by Luke Delaney
‘I take it you know why you’re here?’ Bannan asked.
‘Yes. Yes I do,’ Hooper answered, beginning to feel more comfortable – feeling maybe she was about to be invited on to another high-profile investigation. ‘The Assistant Commissioner filled me in on the background of the case, although obviously I’ll need full access to the case file, the scene, photographs etc.’
‘Of course. Of course,’ Bannan told him, nodding his head sagely. ‘I understand you helped the team investigating the Rebecca Fordham murder.’
‘I did,’ Hooper answered slightly nervously.
‘Gave them the profile that lead to the arrest of Ian McCaig.’
‘That’s right,’ Hooper answered. ‘Just my thoughts, based on historical cases – nothing more. It was your colleagues who caught McCaig.’
‘That’s very modest of you, Doctor Hooper,’ Bannan smiled.
‘It’s the truth, that’s all.’
‘Indeed,’ Bannan said through the gritted teeth of his false smile. ‘Have a look at these,’ he told Hooper, throwing the polaroids from the Harter scene across his desk to her, making sure Hooper would have to lean forward to collect them. Hooper gathered them up and winced as she looked at the first of the starkly colourful pictures – a scene of abject cruelty and horror. Bannan let her study them for a few minutes in silence before speaking again, occasionally looking across at Sean who sat like a statue that threatened to burst into life and wreak havoc. ‘Seen anything like this before?’
It took a second or two before Hooper realized she was being spoken to. ‘Uhmm. Sorry, you said something?’
‘I said, have you seen anything like this before?’
‘Possibly,’ Hooper admitted, ‘but not the same – not exactly the same. I can tell you whoever did this is clearly in a state of rage. It’s early days, but I would say you are looking for a white male, between thirty and forty years old, probably local and …’
‘Slow down there a second,’ Bannan interrupted her. ‘I didn’t ask you to profile him, and just for the record you’re not telling me anything one of my DCs couldn’t. Now, I want you to think again – does this scene remind you of anything you’ve seen before?’
‘And I told you – similar, but not the same,’ Hooper insisted.
‘Similar to what – the Fordham murder scene?’
‘Yes, but not the same.’
‘In what way not the same?’ Bannan pushed.
‘This latest murder involved a child – the Fordham case did not.’
‘But apart from that?’
Hooper took a deep breath and answered with half-closed eyes. ‘Apart from that they are clearly very similar,’ she admitted.
‘Similar enough to have been committed by the same man?’ Bannan continued.
‘In my opinion, yes.’
‘Have you told anyone else about your opinion?’
‘No, Superintendent. This is the first chance I’ve had to compare the two cases properly.’
‘Then would you agree with me that Ian McCaig could have been an innocent man?’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘But if these crimes were committed by the same man then he must be innocent,’ Bannan explained.
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Hooper replied.
‘But you told the Fordham Team McCaig was their man and now you need to admit that could have been a mistake.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Hooper pleaded.
‘Then explain it to me,’ Bannan demanded.
‘Look,’ Hooper began after a long pause, ‘I had an interest in history and an interest in criminology. I thought it would be fascinating to combine the two and compare famous cases from history to modern crimes. Before I knew it my work was being acclaimed as groundbreaking and I was even offered a publishing deal. Then I was approached by the police to assist in the Fordham case – offer what help I could.’
‘And so you agreed to?’
‘With strong reservations, yes.’
‘Reservations?’
‘My work – my theories – had never been subjected to a real investigation before. I was cautious.’
‘But you gave them McCaig’s profile? You told them he was the killer?’
‘No,’ Hooper insisted. ‘No I didn’t. I just gave them a profile of the type of person I thought they should be looking for. I never gave them a name.’
‘And once they started homing in on McCaig?’
‘They showed me his profile and I told them that in my opinion he was a viable suspect – that’s all.’
‘The Fordham Team say different. They say you told them McCaig was their man.’
‘Not true. I would never have done that. I never wanted that level of responsibility. I was just trying to help.’
Bannan studied her for a long time before speaking again. ‘Not a very pleasant experience, is it, Doctor Hooper, being caught out of your depth?’ She didn’t answer. ‘In the future I’d stick to clinical papers and books. You don’t belong in this world – in my world. Here, mistakes can lead to death. I don’t think you’d like to be responsible for that – would you, Doctor Hooper?’
Hooper stood and lifted her briefcase, heading towards the door. She turned back before leaving. ‘I was only trying to help,’ she told them, but neither man answered as they watched her disappear through the doorway.
Bannan exhaled deeply and sank back into his chair. ‘She wasn’t quite what I’d expected,’ he told Sean.
‘Why? What were you expecting?’ Sean asked.
‘A lot more arrogance and a lot less fear.’
‘She should still be answerable for her mistakes.’
‘Weren’t you listening, son? She never gave them McCaig as a suspect, she just didn’t say he wasn’t.’
‘So she says.’
‘Either way it doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done. McCaig is dead and no one wants to open that particular Pandora’s Box. Without some indisputable evidence to the contrary that case will stay closed.’
‘But we can find that evidence,’ Sean insisted. ‘There’s still time.’
‘Now’s not the time, son. Now’s not the time.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s politics, son. Right now we need to tuck you away somewhere out of sight. No one can touch me, but it’s best you’re not tainted by association. People in this job have long memories and a few egos are soon to be bruised, even if the Fordham case remains closed.’
‘But I can help with the investigation. I can help you find the man you’re looking for.’
‘You already have, son. You already have.’
Chapter Six
Two Days Later
Sean had just finished booking in his latest prisoner, a local dealer he’d caught with twenty neatly folded paper-packets of heroin concealed in the lining of his leather jacket – each containing five grams of the class ‘A’ drug. Sean planned to have him back out on the street within a few hours, working as an informant, but now he needed some lunch and headed for the canteen. As he strolled along the dreary corridors of Plumstead Police Station he heard a gruff voice he immediately recognized and stopped in his tracks.
‘Alright, son?’ He spun around to see Bannan leaning on a door-frame. ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Bannan told him. ‘Got a minute?’
Sean walked back to Bannan before replying. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Nothing,’ Bannan answered. ‘Please, step inside my new temporary office. I got thrown out of my last one – they needed it for the Crime Prevention Officer.’ Sean stepped past him into an office that was so small it was more like a cupboard. ‘Take a seat for a second.’ Sean did as he was told. ‘You need to know something. You were right – about the killer leaving a fingerprint at the Harter scene. I had Forensics go over the scene again – looking for prints they might have missed – gave them a subtle steer to the door-handle of the daughter’s bedroom and there it was, on the
underside – a full print. If he’s got previous, and we both know he has, we should be able to identify him within a couple of weeks. The Yard’s gonna give us priority and put every spare hand on searching the archives. It’s as good as over, Sean, and you played your part.’
‘You said it could take a couple of weeks to identify the killer from the print?’
‘At least,’ Bannan explained. ‘It’s not a computerized system yet, son. It’s not like searching for a car registration on the PNC. They have to manually search through the microfiche – like looking for a needle in a haystack. But they’ll identify him.’
‘He could have killed again by then,’ Sean warned. ‘It’s too slow. We need to go back to the Fordham team again – make them hand over their evidence. The answer will be in there, I’m sure. We could have him in days, not weeks.’
‘Forget it, son. We tried. They didn’t want to play and there’s nothing we can do about it. Hooper was our last chance. If she’d been as critical to the investigation as we’d thought we could have made some headway, but she wasn’t and we won’t. It’ll all come out in the wash eventually. It always does.’
‘But what if he kills again – before we find him?’
‘Then we’ll feel shit, son, but nowhere near as shit as the Fordham investigation team will.’
‘And Hooper?’ Sean asked.
‘Hooper? Let’s just say I don’t think she’ll be entering our world again anytime soon.’
‘But there must be something we can do,’ Sean argued.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Bannan told him. ‘It’s politics, son. Always fucking politics.’
Three Weeks Later
Late Thursday afternoon and Sean sat in the noisy, busy Crime Squad Office at Plumstead, trying to block out the sounds of laughter and ringing telephones – the shouts across the room from cop to cop and the occasional profanity as someone opened up their emails containing the latest unrealistic, irrelevant CPS memos. Against the backdrop of havoc Sean was preparing his questions for the residential burglar he’d caught after two weeks of tracking until he’d been ready to make a calculated guess where the thief would strike next. As the burglar had made his way along a rat-run carrying the hi-fi system he’d just stolen, Sean had been ready for him – stepping out from behind an oversized industrial wheelie bin to bring the thief’s reign of domestic pillage to a premature end. ‘How the fuck did you know?’ was all the unfortunate thief had said so far. He suddenly heard his voice being shouted across the office and looked up from his interview notes. ‘Sean. Phone for you.’
‘Transfer it to four-four-nine-two-four,’ Sean shouted back and waited for the brown plastic phone on his shared desk to trill. When it did he answered it without delay. ‘Sean Corrigan speaking.’
‘Hello, son,’ the unmistakable voice of Charlie Bannan greeted him. ‘How’s life back on the Crime Squad?’
‘Alright,’ he answered without enthusiasm, keeping his voice low as he looked around the chaotic office, ‘but I’d rather be back on the Harter Enquiry.’
‘There’s no need,’ Bannan told him. ‘We have our man.’ Sean found himself involuntarily rising, as if his legs were controlled by Bannan’s words. ‘Fingerprints finally identified him from the print we found in the flat – some lunatic called Christopher Richards.’ Sean said nothing. ‘We arrested him this morning – he’s definitely our man – mad as a March hare. We’ll have him charged with the murders by tomorrow night.’
‘And the Rebecca Fordham murder?’
‘We don’t have any evidence to charge him with that and the Enquiry Team over at Wandsworth still don’t want to play – even now we have the man.’
‘But they must want to check him out – they must?’
‘Too many reputations pinned to Ian McCaig being guilty. Sorry, son.’
‘Then there’s nothing we can do?’
‘My advice – go and get drunk and try not to think about it. Besides, whether he’s ever convicted of killing Rebecca or not, he’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars.’
‘And McCaig?’ Sean asked. ‘What do we do about McCaig?’
‘Let’s just say you might want to watch this space on that one. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘It means leave it with me.’
‘Understood.’
‘Good. You have an interesting gift, son. If you use it right it’ll help you – with your career. But it can be a curse too – if it controls you instead of you it. Know what I mean?’
‘Yeah,’ Sean assured him. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘Good,’ Bannan told him. ‘Now go and have that drink. And Sean.’
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks.’
Epilogue
November 2004
Detective Sergeant Sean Corrigan sat in the centre of the large office in Peckham Police Station scribbling out endless actions he’d soon be doling out to the detectives working alongside him on the latest case: a female TV presenter who appeared to have been murdered by an obsessed stranger – although Sean was already beginning to have his doubts. His mobile phone chirping and vibrating on his desk broke his concentration and made him curse. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ He checked the caller id – withheld – meaning it was probably police. ‘DS Corrigan.’
‘Sean Corrigan?’ the voice asked seriously, warning him this wouldn’t be a run-of-the-mill call.
‘That’s me,’ he answered. ‘Problem?’
‘Not exactly,’ the voice told him. ‘I’m Assistant Commissioner John Yates from The Murder Review Group, in charge of overhauling the Rebecca Fordham Murder Enquiry in the light of Ian McCaig’s conviction being quashed a couple of years ago.’
‘Yes,’ Sean encouraged him.
‘A Detective Chief Superintendent Bannan – retired – said you should be one of the first to know.’
‘To know what?’ Sean asked with increasing impatience.
‘That Christopher Richards has confessed to the murder of Rebecca Fordham.’ Sean felt suddenly dizzy – elation and excitement mixing with regrets and sadness. ‘We found a tiny trace of DNA on a swab taken from Rebecca – too small to match at the time, but not now. The DNA belonged to Richards. Also, Mr Bannan wanted me to be sure to tell you Richards had touched the doll. We found flakes of rust from an old toolbox from his home that matched flakes we found on the doll’s clothes when we re-examined them. Mr Bannan told me to tell you that you had been right – he did touch the doll.’
Sean swallowed hard before he could speak. ‘And Richards?’
‘Well as you know he’s currently being detained indefinitely in Broadmoor – I guess this will only add to the indefinitely. He’ll plead not guilty on grounds of diminished responsibility and we won’t be contesting it.’
‘No,’ Sean agreed. ‘I don’t suppose we will.’
Read on for an extract of Cold Killing, Luke Delaney’s debut novel featuring DI Sean Corrigan.
1
Saturday. I agreed to come to the park with the wife and children. They’re over there on the grassy hill, just along from the pond. They’ve fed themselves, fed the ducks and now they’re feeding their own belief that we’re one normal happy family. And to be fair, as far as they’re concerned, we are. I won’t let the sight of them spoil my day. The sun is shining and I’m getting a bit of a tan. The memory of the latest visit is still fresh and satisfying. It keeps the smile on my face.
Look at all these people. Happy and relaxed. They’ve no idea I’m watching them. Watching as small children wander away from their mothers too distracted by idle chat to notice. Then they realize their little darling has wandered too far and up goes that shrill shriek of an over-protective parent, followed by a leg slap for the child and more shrieking.
I am satisfied for the time being. The fun I had last week will keep me contented for a while, so everyone is safe today.
I thoroughly enjoyed the time I spent with the little
queer. I made it look like a domestic murder. I’ve heard fights between people like him can get nasty, so I had a bit of fun with the idea.
He was easy enough to dispatch. These people live dangerous lives. They make perfect victims. So I hunted amongst them, looking for someone, and I found him.
I had already decided to spend the evening stalking the patrons of a Vauxhall nightclub, Utopia. What a ridiculous name. More like Hell, if you ask me. I told my wife I was out of town on business, packed some spare clothes, toiletries, the usual things for a night away and booked a hotel room in Victoria. I could hardly turn up at home in the early hours. That would arouse suspicions. I couldn’t have that. Everything at home needed to appear … normal.
I also packed a paper decorating suit that I bought at Homebase, several pairs of surgical gloves – readily available from all sorts of shops – a shower cap and some plastic bags to cover my feet. A little noisy, but effective. And last but not least a syringe. All fitted neatly into a small rucksack.
Avoiding the CCTV cameras that swamped the area, I watched the entrance to the club from the shadows of the railway bridge as the sound of the trains reverberated through the archways.
I had already spied my target entering the club earlier that evening. The excitement made my testicles tighten. Yes, he was truly worthy of my special attentions. This wasn’t the first time I had seen him. I had watched him a couple of weeks earlier, watched him whore himself inside the club with whoever could match his price. I had been searching for the perfect victim, knowing the police would only check CCTV from the night he died or, if they were especially diligent, maybe the week before.
I had stood in the midst of the heaving throng of stinking, foul humanity, bodies brushing past my own, tainting my being with their diseased imperfection, while at the same time inflaming my already excited, heightened senses. I so wanted to reach out and take each and every one of them by the throat, crushing trachea after trachea as the dead began to pile at my feet. I fought hard to control the surging strength within, then terror gripped me, terror like I have never felt in my entire life. Terror that the real me was revealing itself, that all those around me could see me changing in front of their very eyes, my skin glowing brilliant red, bright white light spilling from my eyes and ears, vomiting from my mouth. Heavy drops of sweat had snaked down my back, guided by my swelling, cramping back muscles. Somehow I had managed to move my legs, pushing through a crowd of squabbling worshippers until I reached the bar and stared into the giant mirror hanging behind it. Relief washed over me, slowing my heart and cooling my sweat as I could see I hadn’t changed, hadn’t betrayed myself.