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

‘Excuse me?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly, recovering herself. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Good,’ he declared. ‘Now that’s out of the way, we can enjoy our lunch. I do hope you don’t have to run off anywhere. It’ll make a change to have a civilized lunch with someone who isn’t boring me out of my mind with their latest get-rich-quick idea.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m due a break. Besides, I don’t think I could stand the sight of another sandwich.’

‘Then here’s to you,’ he said, raising his glass slightly. ‘Here’s to us.’

Sally returned the toast with a cautious smile. ‘To us.’

‘It must be difficult,’ said Gibran, suddenly cryptic.

‘What must?’

‘Learning how to use all that power you have without abusing it. I mean, I meet a lot of people who truly believe they’re powerful, but power through money and influence has its limits. Being a police officer, to have the power to literally take someone’s human rights away from them, to take their freedom from them – now that’s real power.’

‘We don’t remove people’s human rights; we can only temporarily remove their civil rights,’ Sally explained.

‘All the same,’ Gibran continued, ‘it must be very difficult.’

‘Maybe, at first. But you get used to it, and before long you don’t even think about it.’

‘I’m guessing it can make relationships with men very difficult. So many are intimidated by powerful women. We like to think the power is always with us, so to be involved with a cop would be, I guess, challenging.’

‘And are you?’ Sally asked. ‘Intimidated?’

‘No,’ Gibran answered, his face as serious as Sally had seen him. ‘But then again, I’m not like most men.’

Sally looked at him for as long as she could without speaking, trying to read his thoughts. Gibran broke the silence.

‘One thing that’s always fascinated me,’ he continued, ‘is how people who seem to have been born to kill somehow find each other, as if they can recognize their own kind when they meet them: Hindley and Brady, Venables and Thompson, Fred and Rosemary West, and God knows how many others. How do they find each other?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Sally answered. ‘That’s my boss’s field of expertise. He’s a bit more instinctive than most.’

‘DI Corrigan? Interesting,’ Gibran said. ‘When you say he’s instinctive, what do you mean?’

‘Just that he seems to know things. He sees things that no one else can see.’ Sally suddenly felt uncomfortable discussing Sean with an outsider, as if she was somehow betraying him. Gibran sensed her mood.

‘An interesting man, your DI Corrigan. Do you think perhaps it’s his dark side that makes him so good?’

Sally was impressed. It struck her that many of the same qualities she saw in Sean were present in Gibran. She decided that if Sean could ever get beyond his preconceived ideas of Gibran, he would probably like him.

‘DI Corrigan’s a lot of things, but I’ve never seen anything you would call a dark side. It’s more a question of him being willing and able to search for answers in those dark places the rest of us are too afraid to go, in case we see something about ourselves we don’t like.’

Gibran nodded his understanding and approval. ‘It’s because he’s prepared to accept his responsibilities,’ he said. ‘And it sounds as if we have more in common than either of us understood. Perhaps when this is all over and he sees me for what I am and not what he thinks I am, we’ll have a chance to speak on friendly terms.’

‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Sally warned him.

‘No,’ Gibran answered, ‘I don’t suppose I will.’ Again they took a moment to look at each other silently before Gibran spoke again. ‘But there’s one thing I must make clear to you − I cannot and will not let anything or anybody put the reputation of Butler and Mason at risk. Of course, I respect the fact your police investigation must take priority, but other than that I will do what must be done to finish this matter with James one way or another, for better or for worse for him.’

Sally glanced away for a second as if considering his words. Then she looked him in the eye. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘You do that. Provided you tell us everything we need to know about Hellier, you have my word we won’t interfere in any internal decisions your company makes about him. But tread carefully, Sebastian, for both our sakes.’

Hellier glanced at his watch. Almost five thirty p.m. The police had been deliberately slow in bailing him. DI Corrigan had been conspicuous by his absence. No matter. He had enough time. Just.

He wore the clean clothes that Templeman had arranged. The police had seized the ones he’d been wearing and once again they’d emptied the wardrobe and drawers back at his house. They didn’t have much to take this time around. He was still in the process of refilling them after the first raid when they’d seized every item of clothing he possessed. Corrigan was costing him a fortune.

There was no time to go home first. Never mind. He had done well to plan in advance. He had a change of clothes, his phone and the weapon waiting for him. Not that he was expecting a fight. He was the master of gaining instant control. Years of practice ensured that his strength was seldom matched. He feared nothing and nobody, but the gun was nice insurance all the same.

He stood on the front steps of Peckham police station. He’d already exchanged farewells with Templeman, who had no idea how final Hellier had meant it to be. One more thing to take care of and then he would be gone. He didn’t anticipate needing Templeman’s services again.

He scanned up and down the street. They were back. Did Corrigan never learn his lesson? Fine. If they wanted him to make fools of them again, he was happy to oblige. He looked for a black cab. This was Peckham. There were none. Realizing that he stood out far more than he wanted to, he began walking towards what passed for the centre of this south-east London suburb.

Hellier entered the first mini-cab office he came across. A group of elderly, cheerful West Indian men sat around smoking and laughing loudly at some joke Hellier had just missed. One of the men spoke. He spoke slowly and thoughtfully, curbing his accent enough for Hellier to understand.

‘Yes, sir. What can I be doing for you today?’ he asked.

‘I need to get to London Bridge.’

‘No problem, sir. I’ll take you myself,’ the cabbie replied. Seconds later the car pulled away, and as it did so, six other cars and four motorbikes began to move with it. The driver was unaware he had become the focus of so much police attention, but Hellier knew they were there. Occasionally he stole a glance in the nearside wing mirror. He spotted one of the motorbikes, nothing else; but he didn’t have to see them to know they were there.

‘Lovely day,’ Hellier said to the driver.

‘Yeah, man,’ the driver beamed. ‘Just like being back in Jamaica.’ They both laughed.

Sean was back at his desk, weighing up the options. So far he’d come up with a dozen what ifs, but none of them helped the investigation. None of them helped him. He’d had no choice but to let Hellier walk away on police bail. Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself to be patient. When the DNA results came back he could bury Hellier. He was certain of it.

He rubbed his tired eyes with the sides of both fists. For a second he couldn’t see properly. When they cleared, he found himself focused on his computer screen, reminding him he needed to check his emails. It was the first chance he’d had to check his inbox. Amongst the dozens of emails there was one from SO11. The details of the telephone numbers from Hellier’s address book. He wasn’t in the mood to start ploughing through names and numbers; his quota of patience had been used up hours ago. He peered out into the main office, looking for anyone he could delegate it to, but everyone appeared busy. His conscience got the better of him and he started to read through the list himself.

Most appeared to be the numbers of banks, both in the UK and abroad. Other numbers were of accountants, diamond dealers, gold merchants, platinum traders. Hundreds of names, but only a handful of personal numbers. He paid particular attention to these. He read through the names slowly and deliberately. Daniel Graydon’s number was there, as he’d expected: both his home and mobile numbers. So what? It meant nothing, now that Hellier admitted knowing him. He checked for the names of the two other victims, Heather Freeman and Linda Kotler. He didn’t expect to find the runaway’s name, but perhaps Kotler’s. It wasn’t there. He was disappointed, but not surprised.

The mini-cab dropped Hellier off on the outside concourse at London Bridge. He was delighted to see thousands joining the great commute home and even considered waving along the street at the police following him. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they would be able to see him. A little wave would get them thinking, but he resisted the temptation – this was no time to show off. Soon he’d be gone, but first he had some business to take care of. Top of the list being his mysterious friend.

He’d considered leaving, not even bothering to meet the man, but he wasn’t a gambler. He only played when he could manage the risks, and that meant finding out what this manknew, if anything. Could he damage him? Hurt him? Hellier had to find out. No loose ends, he reminded himself. Leave things nice and tidy, just how he liked it. That didn’t mean there wasn’t time for one last thrill. One last indulgence.

Hellier walked fast into the train station, ducking into WH Smiths, watching the main entrance through the magazine shelf, waiting for the surveillance team to enter. They were good, only one standing out as she scanned the crowds for him. Commuters never looked around. They were on auto-pilot. She stood out like an amateur, but the others were invisible.

He took the other exit from the shop and walked back across the inside concourse and out the same exit he’d entered, all the while trying to remember the faces he passed. If he saw them again he would assume they were police. He crossed the short distance to the underground station, stopping suddenly at the top of the stairs and spinning around. No one reacted. A smile spread across his lips. They were very good indeed.

Once again he descended into the underground that had served him so well in the past. He followed his normal anti-surveillance pattern, tactics designed to lose even the best: travelling short distances on trains and then stepping off at the last moment, walking swiftly through tunnels, past zombified commuters, on to another train and away again. Over and over he repeated the procedure, but they stayed with him, leaving him both annoyed and impressed. No matter. As always, James Hellier was one step ahead.

Finally he arrived in Farringdon and made his way to the bar he had chosen the day before. It was busy enough but not heaving. Ideal. He headed straight to the toilet unnoticed. The cubicle he wanted was unoccupied. Two customers stood at the urinals, not noticing him as he shut the door. He didn’t have time to wait for them to leave – in fact, it was better they were there. Soon the police would be here, inside the bar looking for him. He began to undress.

Sean’s mobile vibrated on the desk in front of him. He kept reading the email as he answered absentmindedly. ‘Hello.’

‘Guv. It’s Jean Colville.’ Sean recognized the surveillance team’s DS. ‘Your man certainly knows his counter-surveillance tactics.’

‘I noticed,’ said Sean ironically. ‘Where are you?’