Cold Killing

by Luke Delaney

  ‘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.’

  ‘Bad enough,’ Sean replied.

  DI Townsend made to cross the threshold of the bedroom. Sean shot a hand up, palm outstretched towards her. ‘Not dressed like that you don’t.’

  She looked herself up and down. She was wearing one of her favourite suits, dark blue and tailored with two-inch heels to match. She feigned insult. ‘This is my best suit.’

  ‘Then you wouldn’t want me to take it off you and stick it in a brown paper bag as evidence.’

  ‘You would too, wouldn’t you?’ she asked. ‘Well, you certainly haven’t changed.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want me to.’

  ‘No, probably not.’

  DI Vicky Townsend waited for Sean outside the flat in the street. She watched him pulling off the forensic suit and laughed a little as he carefully placed the suit and shoe covers into evidence bags and sealed them. Ever the professional, she thought. He’d always been the most meticulous detective she’d worked with. Back in his street clothes, he approached her.

  ‘How you been, Vicky?’ he asked.

  ‘Good, Sean. Good. Kids drive me mad, but you know.’

  ‘I’ve got two myself now,’ he told her. ‘Two girls.’

  ‘Still with Kate then?’ She’d only met Kate a couple of times, briefly. Most police liked to keep work and home very separate.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sean answered. ‘She’s good, you know. A good mother.’

  ‘Good,’ Vicky replied. They were both avoiding the obvious question. This was Vicky’s territory. It was up to her to challenge Sean, friend or foe.

  ‘So what are you doing over here, Sean? Why’s a DI from SCG South arriving at my murder scene before I know about it?’

  Sean looked a little sheepishly at Vicky. She hadn’t changed much either. She kept her auburn hair short and neat, for the practicalities of being a mother rather than those of being a police officer. Her plain face was improved by lots of laughter lines.

  ‘I think this murder’s linked to others,’ he told her.

  ‘Linked in what way? A drug war? Gangland?’

  ‘If only. This is something else. A possible repeat offender.’ He hated using the term serial killer. It seemed to somehow glamorize tragedy.

  ‘As in Yorkshire-Ripper-type repeat offender?’ Vicky asked.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And you’ve been authorized to run a task force on this?’

  ‘My superintendent is happy for me to take on any suspected linked cases. He’ll square it with yours in due course. In the meantime, I could do with all the help I can get.’

  ‘Such as?’ Vicky asked.

  ‘I need a few things to happen straight away.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Check the mouth area for tape residue. I think her mouth was taped and the killer took it away with him. Check the drainpipe at the side of the house, and the bathroom window needs special attention. That’s how he got in and out. And I would like you to use my pathologist. He’s the best in London and he’s worked one of the other victims. I can make the call to him and get him to look at the body while it’s still in the flat. After that he’ll probably want it taken to his own mortuary at Guy’s Hospital.’

  ‘All victims from West London should go to Charing Cross,’ said Vicky. ‘The post-mortem should be performed by the pathologists for this area. There’s a lot of red tape around things like that. People get pissed off pretty quick if you start to ignore protocols.’

  ‘I understand, But the man who did this is still out there and he doesn’t give a shit about our red tape. He doesn’t care if he kills in South London, East London or West London. He just kills, and he’ll do everything he can do not to get caught. So why don’t we stop helping the bastard and break a few rules ourselves? Because if we don’t, I reckon we’ve got about one or maybe two weeks before I’ll be standing outside some other flat in some other part of London having the same conversation with some other DI.’ He ended with a plea. ‘Let’s not let that happen. Please.’

  Vicky studied him for a couple of seconds. ‘Okay,’ she said finally. ‘I have a pretty good relationship with the pathologist for this area. I’ll explain it’s an unusual situation.’

  ‘Thanks. Now we need to get started. Time is not my friend here.’

  ‘It never is,’ she reminded him. ‘And it never will be.’

  Sally waited for the door to the Surbiton house to open. When it did she noted the look of surprise on Paul Jarratt’s face.

  ‘DS Jones,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you again,’ she apologized, ‘but would you believe it, I just happened to be in the area when I suddenly remembered something I needed to check with you.’

  ‘Such as?’ Jarratt asked, before remembering his manners. ‘Please. Come in.’

  Sally stepped inside and followed him to the lounge. ‘I spoke with an old colleague of yours, DC Graham Wright − only he’s a DS now.’

  ‘Graham?’

  ‘I was doing some digging into Korsakov’s history and was hoping to compare his conviction fingerprints with marks found at our murder scene.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’ve gone missing. Seems they got up and walked out of Scotland Yard all by themselves.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought that was possible.’

  ‘No. Nor would I,’ Sally agreed. ‘DS Wright told me that he’d taken the prints from the Yard at your request. Do you recall why you pulled the prints?’

  ‘I seem to remember the prison where Korsakov was doing his time wanted them, but I can’t remember the details. Although I do remember giving the prints back to Graham so he could return them.’

  ‘And return them he did, at least according to Fingerprints’s records.’

  ‘Then I don’t see how I can help you find them.’

  ‘It’s just that you requested them back in ninety-nine,’ said Sally. ‘Not long before Korsakov was released from prison. That seems a little unusual.’

  Jarratt laughed. ‘DS Jones, everything to do with Korsakov was a little unusual. However, I remember now. The prison needed the prints to copy on to their records. They liked to keep fingerprints of prisoners they deemed to be more dangerous than the norm. I suppose they consider it to be some sort of deterrent.’

  ‘Why would they wait until a few months before his release before deciding Korsakov needed such a deterrent?’

  ‘That, I cannot answer,’ Jarratt told her. ‘You would have to speak to the prison.’

  Sally sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any need for that,’ she lied. ‘At the end of the day it still wouldn’t explain how the prints went missing. Probably just an administrative cock-up at Fingerprint Branch. I’ve wasted enough of your time.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Jarratt.

  They said their goodbyes and Sally made her way to her car. She drove a couple of blocks before pulling over and retrieving the Korsakov file from her bag. She flicked through it and found the number she was looking for. Then she paused momentarily, remembering that Sean knew nothing of her investigation’s progress. Perhaps she should call him now, put him in the picture; but he had so many other things on his mind it would be better to speak to him later. She dialled and waited a long time before a military-sounding voice answered.

  ‘Wandsworth Prison. What can I do you for?’

  Sean and Vicky approached Barnes police station. They’d been outside the scene for a while, briefing the forensic team and liaising with the coroner’s office. Sean had arranged to meet Sally at Barnes and update her. The police building was as ugly as ever. They parked outside the four-s
torey construction, bright red bricks in too-straight lines. It was hard to spot a window. When you did it was blacked out.

  Vicky led the way to her office. It was three times the size of Sean’s and ten times cleaner and more organized. Sally, having returned from Surbiton, was waiting for them outside the office. Sean introduced her to Vicky and vice versa. The two female detectives eyed each other with a little suspicion. Sean felt it.

  Vicky lifted a note she found on her desk. She looked at Sean. ‘It’s for you. Your pathologist has arrived at the scene, a Dr Canning.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And we’ve traced a sister. The first detectives on scene, Simpson and Watson, found it in her address book. She’s already on the fast train up from Devon. Squad car will pick her up at the station and bring her straight here. Should be with us soon.’

  ‘Parents?’ Sally asked.

  Vicky scanned the note. ‘Yeah. They live in Spain. Retired. Apparently they’ll be here when they can get a flight. That won’t be easy at this time of year. Do you want to see the sister?’

  Sean glanced across at Sally. ‘Yeah. Why not?’

  ‘I’ll arrange it now. Meanwhile, why don’t you tell me about your suspect? What you got on him so far?’

  ‘James Hellier,’ Sean said. ‘A wealthy, polished act. Works for a fancy firm of financers in Knightsbridge. Self-confessed sado-masochist. Last night he took our surveillance team on a run-around. He lost them about six p.m. He wasn’t picked up again until he got home, sometime after three a.m.’

  Vicky raised her eyebrows. ‘The man knows he’s under surveillance and still he travels to Shepherd’s Bush and commits murder?’

  ‘He can’t stop himself,’ Sean told her. ‘The fact he knows he’s under surveillance probably only adds to his pleasure.’

  ‘If you’re so sure, let’s arrest him, strip him, swab him and have forensics do the rest,’ said Vicky.

  ‘We’ve tried that,’ Sean explained. ‘With the first murder. We found samples matching him at the scene, but he had an answer for everything. Claimed to have been having a long-standing sexual relationship with the victim. It was a waste of time. We showed our hand too soon. Handed him the initiative.