DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 6-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network, The Toy Taker and The Jackdaw

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.