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‘I don’t have the results yet,’ the anonymous voice replied. ‘The marks from the scene are still being worked up. Identification Officer Collins is working that case. He’ll run comparisons to your scene as soon as he can, starting with the various elimination prints you’ve sent us. If you’re lucky, they’ll be ready by Monday or Tuesday.’
‘This is a murder investigation,’ Sean reminded him. ‘I need them yesterday.’
‘Sorry,’ said the voice. ‘Monday or Tuesday is the absolute earliest they’ll be ready. Listen, we’re snowed under here. Anti-Terrorist Unit just landed a rush job on us. We’ve been told to make it a priority, no exceptions. Sorry.’
Sean understood. It was an unavoidable sign of the times. ‘Okay. Thanks. You can get him to call me direct with the results. One more thing,’ Sean quickly added before the line went dead. ‘Can you check for a set of conviction fingerprints for someone for me?’
‘Sure,’ came the answer. ‘What’s the name?’
Sean was unaware that Donnelly had moved within earshot. ‘James Hellier. Do you need a date of birth?’
‘No. The name’s probably unusual enough. Give me a minute.’ Sean waited, the two or three minutes that passed feeling so much longer, before finally the voice spoke. ‘No. No prints for that name here.’
Sean felt the emptiness of disappointment. ‘No problem,’ he managed to say, and hung up.
Donnelly cut through his state of melancholy. ‘Interesting line of inquiry.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Asking Fingerprints if Hellier had a set of conviction prints on file, given that we already know he doesn’t have any convictions. Remember, I checked.’
‘I thought I’d double check,’ Sean said. ‘I thought maybe his conviction never got sent from the court, or someone forgot to put it on the PNC. Worth a try.’
‘I see, belt and braces, eh. Any luck?’
‘No,’ Sean answered. ‘Hellier’s clean.’
Hellier sat in his study watching for movements in the American money markets on his computer. His wife popped her head around the door without warning, but she wouldn’t enter fully before asking. Elizabeth knew when to leave him alone; it was part of her role as the perfect wife and she was paid well. She liked her life.
‘Are you okay in here, darling?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine, sweetheart. Just catching up on a bit of work. I won’t be long. Promise.’ He threw her a charming smile.
‘You work too hard. It’s almost ten o’clock.’
‘Go to bed. I’m fine.’
‘Don’t stay up too late, darling.’
‘I won’t.’
His wife blew him a kiss and left. Time to make a phone call.
Hellier slid his hand under the desk and peeled a piece of tape from the underside. He examined the two keys stuck to the tape, then pulled one free and carried it across the office to the built-in walnut cabinets. He listened for sounds outside the office before opening the cabinet door and kneeling on the floor. He pulled the carpet back to reveal a floor safe sealed into the concrete foundation of the house. He unlocked the safe with one of the keys and took out a small address book. He locked the safe, closed the cabinet and went back to his desk. He found the number he was looking for and dialled. After a few ringing tones the phone was answered by a sleepy voice. ‘Hello? Hello? Christ.’
Hellier spoke. ‘It’s me.’
Hellier was met by silence. Then the voice spoke with urgency. ‘Please tell me you’re calling from a public phone.’
Hellier could hear the fear. ‘Don’t worry about that. We’ve more important things to discuss.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like are you sure you took care of things? You wouldn’t have been lying to me, would you?’
‘Jesus Christ. Why are you asking me this? I took care of it. I told you. Why the panic? Have you fucked up?’ The voice sounded calmer.
‘No, but your flat-footed friends are making trouble for me. It’s important I know you did what you were paid to do.’
The voice was silent. Hellier gave the person time to think. After a few seconds the voice returned, almost whispering now, nervous. ‘Christ! They haven’t connected you to Korsakov, have they?’ The mention of that name made Hellier lean back into his comfortable chair and smile, as if he was recalling a happy childhood memory. Stefan Korsakov. A name he hadn’t heard in ages. ‘Have the police connected you to Korsakov?’ the voice demanded impatiently.
‘No,’ Hellier answered, still calm and smiling, ‘and they never will. Korsakov’s never coming back. I made sure of that a long time ago. Don’t you remember? You should do. After all, you helped me bury him.’
The voice snapped back. ‘If you’ve fucked up, you’re on your own. I won’t help you again.’
Hellier needed to remind him. ‘If they take me down, I’ll make sure you come with me. Keep that in mind.’ He hung up before the voice could answer.
The voice had sounded genuine enough. Time would tell if he was speaking the truth. For both their sakes, Hellier hoped he was.
10
Sunday morning
Shortly before 8 a.m. Sean arrived at work and Sally pounced on him immediately. ‘Guv’nor.’
‘What is it, Sally?’
She spoke in a whisper. ‘Superintendent Featherstone’s been floating around asking for you.’
Sean rolled his eyes. ‘Thanks for the warning.’ No sooner had he entered his office than he heard a knock on the side of the open door. He walked to his chair and sat down before looking around. ‘Morning, boss. Aren’t you supposed to be at church?’ He pointed at a chair.
Featherstone accepted the invitation, sinking into the visitor’s chair with a slight groan. He was a tall man, over six foot two, heavily built, with red hair. ‘I haven’t been to church since my second wife left me.’ He spoke with no more than a trace of London in his accent. ‘How’s the Graydon investigation going? Any progress for me?’
Featherstone had hardly any detective experience, rising instead through the ranks as an accelerated promotion candidate, but he had hit a ceiling at superintendent after failing or refusing to become one of the new generic breed of senior officers in the Met. He was a little too rough around the edges; a little too outspoken and far too prepared to get his hands dirty. Realizing he could go no higher, he transferred into the CID.
Sean could do business with the man. He knew Featherstone was shrewd enough not to interfere too much with the way he conducted his investigations and that he would watch Sean’s back more than most.
‘We’re still waiting on forensics and fingerprints.’
‘How about other lines of inquiry? Any witnesses?’
‘We’ve spoken with a number of witnesses from the club. Some have supplied statements and elimination samples. Nothing of interest so far. The killer went to a lot of trouble to avoid leaving forensic evidence at the scene. It looks premeditated. Our best chance for now seems to be James Hellier, the potential blackmail target.’
‘Any solid proof yet that the victim was blackmailing him?’
‘No. Hellier’s clever. He’s covered his tracks well. That’s why I requested authorization for round-the-clock surveillance – it could be our only hope of catching him out.’
‘What about the victim?’ Featherstone asked. ‘If you can turn up some blackmail letters, prove he was trying to screw Hellier, then you’d be halfway there.’
‘Nothing on paper from the victim’s flat. The bods have his computer, but it’ll take time to recover his emails.’
‘Any other credible suspects?’
‘Well, one of the barmen from the club’s gone missing. Apparently he knew the victim and possibly could have been romantically linked to him. Other than that we’re trying to find a recently released nutter who did eight years for the attempted murder of a young gay man. He lives close enough to the scene to be a cause for concern. He also appears to have gone missing.’
‘At the very least they need to be found and eliminated.’
‘They will be.’
‘We need to be careful with this one, Sean. You can bet, with a gay victim, someone, somewhere will be watching the investigation’s progress, waiting for a chance to accuse us of being homophobic. Let’s not hand the media a stick to beat us with.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Sean.
‘Speaking of the media,’ Featherstone asked, ‘what about an appeal? Crimewatch? Save some shoe leather and let the television do the donkey work.’
‘It’s a bit too soon for that. I’d rather no one knew what we’re up to just yet.’
‘You still camera shy?’ Featherstone smiled. ‘If it comes to it, I can take care of that side of things. I know you’re not exactly a fan, but I’ve got some people in the media I can trust. We can do a piece for the papers and try to get a slot on Crimewatch. I’ll have my secretary make a few calls.’
‘No need. I’ll get it arranged and let you know when the telly people want you. Should be able to sort it out in a day or so.’ Sean hoped he’d bought some time.
Featherstone got to his feet. ‘Fine. Let my secretary know the time and place and I’ll be there. You can give me a full briefing beforehand.’
‘Not a problem.’
‘I’d better get myself up the Yard. Commissioner’s called an emergency meeting. On a Sunday − can you believe that?’
‘Sounds like trouble.’
‘Bloody Territorial Support Group, kicked the shit out of some student on the last anti-capitalist march. Turns out the kid’s parents are connected, so now we’re all going to be issued with foam truncheons. Wankers.’ Featherstone looked to the heavens and walked from the office heading for the exit.
Sally appeared at Sean’s door. ‘Problems?’
‘No,’ Sean told her. ‘Not yet.’
Donnelly ate his sausage sandwich. It was the best Sunday-morning breakfast he could hope for under the circumstances. He stood close to the small wooden hut in the middle of Blackheath where he’d bought his sandwich. It was a well-known spot, used mainly by hungry taxi drivers and police looking for a place to talk without being overheard.
He enjoyed the gentle cooling breeze that whipped off the flat, wide heath. In winter, it was the coldest place in London. He spotted the dark blue Mondeo pull up opposite. Detective Sergeants Jimmy Dawson and Raj Samra stepped from the car. They could only have been police.
The detective sergeants worked on the other two murder teams in South London. They carried out the same roles on their teams as Donnelly did on his. Meeting regularly helped maintain the strong bond between detective sergeants and engendered a feeling that they were the ones really running the police.
Donnelly smiled to himself and stuffed the remains of the sandwich into his mouth. He waited for the men to cross the road. ‘For Christ’s sake, Raj. You’re the only Indian in the Met who looks more like a copper than Jimmy here.’
‘I like looking like a copper. You should try it some time. Instead of looking like a bag of shit,’ Raj replied.
The trading of insults was routine. Jimmy joined the conversation. ‘What you doing in the middle of Blackheath on a Sunday morning, Dave? Exposing yourself to students again? If it isn’t that, then I’ll assume you want a favour.’
‘Jimmy, Jimmy.’ Donnelly sounded insulted. ‘Are the best sausage sandwiches in London not a good enough reason for you?’ Dawson didn’t reply. ‘And you, Raj. Thinking I would ask for favours. Me. Dave Donnelly.’
‘Well, I don’t eat pork, so it better be something other than the sandwich.’
‘I didn’t know you were a Muslim,’ Donnelly said.
‘I’m not. I’m a Sikh.’
‘You should wear a turban − you’d be a commander by now.’
‘I’m not interested in playing that game,’ said Samra.
Donnelly gave a short stunted laugh, before his face turned serious. ‘Okay, gentlemen, I’ll assume you know what sort of case my team’s working on. I want to know if anything similar comes up. If one of your teams gets it first, I want to be called to the scene immediately. Understand?’
‘If it looks linked, it’ll be passed to your team anyway. What’s the rush?’ Dawson asked.
‘No,’ Donnelly snapped. ‘I didn’t say I want my team informed immediately. I said I wanted to be informed immediately, before anyone else. Including DI Corrigan.’
Donnelly watched them exchange glances. He knew they would be happy to help, but not if it meant being dragged into a dangerous situation. Dangerous for their careers. He understood their concerns.
‘Don’t look so worried, boys.’ He tried to sound less serious. ‘I just want first crack at any new scenes. I’m getting a taste for this case. I need a wee glance at an uncorrupted scene. You know, before the circus arrives and takes the feel out the place. That’s all.’ His fellow detective sergeants stared at him blankly, their way of letting him know they didn’t believe a word he was saying. ‘Okay, for fuck’s sake. You boys drive a hard bargain. Listen, our prime suspect is a clever, slippery bastard. Any forensic evidence we find at the next scene may require a little helping hand, if you catch my drift. But it has to appear genuine. The forensic boys have to find it, not one of my team, so I’ll need to be in and out of there before anyone’s the wiser. Clear?’
‘Well why didn’t you just say so?’ Samra mocked. ‘We’d be happy to help,’ he added, and meant it, knowing that one day he or Dawson might require a similar favour from Donnelly.
‘I thought your job was shaping up to be a blackmail?’ Dawson asked.
‘I know Corrigan better than he thinks,’ Donnelly told them. ‘He thinks there’s more to our prime suspect than he’s saying. Forget the blackmail element. You get anything a bit nastier than usual, then I want to know.’
‘Okay,’ Samra said with a shrug. ‘I’ll make sure you’re called straight off.’
‘Good, but keep it quiet. Tell your teams to call you, then you call me. Keep it nicely between the three of us.’
‘If you want to take jobs off my hands, that’s fine and dandy with me,’ Dawson said. ‘But if anyone asks, we never had this conversation.’
Donnelly spread his arms to show his good intentions. ‘Boys, please,’ he pleaded. ‘I promise. Nothing dodgy. Trying to solve a murder here, that’s all.’
The two detectives were already crossing the road. Samra called back to Donnelly: ‘Drag me into anything naughty and you’ll be solving your own fucking murder.’
You just do as you’re told, Raj my boy, Donnelly thought to himself. Just do as you’re told.
It was mid-morning by the time Sean walked from his office into the briefing room where his team were assembled. He wasn’t in the mood to let the room settle naturally. Time to push along. ‘All right, all right. Listen up. I haven’t got all day. The quicker you listen, the quicker we can get on with it.’ The room settled into silence. ‘So far we have three possible suspects: Steven Paramore, Jonnie Dempsey the missing barman and James Hellier. The reasons why Paramore and Dempsey are suspects are obvious, so they need to be found and spoken to. Hellier’s more complicated,’ Sean told them. ‘My best guess is still that our victim was attempting to blackmail him. No other motives have come to light and we’ve pretty much spoken to all his friends and family. Any last lingering possibility that this could be a domestic hangs on whether the victim was having a relationship with Jonnie Dempsey, and so far no one’s been able to confirm whether he was or wasn’t. Dempsey is only a suspect in so far as he worked at Utopia, knew the victim and now he’s missing and can’t be found, so all other suggestions are welcome.’
‘Maybe we should consider a stranger attack,’ Donnelly spoke up. ‘A random killer.’
‘No forced entry, remember?’ Sean reminded him.
‘Maybe the killer posed as a client?’ Donnelly suggested. ‘Talked his way into the flat.’
Sean was beginning to suspect Donnelly knew his blackmail theory was little more than a smokescreen. A screen that allowed Sean time to think. Time to walk in the killer’s shoes – to feel him. To understand him. ‘From what we’re being told of our victim, he was too careful for that.’ Sean tried to steer Donnelly away from the possibility for a while longer, until he had things straight in his own mind.
‘But it has to be a possibility?’ Donnelly insisted.
