Cold Killing

by Luke Delaney

  His mobile phone began to ring, the display telling him the number had been withheld. Something told him he should answer.

  ‘James Hellier speaking.’

  ‘Mr Hellier. You are in great danger.’ It was him again.

  ‘Like I said earlier – you were supposed to meet me last night.’ Hellier sounded strong. He knew how to dominate. ‘I don’t like being fucked around.’

  ‘I just want to help you,’ the voice said. ‘You must believe me.’

  ‘Why?’ Hellier demanded. ‘Why do you want to help me? You don’t know me.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ the voice asked.

  Hellier didn’t answer. He was thinking. The caller sensed his doubt.

  ‘Corrigan. I can give you something, show you something that’ll keep him away from you. Keep them all away from you.’

  ‘I’m not worried about the police.’ Hellier sounded insulted. ‘They can’t touch me.’

  ‘Yes, they can,’ the voice replied. ‘Corrigan. He’s not intending to take you to court. He won’t risk that.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Hellier began to sound more concerned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Meet me tomorrow night if you value your neck as much as I think you do.’

  ‘Where?’ Hellier asked.

  ‘Somewhere in central London. I’ll call you again tomorrow. At about seven. And don’t bring the police. They’re still following you.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Hellier was too late. The line was dead.

  The three unmarked cars drove down the middle of Bayswater Road. Traffic on both sides yielded to their sirens and madly spinning blue lights. They were heading towards Knightsbridge. Towards Hellier.

  Sean had the forensic evidence he’d been praying for. The killer had made a serious mistake, but it was too early to say anything other than that the hairs appeared to be the same colour as Hellier’s. Sandy.

  Sally drove while Sean sat in the passenger seat. She broke the silent tension. ‘Maybe we should process the hair first, guv’nor. Get its DNA profile and compare it to the DNA database?’ She had to shout to be heard above the screaming sirens.

  ‘Hellier’s not on the DNA database, remember. He’s got no previous,’ Sean argued.

  ‘Maybe the hairs aren’t Hellier’s,’ Sally persisted. ‘We could process them first and have them compared to profiles on the database. It could show they belong to someone other than Hellier and then we’d have a cast-in-iron suspect. And if we don’t get a hit on the database, then it’ll point more strongly towards Hellier being our man.’

  ‘Believe me,’ he reassured her, ‘Hellier’s our man.’

  ‘Then why don’t we compare the samples to the ones we’ve already taken off Hellier?’ She referred to those taken in Belgravia police station at the beginning of the investigation into the murder of Daniel Graydon. ‘Then before we even arrest him we’d know he killed Linda Kotler.’

  ‘You know we can’t use them,’ Sean shouted above the noise inside the car. ‘That was a different murder. We’d be slaughtered if we were ever found out.’ It was true. They couldn’t use elimination samples taken from a suspect or witness for one crime to prove they were involved in another. The suspect would have to be told specifically what investigation their samples were being used in, or they would be deemed to have been taken illegally.

  ‘Maybe we could do it so no one would know?’ Sally continued. ‘Just do it so we would know for sure it was Hellier. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t mention it in his initial interview, keep it to ourselves, then do it legally. Take new samples, whatever we have to, but at least we would know it was him. Interview him and let him hang himself with lies.’

  ‘No.’ Sean shook his head. ‘I can’t risk that. We do it properly. It’s Hellier, I know it. There’s no need to take shortcuts.’

  Sally gripped the steering wheel harder and said nothing.

  Sean tapped the number of the surveillance team leader into his mobile.

  ‘DS Handy.’ Sean could hear the radio chatter in the background.

  ‘Don – Sean. Where’s my man?’

  ‘He’s on the move,’ said DS Handy. ‘Just left his office on foot.’

  ‘Heading home?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Heading to the Tube station.’

  ‘We’re on our way to you,’ Sean told him. ‘We’re gonna take him out.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ DS Handy said, ‘he’s hailing a cab.’ There was a pause. ‘Want us to take him out for you?’

  ‘No,’ Sean said. ‘Can you follow the cab?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult. Given that it’s lime green with a giant packet of Skittles on its side.’

  ‘Follow it.’ Sean made the decision. ‘But keep me up to date. You follow him and we’ll follow you.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Sean could feel Sally looking between him and the road as she drove fast through the traffic.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, sir,’ she said.

  ‘There’s more out there for us, Sally. This could be our last chance to let Hellier lead us to something.’

  ‘What more do we need? We have his hair. His DNA will match.’ She was nervous for both of them. Sean was taking a risk. Maybe one he didn’t have to take.

  ‘We have hairs,’ Sean pointed out. ‘Not necessarily Hellier’s. And they bother me. Too easy. All of a sudden he drops two rooted hairs right where we can find them. Hellier’s smart. Certainly smart enough to plant someone else’s hair at the scene. Imagine what that would do to any case against him. His defence would have a fucking field day. We’d never even get it to court. If I think I can get more, I’ll take the chance.’

  ‘Just because it was easy doesn’t mean it’s not right.’

  Sean didn’t answer her. She tried again.

  ‘The law says that when we have evidence to arrest, we should arrest.’ Sally quoted the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. She was right and Sean knew it.

  ‘Only until he goes home.’ Sean sought to assure her. ‘If he doesn’t lead us to something before then we arrest him.’

  Sally exhaled and tried to concentrate on the road ahead.

  ‘Bryanston Street. Marble Arch,’ Hellier calmly told the cab driver, who gave a nod and pulled away without speaking. Hellier tried to relax in the back, but he knew he was being followed again and there were more of them this time − he’d already counted fourteen. He could run around the Tube system, but there was a chance they would have enough bodies to stay with him. He would try something else.

  The cab drove into Bryanston Street. Hellier tapped on the glass screen designed to keep the drunks and psychotics at bay. ‘Here’s fine,’ he said. The taxi pulled into the kerb. Hellier poked a ten-pound note through the screen, got out and walked away without waiting for change. He entered the Avis car rental shop. He knew they were still watching.

  Sean’s phone rang, startling him. He was walking a tightrope that left him feeling wired.

  ‘DS Handy, guv. Looks like your boy’s about to hire a car.’

  ‘Problem?’ Sean asked.

  ‘No. I’d rather he was in a car than running around on foot.’

  ‘Fine. We stay with him until I say otherwise.’ Sean hung up. Sally said nothing.

  Hellier rented the largest and fastest car they had. He used the driving licence in the name of James Hellier and paid with an American Express Black Card in the same name. He would miss James Hellier.

  The black Vauxhall slipped into Bryanston Street. The threelitre V-6 engine gave a reassuring growl. Hellier began to relax a little as he listened to the engine’s cylinders gently thudding above the low revs.

  At the end of the road he turned left into Gloucester Place and joined the three lanes of traffic all heading north. He kept pace with the traffic, but no more. He stopped carefully at traffic lights and showed no hurry to pull away. He didn’t need to check his mirrors. He knew they would be following, running parallels along th
e adjacent streets, leap-frogging to the junctions ahead, changing the cars immediately behind him as often as they could.

  He turned left into the Marylebone Road and headed west. The traffic was lighter than he had expected. That was unfortunate. He drove carefully.

  He headed up and on to the Marylebone Flyover and joined the Westway, a small motorway raised above the heart of West London designed to speed commuters to the traffic jams of the M4 and M40 that inevitably awaited.

  He began checking his mirrors constantly. They couldn’t run parallels to him now. As he drove above Paddington and Notting Hill, they had only one way of staying with him: follow him along the Westway.

  He began to make a mental note of all the cars ahead and behind him. Any one of them could be the police: best to remember them all and assume the worst. Effective counter-surveillance relied on the target assuming the worst.

  He drove for about ten minutes before reaching his exit. The sign read Shepherd’s Bush and Hammersmith. He moved into the exit lane. He glanced in his mirror. He saw several cars’ indicators blinking, signalling they too would be leaving the Westway. Any police cars that had been ahead of him were already out of the chase. They would have to stay on the motorway until they could exit at Acton, another four miles along. By the time they rejoined their colleagues, he would be gone.

  He left the Westway and followed the large slip road, the West Cross Route, that took him to a major roundabout. Only at the roundabout did he make the final decision where he would go. He could turn left along Holland Park, back towards central London. Or straight over towards Earl’s Court, along Holland Road. No. He needed traffic. He turned right at the roundabout and drove past Shepherd’s Bush Green on his right and then turned left into Shepherd’s Bush Road, heading towards Hammersmith.

  The three cars of the arrest team waited in Hyde Park for an update. Alone in the middle car, Sean and Sally listened to the surveillance team’s coded chatter on the radio. It made little sense to them. They tried to work out where the team could be, but it was no use. They relied on telephone updates alone.

  Sean’s phone rang again.

  ‘Smart lad, your boy,’ DS Handy told him. ‘He took the one route I didn’t want him to take. Over the Westway. He dropped off at Shepherd’s. We’ve already lost our two lead cars. They’re trying to make their way back from Acton.’

  ‘Do you still have him?’ Sean’s tension was palpable.

  ‘Yeah. We’ve got plenty of coverage.’ Handy sounded calm in comparison.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Approaching Hammersmith.’

  ‘We’re on our way,’ said Sean. ‘Travelling time from Marble Arch. Don’t lose him, Don. Whatever you do, don’t lose him.’

  Hellier cruised towards the chaotic one-way system of Hammersmith that was little more than a giant roundabout. Four lanes of traffic looped around a central shopping complex. The traffic was always a disaster.

  The traffic lights immediately ahead were green, but he wasn’t ready to enter the one-way system yet. He stopped at the green light and studied his rearview and side mirrors. The white van behind him beeped politely twice. When he didn’t move, it gave him a long angry blast of the horn. Still the lights were green. Still he wouldn’t move.

  He could see the van driver in his mirror, leaning out of his window now, shouting obscenities. Another blast on the van’s horn. The van would be a useful barrier between him and his pursuers, but it alone would not be enough.

  The lights changed to red just as the van driver was climbing from his cabin, malicious intent spread across his face. Hellier didn’t wait for a break in the traffic speeding across in front of him. He floored the accelerator. The rear wheels of the big automatic gripped almost instantly and launched the car towards the passing vehicles.

  ‘Move. Move. Move,’ DS Handy screamed at his driver. ‘Stay with him. For fuck’s sake, stay with him. Shit.’ He could see Hellier had pulled further ahead. ‘You’re losing him.’

  ‘What’s the fucking point?’ the driver snapped back. ‘We’re burnt. He’s wasted us. We can’t follow him driving like this and not show out.’

  ‘Don’t worry about staying covert,’ Handy was shouting. ‘Take the fucker out. Take him out.’

  Hellier had already turned right into Hammersmith Road. He gunned the Vauxhall east, towards Kensington. Confused drivers jammed the road in front of the surveillance cars. They couldn’t move, trapped in traffic. Hellier was gone.

  Sean spoke into his phone. He didn’t say much, just the occasional word. ‘How?’ ‘Where?’ He paled noticeably the more he listened. ‘Get back to Knightsbridge, and cover his home too.’

  He felt sick. Hellier was lost again. He’d made a bad decision, one he was going to have to live with. He rubbed his reddening eyes hard. Exhaustion threatened to overtake him. He looked at Sally. ‘Damn it.’

  ‘We’ll find him,’ Sally reassured him.

  ‘Only if he wants us to,’ he said. ‘Only if he’s still playing games with us. With me.’

  Hellier dumped the car and made absolutely sure he was alone before walking the short distance to High Street Kensington underground station and descending calmly to the platforms. He caught the first District Line train for two stops to South Kensington. Out of the station, he walked quickly along Exhibition Road, scanning the area for police. There were none. He turned right into Thurloe Place and walked along the row of shops. He knew exactly where he was going.

  He looked through the window of Thurloe Arts, casting a knowledgeable eye over the paintings that adorned the interior. It was more of a mini-gallery than a shop, although he decided most of it was crap.

  An old-fashioned bell rang above the door as he opened it. Almost immediately the owner appeared from the back of the shop, breaking into a welcoming smile when he saw Hellier.

  ‘Mr McLennan. What a pleasant surprise. How are you?’

  ‘I’m very well,’ Hellier replied. ‘How has life been treating you these past few years?’

  ‘I mustn’t complain. Business is a little unpredictable, but could be worse.’

  ‘Then I hope our arrangement has been of some financial assistance?’

  ‘Indeed it has, sir,’ the shopkeeper answered. ‘Am I to take it that is the purpose of your visit?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘If you would be good enough to wait here a moment.’

  Hellier nodded. The owner went to the back of the shop, returning a couple of minutes later. He held the door to the rear area open.

  ‘This way, please.’

  Hellier walked behind the counter and into the rear of the shop where he was led to a small windowless room lit by a single uncovered light bulb. There was a table and one chair in the middle, surrounded by bare yellow walls. On the table was a metal box, one foot by nine inches, a heavy combination padlock hanging from its side. Hellier entered the room and found it just as he remembered it from his previous visit, three years ago. The shopkeeper made his excuses and left.

  Taking a seat, Hellier examined the outside of the box. It seemed intact. He studied the lock closely. It was untainted. No telltale metal scratch marks. The dials remained at the settings he had left them on three years ago. He pulled a pair of thin leather gloves from his pocket and slipped his hands into the silk lining.

  He turned the combination dials and pulled at the lock. Three years was a long time. With a little effort it popped open. He wiggled it free from the box and placed it carefully on the table.

  He lifted the lid up as if opening a precious jewellery box. He removed an object wrapped in a white cloth and placed it next to the lock. He would look at it later. He needed to check something else first.

  He lifted a heavy parcel from the box. It was wrapped in several yellow dusters, which he patiently unfolded as if peeling back the petals of a tropical flower. The black-grey metal inside shone. He was pleased he’d taken the effort to oil the Browning 9mm automatic pistol before locking i
t away. He’d made plenty of enemies over the years. He doubted they could find him, but just in case they did, he had insurance.

  He checked the two magazines: both held a full load of thirteen 9mm high-velocity bullets. They had been harder to obtain than the gun itself. Squaddies were happy to sell weapons stolen from poorly guarded armouries, but for some reason they were reluctant to sell the bullets to go with them.

  Hellier pulled at the back of the gun. The top slide glided backwards and smoothly cocked the weapon. He squeezed the trigger. The hammer hit the firing pin with a reassuring metallic click. Satisfied, he pushed one of the magazines into the butt of the gun. The other he slid into his inside jacket pocket. He tucked the pistol into the small of his back, held in place by his belt.

  He opened the other parcel. He laughed at the items inside. A dark brown wig with eyebrows to match. A moustache, no beard. A pair of prescription spectacles. He tried them on. They affected his eyesight, but he could see through them. He picked up the tube of theatrical make-up glue. He squeezed a drop on to his left index finger and rubbed his thumb and finger together. The glue was still good. He rolled the parcel back in the cloth and stuffed it into his trouser pocket as he stood.

  He shut the box and replaced the padlock. He set the numbers as he had found them and left the room. The shopkeeper was waiting for him.

  ‘Everything as it should be?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Everything was fine,’ Hellier replied. ‘Tell me, is there a sports shop near here?’

  Sally and the others had decided to retreat to the one pub they ever used, close to Peckham police station. The landlord was only too happy to be running a ‘police pub’. It all but guaranteed his premises remained free of trouble, except for the occasional bust-up between coppers. And that was always dealt with in-house so no black marks went against his licence.

  Sally’s phone rang.