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

‘We’re appealing to anyone who may have seen Daniel meet someone outside Utopia nightclub that night. Perhaps a cab driver who took Daniel home. A friend or acquaintance who maybe gave him a lift,’ Featherstone explained.

‘We are also interested in anyone who may have heard or seen something later that night, close to Daniel’s flat in New Cross. Did anyone see a man acting strangely in the area? Again, maybe the man responsible for this terrible crime used a cab to leave the area. Can anyone remember picking up a passenger in the early hours? Someone who aroused their suspicions?’

Sean listened absentmindedly. Featherstone was doing a professional job, sticking to the script, but there was one thing the two of them hadn’t discussed ahead of the conference. A question from a journalist made Sean almost jump. ‘Do you have a description of the suspect?’

Featherstone was about to answer ‘No’ when Sean jumped in.

‘Yes,’ he said. It was the first time he’d spoken. Featherstone was surprised. His mouth hung a little open.

‘What’s the description?’ the journalist asked.

‘We believe we’re looking for a white male, in his forties. He’s slim, fair hair and smart in appearance.’ Sean was describing Hellier.

‘Where has this description come from?’ asked another journalist.

‘I can’t tell you that at this stage,’ Sean answered.

The journalists’ excitement grew. ‘Detective Inspector …’ The female journalist raised her voice above the increasing noise and competition for answers. ‘Inspector.’ She caught Sean’s eye. ‘Have you just described James Hellier, Inspector?’

‘No comment,’ Sean answered.

Another journalist pursued the question. ‘Is Mr Hellier no longer a suspect in this murder, Inspector?’

‘For legal reasons, I can’t answer that.’

‘Why was Mr Hellier not charged?’ another asked.

‘This is an ongoing investigation, which means I can’t answer that at this time.’

‘Is Mr Hellier a witness in this case?’

The journalists had revealed why they were there. Hellier was the story. Sean had known it from the beginning. He could feel that Featherstone wanted to get the conference back on track, which was fine by Sean. It had served its purpose. Hellier would hear about it and read between the lines. The pressure would be back on. It was revenge for Hellier embarrassing the surveillance operation. For trying to cause a split in the team. A piece on the chessboard had been moved and Hellier would have to respond. Another question came from the floor.

‘Was Mr Hellier having sexual relations with the victim?’

‘I think Detective Superintendent Featherstone will be best placed to answer your questions.’ He leaned back into his chair, signifying his involvement in the conference was over.

‘Superintendent,’ a journalist asked, ‘is James Hellier a suspect in this murder inquiry or not?’

Featherstone answered without hesitation, the media training paying off. ‘At this point Mr Hellier is helping us with our inquiries. I can’t reveal any more details than that until some time in the future, but I can assure you that it is my intention to conduct as open an investigation into the death of Daniel Graydon as possible, and of course the media will be kept informed. As I was about to say, we would also like the public’s help in tracing two other men that we need to speak to.’

Sean wasn’t listening any more and didn’t hear Featherstone giving the media the names of Steven Paramore and Jonnie Dempsey. The journalists were once again directing their questions to Featherstone, who dealt with them as beautifully as a conductor would his orchestra. Featherstone presented the user-friendly face of the police service. The clean shirt over an unwashed body. Sean sat quietly chewing the inside of his mouth, waiting for the show to come to a natural end, thinking of Hellier. Seeing him kneeling next to Daniel Graydon, pushing the ice pick through his skin. Standing over Heather Freeman as he swept the knife across her stretched throat.

Hellier had followed the instructions given on the phone exactly. He’d left work at 6 p.m. and walked out of the front door in full view of the surveillance team. He hailed the first cab he saw and told the driver to take him to Victoria train station. Once there, he descended into the underground system, moving through the labyrinth of tunnels on foot, boarding trains travelling in one direction, then unexpectedly disembarking and doubling back, making it almost impossible to follow him.

An hour later he stood in Hyde Park looking up at the statue of Achilles. Large trees provided good cover. He could see the bandstand in the park about thirty metres away. The man on the phone had said he would be there at seven thirty. He would be carrying a small blue Reebok rucksack and wearing a yellow shirt.

Hellier kept his distance. He wanted time to observe the man before he approached him. A friend of Daniel Graydon. What did he know? What had Daniel told him? What did he know about Hellier? It had to be a journalist looking for a story to titillate the masses, but had they found out more than they’d bargained for? Something that could be dangerous to him? Had his phone been hacked? He doubted it. When it came to hacking a phone, he could teach any half-cocked journalist or private detective a thing or two; he was pretty certain his hadn’t been. He needed to find out what they knew about him and deal with it – deal with it with extreme prejudice.

His mobile rang. The display showed ‘private number calling’. He answered: ‘James Hellier.’

‘I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I’m going to be late. I won’t be able to get to you until about eight. You must wait for me. It’s vital that you wait for me.’

Hellier checked his watch. It meant waiting for almost an hour. ‘This had better be worth it.’

‘It will be,’ the man said. ‘Please believe me. It’s more important than you can possibly imagine.’

‘Who are you?’ Hellier asked.

‘Someone who has an interest in your current predicament. Someone who wants to help. Just be sure to wait for me.’

‘I’ll be here.’ Hellier didn’t attempt to disguise his annoyance. He snapped his mobile shut. It appeared he would have plenty of time to study his favourite London statue.

For the first time in a long while Sean went home at a reasonable hour. Kate found it a little strange at first. She’d become accustomed to him not being there.

Sally was doing the Crimewatch presentation that night. Several of the team would stay on at Peckham until midnight, answering any calls from the public the appeal might bring. Sean wasn’t hopeful. He only hoped Hellier was watching. He’d briefed Sally to use Hellier’s description as that of the possible killer, just as he’d done at the press conference.

He also wanted to see the presentation on the Heather Freeman murder. DI Brown would be on the show that night, but no mention would be made of the connection. How would that affect Hellier’s behaviour? He pictured Hellier laughing at their incompetence. Fine. Let him laugh.

His mobile began to ring. He groaned. Kate stared across the living room at him. ‘Hello. Sean Corrigan speaking.’

‘Bad news, guv’nor.’ It was DC Stan McGowan. ‘He left work at about six, but we lost him on the underground. He was definitely trying to shake us. We had no chance. Sorry.’

‘Why didn’t you call earlier?’ Sean asked. It was almost eight thirty now.

‘We’ve been running around trying to find him. I sent a couple of boys to his home address, but he either beat them there or he hasn’t gone home yet.’

‘Okay, Stan,’ Sean said. ‘You’ve done your best. Stay with it tonight. Concentrate on the home address. Tomorrow I’ll see if I can’t get a dedicated surveillance team back.’

‘Sorry,’ Stan said again. Sean hung up. He wondered if he could stay awake long enough to watch Crimewatch.

Hellier checked his watch. It was three minutes since he last checked. Ten past eight. The man had sworn he’d be there by eight. He was late. He hadn’t called. Damn it. Where was the fool? Hellier looked at his watch again.

What did the caller really want? He’d said he could help. Who could help him? Why would they want to? Were they going to try and blackmail him? That would at least be amusing. He checked his phone. No missed calls.

He wasn’t going to stand here all night. He had better things to do. He’d lost the police surveillance, but he needed to be careful. Journalists could still be a problem, even if the police weren’t. He felt excitement rising in him like an old friend. Time for a treat. He deserved one.

Kate watched Sean struggling to stay awake in his chair. A bottle of Stella Artois rested on his chest. She watched it rise and fall gently. If he fell asleep properly he would spill the beer. The cold liquid would wake him up quickly enough. She hoped it would happen. It would make her laugh, and Sean hadn’t made her laugh much lately.

He was losing the battle to keep his eyes open. Hearing the presenter mention a murder in South London, Kate shook Sean by the shoulder. ‘I think you’re on.’

‘Uh?’

‘You’re on,’ she repeated. ‘It’s your case next.’

Sean sat upright. He rubbed his face hard and shook his head. ‘Thanks.’

He watched the presenter outline the case. It was supposed to be informative only, the media helping the police to catch a killer, but the presenter’s background gave him away. He couldn’t help using gutter-press terminology. He tried to look shocked when describing the murder as ‘gruesome’. He dramatically paused as he informed the nation how Daniel had been stabbed ‘seventy-seven times’. The tabloid words flowed from his mouth: ‘Bloody …’ ‘Horrific …’ ‘Mutilated …’ He had them all. In truth, there was only one reason the programme existed. Ratings. The British public liked nothing better than watching other people’s suffering from a safe distance.