DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 5-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network and The Toy Taker

Sean turned to Donnelly. ‘Have you still got that snapshot of Hellier I took?’

‘Aye,’ Donnelly answered and pulled the photograph from his jacket pocket, handing it to Sean who in turn handed it to Sally.

‘If you do track the investigating officer down, show him this,’ Sean told her. ‘See if he recognizes him.’

‘I thought you said it couldn’t possibly be Hellier?’ Donnelly argued.

‘No harm in double checking. Kill the possibility off once and for all.’ Sean turned to Sally. ‘Once you’ve done that, concentrate on this Korsakov character until you’re happy you’ve got enough to eliminate him as a viable suspect.’

‘And if I can’t eliminate him?’

‘You will,’ Sean assured her. ‘You will.’

Hellier only ventured out twice all day − once to the local shop for the Sunday papers and then later for an afternoon stroll with his family around the leafy suburban streets. Both his children held on to their mother’s hands as Hellier walked a few paces behind.

He couldn’t have made it easier for the surveillance team to follow him. He thought he had spotted some of them. Hard to tell, best to stay paranoid for the time being. Always assume the worst. That way he would never be caught cold.

Now he sat in his cream and steel kitchen watching his wife clear up after the evening meal. He pushed his half-eaten food away and sipped on a glass of Pauillac de Latour.

‘No appetite?’ Elizabeth asked, smiling. Hellier didn’t hear. ‘Not hungry tonight, darling?’ She raised her voice slightly.

‘Sorry, no,’ Hellier answered. ‘That was delicious, but just not feeling too hungry.’ He was with her only in body. His mind was outside with the surveillance team in the streets around his house, circling him as a pack of hyenas would an isolated lion.

‘Worried about something?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘No. Why would I be?’ Hellier didn’t like being questioned by anybody.

‘What about this identity fraud thing the police were looking into?’

‘That was nothing,’ Hellier insisted. ‘Like I told you, it was all a mistake. The police made a mistake, surprise, surprise.’

‘Of course,’ she backed down.

‘You did tell them I was at home all night, didn’t you?’ Hellier asked without apparent concern.

‘I said exactly what you told me to.’

‘Good.’ But Hellier could tell she needed more. ‘Look, I was at a very sensitive meeting that night. The company wanted me to meet some potential clients, very important clients, but they were a little worried about their backgrounds. Beware Africans bearing large amounts of cash, as we say these days. They wanted me to run the rule over them, that’s all, see if their wealth could be obviously identified as ill-gotten gains. If so, we wouldn’t touch them. All the same, we can’t afford to have the police sniffing around our affairs − it would be very bad for business. Our clients expect complete confidentiality and privacy. I couldn’t tell the police the truth. I’m sorry I dragged you into it, darling, but I really had no choice.’

Elizabeth seemed happy with that. Even if she didn’t entirely believe him, the explanation was itself at least believable. ‘You should have told me that straight away, dear. I would have understood. But I’d watch out for that DI Corrigan,’ she warned him. ‘He didn’t come across as the usual PC Plod. There was something unnerving about him. Some sort of animal cunning.’

Hellier felt rage suddenly swelling in his chest, his temples throbbing, his body trembling involuntarily, but the expression on his face never changed from calm and content. He couldn’t stand to hear his adversary being complimented. Even if his wife had meant it as an insult, it gave Corrigan more credibility in his eyes, even suggested he should somehow fear him. His fists clenched under the table as he imagined Elizabeth’s smashed and bleeding face, his own knuckles bleeding, shredded on her teeth.

He waited until the rage had swept over him and died, like a passing hurricane, before rising from the table. He kissed her softly on the cheek. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, darling,’ he said. ‘I need to do a little work. The price we have to pay.’

Hellier headed for his study. He went through the ritual of recovering the key to his safe and then opening it. He flicked through the small address book he’d pulled from inside and found what he was looking for. He called the number.

‘Hello?’ the voice answered.

‘You’d better call off your fucking dogs,’ Hellier hissed.

‘That’s not possible. I haven’t got that sort of influence.’ The voice sounded matter-of-fact. Hellier didn’t like that.

‘Listen to me, you fucking moron. As much as it amuses me having these incompetents trying to follow me, they might just stumble across something we’d both rather they didn’t. So you’d better think of something, and soon.’

‘I’ve already done more than I should,’ the voice protested. ‘I’ve stuck my neck out. I can’t do anything else. I won’t.’

‘Wrong again. I hope you’re not going to make a habit of slipping up. I think you know how costly your mistake could be.’

Hellier didn’t wait for a reply. He hung up. He heard his wife call out. She wanted to know if he wanted coffee.

11

I was late for work today. No matter. I went to my corner office, in an old building in central London. I have a lovely view of the street below. I like to watch people walking past. The office is all mine. I’m wealthy, but I hate this job. I shouldn’t have to work. Everybody else works and I’m far from being like everybody else. I shouldn’t have to work, but it is necessary for my illusion.

I sit in my leather chair and absorb a couple of tabloid papers while slurping on a skinny caffè latte. Two sugars. The papers are full of the usual garbage. Famine threatens millions in some African country. Flooding threatens millions in some Asian country. The usual appeals for money and clothes. Some rock star on the television, suddenly remorseful about their wealth and fame, screaming about how guilty we should all feel.

Why can’t everyone understand? These people have been selected by Nature to die. Stop interfering. Nature knows best. You keep them alive now so in a year’s time they die of a disease instead, or you cure the disease and they die of starvation. So you rid the world of starvation and they kill each other by the tens of thousands in tribal wars. These do-gooders are ignorant fools trying to buy a ticket into Utopia. Let us leave these millions to Nature − let them fucking die.

I am Nature itself. I do what I was born to do and I don’t feel guilty. I have freed myself from the shackles of compassion and mercy. Some of you are simply meant to die by my hand and so you will. Who am I to argue with Nature? Who are you to? Nothing can stand in the way of Nature’s design.

But I’m no sick case locked in a bed, sitting alone every night slashing my chest with razor blades while masturbating to violent pornography. Not me. I’m no self-destructive psychiatric case just waiting or hoping to be caught. Neither am I seeking fame or notoriety. I don’t even want to be infamous. You’ll not see me sending the police clues, playing a game, phoning them up with tasty morsels of information. None of that interests me. I’ll give them nothing. I must remain free to continue my work. That is all that’s important now.

And even if they do catch up with me, they’ll never prove a thing.

My third visit was the most satisfying experience of my life. A development. A further sign of my growing strength and power.

In a way it is merciful. A new-born killer can make a terrible mess of things. Prolong the victim’s agony. An efficient killer is exactly that. Efficient. I grow more efficientwith each kill. That’s not to say I don’t like to have a little fun, every now and then.

Besides, I have to make a mess sometimes, to keep the police guessing. Can’t stick to the same method of dispatching the chosen few. That would make it all too easy. They’re already sniffing around very close to home, not that that concerns me.

I rented another car. A big fat Vauxhall, with a big fat boot to match. The car rental companies around London were doing quite nicely out of me lately. Still, I was doing quite nicely out of them. Again I parked the car in a car park overnight, this time in the shopping centre at Brent Cross in North London. I bought a new raincoat from the same shopping centre, along with new plastic-soled shoes. I bought a nylon T-shirt and a new pair of black Nike training bottoms, all of which I stored in the hired car until I needed them.

I was all set. I returned to the car park early the following evening. The shops were still open. I took the clothes from the boot of the car and changed into them in a public toilet. I returned to the car and quickly covered the real number plates with false ones. I had been careful to park in a CCTV blind spot.

All went smoothly and I drove south towards King’s Cross railway station, a modern monstrosity of a building. I drove against the flow of traffic and arrived there around 8 p.m. It wasn’t quite dark yet, so I parked the car in a side street. It was free to park at this time of night. That was important. I couldn’t risk a parking ticket or the unwanted attention of a bored policeman.

I left the car and walked towards the West End, along Euston Road. From my research I knew there was a Burger King close to St Pancras station. Despite the excited tightness in my belly I felt a little hungry, so decided to grab a bite to eat. It was as good a way as any to kill an hour and let the night grow dark. Wait until winter comes, I thought. Sixteen hours of darkness a day. What fun we’ll have then.

I ate my Whopper with cheese, chewed a few fries and slurped a diet 7UP. I amused myself watching the people milling around me, unaware they were dancing so close to death. Young foreign students mainly, being served by life’s losers.

My attention became focused on three young Spanish girls. They picked at their food and giggled. They were attracting the attention of a group of dark-skinned youths. I didn’t think the youths were Spanish − probably Italian or, worse, Albanian. Probably more interested in stealing the girls’ handbags than their virginity.

I would have liked to tie the giggling girls up. Spend plenty of time with them. Watch their tears of pain and fear flow, hear their stifled squeals of agony and humiliation as I had my fun with them one by one. Then I’d make them watch and see my power as I slit their throats. A twisted, bloody tribute to the beauty of violent death.

I had to calm myself. My imagination was over-exciting me and the tightness in my belly was becoming painful. I had my subject for the night. It had been arranged. Carefully planned. I had to guard against acting on impulse. The Spanish girls would live. Someone else would not.

When the time came, I left the restaurant. On the way out I walked close to the Spanish girls. I breathed them in deeply. They smelled sweet. Like bubble gum. One of them glanced at me and smiled. I smiled back. Her friends noticed and all three returned to a giggling scrum. Some other time, perhaps.