Cold Killing dsc-1

by Luke Delaney

  “Agreed” was all the wine drinker said.

  Once again the restaurant manager appeared at his shoulder, speaking softly into his ear. Gibran nodded once that he understood.

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he addressed the old men while getting to his feet, “it appears to be speech time.” They said nothing as they disappeared behind a cloud of heavy white smoke.

  Hellier entered the Criterion shortly after 9 P.M., late but unconcerned. He took his seat at the table and was relieved to see Gibran wasn’t there: at least now he could order himself a proper drink. He nodded at the other people around his table, some of whom he knew and others he didn’t. He didn’t care either way, and neither did he care what they thought of him. He grabbed a passing waiter.

  “Large scotch with ice,” he demanded. “And make sure it’s single malt.” He released the waiter and searched the room for Gibran, who was nowhere to be seen. He was probably hiding in a toilet somewhere, preparing his annual speech. Hellier wished they’d let him make a speech. He’d like nothing more than to tell a room full of sanctimonious shits a few home truths.

  As he waited for his drink and the next speaker, his mind kept wandering to Corrigan. Hellier knew cops, he understood how they worked, but there was definitely something about Corrigan that disturbed him, warned him to be more careful than usual. He must beware of hubris, stay focused, and stick to the script. There was to be no ad-libbing on this one. Corrigan was dangerous to him; he sensed it. His thoughts were disturbed by someone in a dinner jacket and bow tie tapping a microphone on the small stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our next speaker tonight, Sebastian Gibran, from Butler and Mason International Finance.” The room applauded generously, if politely, while Hellier groaned inside. Thankfully his drink arrived at the same time. He swallowed half of it in one go.

  Gibran raised his hand to bring an end to the applause. “As most of you know,” he began, “I’m not one for making public speeches. But it is always a special privilege to be invited to address so many influential people from our industry.”

  Modest applause rippled through the room, drowning out the obscenities Hellier was muttering under his breath.

  “Thank you,” said Gibran, feigning modesty. “Thank you.” He waited for the applause to cease. “I’ve worked in finance all my adult life, but never in more trying times-times where the creation and ownership of wealth are seen as morally corrupt, not just by those consumed with the politics of envy, but by power-hungry politicians who are all too keen to appease the noncontributing majority. They assume so much and know so little.

  “A long time ago, one of the richest men in the world, when he was close to death, gave away everything he had, absolutely everything. When asked why, he said, ‘There is no greater sin than to be the richest man in the graveyard.’ ” Laughter floated around the room. Gibran continued before it had stopped. “The thing is, he was right. There is no point in wealth for wealth’s sake. This is not merely my personal ideology, this is the ideology of my organization.

  “Since the banking sector abandoned all caution and reason in the pursuit of quick individual profits, people have lost faith in anyone even remotely connected to the financial markets, and that includes us. We have become fair game for anyone looking to ascribe the blame for their own failings to the mistakes of others, and we need to be aware that this is the brave new world in which we all now live. Only the other day I was having dinner with my wife and friends when a woman boldly informed me that the trouble with people like me is that we have no product, that all we do is make money for our masters who reward us with money. That essentially we produce nothing. We’re never going to make a beautiful piece of furniture or educate a child. We don’t build houses or save the lives of the sick. We create nothing and therefore have no value ourselves.”

  Hellier watched Gibran as his words silenced the audience who sat waiting for him to continue, waiting for him to assure them that they did have value, did have a place in the greater society. Hellier realized how different he was from everyone else in the room, how the mere thought of exclusion from anything terrified them, whereas he was able to embrace it when necessary, to make it his greatest ally. But even he was drawn into the speech and found himself eagerly awaiting Gibran’s next words. Study him, Hellier told himself. Watch Gibran perform and learn from it. Study his speech patterns and changes in tone. Study his pauses and body movements, the way he looks around the room, searching for eye contact. If he ever had to make a speech, he would imitate Gibran, imitate him exactly. His mind flashed back to the interview with Corrigan-the accusation that he was no more than a cheap imitation, a generic copy of Gibran. Corrigan had an insightfulness almost as acute as his own. He must never forget that if he wanted to win the game.

  “So,” Gibran continued, “I explained to that person that our very essence was about creating product. I explained to her that without people like us there would be no Microsoft Corporation. Bill Gates’s brilliant idea would have remained just that: an idea. It took finance raised by companies like ours to make it reality. And what about pharmaceutical companies and the drugs they make that save millions of lives: would any of them exist without finance to make their birth possible? No, they would not, and nor would any other non-state-owned business, be that a company making millions of cars or a family business making postcards. They all needed finance to exist in the first place. So, I told this woman, don’t ever tell me that I have no product.” He took half a step back from the microphone, triggering enthusiastic applause.

  “But we must do more than this,” Gibran continued. “There is no point in having a small, separate class of the superwealthy if the rest of society is reduced to a disillusioned underclass of the jealous, living their lives without hope or aspiration. In my heart I’m a socialist, but I believe all men and women should be equally wealthy, not equally poor. However, no government can ever achieve this. Their hands are tied by four-yearly elections and the need for short-term success. To build a society of the future worth living in takes time. It takes decades, not four years, which is why we must accept responsibility for things that have been too long left for the government to control. We should be financing the building of private but affordable schools. And in those schools we should be educating children who want to learn in environments free of disorder and dysfunction.”

  Gibran paused to allow applause as Hellier looked around at the audience, who were warming to Gibran’s rhetoric.

  “And we should finance the building of affordable private community hospitals, where those who are sick and injured through no fault of their own can receive immediate and expert care, unhindered by the need to treat smokers, drinkers, and the obese. And we should finance the building of private housing estates with their own private police, paid to protect the families and homes of those who live on them. Areas that will be safe from rioters and looters. And eventually everyone will want this better way of life. They will no longer be prepared to send their children to failing schools or their elderly relatives to failing hospitals. And through the ethical use of profits, insurance, and payment protection, the public sector and the billions it sucks up and wastes will become obsolete. Through finance, the private sector will succeed where every government to date has failed.”

  Applause erupted in the room, making Hellier laugh inwardly at how expertly Gibran had played them. But his mood soon began to darken as he realized he was witnessing the birth of Gibran as a worthy adversary, a dangerous adversary. So now he had two: Corrigan and Gibran. But which one should he be more cautious of? At least Corrigan was obvious and predictable, the raging bull who would keep coming straight at him until he was defeated or victorious. But Gibran was the snake in the grass, waiting to strike. He was the shark that swam below a calm sea, waiting until he smelled blood in the water. Hellier would respect the threats both men represented, but he would never fear them. He watched as Gibran’s speech drew
to a close.

  “However,” Gibran warned his audience, “such ambitions can only be achieved in a new climate of competitive cooperation. Clearly, we cannot be seen to be forming cartels, but true progress cannot be achieved by individual businesses working toward individual goals. Cooperation is the key. But remember, we can only ever be as strong as our weakest link.”

  Gibran’s eyes suddenly looked through the crowd and came to rest on Hellier, who felt them burning into his skin, as if Gibran were publically branding him a liability. Hellier resisted the temptation to smile: Gibran might think he was smart, but he’d just showed Hellier his hand. No matter what happened next, Hellier would be ready for him. When the time came, he would be ready.

  CHAPTER 14

  I had to wait so very long before finding him. I searched and searched for years, then finally, it was he who found me. He simply walked into my life one day. Surely he had been sent to me, a gift from Nature herself.

  His eyes betrayed him. Immediately I knew he and I were alike. We were the same animal. There was no mistake. He had hidden his nature well; his facade of normality would deceive anybody. Anybody but me, that is. But when he looked at me he saw nothing. I could see the contempt he had for me, the same as he had for everybody else. My disguise hid me even from my own kind. Now all I had to do was wait a little while longer. A year or two. Then I could begin.

  My favorite film is West Side Story. Why? Because of the violence. It’s pure and total violence. The dancing is violent. The music is violent. The scenery is violent, so is the red sun that washes over the city in every scene. The film’s a statement about the dominance of violence over every other aspect of life. Romeo and Juliet. Violence defeats love. Violence is the only truth.

  I understand this. You do not. You hide from violence. Cower in its presence. You damn it as the scourge of modern life. Punish your youth for being violent. Try to ban it from your television. Try to stop it at your football matches. Your government spends billions of pounds every year trying to remove violence from society.

  But violence is life. Without violence there would be no life. Violence is the driving force that is life. It represents the ultimate beauty of life.

  Evolution is violent. Species evolve through violent competition. The strong kill the weak and so the species develops. Without violence we would still be living in trees. No. Less than that. We would still be single-celled organisms. And yet you treat violence as your enemy, when it is your greatest ally.

  I understand violence. I embrace it. I harness it. Through violence I am evolving into something beyond imagination.

  CHAPTER 15

  Tuesday

  Early morning and Sean was already at his desk. The office was growing increasingly active as the detectives drifted into work. A knock at his open door made him glance up. Superintendent Featherstone waited to be invited in.

  “Boss,” Sean acknowledged. “How’s it going?”

  Featherstone held two coffees in to-go cups. He placed one in front of Sean then sat down. “Never known a DI turn down a free coffee.”

  “Thanks,” said Sean. As he lifted the drink, he realized why Featherstone was there. Sean hadn’t consulted with him prior to arresting Hellier. Technically, he should have. “While you’re here, there are a few things I need to update you on.”

  “You don’t say,” Featherstone said. “Such as the arrest of a suspect, maybe?”

  “Among other things. .”

  “An arrest I learned about from the television.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Sean. “That shouldn’t have happened, and it won’t happen again.”

  “I know things can get a bit manic at times,” Featherstone said, “but I’m here to keep those that would otherwise interfere off your back so you can do what you have to do. I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s going on. In future, make a quick call. Okay?”

  “Of course,” Sean agreed. Featherstone was as good a senior officer as Sean could hope for and he knew it. He needed to keep him on his side.

  “This James Hellier character,” Featherstone asked. “You sure he’s our man?”

  “As sure as I can be, but that means nothing without some usable evidence.”

  “If there’s evidence to find, then you’ll find it. Whatever course of action you decide to take will get my backing.”

  “Appreciated.”

  Featherstone stood to leave. “By the way, this Hellier-he sounds like the sort of man who may have connections, if you understand my meaning.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, guv. Before you go, are you still able to front a media appeal for me?”

  “You should do it yourself,” Featherstone answered. “It would do you no harm to increase your public profile. If you ever want to be a chief inspector it’s the sort of bollocks they love to see on your CV.”

  “Not really my thing,” Sean demurred.

  “Your call. So, what do you have in mind?”

  “I think it’s time we did a press conference. I’ll arrange it and let you know where and when.”

  “I’ll be there,” Featherstone replied without enthusiasm. “We’ll speak soon.”

  Hellier listened to Sebastian Gibran drone on from the other side of an obscenely wide oak desk, flanked by two old men rarely seen in the office. He assumed they were two of the owners of Butler and Mason, about whom little was known, even among the employees. They had olive skin and spoke only passable English. Hellier thought they looked old and weak.

  “It’s important for you to understand, James,” Gibran urged, “that we fully support you in what must be a very difficult time for you and your family, and I speak for the entire firm when I say none of us believes these ridiculous allegations.”

  Hellier was almost caught daydreaming. He realized just in time he was expected to answer. “Yes, of course, and thank you for your support. It really means a lot to my family and me.” He sounded suitably genuine.

  “James,” Gibran insisted, “you have been one of our most valuable employees since you joined us. You needn’t thank us for supporting you now.”

  Sanctimonious bastard. One of their most valuable employees-I’ve made these fuckers millions. And they never cared how the money was earned either, so long as it kept rolling in. Support me during these difficult times. What fucking choice do you fools have? You need me a hell of a lot more than I need you.

  “Well, all the same, I’m very much indebted to you. To you all,” Hellier lied. “I feel very much a part of the family here and would hate for that to change.”

  “So would I,” said Gibran, although his tone and expression were less than reassuring. “But incidents such as your late arrival at what is possibly the most important annual event in our diary will not go unnoticed. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I understand,” Hellier lied. “And I apologize for being late, unreservedly. Once this whole mess with the police is cleared up, I’ll be able once again to give a hundred percent to this firm.”

  “Good,” said Gibran. “Because not only are you important to the company, you’re important to me personally, James, as a valued friend.”

  Sally had been at the Public Records Office all morning. She was bored and frustrated. The clerk helping her search for records relating to Stefan Korsakov seemed bored too. He was no more than twenty-five and still had traces of acne. He wasn’t impressed with Sally’s credentials. Sally didn’t know his name. He hadn’t told her.

  These days the bulk of the records were on computer, with only the clerk having access to the system. That was fine with Sally, so long as she didn’t have to wait much longer among the millions of old paper records stacked from floor to ceiling in the dark, cavernous building.

  She heard footsteps approaching along the corridors of shelving and she was relieved to see the clerk return holding a piece of paper, but he wasn’t smiling.

  “I’ve found the person you’re interested in. Stefan Korsakov, born in Twickenham, Middles
ex, on the twelfth of November 1971.” He put the paper on a desk and smoothed it out for Sally to see. “Stefan Korsakov’s birth certificate,” he announced. “This is the person you’re interested in?”

  “Yes,” Sally answered. “I was beginning to think I’d imagined him.”

  “Excuse me?” the clerk asked.

  “Never mind. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Really.” The clerk sounded bored again.

  “Is he still alive?” She looked up at the clerk. “If he’s dead, I need to see his death certificate.”

  “Do you know where he might have died?”

  “Not a clue,” Sally answered honestly. “Does that help?”

  “I take it you want me to do a national search?”

  “Sorry. Yes.” Sally sensed the clerk’s annoyance rising.

  “That’ll take days. Maybe weeks. I’ll have to send out a circular to the other offices around the country. All I can do is wait for them to get back to me.”

  “Fine.” Sally pulled a business card from her handbag and gave it to him. “Here’s my card. My mobile number is on there. Call me as soon as you know. Anytime. Day or night.”

  “Will there be anything else?”

  “No.” The word was barely out before Sally changed her mind. “Actually, you know what, while I’m here there is one more thing I’d like you to check for.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’d like you to find birth and death certificates, if they exist, for this man.” She wrote a name and date of birth on some paper and handed it to the clerk.

  He read the name. “James Hellier. It’ll be done,” he said. “But-”

  Sally finished for him. “It’ll take time. Yes, I know.”

  Hellier made his excuses and left the office shortly after his meeting with Gibran. No one had questioned why or where he was going. He knew no one would.