Cold Killing dsc-1

by Luke Delaney

  “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 defense 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 said, quoting the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. She was right and Sean knew it.

  “Only until he goes home,” Sean said, seeking 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 cabdriver, 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 curb. 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 driver’s license 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 three-liter 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 the adjacent streets, leapfrogging 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 onto the Marylebone Flyover and joined the Westway, a small motorway raised above the heart of West London and 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 countersurveillance 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, signaling that 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 access road, the West Cross Route, that took him to a major traffic circle. Only at the traffic circle did he make the final decision as to where he would go. He could turn left along Holland Park, back toward Central London. Or straight over toward Earl’s Court, along Holland Road. No. He needed traffic. He turned right at the traffic circle and drove past Shepherd’s Bush Green on his right and then turned left into Shepherd’s Bush Road, heading toward 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. “Traveling time from Marble Arch. Don’t lose him, Don. Whatever you do, don’t lose him.”

  Hellier cruised toward the chaotic one-way system of Hammersmith that was little more than a giant traffic circle. 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 twice, politely. 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 toward 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 farther ahead. “You’re losing him.”

  “What’s the fucking point?” the driver snapped back. “We’re burned. 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, toward 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. “Dammit.”

  “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 the High Street Kensington underground station and descending calmly to the platforms. He caught the first District l
ine 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 lightbulb. 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 jewelry 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 cloths, which he patiently unfolded as if peeling back the petals of a tropical flower. The black-gray metal inside shone. He was pleased he’d taken the effort to oil the Browning 9-millimeter automatic pistol before locking it 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: each held a full load of thirteen 9-millimeter high-velocity bullets. They had been harder to obtain than the gun itself. Soldiers were happy to sell weapons stolen from poorly guarded armories, 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 backward 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 mustache, 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 makeup glue. He squeezed a drop onto 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 the Peckham police station. The landlord was only too happy to be running a “police pub.” It all but guaranteed that 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 license.

  Sally’s phone rang.

  “Sally Jones speaking.”

  “DS Jones, I’m Prison Officer English, from Wandsworth Prison.”

  Sally hadn’t expected the prison to call her outside of office hours. “You have something for me?”

  “Your inquiry into a former prisoner: Korsakov, Stefan, released in 1999. You wanted to know why we requested his fingerprints?”

  “Yes.”

  “We made no request for his fingerprints from Scotland Yard.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Absolutely. Our records are correct. There’s no mistake.”

  “No,” Sally said, more to herself than anyone else. “I’m sure there isn’t. Thank you.” She hung up.

  Donnelly appeared next to her. “Problem?”

  “Someone’s been lying to me.”

  “About what?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Right now I need another drink.”

  Hellier found the small sports shop easily enough. He selected a dark blue Nike tracksuit, the plainest he could find. He added a white T-shirt, white Puma training shoes, and a pair of white socks to his basket. He asked for the items to be placed in separate plastic bags. He had been an easy customer who paid cash. The assistant was more than happy to lavish him with extra plastic bags.

  He left the shop, headed back to the tube station, and caught a train to Farringdon. He didn’t have to search long to find what he wanted. A bar where men and women in suits mixed easily enough with others wearing casual clothes, even tracksuits.

  He ordered a stiff gin and tonic from the bar. Gin, lots of ice, lime not lemon. The barman was good. The long drink both refreshed him and gave his brain a nice alcoholic kick, without affecting his clarity of thought-his control.

  Hellier sat and familiarized himself with the layout of the bar. Satisfied, he went to the men’s toilet, entered a cubicle, and shut the door. It was fairly solid. That was good. He looked up at the window. It was quite high. If he tried to climb out of it, he would be seen. It was probably sealed shut anyway.

  He checked the toilet cistern. It was low on the wall. That was good. He lifted the lid from the cistern. Then he emptied the contents of the plastic bags onto the toilet seat, taking the gun from his belt and the spare magazine from his jacket pocket. He placed them on the tracksuit. Next he took the training shoes out of the box and wrapped them, the T-shirt, and the socks in the tracksuit, making a tight parcel; the shoes flattened to little more than the width and thickness of the soles, the light material of the T-shirt and tracksuit folded to almost nothing. He placed them in one of the smaller plastic bags and tied a knot at the open end. He placed that bag inside another and fastened it with a tight knot.

  At the last minute he recalled that the man who described himself as a friend would be calling on his mobile phone tomorrow at seven. He pulled the phone from a pocket and looked at it pensively. If the police were waiting for him, they would surely seize the phone. They always did. It was the only way he had of allowing the “friend” to contact him. He decided he couldn’t take the risk, but no matter what, he would have to recover the phone before 7 P.M. the next day. Separating the phone from its battery, he undid the plastic bags and dropped both phone and battery in. Then he wrapped and knotted the bags again.

  Hellier was about to place the plastic
bag in the toilet cistern when he stopped short. The gun was too big a prize to risk. Maybe he should just check into a hotel for the night instead of going home; that way he could stay hidden until it was time to meet the man from the phone calls. He shook his doubts away. He would go home. The police would undoubtedly be waiting for him there, but it wasn’t as if they were going to arrest him. What did they have? Nothing. If they had, they would have arrested him earlier instead of trying to follow him. And even if they did arrest him, so what? He would be out in time to make the meeting and he would know whatever the police were thinking too. It was an uneven match. Every time the police moved against him, they had to tell him what they knew. The laws of the land demanded it. This was a fair and just country. He, on the other hand, had to tell them nothing. And if they were stupid enough to try and follow him again after today, which he absolutely believed they were, then he had made plans for that too.

  All doubt gone, he smiled to himself and tucked the plastic bag containing the clothes and pistol neatly into the toilet cistern, expertly packing it around the working parts as he’d practiced hundreds of times before, ensuring that enough water was allowed into the small tank. He flushed once to make certain it still worked and watched the cistern fill again. Satisfied, he replaced the lid and left the bar carrying the largest of the plastic bags containing only the empty shoe box. He would squash it flat and dump it in a bin on his way to the underground station and home.

  It was almost 10 P.M. on Thursday. Sean sat alone in his office. The inquiry room was dark and quiet. The rest of the team had adjourned to a nearby pub, where they would be deep into analyzing what had gone wrong. They would argue that Hellier should have been arrested earlier, that it had been an unnecessary risk to try and follow him around London on the off chance he would lead them to some clinching evidence. Sean’s absence from the pub would be noticed, but it would be welcome too. They could speak their minds better if he wasn’t around.