Cold Killing dsc-1

by Luke Delaney

  Sean and Sally donned forensic suits and entered Linda Kotler’s flat. It looked very different from how Sean remembered it, forensic examiners going about their work making it seem full of life. They went directly to the living room, where Sean had seen the docking unit for Linda Kotler’s home phone. He examined it without touching and saw traces of aluminum powder on both the phone and the base. “Has this phone been dusted yet?” he asked a middle-aged woman, shapeless in her paper suit. They all resembled workers in a nuclear power plant.

  “Yes,” she answered. “I did it.”

  “Have the messages been listened to?” Sean asked.

  “No. We’ll do that back at the audio lab, for continuity.” But Sean had had enough of waiting. He pressed the message playback button and hit the speaker on switch. “I don’t think you should be doing that,” the woman protested.

  “DI Corrigan. I’m in charge of this investigation.”

  The machine beeped, long and shrill. A ringing tone could be heard. Linda Kotler’s voice filled the room. Everyone stopped and listened to the woman who had been murdered only two plaster walls away.

  They listened as the sisters chatted. This was it. Sean’s heart was going faster and faster. He knew what was coming, but he didn’t want to hear it.

  “And does this man have a name?” Debbie asked.

  He could see Sally watching him out the corner of her eye.

  “Sean,” Linda’s voice said. “Sean Corrigan.”

  The middle-aged forensics officer was staring at him now. “Haven’t you got work to do?” he snapped. She moved quickly away.

  Sean stood and led Sally to the bedroom, where they found Donnelly wearing a forensic suit. Sean also recognized the slim figure of Dr. Canning, kneeling over Linda Kotler’s lifeless form. A number of labeled specimen jars and exhibit bags were spread across the floor close by, within easy reach of the pathologist. DC Zukov was doing his best to assist Canning.

  “Anything interesting yet?” Sean asked.

  Dr. Canning was stone-faced. “Inspector Corrigan. I shall assume you are responsible for dragging me halfway across London.”

  “Sorry, but I felt it was necessary.”

  “Because you believe you have two connected murders. Sergeant Donnelly here filled me in on the details.”

  “Three murders,” Sean corrected him. The pathologist frowned. “There was another. The first of the series occurred about two weeks ago. Postmortem’s already been done, but I’d like you to cast an eye over it.”

  “Very well,” Canning replied. He went back to work. He talked as he examined the body.

  “So elaborate. Probably the most elaborate bindings and ligatures I’ve ever encountered.”

  “Why?” Sean asked. “What’s the purpose?”

  Canning pointed to the knot on the stocking that ran along the victim’s spine. “That’s a slip knot. My best guess at this time would be that it’s a type of harness.

  “He positions the victim facedown on the bed, then by pulling the slip knot up and down he can control the tightness of the bindings around her throat and legs simultaneously. Quite the instrument of torture.”

  “Anything else?” Sean asked.

  Canning scanned the body, wondering where to begin. “You’ll have to wait until the postmortem before it’s confirmed, but I’m sure the cause of death will be strangulation.” He pointed to the victim’s neck. “You can see the ligature’s sunk into the flesh quite deeply. Far more deeply than was necessary to kill her. Quite a surprise the skin didn’t break. There’s other severe bruising too. Probably all caused by the same ligature.” Canning took a deep breath. “This is a strong man you’re looking for, Inspector.”

  “What caused the other bruising around the neck?” Sean asked.

  “I believe the killer repeatedly tightened the ligature around her neck, but released it before death.”

  “And before she passed out too,” Sean added.

  “I wouldn’t be able to say.”

  “He wouldn’t have let her pass out,” Sean assured him. “He wouldn’t have let her escape into unconsciousness. Not even for a second.”

  Canning raised his eyebrows. “It would appear he had knowledge of autoerotic asphyxiation,” he continued. “Popular with sadomasochists.”

  Hellier’s face flashed in Sean’s mind.

  “She was sexually assaulted too. Raped both vaginally and anally by the look of things. No immediate signs of semen or a lubricant. I suspect he used a dry condom.”

  Canning spoke to DC Zukov. “Could you pass me that halogen lamp, please, Detective?” Zukov passed him a metal-cased lamp that was big enough to be a helicopter searchlight. Canning flicked the lamp on. It gave off a less bright light than expected, but that wasn’t its purpose. Held at the right angle, it would allow the naked eye to observe otherwise near-invisible marks. Fingerprints, footprints, hairs, tiny fragments of metal. .

  Canning began to slowly sweep the light across the body. He started at the lowest point. In this case it was the knees. The legs were still bent and tied back so her feet almost touched her buttocks. The light moved to her back. “Hello there.” Canning had found something. He froze the light on the victim’s back. Sean moved two steps closer.

  “Careful,” Canning warned him. “We haven’t examined the entire area around the body yet.”

  Sean stopped and crouched down. He craned his neck to get a better view of the victim’s back. “What is it?”

  “If I’m not very much mistaken,” Canning said, “it’s a footprint.” He moved the lamp to another angle. “Yes. There.” The shoe-shaped bruise came more into focus. “Definitely a shoe mark. Pretty plain, though. No ridges or pattern.”

  “A plain-soled man’s shoe, between size eight and ten.”

  “Yes,” Canning agreed. “That would be my guess. I’ll have it photographed back at the mortuary. Should show up well enough.”

  “Why would he do that?” DC Zukov asked the question, the disgusted look clear on his face.

  Sean knew why, but he wouldn’t say. He knew Canning would work it out.

  “He pressed down on her back with his foot while pulling the ligatures tighter. That’s probably when the other marks around the neck were caused.”

  “Sick bastard,” Zukov said. “Sick, evil bastard.”

  No one disagreed.

  Needing a break from the scene, Sally stood outside in the street smoking. She doubted whether the male officers felt what she did for the victim. Did they ever feel vulnerable and scared like a woman could? Did they ever consider how intimidating a big man could be to a woman, just by standing a little too close in a bar, at a bus stop? Probably not.

  What must it have been like for Linda Kotler? Those last minutes, God forbid hours, of her life. Totally overpowered by this man, this wild animal. Did the male officers have any real idea how hundreds of thousands of women across London would feel when details of the latest murder were released to the press?

  Many would stop going out at night until he, the killer, was caught. Others would rush to buy rape alarms, some would start to carry offensive weapons. All would check the locks on their doors and windows. They would want their men home before dark.

  Sally would be no different. When she thought of Linda Kotler, the way she had died, she couldn’t help but see her own face on the body. She shivered repeatedly. The cigarette helped a little.

  God, she wished she had a lover. Someone special to share her life with, good or bad. Her achievements and her failures. Her hopes and her fears. This wasn’t an easy job to do alone.

  Her thoughts turned to Sebastian Gibran. Was that what he wanted? To be her lover? When they’d first met, his eyes had definitely rested on her for longer than normal. She was pretty sure he would be married, but maybe that didn’t matter to him. How did she feel about being a mistress to a wealthy benefactor? Was the whole “something sensitive to discuss” a ruse to get her to meet him for lunch? Wine and dine her? Seduc
e her? She couldn’t deny she had found him attractive: power and presence in a man were strong aphrodisiacs. She would find out soon enough.

  The cigarette grew hot between her fingers, snapping her back to the present. She tossed it away and headed back inside the scene, all thoughts of pleasanter things a distant memory.

  Dr. Canning moved the halogen lamp to the victim’s head. He held a fine-toothed comb in his other hand, the better to groom the victim’s hair before the body was moved. A tiny, vital piece of evidence could easily be lost when moving a body. With the help of DC Zukov, he’d lifted the head very slightly and slipped a three-foot-by-three-foot white paper sheet under her head. He began to comb the hair slowly, from the scalp outward.

  As he combed, a little of her hair fell onto the sheet. Then he saw it, floating the short distance to the sheet. It landed gently. He dared not breathe. He swapped the comb and lamp for a plastic evidence bag and a pair of delicate metal tweezers. He moved the tweezers stealthily closer to the hair. When he was no more than an inch or two away, he suddenly moved quickly, grabbing the hair in the small metal claw. He allowed himself to exhale.

  Sean had been watching intently. As Canning held the hair above his head, Sean could see it glistening. “The victim’s?” Sean asked.

  “Definitely not,” Canning replied. “Too fair. And there’s a root on it. Your lab shouldn’t have too much trouble getting DNA off it.”

  Sean hid the excitement swelling in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. The root of that hair could solve this murder on its own.

  “What are the chances it belongs to our killer?” he asked.

  “Unless there was another person here with the victim last night, I’d say it’s almost certainly the killer’s,” Canning answered. “This hair wasn’t buried deep in among the victim’s. It was virtually sitting on top of hers, waiting to be found.”

  Sean was still concerned. He wanted it to be absolute. In court it would have to be absolute. “How could that be?” he asked. “A hair, with a root, just lying there?”

  “Most likely caused by the killer removing a head cover of some description,” Canning surmised. “When you remove a hat or something similar, there is always a good chance you’ll pull a hair out, and often the root will come with it.”

  “So you think he took his off?” Sean asked.

  “Yes. Hairs like this, with roots attached, don’t fall out naturally.”

  “Why the hell would he take his head cover off?” Sean wondered.

  “That I can’t answer,” Canning said. “But if he did take a head cover off, then we’ve a good chance of finding more hair on the body or around it. That would further diminish the possibility of an accidental transfer of hair from body to body at some other point during the day at another location.” Sean understood the importance of eliminating that possibility. Defense solicitors had become skilled in arguing their way around forensic evidence.

  The pathologist handed the evidence bag containing the hair to DC Zukov. He handled it as if it were an unstable bomb. Canning picked up his lamp again and began to examine the area around the body. He bent so low his face was almost on the carpet. Sean hadn’t blinked for minutes. He watched as Canning’s eyes suddenly narrowed. He saw him stretch out with his tweezers and snare the thin fiber. Canning looked directly at him.

  “It would seem the forensic gods are with us today, Inspector.”

  “The same?” he asked.

  “I would say so,” Canning answered. “This has a root too. DNA will no doubt confirm they come from the same person. If your killer’s in the National DNA Database, then it’ll be case closed for you.”

  “The man who did this isn’t in the database,” Sean told him. “But that doesn’t matter, because I know where to find his DNA.”

  Canning looked a little confused. “And where would that be?”

  Sean answered: “In his blood.”

  Hellier hadn’t been asked to see any clients in over two days. He no longer cared. Only a few weeks before he would have taken steps to ensure that the firm wasn’t trying to cut him out. Now it was irrelevant. The firm had served its purpose. He didn’t need them anymore.

  It was almost 6 P.M. Only he, Sebastian Gibran, and the perfect secretary remained in the office. It was a shame he couldn’t be alone with the secretary. He would have liked to give the beautiful bitch a going-away present she wouldn’t forget, but he couldn’t risk it with Gibran lurking inside his office. Maybe sometime in the distant future their paths would cross again.

  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 toward Knightsbridge. Toward 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 color 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 toward 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 the 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 said, making 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.