Cold Killing

by Luke Delaney

  She disliked the harsher overhead lights, choosing instead to walk across the dark room she knew so well to the lamp in the far corner. She reached for the lamp switch, but something touched her hand. Material. Silk or nylon. She didn’t understand. She recoiled as if she’d touched a spider’s web, but curiosity overcame her fear. She moved her hand through the darkness to the lamp. Again the material. She pushed her hand through it, finding the switch and turning the lamp on. Light shone through the red silk neck scarf that was now draped over it. It had been a present to herself for Christmas. The room glowed red. This wasn’t right. A cool breeze brushed against her face. It came from the kitchen. That shouldn’t be. The window shouldn’t be open.

  She felt him behind her. Close enough to hear him breathing. She almost fainted. Then she almost vomited. He was waiting for her to make her move. Like a snake lying within striking distance, but she was frozen. Fear controlled her.

  Finally she forced her body to move, turning towards him, inching herself around, desperately trying to recall her self-defence training. Aim a knee for his groin. God help her if she missed. A knee in the groin and then run.

  She forced herself to speak. ‘Please.’ Her voice was almost inaudible. ‘Please. You know what I am. Leave now and this won’t go any further. I promise.’ She was face to face with him. She almost fainted again. He stood above her. He was only about five foot ten, but he looked like a giant.

  He wore a dark tracksuit and rubber gloves. A tight-knit woollen hat covered his hair. She could see every muscle in his body was tense, his arms rigid by his side. The red lighting made his teeth shine like rubies.

  Sally studied his face. It was distorted by the light and his contorted muscles, but she could see him clearly. He was letting her see his face. She knew who he was. Knew he wasn’t going to let her live. She was going to die and nobody else in the world knew. She had so many things she wanted to do. Wanted to say to people, but now she was going to die.

  He moved so quickly she hardly saw him. She had no time to react. A hand gripped around her neck, slowly crushing her throat. He was so strong. Was this how he would do it? Crush her throat. The other hand flashed a blade in front of her face. She thought she recognized it from her own kitchen. He pulled her so close she could see the fine wrinkles in his skin.

  ‘Make a sound you die. Struggle you die. Do as I say and you live.’

  It was a lie. She wasn’t like the others. Clinging to the hope that he could be telling the truth, they’d have done anything for the chance to live. But she had seen his face. She knew he would never let her live. She nodded her head anyway.

  ‘Do you know how lucky you are to have been chosen?’ He spoke slowly through clenched teeth. He held the knife to her throat and released his grip.

  ‘I’ll do as you say. I promise,’ she pleaded.

  He smiled and licked his lips. She felt the knife drop away from her throat slightly. Only a few millimetres. It would have to be enough.

  Without warning she smashed her right fist as hard as she could into the underside of his jaw. The knife flashed across her throat, but she’d already leaned back. It slashed through the air. She brought her knee up into his groin. He began to bend double. She sprang for her front door. She would live.

  The top of her head suddenly burned with pain. Her run jarred to a stop as her legs fell from under her. He gripped her by the hair, twisting it around his fist as he pulled her back. She could feel the tears stinging the back of her eyes. She had to scream.

  She filled her lungs as he spun her in his grip to face him. She saw him make a quick move, his free arm jabbed towards her. The air in her lungs deserted her, yet she hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t been able to.

  It felt like a punch, like having the wind knocked out of you. Nothing more than a dull ache in her chest. Her head was forcefully bent forward. He wanted her to see the knife buried to the hilt in the right side of her chest. He tugged the knife free. It didn’t come easily. Her chest muscles had gripped the foreign body, trying to stem the breach. She wheezed horribly. She could physically feel the air from her lung rushing out through the wound.

  He pulled her closer. ‘Fucking bitch. Slut, bitch. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This is not as I saw it. This is not how it was supposed to be.’

  Pushing her away, he held her at arm’s length. Another flash of his hand. She felt the same dull pain, but something else too. The knife had hit a rib. He pulled to free it, but it wouldn’t move. It was jammed in her rib.

  The pain and shock were too much. She fell unconscious. The only thing stopping her falling to the floor was his grip on her hair and the knife wedged in her chest. Finally he let her slip to the floor. He placed a foot on the left side of her chest and pulled on the knife. It wouldn’t move.

  ‘Fucking pig whore,’ he hissed. He wanted to spit on her, but wouldn’t risk leaving his DNA in the saliva at the scene.

  He stood over her, watching the crimson spreading across her white blouse. Her breathing was shallow, but she was alive. Suddenly he was hypnotized by her. He cocked his head to one side like a bird of prey watching its kill writhing, trapped under its talons.

  But it was spoilt. This was not how he had foreseen it. No matter. He calmed himself. He would finish her quickly and leave. All great men suffered frustration, he reassured himself. He would learn from his mistakes.

  He pulled at the knife protruding from her chest. Still it wouldn’t move. She was all but finished, but he wouldn’t take the chance and leave her like this. He peered through the living room to the kitchen. His mind tried to recall what other knives he had seen in the drawer when he had selected the one now embedded in Sally’s chest. Most had felt blunt. He recalled running a finger carefully along their cutting edges, blunt. She hadn’t taken care of them. So be it. He would cut her throat with a blunt knife. It would take longer. It wouldn’t be clean and neat. She only had herself to blame.

  He studied her once more. Air leaking from her chest puncture made the blood around the entry wound bubble and hiss. It reminded him of when he was a boy, fixing punctures on his pedal cycle. Should he drag her to the kitchen, keep her close? No. Quicker to leave her there.

  Decision made, he turned and strode to the kitchen. Despite the disappointment, he still felt magnificent. Powerful. Untouchable. Like a god. He knew which drawer to open. The knives weren’t organized. He shifted the knives around with a gloved hand, ignoring the large carving ones. Trying to find something with a four-inch blade. Smooth or serrated edge, it didn’t matter, but it had to be rigid. Thick and strong from hilt to tip. A chopping knife would be best. He’d already used the best one, but he found a substitute. A black-handled vegetable knife. He held the knife up to his face, slightly above his eyeline. It would do.

  He turned back towards the living room, expecting to see Sally’s head and upper body lying on the floor, the rest of her obscured by the sofa. Instead he saw her open the front door and stagger into the communal hallway. Somehow she had got to her feet. He saw the blood smear around the top door bolt. He had underestimated her strength. Her will to live. To survive. It had been a mistake.

  Should he flee? He glanced over his shoulder at the open window in the kitchen. He looked back at Sally. Could he reach her before she started pounding on the neighbour’s front door? Would she reach their door? It was less than ten feet away, but it would feel like a marathon to her. He willed her to collapse.

  He couldn’t let this happen. She had seen him. His grip tightened around the knife. He watched her stagger sideways, but remain on her feet. He began to walk towards her, long confident steps propelling him forward.

  She fell, crashing into her neighbour’s door, and banged her fist twice, as hard as she could, on the door. Still he strode towards her, cutting through the dim red light that now spilled into the hallway. She had to die. She could destroy him. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

  It was gone eleven p.m. when George Fuller, inside flat
four, heard something crash into his front door. The surprise made him jump and spill some of his beer. The cold drops fell on to his wife’s face as she slept in his lap on the sofa. He had been watching a bad sci-fi film. She woke with a moan.

  ‘George,’ Susie Fuller complained, ‘you’ve spilt beer on me.’

  He was annoyed his wife had been woken. Now she would want to watch the other channel. ‘It’ll be that bloody woman from across the hall again.’ He was already up and heading towards the front door. He was a big man. His two favourite places were the gym and the pub. The results were intimidating. ‘She must be a prostitute or something, the hours she keeps.’

  He was only steps away from the front door when he heard the two thumps. They came from lower down on the door. As if someone was sitting on the other side. Someone in trouble maybe? Someone drunk? Drunk, he decided.

  ‘George,’ he heard his wife enquiring. ‘Who is it? What’s going on?’

  ‘Stay there,’ he told her. She could hear the anger in his voice. He reached the door and yanked it open. His chest was full, ready to power a verbal onslaught at whoever he found. The door opened wide in one sweep. Sally’s still body slumped heavily on to the floor at his feet. He could see she was bleeding, but didn’t see the knife.

  He sensed danger. Five years as an officer in the Parachute Regiment had tuned his instincts. He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. He bent over fast and grabbed Sally’s arm. He began to drag her back into his flat. A movement caught his eye. Something in Sally’s flat opposite. He looked up into the dim red light. Something moving fast. Too fast. Was that a man? The dark shape slithered through the small kitchen window and was gone.

  He snapped himself back into action, dragging Sally into his flat and slamming the door shut. He bent to examine her then turned his attention to the front door. He secured every lock he could see. His wife appeared in the hallway.

  ‘George?’ she asked. The worry was loud in her tone.

  ‘Call the police,’ he shouted, loudly enough to make Susie hug herself. ‘And get a fucking ambulance.’ He was back in Afghanistan, shouting orders at teenage soldiers.

  His wife was staring at Sally lying on her floor. She started to cry with fear. ‘What’s happening, George? What was it?’

  George looked at his own bloody hands. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ His voice grew calmer. ‘I saw something out there. A dog, or a fucking big cat or something. It escaped through her window.’

  He examined Sally more closely. His battlefield medical trauma training came back to him as he rolled her on to her side and checked for the wounds. He saw the knife, making him recoil. It had been a man he saw.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered quietly. ‘Get me some tape and plastic bags.’ He was shouting again. ‘Come on. Come on,’ he spoke to Sally. ‘Hold on, girl. Help’s on the way. Just a little longer. Just a little longer.’

  The mobile rang loudly. Kate woke first. Sean slept deeply, sedated by alcohol. He’d hit the bourbon pretty hard after Kate had left him. It was the only way he could chase their argument and Hellier from his mind long enough to get to sleep. She turned the bedside lamp on and looked at her husband sleeping. She wished she could leave him, but a phone call at two a.m. would have to be important. She shook him as gently as she could while still waking him.

  ‘Sean.’ She spoke softly. She wanted to wake him, not the children. ‘Sean.’

  He moaned and rolled over to look at her, his eyes vacant, wandering between the real and dream worlds. He didn’t hear the phone yet.

  ‘Your phone,’ Kate whispered.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

  ‘About two. And keep your voice down.’

  Sean moaned again then grabbed the phone. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Sorry to call at this hour.’ He didn’t recognize the voice. ‘I’m Inspector Deiry, the Night Duty Inspector for Chelsea and Fulham. I’m trying to trace a Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan.’

  ‘You’ve found him,’ Sean said. His head thumped mercilessly. The nausea spread from his stomach to his throat. He remembered why he rarely drank more than a glass or two of beer.

  ‘I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this …’ The Inspector sounded grim. ‘Do you work with a DS Sally Jones?’

  Sean’s mouth was as dry as his heart was frantic. He managed to answer. ‘Yes. She’s on my team. What’s happened to her?’

  ‘She was attacked, earlier tonight. In her flat. She’s very badly hurt.’

  The blood rushed from his head, then just as quickly flooded back. He’d never felt so cold. ‘But she’s alive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Sean said. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Charing Cross Hospital. She’s still in surgery.’

  Sean checked his watch. ‘I’ll be there in less than an hour.’

  He hung up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, staggering a little as he stood. Kate noticed it.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Sally’s been attacked. In her own flat. She sounds bad. I’ve got to get to Charing Cross Hospital.’

  ‘Oh my God. Who would want to hurt Sally?’ Sean looked at her without speaking. ‘Not the man you’re after?’ Kate asked. ‘You told me they never came after police.’

  ‘This one’s different.’

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘In every way imaginable,’ Sean said. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Get a shower,’ she insisted. ‘Then I’ll drive you.’

  ‘No. I’m fine.’

  Kate was already out of bed. ‘I’m phoning Kirsty. She can watch the kids till morning.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ he argued. ‘I can drive myself.’

  She grabbed the sides of his face in her hands and locked eyes with him. ‘The last thing Sally needs is for you to drive under a bus pissed. I’ll drive you. After you’ve had a shower to sort yourself out.’

  Sean knew she would have her way. He headed for the shower, reeling under the effects of the shock. He had to call Donnelly. The team needed to know what had happened. Any one of them could be next.

  By the time Kate had driven them to Charing Cross Hospital the last effects of the alcohol had almost faded. Kate and he met the uniformed inspector in the Casualty Department waiting room. He was with a female uniformed sergeant. Sean introduced himself to the inspector. He didn’t introduce Kate and the inspector didn’t introduce the sergeant.

  ‘Where is she?’ Sean sounded harsh. ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘No. She’s still in surgery,’ the inspector told him. ‘It’ll be a few hours before anyone can see her.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She hasn’t spoken since the neighbour found her. All we know is she was attacked in her own flat. And she has two very serious stab wounds to her chest, both on the right side. It’s a life-threatening situation, but she’s holding on.’

  ‘Who’s the neighbour?’

  The sergeant referred to her notebook: ‘George Fuller. Ex-paratrooper captain. Now works for the local council. Found her at about eleven, slumped in the communal area against his door. Two chest wounds. The knife was still in her.’ She glanced up from her notes in time to see Sean wince. ‘Mr Fuller was a medic in his army days. He used Sellotape and plastic shopping bags to seal the wounds and keep her chest cavity air-tight. The admitting casualty doctor said he had undoubtedly saved her life.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ Sean wanted to see the man who had saved Sally.

  ‘He went home,’ the inspector answered. ‘He insisted on coming with DS Jones in the ambulance, but I sent him home a little while ago.’

  ‘What’s happened to her flat?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ said the inspector. ‘We’ve sealed it off for the time being.’

  ‘Good. Post a guard on the flat. No one is allowed in without my say so.’

  The inspector looked quizzical. ‘I’m sorry, but this is a local matter.
Our CID will be in charge of the investigation. The scene’s secure. There’s no need to guard it.’

  ‘Wrong.’ Sean was feeling angry and tired. He didn’t want his instructions to be questioned. ‘I’m the officer in charge of this investigation. Any problems with that, phone Detective Superintendent Featherstone, Serious Crime Group South.’ He gambled the inspector wouldn’t. Not at this hour. ‘I’ll liaise with your CID and put them in the picture.’

  Sean could see the inspector needed more. ‘This attack is linked to a series of murders I’m investigating. DS Jones was part of that inquiry team. Whoever committed those murders is the same man who attacked her. So get me the guard on the flat,’ Sean demanded. ‘What security have you put in place here?’

  ‘I’ve posted a uniformed officer to stay with her,’ the inspector explained.

  ‘I want at least two officers watching her,’ Sean insisted.

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’ The inspector looked shaken.

  Sean spied Donnelly thundering along the corridor. He charged up to them.

  ‘That bastard’s dead,’ were his first words. ‘I’ll tell you that for nothing. He’s going straight out the fifth-floor window. Aye, I fucking promise you that.’ His Scots accent had suddenly grown stronger.

  Sean held a hand up and was on the verge of telling him to calm down when he was distracted by his mobile ringing.

  ‘Sean Corrigan.’

  ‘It’s DS Colville, sir. Sorry about the time, but I thought you’d want to know, Hellier’s just arrived home.’

  Sean and Donnelly approached Hellier’s house. The local night-duty CID had arrived to assist them. That made four of them in total. They met in the street, fifty metres short of the house. They swapped names and shook hands.

  ‘Is this it?’ Sean asked. He had hoped the local station, Islington, would have provided more assistance.