyes suddenly narrowed. He saw him stretch out with his tweezers and snare the thin fibre. Canning looked directly at him.

‘It would seem the forensic gods are with us today, Inspector.’

‘The same?’ he asked.

‘I would say so,’ Canning answered. ‘This has a root too. DNA will no doubt confirm they come from the same person. If your killer’s on the National DNA Database, then it’ll be case closed for you.’

‘The man who did this isn’t on the database,’ Sean told him. ‘But that doesn’t matter, because I know where to find his DNA.’

Canning looked a little confused. ‘And where would that be?’

Sean answered: ‘In his blood.’

Hellier hadn’t been asked to see any clients in over two days. He no longer cared. Only a few weeks before he would have taken steps to ensure the firm weren’t trying to cut him out. Now it was irrelevant. The firm had served its purpose. He didn’t need them any more.

It was almost 6 p.m. Only he, Sebastian Gibran and the perfect secretary remained in the office. It was a shame he couldn’t be alone with the secretary. He would have liked to give the beautiful bitch a going-away present she wouldn’t forget, but he couldn’t risk it with Gibran lurking inside his office. Maybe sometime in the distant future their paths would cross again.

His mobile phone began to ring, the display telling him the number had been withheld. Something told him he should answer.

‘James Hellier speaking.’

‘Mr Hellier. You are in great danger.’ It was him again.

‘Like I said earlier – you were supposed to meet me last night.’ Hellier sounded strong. He knew how to dominate. ‘I don’t like being fucked around.’

‘I just want to help you,’ the voice said. ‘You must believe me.’

‘Why?’ Hellier demanded. ‘Why do you want to help me? You don’t know me.’

‘Are you sure of that?’ the voice asked.

Hellier didn’t answer. He was thinking. The caller sensed his doubt.

‘Corrigan. I can give you something, show you something that’ll keep him away from you. Keep them all away from you.’

‘I’m not worried about the police.’ Hellier sounded insulted. ‘They can’t touch me.’

‘Yes, they can,’ the voice replied. ‘Corrigan. He’s not intending to take you to court. He won’t risk that.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Hellier began to sound more concerned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Meet me tomorrow night if you value your neck as much as I think you do.’

‘Where?’ Hellier asked.

‘Somewhere in central London. I’ll call you again tomorrow. At about seven. And don’t bring the police. They’re still following you.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Hellier was too late. The line was dead.

The three unmarked cars drove down the middle of Bayswater Road. Traffic on both sides yielded to their sirens and madly spinning blue lights. They were heading towards Knightsbridge. Towards Hellier.

Sean had the forensic evidence he’d been praying for. The killer had made a serious mistake, but it was too early to say anything other than that the hairs appeared to be the same colour as Hellier’s. Sandy.

Sally drove while Sean sat in the passenger seat. She broke the silent tension. ‘Maybe we should process the hair first, guv’nor. Get its DNA profile and compare it to the DNA database?’ She had to shout to be heard above the screaming sirens.

‘Hellier’s not on the DNA database, remember. He’s got no previous,’ Sean argued.

‘Maybe the hairs aren’t Hellier’s,’ Sally persisted. ‘We could process them first and have them compared to profiles on the database. It could show they belong to someone other than Hellier and then we’d have a cast-in-iron suspect. And if we don’t get a hit on the database, then it’ll point more strongly towards Hellier being our man.’

‘Believe me,’ he reassured her, ‘Hellier’s our man.’

‘Then why don’t we compare the samples to the ones we’ve already taken off Hellier?’ She referred to those taken in Belgravia police station at the beginning of the investigation into the murder of Daniel Graydon. ‘Then before we even arrest him we’d know he killed Linda Kotler.’

‘You know we can’t use them,’ Sean shouted above the noise inside the car. ‘That was a different murder. We’d be slaughtered if we were ever found out.’ It was true. They couldn’t use elimination samples taken from a suspect or witness for one crime to prove they were involved in another. The suspect would have to be told specifically what investigation their samples were being used in, or they would be deemed to have been taken illegally.

‘Maybe we could do it so no one would know?’ Sally continued. ‘Just do it so we would know for sure it was Hellier. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t mention it in his initial interview, keep it to ourselves, then do it legally. Take new samples, whatever we have to, but at least we would know it was him. Interview him and let him hang himself with lies.’

‘No.’ Sean shook his head. ‘I can’t risk that. We do it properly. It’s Hellier, I know it. There’s no need to take shortcuts.’

Sally gripped the steering wheel harder and said nothing.

Sean tapped the number of the surveillance team leader into his mobile.

‘DS Handy.’ Sean could hear the radio chatter in the background.

‘Don – Sean. Where’s my man?’

‘He’s on the move,’ said DS Handy. ‘Just left his office on foot.’

‘Heading home?’ Sean asked.

‘Heading to the Tube station.’

‘We’re on our way to you,’ Sean told him. ‘We’re gonna take him out.’

‘Wait a minute,’ DS Handy said, ‘he’s hailing a cab.’ There was a pause. ‘Want us to take him out for you?’

‘No,’ Sean said. ‘Can you follow the cab?’

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult. Given that it’s lime green with a giant packet of Skittles on its side.’

‘Follow it.’ Sean made the decision. ‘But keep me up to date. You follow him and we’ll follow you.’

‘No problem.’

Sean could feel Sally looking between him and the road as she drove fast through the traffic.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing, sir,’ she said.

‘There’s more out there for us, Sally. This could be our last chance to let Hellier lead us to something.’

‘What more do we need? We have his hair. His DNA will match.’ She was nervous for both of them. Sean was taking a risk. Maybe one he didn’t have to take.

‘We have hairs,’ Sean pointed out. ‘Not necessarily Hellier’s. And they bother me. Too easy. All of a sudden he drops two rooted hairs right where we can find them. Hellier’s smart. Certainly smart enough to plant someone else’s hair at the scene. Imagine what that would do to any case against him. His defence would have a fucking field day. We’d never even get it to court. If I think I can get more, I’ll take the chance.’

‘Just because it was easy doesn’t mean it’s not right.’

Sean didn’t answer her. She tried again.

‘The law says that when we have evidence to arrest, we should arrest.’ Sally quoted the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. She was right and Sean knew it.

‘Only until he goes home.’ Sean sought to assure her. ‘If he doesn’t lead us to something before then we arrest him.’

Sally exhaled and tried to concentrate on the road ahead.

‘Bryanston Street. Marble Arch,’ Hellier calmly told the cab driver, who gave a nod and pulled away without speaking. Hellier tried to relax in the back, but he knew he was being followed again and there were more of them this time − he’d already counted fourteen. He could run around the Tube system, but there was a chance they would have enough bodies to stay with him. He would try something else.

The cab drove into Bryanston Street. Hellier tapped on the glass screen designed to keep the drunks and psychotics at bay. ‘Here’s fine,’ he said. The taxi pulled into the kerb. Hellier poked a ten-pound note through the screen, got out and walked away without waiting for change. He entered the Avis car rental shop. He knew they were still watching.

Sean’s phone rang, startling him. He was walking a tightrope that left him feeling wired.

‘DS Handy, guv. Looks like your boy’s about to hire a car.’

‘Problem?’ Sean asked.

‘No. I’d rather he was in a car than running around on foot.’

‘Fine. We stay with him until I say otherwise.’ Sean hung up. Sally said nothing.

Hellier rented the largest and fastest car they had. He used the driving licence in the name of James Hellier and paid with an American Express Black Card in the same name. He would miss James Hellier.

The black Vauxhall slipped into Bryanston Street. The threelitre V-6 engine gave a reassuring growl. Hellier began to relax a little as he listened to the engine’s cylinders gently thudding above the low revs.

At the end of the road he turned left into Gloucester Place and joined the three lanes of traffic all heading north. He kept pace with the traffic, but no more. He stopped carefully at traffic lights and showed no hurry to pull away. He didn’t need to check his mirrors. He knew they would be following, running parallels along the adjacent streets, leap-frogging to the junctions ahead, changing the cars immediately behind him as often as they could.

He turned left into the Marylebone Road and headed west. The traffic was lighter than he had expected. That was unfortunate. He drove carefully.

He headed up and on to the Marylebone Flyover and joined the Westway, a small motorway raised above the heart of West London designed to speed commuters to the traffic jams of the M4 and M40 that inevitably awaited.

He began checking his mirrors constantly. They couldn’t run parallels to him now. As he drove above Paddington and Notting Hill, they had only one way of staying with him: follow him along the Westway.

He began to make a mental note of all the cars ahead and behind him. Any one of them could be the police: best to remember them all and assume the worst. Effective counter-surveillance relied on the target assuming the worst.

He drove for about ten minutes before reaching his exit. The sign read Shepherd’s Bush and Hammersmith. He moved into the exit lane. He glanced in his mirror. He saw several cars’ indicators blinking, signalling they too would be leaving the Westway. Any police cars that had been ahead of him were already out of the chase. They would have to stay on the motorway until they could exit at Acton, another four miles along. By the time they rejoined their colleagues, he would be gone.

He left the Westway and followed the large slip road, the West Cross Route, that took him to a major roundabout. Only at the roundabout did he make the final decision where he would go. He could turn left along Holland Park, back towards central London. Or straight over towards Earl’s Court, along Holland Road. No. He needed traffic. He turned right at the roundabout and drove past Shepherd’s Bush Green on his right and then turned left into Shepherd’s Bush Road, heading towards Hammersmith.

The three cars of the arrest team waited in Hyde Park for an update. Alone in the middle car, Sean and Sally listened to the surveillance team’s coded chatter on the radio. It made little sense to them. They tried to work out where the team could be, but it was no use. They relied on telephone updates alone.

Sean’s phone rang again.

‘Smart lad, your boy,’ DS Handy told him. ‘He took the one route I didn’t want him to take. Over the Westway. He dropped off at Shepherd’s. We’ve already lost our two lead cars. They’re trying to make their way back from Acton.’

‘Do you still have him?’ Sean’s tension was palpable.

‘Yeah. We’ve got plenty of coverage.’ Handy sounded calm in comparison.

‘Where is he now?’

‘Approaching Hammersmith.’

‘We’re on our way,’ said Sean. ‘Travelling time from Marble Arch. Don’t lose him, Don. Whatever you do, don’t lose him.’

Hellier cruised towards the chaotic one-way system of Hammersmith that was little more than a giant roundabout. Four lanes of traffic looped around a central shopping complex. The traffic was always a disaster.

The traffic lights immediately ahead were green, but he wasn’t ready to enter the one-way system yet. He stopped at the green light and studied his rearview and side mirrors. The white van behind him beeped politely twice. When he didn’t move, it gave him a long angry blast of the horn. Still the lights were green. Still he wouldn’t move.

He could see the van driver in his mirror, leaning out of his window now, shouting obscenities. Another blast on the van’s horn. The van would be a useful barrier between him and his pursuers, but it alone would not be enough.

The lights changed to red just as the van driver was climbing from his cabin, malicious intent spread across his face. Hellier didn’t wait for a break in the traffic speeding across in front of him. He floored the accelerator. The rear wheels of the big automatic gripped almost instantly and launched the car towards the passing vehicles.

‘Move. Move. Move,’ DS Handy screamed at his driver. ‘Stay with him. For fuck’s sake, stay with him. Shit.’ He could see Hellier had pulled further ahead. ‘You’re losing him.’

‘What’s the fucking point?’ the driver snapped back. ‘We’re burnt. He’s wasted us. We can’t follow him driving like this and not show out.’

‘Don’t worry about staying covert,’ Handy was shouting. ‘Take the fucker out. Take him out.’

Hellier had already turned right into Hammersmith Road. He gunned the Vauxhall east, towards Kensington. Confused drivers jammed the road in front of the surveillance cars. They couldn’t move, trapped in traffic. Hellier was gone.

Sean spoke into his phone. He didn’t say much, just the occasional word. ‘How?’ ‘Where?’ He paled noticeably the more he listened. ‘Get back to Knightsbridge, and cover his home too.’

He felt sick. Hellier was lost again. He’d made a bad decision, one he was going to have to live with. He rubbed his reddening eyes hard. Exhaustion threatened to overtake him. He looked at Sally. ‘Damn it.’

‘We’ll find him,’ Sally reassured him.

‘Only if he wants us to,’ he said. ‘Only if he’s still playing games with us. With me.’

Hellier dumped the car and made absolutely sure he was alone before walking the short distance to High Street Kensington underground station and descending calmly to the platforms. He caught the first District Line train for two stops to South Kensington. Out of the station, he walked quickly along Exhibition Road, scanning the area for police. There were none. He turned right into Thurloe Place and walked along the row of shops. He knew exactly where he was going.

He looked through the window of Thurloe Arts, casting a knowledgeable eye over the paintings that adorned the interior. It was more of a mini-gallery than a shop, although he decided most of it was crap.

An old-fashioned bell rang above the door as he opened it. Almost immediately the owner appeared from the back of the shop, breaking into a welcoming smile when he saw Hellier.

‘Mr McLennan. What a pleasant surprise. How are you?’

‘I’m very well,’ Hellier replied. ‘How has life been treating you these past few years?’

‘I mustn’t complain. Business is a little unpredictable, but could be worse.’

‘Then I hope our arrangement has been of some financial assistance?’

‘Indeed it has, sir,’ the shopkeeper answered. ‘Am I to take it that is the purpose of your visit?’

‘You are.’

‘If you would be good enough to wait here a moment.’

Hellier nodded. The owner went to the back of the shop, returning a couple of minutes later. He held the door to the rear area open.

‘This way, please.’

Hellier walked behind the counter and into the rear of the shop where he was led to a small windowless room lit by a single uncovered light bulb. There was a table and one chair in the middle, surrounded by bare yellow walls. On the table was a metal box, one foot by nine inches, a heavy combination padlock hanging from its side. Hellier entered the room and found it just as he remembered it from his previous visit, three years ago. The shopkeeper made his excuses and left.

Taking a seat, Hellier examined the outside of the box. It seemed intact. He studied the lock closely. It was untainted. No telltale metal scratch marks. The dials remained at the settings he had left them on three years ago. He pulled a pair of thin leather gloves from his pocket and slipped his hands into the silk lining.

He turned the combination dials and pulled at the lock. Three years was a long time. With a little effort it popped open. He wiggled it free from the box and placed it carefully on the table.

He lifted the lid up as if opening a precious jewellery box. He removed an object wrapped in a white cloth and placed it next to the lock. He would look at it later. He needed to check something else first.

He lifted a heavy parcel from the box. It was wrapped in several yellow dusters, which he patiently unfolded as if peeling back the petals of a tropical flower. The black-grey metal inside shone. He was pleased he’d taken the effort to oil the Browning 9mm automatic pistol before locking it away. He’d made plenty of enemies over the years. He doubted they could find him, but just in case they did, he had insurance.

He checked the two magazines: both held a full load of thirteen 9mm high-velocity bullets. They had been harder to obtain than the gun itself. Squaddies were happy to sell weapons stolen from poorly guarded armouries, but for some reason they were reluctant to sell the bullets to go with them.

Hellier pulled at the back of the gun. The top slide glided backwards and smoothly cocked the weapon. He squeezed the trigger. The hammer hit the firing pin with a reassuring metallic click. Satisfied, he pushed one of the magazines into the butt of the gun. The other he slid into his inside jacket pocket. He tucked the pistol into the small of his back, held in place by his belt.

He opened the other parcel. He laughed at the items inside. A dark brown wig with eyebrows to match. A moustache, no beard. A pair of prescription spectacles. He tried them on. They affected his eyesight, but he could see through them. He picked up the tube of theatrical make-up glue. He squeezed a drop on to his left index finger and rubbed his thumb and finger together. The glue was still good. He rolled the parcel back in the cloth and stuffed it into his trouser pocket as he stood.

He shut the box and replaced the padlock. He set the numbers as he had found them and left the room. The shopkeeper was waiting for him.

‘Everything as it should be?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Everything was fine,’ Hellier replied. ‘Tell me, is there a sports shop near here?’

Sally and the others had decided to retreat to the one pub they ever used, close to Peckham police station. The landlord was only too happy to be running a ‘police pub’. It all but guaranteed his premises remained free of trouble, except for the occasional bust-up between coppers. And that was always dealt with in-house so no black marks went against his licence.

Sally’s phone rang.

‘Sally Jones speaking.’

‘DS Jones, I’m Prison Officer English, from Wandsworth Prison.’

Sally hadn’t expected the prison to call her out of hours. ‘You have something for me?’

‘Your inquiry into a former prisoner: Korsakov, Stefan, released in 1999. You wanted to know why we requested his fingerprints?’

‘Yes.’

‘We made no request for his fingerprints from Scotland Yard.’

‘Are you positive?’

‘Absolutely. Our records are correct. There’s no mistake.’

‘No,’ Sally said, more to herself than anyone. ‘I’m sure there isn’t. Thank you.’ She hung up.

Donnelly appeared next to her. ‘Problem?’

‘Someone’s been lying to me.’

‘About what?’

‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Right now I need another drink.’

Hellier found the small sports shop easily enough. He selected a dark blue Nike tracksuit, the plainest he could find. He added a white T-shirt, white Puma training shoes and a pair of white socks to his basket. He asked for the items to be placed in separate plastic bags. He had been an easy customer who paid cash. The assistant was more than happy to lavish him with extra plastic bags.

He left the shop, headed back to the Tube station and caught a train to Farringdon. He didn’t have to search long to find what he wanted. A bar where men and women in suits mixed easily enough with others wearing casual clothes, even tracksuits.

He ordered a stiff gin and tonic from the bar. Gin, lots of ice, lime not lemon. The barman was good. The long drink both refreshed him and gave his brain a nice alcoholic kick, without affecting his clarity of thought – his control.

Hellier sat and familiarized himself with the layout of the bar. Satisfied, he went to the men’s toilet, entered a cubicle and shut the door. It was fairly solid. That was good. He looked up at the window. It was quite high. If he tried to climb out of it, he would be seen. It was probably sealed shut anyway.

He checked the toilet cistern. It was low on the wall. That was good. He lifted the lid from the cistern. Then he emptied the contents of the plastic bags on to the toilet seat, taking the gun from his belt and the spare magazine from his jacket pocket. He placed them on the tracksuit. Next he took the training shoes out of the box and wrapped them, the T-shirt and the socks in the tracksuit making a tight parcel; the shoes flattened to little more than the width and thickness of the soles, the light material of the T-shirt and tracksuit folded to almost nothing. He placed them in one of the smaller plastic bags and tied a knot at the open end. He placed that bag inside another and fastened it with a tight knot.

At the last minute he recalled that the man who described himself as a friend would be calling on his mobile phone tomorrow at seven. He pulled the phone from a pocket and looked at it pensively. If the police were waiting for him, they would surely seize the phone. They always did. It was the only way he had of allowing the ‘friend’ to contact him. He decided he couldn’t take the risk, but no matter what, he would have to recover the phone before 7 p.m. the next day. Separating the phone from its battery, he undid the plastic bags and dropped both phone and battery in. Then he wrapped and knotted the bags again.

Hellier was about to place the plastic bag in the toilet cistern when he stopped short. The gun was too big a prize to risk. Maybe he should just check into a hotel for the night instead of going home; that way he could stay hidden until it was time to meet the man from the phone calls. He shook his doubts away. He would go home. The police would undoubtedly be waiting for him there, but it wasn’t as if they were going to arrest him. What did they have? Nothing. If they had, they would have arrested him earlier, instead of trying to follow him. And even if they did arrest him, so what? He would be out in time to make the meeting and he would know whatever the police were thinking too. It was an uneven match. Every time the police moved against him they had to tell him what they knew. The laws of the land demanded it. This was a fair and just country. He, on the other hand, had to tell them nothing. And if they were stupid enough to try and follow him again after today, which he absolutely believed they were, then he had made plans for that too.

All doubt gone, he smiled to himself and tucked the plastic bag containing the clothes and pistol neatly into the toilet cistern, expertly packing it around the working parts as he’d practised hundreds of times before, ensuring enough water was allowed into the small tank. He flushed once to make certain it still worked and watched the cistern fill again. Satisfied, he replaced the lid and left the bar carrying the largest of the plastic bags containing only the empty shoebox. He would squash it flat and dump it in a bin on his way to the underground station and home.

It was almost ten p.m. on Thursday. Sean sat alone in his office. The inquiry room was dark and quiet. The rest of the team had adjourned to a nearby pub, where they would be deep into analysing what had gone wrong. They would argue Hellier should have been arrested earlier, that it had been an unnecessary risk to try and follow him around London on the off-chance he would lead them to some clinching evidence. Sean’s absence from the pub would be noticed, but it would be welcome too. They could speak their minds better if he wasn’t around.

He unlocked his bottom desk drawer and pulled out an unopened bottle of dark rum and a heavy, shallow glass. The rum had been in there for months. He only kept it out of a sense of tradition. He had rarely felt the need to use it, until now.

He poured an inch of rum into the glass and rolled it around. He put the glass tentatively to his lips and drank a quarter of it in one go. It was a lot for him. The back of his throat burned painfully, but he enjoyed the warmth of the liquid.

He reached forward for his desk phone. He needed to call Kate. His ringing mobile stopped him. He answered sounding tired and dispirited.

‘Guv. It’s Jean Colville.’ DS Jean Colville was running the relief surveillance team, brought in to cover while DS Handy’s team regrouped and licked their collective wounds. ‘Thought you’d like to know your man just arrived home like nothing happened.’

Sean sprang to his feet as if suddenly standing to attention. ‘What’s he wearing?’ he asked.

‘Suit and tie,’ Jean answered.

‘How’s he look?’

‘Fine. Normal I guess.’ She sounded puzzled.

‘Okay,’ Sean said. He checked his watch. Damn. Half his team would be semi-drunk by now, the other half would have headed off towards whichever corner of London they lived in. Had there been time since he went missing for Hellier to find a victim, kill and return home as if nothing had happened? Sean doubted it. No, this evening he’d been up to something else. Better to let the team rest for a while. What more could he lose?

‘I need you to keep him under obs tonight,’ he told DS Colville. ‘I’ll be there in the morning to take him out. Hopefully he won’t move again until then.’

‘No problem, guv,’ Jean answered. ‘If he moves, I’ll let you know.’

‘Thanks.’ Sean hung up, waited a few seconds and called Sally. When she answered he could hear she was in the pub.

‘Sally. It’s Sean.’

‘Please tell me you’re not still at work.’ She sounded sober enough.

‘Contact Donnelly and the rest of the team.’ He knew Donnelly at least would be close by. ‘Six a.m. briefing back here. We’re taking Hellier out before he leaves for work.’

‘Before he leaves for work?’ she asked. He could hear the confusion in her voice. ‘He’s gone home?’

‘Don’t ask me why,’ Sean replied. ‘I don’t know what he’s up to, but we’re going to finish this tomorrow.’

The light shining through the front door window was not a good sign. It was past eleven and he’d expected all to be quiet and dark inside. He turned the key as quietly as he could and carefully pushed the door open. The scent of the family who lived inside pleasantly assaulted his olfactory system. As he stepped inside he could hear the television quietly playing in the lounge. He followed the sound. Kate lay on the sofa, and Louise lay across her chest, sleeping fitfully.

‘What is she doing out of bed?’ Sean asked his wife.

She shushed him before answering. ‘She has a temperature. Something going around at nursery.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘She’ll be fine. I’ve given her some Calpol. I just hope she doesn’t give it to Mandy. I could do without having to look after two sick children.’ Louise stirred on Kate’s chest.

‘If it comes to that, I’ll take some time off work and help out.’

‘Take some time off work?’ she whispered. ‘How do you plan on doing that?’

‘We’ve had a break in the case. Things should start happening pretty quickly now. With any luck we’ll be able to charge our suspect and wrap things up within a few days.’

‘And then, no doubt, you’ll inherit another case and we’ll be back to the same old routine.’

‘It’s late and I have an early start tomorrow,’ he said. ‘This is probably not a good time to discuss this. You’re tired and stressed. Having this conversation won’t help.’

‘Yes. You’re right. I am tired and stressed, as you would be if you’d been at home alone with two young children, one of whom is sick.’ She managed to keep her voice down, despite her frustration.

‘What do you want me to do, Kate? I get away from work as soon as I can, but sometimes it’s not possible to walk away at five o’clock. I don’t have that luxury. I don’t do a normal job.’

‘It’s this damn Murder Squad. It’s too unpredictable. I never know when I’m going to see you. When the kids are going to see you. I can’t plan anything like normal people do. When was the last time we did anything as a family? When was the last time we had a decent holiday? When was the last time you helped bath the kids, Sean? You know, I work too. Sometimes I need you to be here to help out.’

‘I want to be here,’ he told her. ‘But I don’t know how I can make things easier. I don’t sell fucking shoes, Kate. I solve murders. I stop people who kill. I can’t do this job with one hand tied behind my back.’

There was a silence before Kate replied: ‘Is that what we are to you, Mandy, Louise and I? Some kind of handicap you’d be better off without?’

‘No. No,’ he insisted. ‘That’s not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant, but I need my mind to be clear if I’m going to have any chance of catching these people quickly. If I’m constantly worrying about getting home for bathtime or dinner, I can’t think properly. I can’t think the way I need to think. You and the kids have no place in that world, believe me.’

‘But you’re missing them, Sean. Before you know it, they’ll be leaving home and you won’t be able to get that time back. It’ll be gone.’

‘Do you want me to leave the police? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘No,’ she assured him. ‘That’s the last thing I want. Doing what you do makes you what you are. You need to be a cop. It’s a calling for you, not a job. But maybe it’s time to consider doing something else in the police. Something you can have more control over. Something more predictable. Get away from all this … death.’

‘But it’s what I’m best at. Where I can do things no one else can.’

‘You’ve done your bit, Sean. You’ve given enough of yourself. No one is going to think less of you if you ask for a change.’

Sean glanced at his watch and sighed. ‘Maybe you’re right. I’ll start asking around to see what’s on offer, but it’ll take a while. They won’t let me go until they’ve found a replacement.’

‘I understand that,’ she said. ‘And I don’t want you to rush into anything either. Just think about it. That’s all I ask.’