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

Donnelly could bear her twittering no longer. ‘Mrs Hellier, this is gonna happen with or without your objections. The quicker and easier this is, the sooner we’ll be out of here. Why don’t you take a seat in the kitchen? Have a cup of tea and stay out of the way.’

He steered Mrs Hellier into the kitchen, guiding her on to a stool. Another detective peered around the kitchen door.

‘Dave,’ he said, ‘we’ve got a locked door.’

‘My husband’s study,’ Mrs Hellier said. ‘He always keeps it locked during the day. I don’t know where the key is. I think he takes it to work.’

‘Fine,’ Donnelly said. He turned to the detective. ‘Break it open.’

‘What?’ Mrs Hellier almost squealed. ‘Please, contact my husband. He’ll open it for you, I’m sure.’

‘I think he’s probably got other things on his mind right now, Mrs Hellier.’ As Donnelly spoke, he could hear the unmistakable sound of splintering wood.

Sean left the others to complete the search of Hellier’s office. It would take hours. He’d travelled back to Peckham police station with Hellier, who had stared out of the window all the way. Hellier hadn’t responded to any approaches Sean had tried and he’d tried plenty. Disgust. Aggression. Threats. Compassion. Understanding. It had been Sean’s only chance to go one-on-one with Hellier before the rulestook over. Nothing had moved him. Yet.

Even when he was booked into the custody area, Hellier never spoke except to give his name and the details of the solicitor he demanded to speak with immediately. The custody officer assured him the solicitor would be called. He was about to have Hellier taken to his cell when Sean spoke. ‘One other thing …’

‘Yes?’ the sergeant asked.

‘We want the clothes he’s wearing. All of them.’

‘Okay. Take him to his cell – number four’s free. Forensic suits are in the cupboard at the end of the cell passage.’

Sean knew where the white paper suits were. Replacement clothing for suspects whose own clothes had been seized. They marked suspects who’d been arrested for serious crimes. Rapists. Murderers. Armed robbers. Police and other prisoners alike always paid more attention to men in white paper suits.

‘Is there anyone I can call to have some replacement clothes brought for you, Mr Hellier?’ the sergeant asked. Hellier didn’t reply. The sergeant shrugged his shoulders. ‘He’s all yours, guv’nor.’

Sean nodded his appreciation and led Hellier to his cell.

DC Alan Jesson followed Sean and Hellier into the miserably dreary cell. He carried the brown paper bags all clothing exhibits were sealed in. Plastic bags caused too much moisture. Moulds could grow quickly and destroy vital evidence. Paper let the clothes breathe. Kept evidence intact.

‘Strip. Take everything off and then put this on.’ Sean threw the white paper suit on the stone bench.

Hellier smiled and began to undress. The detective constable carefully folded Hellier’s Boss suit, Thomas Pink shirt and the rest of his clothing, then slid them into the brown paper bags. The detective wasn’t concerned about creasing the clothes; he was taking care not to lose any forensic evidence that might be entwined in the fibres of the clothing.

Sean glanced at Hellier’s virtually naked body. He had the physique of an Olympic gymnast, only slimmer, denser and more defined. Physically he would be more than a match for Sean, and that rarely happened.

Hellier looked at him. He spoke silently in his mind. Enjoy your moment, bastard, because you will pay for this. I swear I will destroy you, Detective Inspector Corrigan. I will end you.

Donnelly and his team had been searching Hellier’s home for over three hours. They had bagged and tagged most of Hellier’s clothing and shoes, but had found nothing startling.

Donnelly was searching through Hellier’s desk drawers. They’d had to break them all open, one by one. Elizabeth Hellier had sworn she didn’t have keys.

All their search had turned up was further evidence that Hellier was as wealthy as he looked. He had a number of bank accounts: Barclays, HSBC, Bank of America, ASB Bank in New Zealand. Each containing in excess of a hundred thousand pounds or the foreign equivalent. Donnelly let out soft whistles as he added up the sums, but other than that he found nothing.

He needed to stand and stretch. As he pushed the chair back from the desk he felt a stinging pain in his thigh. He looked down and saw a rip in his trouser leg.

‘Oh, you bastard,’ he declared. ‘What the bloody hell was that?’ He put his hand under the desk and felt around. He touched something. It was small and cold. Something metal.

He pushed the chair away and ducked under the table. He saw them immediately. Not one, but two shiny keys taped underneath the desk. He didn’t touch them.

‘Peter – get the photographer in here. I need a picture taken.’

Only when the keys had been photographed and fingerprinted did Donnelly remove them from under the desk. The tape used to hold them in place had been carefully removed and sealed in a plastic evidence bag. Who knew how many microscopic pieces of evidence clung to its sticky back?

He held the keys up and asked the room a question. ‘Now. What do we use keys for?’ Slowly he looked down at the drawers they’d broken open. The locks remained intact. He winced as he put one of the keys into the drawer lock. It didn’t fit. He tried the other. It fitted. He grimaced before turning the key. The lock clicked open. ‘Ooops,’ he said. ‘I think we might be getting a bill for some broken antique furniture.’

He tried the other drawers. The key fitted them all. He dropped it into an evidence bag and sealed it straight away. He tossed the other key around in the palm of his hand and called out across the office. ‘Anyone finds a locked anything, let me know.’

A detective searching the walnut cabinets attracted Donnelly’s attention. ‘Hold on, there could be something under here.’

Donnelly moved closer and watched over his shoulder. He pulled back the carpet at the base of the cabinet. They stared at the floor safe. They looked at each other, then at the key in Donnelly’s hand.

He pushed the key into the lock. He could feel it was precision-made. It slid into place as if it had been oiled. The heavy door opened upwards.

The first things he saw were bundle of cash, neatly rolled and held in place with rubber bands. He touched nothing. He could see they were mainly US dollars. Hundred-dollar bills. Some sterling too − fifty-pound notes − and Singapore dollars, again in fifties. How much in total, he could only guess. He saw the unmistakable red cover of a British passport. He flicked it open − it was in Hellier’s name. This man could leave the country in a hurry if he had to.

There was something else, lying under the passport. A small black book. An address book? Donnelly was still on his knees. He looked up at the detective who’d discovered the floor safe.

‘You’d better get that photographer back in here. And the fingerprint lady, too. I don’t know what all this is about, but it’s got to mean something.’

Sally’s search team had arrived back at about 2 p.m. She sat with Sean in his office briefing him on what they had found and seized, the main thing being Hellier’s computer that would be sent to the electronics lab where the boffins would interrogate the system’s innards. Maybe they could find something, but it would take time.

Sean’s phone rang. ‘Hello, this is DI Corrigan.’

‘Front office here, sir. There’s a Mr Templeman wants to see you.’

‘Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.’ Sean hung up. ‘Hellier’s brief’s here,’ he informed Sally as he set off for the front office. He walked quickly along the busy corridors and skipped down the stairs, nodding to the stressed-looking civilian station officer before waving Templeman past the waiting queue of customers. Templeman wasted no time with pleasantries. ‘I demand immediate access to my client.’

‘Of course,’ Sean agreed, and guided him through a side door into the station. ‘I’ll take you to the custody suite. Follow me.’

‘And when do you plan on interviewing my client? Soon, I hope.’

‘When the Section Eighteen searches are complete and I’ve had time to assess the evidence.’

‘How long, Inspector?’

‘Two or three hours.’

‘That’s totally unacceptable,’ Templeman argued. ‘Clearly you’re in no position to interview my client, therefore I suggest you release him on bail until such time as you are ready. Later this week, perhaps.’

‘I’m investigating a murder,’ Sean reminded him, ‘not some Mickey Mouse fraud. Hellier stays in custody until I’m ready.’

Sean typed in the code on the security pad attached to the outside of the custody suite. When the pad gave out a high-pitched beep, he pushed the door open, immediately looking for a gaoler to take Templeman off his hands.

‘Murder or fraud, Inspector, everyone is entitled to a fair and vigorous defence,’ Templeman continued. ‘And that’s what I’ll ensure my client gets.’

‘Everyone except the dead,’ Sean replied coldly. ‘Everyone except Daniel Graydon.’ He grabbed a passing gaoler before Templeman could reply. ‘This is Hellier’s brief,’ he said. ‘He would like to see his client as soon as possible.’