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

‘No,’ Kate answered. ‘I look at you when you’re like this and I thank God I can’t. Who would want that burden?’

‘I can feel what they feel,’ he said. ‘I can sense their excitement, their relief. Pain. Confusion.’

Kate stroked his hair, the way a mother would a child. ‘And you use it to stop them. To stop them hurting people.’

‘Sometimes I feel like I’m too close. So close that I could slip into darkness any second.’

‘Then perhaps you should see Dr Richardson? It has been a while since you spoke to her.’

‘No,’ Sean snapped a little. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll sort it out myself. I just need you to remind me now and then. To remind me who I really am.’

‘You know who you are,’ Kate reminded him. ‘Ever since you decided you were going to be a policeman. Ever since that moment, you’ve known exactly who you are.’

‘I suppose so,’ he answered unconvincingly.

‘There’s something else though, isn’t there? You’ve got that look on your face you always get when something’s drilling a hole in your head. So what is it?’

‘I saw something strange today,’ he confessed.

‘The jobs we do, we see strange things every day.’

He ignored her interruption. ‘Outside my office window, on the flat roof below, in amongst the ventilation outlets. It was a dead bird. At first I thought it was just another dead pigeon, but then I realized it was a magpie. I knew it was a magpie because other magpies kept landing next to it. I assumed they’d come to feed on its body, but I was wrong – they were bringing it gifts: twigs, small shiny stones, things to eat. I watched them for a while and then I realized, I realized what they were doing. They were mourning its death. Magpies mourn their dead. I never knew that.’

‘And that upset you?’ Kate asked.

‘No. Not upset me; made me wonder, that’s all.’

‘Wonder what?’

‘We don’t judge them, do we? Magpies. When they’re feeding on roadkill or killing the chicks of other birds as they try to hide in their nests, we don’t judge them. We don’t judge them because, as far as we’re concerned, they’re only doing what’s in their nature to do. They’re just animals, after all. But that’s what I thought separated us from animals, the fact that we mourn our dead. Only now I know magpies do too. A murderous, heartless killer that mourns its dead.’

‘Meaning?’ Kate asked.

‘Meaning maybe we’re not as different from the animals killing each other to survive as we’d like to think. Meaning maybe that’s what the men I hunt are doing? Killing because it’s in their nature to. They were born to do it, yet we pass judgement on them as if they were normal like you and …’ He stopped before including himself.

‘Whether it’s in their nature to do it or not, someone has to stop them, and right now that someone is you.’

‘I know.’

Kate sighed. ‘I’m proud of what you do. I’m proud it’s you who goes after them. It scares me sometimes, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.’

Sean pushed his glass away. ‘Thank you,’ he told her softly. ‘Thank you for putting up with me. Promise me one thing though.’

‘What?’ Kate asked.

‘Don’t ever let me go. Don’t give up on me.’

Kate slipped her hands around the back of his neck and pulled him closer. ‘That’ll never happen,’ she promised. ‘I love you. Just don’t push me away. Don’t ever push me away.’

Sebastian Gibran sat at his table in the middle of the Criterion Restaurant in Piccadilly Circus, an exclusive, expensive and cavernous former ballroom in the heart of the West End. Usually the reserve of the rich, famous and wannabes, tonight it was for the exclusive use of London’s financiers. The lights were dimmer than usual, but Gibran could still make out pretty much everyone in the place. As he absentmindedly joined in with small talk he searched the room for Hellier. He couldn’t see him and checked his watch again. Hellier was already late, appetizers had been served and eaten. Soon the various speeches would begin. He knew he wouldn’t be the only one who had noticed Hellier’s absence. His searching was disturbed by the restaurant manager appearing at his shoulder, leaning in to speak quietly in his ear.

‘Excuse me, sir, but some gentlemen would like to see you in the private bar.’ Gibran knew who the gentlemen were and he had a good idea why they wanted to see him. He nodded once to show the manager he understood while pushing his chair away to stand, throwing the napkin from his lap on to the table.

Gibran moved inconspicuously across the restaurant and up a short flight of stairs to the private bar, various security and waiting staff casually moving out of his way, as if they’d all been warned of his coming. Two gorillas in thousand-pound suits held the doors open for him as he entered the bar and was immediately ushered past the most senior people in the world of finance he’d ever seen assembled in one place to a corner where two ageing men sat in large comfortable chairs, at a table made up for their exclusive use. The men had brown skin and silver hair, crystal-clear, sharp, intelligent eyes, and wore platinum watches vulgarly encrusted with diamonds. Gibran could imagine the cars they drove, the houses they lived in and the call girls they would sleep with later that night. One had a glass of blood-red wine on the table in front of him and the other a martini; the latter was smoking a fat Cuban cigar and nobody told him he couldn’t. Gibran recognized them as two of the owners of Butler and Mason. He’d seen them twice before and spoken with them only once.

Neither of them stood to greet him. The one sucking the cigar spoke first. ‘Sebastian.’ He had an Austrian accent. ‘Sorry to drag you away from dinner, but it’s been such a long time since we’ve had a chance to speak.’

Gibran resisted the temptation to remind them that they never had really spoken. ‘It certainly has,’ he managed to reply, but instantly noticed the old men’s displeasure at his answer, as if he was somehow disrespecting them. ‘But I understand how busy you must be and I’m kept well informed of everything I need to know.’

‘Of course,’ the wine drinker reassured him in an Eastern European accent, ‘and we hope you understand how valued you are to our organization.’

‘I’ve always felt I belonged at Butler and Mason.’ Gibran told them what he knew they wanted to hear. ‘I believe in what we do, and that’s the most important thing for me.’

‘Excellent,’ the smoker declared. ‘But now we hear that one of our employees has drawn unwanted attention to our business. Unwanted attention from the police.’

Gibran found he needed to clear his throat before speaking. ‘Bad news travels fast,’ he said, but it prompted no response. The smoker puffed on his cigar and stared at Gibran through the thick clouds that floated from his mouth. ‘It won’t be a problem,’ he tried to reassure the old men. ‘I believe it’s a simple case of mistaken identity. I expect the police to clear things up very soon.’ Gibran could feel their eyes dissecting him and knew that if he made one wrong move now, by morning his desk would have been cleared for him and his name wiped from the company records. But the pressure didn’t disturb him: he was used to it. He enjoyed it and the old men knew it, that’s why they paid him as well as they did.

‘Should we suspend him while we wait for this … this misunderstanding to be cleared up?’ the wine drinker asked.

‘Best not to,’ Gibran explained. ‘We don’t have enough evidence of any wrongdoing and neither do the police, or so his legal representatives tell me. They’re keeping me fully informed of any developments. For now, I’d rather keep him where I can see him.’

‘Does this employee know you’re talking to his legal people?’ the smoker asked.

‘No. He believes he has client confidentiality.’

‘Good,’ the wine drinker eventually said. ‘We know you’re aware of your responsibilities.’

Another veiled warning, Gibran thought: clear up the Hellier problem or don’t expect to be around too long at Butler and Mason. ‘I’m always aware of my responsibilities, gentlemen,’ he replied calmly. ‘Believe me, there’s nothing I take more seriously.’

‘Of course you are,’ the smoker agreed. ‘You have a great deal to offer. Which is why we were wondering if you have ever considered becoming involved in politics?’

Gibran found it difficult to hide his surprise. ‘Politics?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. I’m not a political animal.’

The man with the cigar laughed, smoke spilling from his gaping mouth. ‘Trust me, to be successful in politics, it’s better not to be too political.’

The wine drinker laughed in agreement, but Gibran didn’t see the joke, just their self-assured arrogance and condescending belief that somehow they understood how everything worked. No, it went beyond that; they believed they controlled how everything worked.

‘We’re not asking you to consider becoming an MP, merely whether you’d be interested in a role as a Special Government Advisor. It could be arranged. You’ll find all governments are desperate for the advice someone like you could offer them, otherwise all they have are civil servants whispering in their ears about things they know nothing about.’

‘Which political party did you have in mind?’ he asked them.

Again the mocking laughter of wisdom from old men. ‘Whichever one you want,’ the wine drinker answered. ‘Our organization makes very generous donations to both the main players. We feel a man like you could almost immediately be placed into a position of real influence at government level. Advisor to the Minister for Trade, perhaps?’

‘Or perhaps the Foreign Secretary would interest you?’ the smoker offered. ‘We have to plan for the future to remain competitive. To have someone of influence in the heart of government would be very useful for our organization.’

‘Well, I’ll certainly take it under consideration,’ Gibran promised, ‘but I’ve always enjoyed working away from the limelight. I like to make things happen without being seen. It seems to suit my personal ambitions better.’

‘Fine,’ the smoker replied. ‘But don’t take too long to make up your mind. What we’re offering you is something very special. Remember, Sebastian, religion is dead. These days it’s not down to priests and popes to tell us who to worship. Heavenly gods are dead to mankind. It’s the gods made of flesh and blood that people worship. Urban gods. Would you like to be an urban god, Sebastian?’