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

‘I look forward to it.’ She heard him hang up. Her expression was pensive.

‘Problem?’ Donnelly asked.

‘No. At least I don’t think so. That was Sebastian Gibran, Hellier’s boss. He wants to meet for a chat.’

‘Well, well. Maybe Hellier’s fancy friends are getting set to abandon him to his fate.’

‘The ritual washing of hands,’ she declared. ‘Not to mention a free lunch for yours truly.’

‘Do you want some company at this little get-together?’

‘No. I get the feeling it’ll go better if I meet him alone.’

‘Fair enough, but don’t forget to run it past the boss before you go,’ Donnelly warned her.

‘Naturally. Listen, I need to follow up on something over in Surbiton. The boss can do without me here for a while. I’ll check back with you later, okay?’

‘Suit yourself,’ Donnelly replied. ‘I’ll let the guv’nor know you’ve commandeered his vehicle.’

‘No doubt that’ll make him very happy,’ she said. ‘Almost as happy as when he finds out I still haven’t eliminated Korsakov as a possible suspect.’

‘You will.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means, the more I look into it, the more I don’t like it. Something’s not right – I don’t know what it is yet, but I know it’s something.’

‘Christ. You’re getting as bad as the guv’nor.’

‘No, seriously,’ Sally argued. ‘It’s like everything to do with Korsakov has disappeared, as if someone made him vanish.’

‘Why would anyone do that?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe, for some reason, they’re hiding him, so he can commit further offences without being identified. Or maybe …’

‘Go on,’ Donnelly encouraged her. ‘You’re amongst friends here.’

‘Or, maybe someone got rid of him – killed him.’

‘Like who?’

‘One of his victims, or someone connected to one of his victims, someone looking for revenge.’

‘An eye for an eye,’ Donnelly suggested.

‘Or,’ Sally continued, ‘someone got rid of him so they could commit crimes they knew we would eventually blame him for, because of the similarity of the method – have us chasing a dead man we’d never be able to find.’

‘Now you really do sound like the guv’nor,’ Donnelly told her. ‘Speaking of which, have you discussed this with him?’

‘Sort of. But he’s so fixated on Hellier, I don’t think he took it seriously.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘But don’t let him stop you doing what you think you should be doing. Remember, it’s our job to keep him on the straight and narrow – anchor him a bit – you know?’

She knew. ‘I’ll catch you later,’ she said, and headed for the car.

The large bed was straight in front of Sean, the victim lying on it, a pretty red light softly illuminating the room. Sean checked for the source of the light. He found it in the far right corner of the room. A thin red silk dressing gown was draped over a lampshade. At night the red illumination would have been far stronger. Had the victim constructed the home-made light? Did it stir a childhood memory? Had her nursery been lit with a red light and now the colour helped her sleep?

No. The killer had made the light. He was sure of it. But had he made it after he’d killed her or before? And why? What did the victim look like as she died, painted with red light? Had the red been a replacement for her blood? But if blood is so important to him, why not cut her like the others? Method, Sean reminded himself. He’s changing his method again. Disguising his work.

The killer was showing his intelligence, his control and imagination. It was extremely rare for killers to have the ability to change methods so completely. They lack control. Their killings are repetitions. Some try and disguise their kills, but usually only after the murder. They’ll burn the body, place it in a car and push it off a cliff, sink it in deep water; but to plan the disguise from the outset, to ensure everything from the victim selection to the murder weapon changes every time – that was incredibly rare. It made the killer all the more dangerous.

Did this killer have enough control to simply stop? To walk away and never kill again? That would be the ultimate show of his strength. Had he killed enough now to live off his memories? Sean thought of Hellier’s public face. Absolutely calm, calculating and clever. But he had seen glimpses of the creature that hid behind Hellier’s public façade. The snarling, arrogant Hellier. Could that Hellier stop killing? Or would he have to be stopped? No, he decided. Hellier liked the game too much.

Staying as close to the walls as he could, he moved clockwise around the room towards Linda Kotler.

He passed a set of wooden drawers. They looked solid and expensive. One drawer was still open. He looked in without touching anything as he took one large step around them. He could see it was where the victim kept her tights and stockings. Had the killer or the victim opened the drawer? One glance at the body told him the killer had. He wouldn’t risk buying or stealing his own. A man buying stockings could easily be remembered by a sales assistant. A wife might become suspicious if her stockings or tights went missing. She might read about this murder and begin to suspect a husband, a boyfriend, a son. The killer would have been relatively sure he’d find what he was looking for inside the victim’s home. No need to risk bringing his own.

Sean kept moving around the room until he was no more than three feet away from the victim. He stopped. He wouldn’t go closer for fear of disturbing any forensic evidence. The three-foot circumference around the body would be the golden zone.

He studied the body, slowly and deliberately scanning it from head to toe and back. He tried to remain dispassionate, removed, as if the body wasn’t real, as if this was only an exercise.

She was lying on her left side. Naked and pale now. Lifeless. She looked anything but peaceful. The dead never looked peaceful, at least not until a skilled undertaker did their work. One eye was half open. The other was swollen shut. He tried to imagine her alive. She’d have been quite attractive, he thought, but it was hard to tell.

Her legs were bent painfully far back. The thin, tightly stretched tights bound her ankles. They had cut into the skin. They were connected to another pair that ran up her back to her neck. This was in turn connected to another pair of tights or perhaps a stocking, tightly bound around the neck and throat. The flesh of the throat bulged around the ligature, concealing most of the material. Her hands had been bound separately at the wrists with more of her own tights. The hands had become swollen by the tightness of the bindings. Why had the hands been tied separately? So elaborate. It reminded Sean of the rigging on a yacht. The knots used would have to be analysed. What sort were they? Were they used in sailing or some other sport or hobby?

Why did he need the bindings to connect so precisely? Bondage? Hellier’s favourite. Was he deliberately tormenting them?

She must have been in terrible pain. She would have called out in pain, screamed for help. Her killer wouldn’t have let that happen. He would have gagged her. But her mouth wasn’t covered. Sean leaned closer to her face. The area around the mouth was a little red. It looked sore. Had the killer used tape that he’d taken away with him? If so, he’d done that before. Heather Freeman had been taped across the mouth, but the tape had been removed and taken from the scene. The more he killed, the more similarities would start to appear. No matter how hard he worked at disguising his methods. The mouth area would need to be swabbed for traces of adhesive at the post-mortem.

The left side of her face was badly bruised and swollen. Judging by the level of bruising, the injury had been caused at least an hour before she died. He guessed this was the first blow, used to incapacitate her. The killer hit her as she rose up from her sleep, knocking her senseless. There was no blood or cut around the injury. He probably used a gloved fist.

A small amount of blood on the floor, by the back of the victim’s head, caught his attention. Nothing more than a slight smear. He carefully moved around the body to get a better look. He saw the telltale signs of a bleeding head injury. The sticky hair. Not much, but a definite injury.

He scanned the room for an obvious weapon. He saw something, on the wall behind the bed. He stood and bent towards it, careful not to step too close. There was blood on the wall. Not much, but he was sure it would later be confirmed as the victim’s. The killer had slammed her head into the wall to make certain she was unconscious, because he needed time to find the bindings and secure her.

And then what? She wasn’t killed quickly. The bruises to her face, ankles, wrists, neck: they all told the same tale of a slow, painful death. Was that what the elaborate bindings were for? To torture her before killing her? Spending time with them after the killing wasn’t enough any more? The killer had progressed to spending time with them before they died. Or was it merely another attempt to muddy the waters and confuse those who hunted him?

Unlike Heather Freeman, this victim was a grown woman. Fully developed. She’d been stripped naked and bound. Was she sexually abused? Raped while she was still alive? He was sure she had been. Forensic tests would no doubt confirm his hypothesis. Another progression, or another act of camouflage by the killer?

The longer he was alone in the room with Linda Kotler, the harder it was to treat the murder scene like an exercise. Her pain and sorrow had begun to penetrate his shield. The more he discovered, the closer, the more real the murder became. It began to run in his head like film footage. Now he had almost a full scene. The killer entering through the bathroom window, stalking through the flat. He finds her in bed and looms over her. She awakes and sees him standing there. A fist smashes into her face. Before she can recover, he lifts her and smashes her head into the wall. She falls unconscious. She awakes. She doesn’t know how long she’s been out for. She can’t move. She feels the pain of her bound limbs. Something around her neck stops her breathing properly. She desperately needs air. Something over her mouth stops her calling out. Stops her begging for her life. Then she feels him on her. He forces entry into her. It hurts like nothing before. She blanks it out of her mind. Staying alive is all that matters. But when he’s finished, he doesn’t leave. He spends time torturing her. And then, finally, he strangles her to death.

Sean could hear her voice in his head. Pleading with the killer to leave her alone. Pleading with him not to hurt her. Then pleading for her life. All wasted. The gag meant he wouldn’t have heard her. He would have liked to listen to her begging, but he couldn’t risk the noise.

A loud knocking on the bedroom door made him jump. Instinctively he reached for the telescopic metal truncheon clipped to his waist belt. Then he looked to the door and recognized DI Vicky Townsend standing there, grim-faced.

‘They told me it was a bad one,’ she said. ‘Seems they weren’t exaggerating.’