by Luke Delaney
“I understand,” Gibran assured her. “You’ve made yourself clear. I have no wish to fall out with the police, especially you.”
“Good,” Sally said, ending the debate. “So what did Hellier have to say for himself during this little chat you and he had?”
“Nothing specific. He seemed very distracted.”
“Not surprising,” Sally said dismissively.
“Indeed. But it was more a feeling I had,” Gibran explained. “I’ve known James for several years and this was the first time I’ve ever felt. . well, uncomfortable in his presence, even a little intimidated.”
“Go on.”
“I almost felt as if for the first time I was meeting the real James Hellier, and that the person I’d known up till now didn’t really exist.
“Tell me, Sally,” Gibran asked, his tone suddenly lighthearted, “are you familiar with the work of Friedrich Nietzsche?”
“I can’t say that I am,” Sally admitted.
“Not many people are.” Gibran dismissed Sally’s lack of knowledge before it could make her uncomfortable. “He was a philosopher who believed in men being ruled over by a select group of benevolent supermen. Nonsense, of course. I was talking to James about it, trying to relax him, make him feel less like he was being interviewed, but I almost felt as if James believed in it. I mean, really believed it. He started talking about living his life beyond good and evil, as Nietzsche had decreed. Normally I would have dismissed it, but given all that’s happened, suddenly it sounded. . sinister.”
“Is that it?”
“Like I said,” Gibran replied, leaning back into his comfortable chair, “it was just a feeling.”
“Well,” Sally said after a long pause. “If you find or feel anything else, you know how to get hold of me.”
“Of course.” Gibran looked around him uncomfortably. “You take someone under your wing. You trust them, think you know them. Then all this happens.” He sipped his wine. “He’s not the man I used to know. He may seem the same, but he’s different. To answer your original question: do I think James could be involved in killing those people? The truth is, I simply don’t know anymore. The fact that I can’t dismiss it out of hand is bad enough, I dread to think. .”
“One way or another, we’ll all know the answer soon enough.”
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said quickly, recovering herself. “Nothing at all.”
“Good,” he declared. “Now that’s out of the way, we can enjoy our lunch. I do hope you don’t have to run off anywhere. It’ll make a change to have a civilized lunch with someone who isn’t boring me out of my mind with their latest get-rich-quick idea.”
“No,” she said. “I’m due a break. Besides, I don’t think I could stand the sight of another sandwich.”
“Then here’s to you,” he said, raising his glass slightly. “Here’s to us.”
Sally returned the toast with a cautious smile. “To us.”
“It must be difficult,” said Gibran, suddenly cryptic.
“What must?”
“Learning how to use all that power you have without abusing it. I mean, I meet a lot of people who truly believe they’re powerful, but power through money and influence has its limits. Being a police officer, to have the power to literally take someone’s human rights away from them, to take their freedom from them-now that’s real power.”
“We don’t remove people’s human rights; we can only temporarily remove their civil rights,” Sally explained.
“All the same,” Gibran continued, “it must be very difficult.”
“Maybe, at first. But you get used to it, and before long you don’t even think about it.”
“I’m guessing it can make relationships with men very difficult. So many are intimidated by powerful women. We like to think the power is always with us, so to be involved with a cop would be, I guess, challenging.”
“And are you?” Sally asked. “Intimidated?”
“No,” Gibran answered, his face as serious as Sally had ever seen him. “But then again, I’m not like most men.”
Sally looked at him for as long as she could without speaking, trying to read his thoughts. Gibran broke the silence.
“One thing that’s always fascinated me,” he continued, “is how people who seem to have been born to kill somehow find each other, as if they can recognize their own kind when they meet them: Hindley and Brady, Venables and Thompson, Fred and Rosemary West, and God knows how many others. How do they find each other?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Sally answered. “That’s my boss’s field of expertise. He’s a bit more instinctive than most.”
“DI Corrigan? Interesting,” Gibran said. “When you say he’s instinctive, what do you mean?”
“Just that he seems to know things. He sees things that no one else can see.” Sally suddenly felt uncomfortable discussing Sean with an outsider, as if she was somehow betraying him. Gibran sensed her mood.
“An interesting man, your DI Corrigan. Do you think perhaps it’s his dark side that makes him so good?”
Sally was impressed. It struck her that many of the same qualities she saw in Sean were present in Gibran. She decided that if Sean could ever get beyond his preconceived ideas of Gibran, he would probably like him.
“DI Corrigan’s a lot of things, but I’ve never seen anything you would call a dark side. It’s more a question of him being willing and able to search for answers in those dark places the rest of us are too afraid to go, in case we see something about ourselves we don’t like.”
Gibran nodded his understanding and approval. “It’s because he’s prepared to accept his responsibilities,” he said. “And it sounds as if we have more in common than either of us understood. Perhaps when this is all over and he sees me for what I am and not what he thinks I am, we’ll have a chance to speak on friendly terms.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Sally warned him.
“No,” Gibran answered, “I don’t suppose I will.” Again they took a moment to look at each other silently before Gibran spoke again. “But there’s one thing I must make clear to you-I cannot and will not let anything or anybody put the reputation of Butler and Mason at risk. Of course, I respect the fact that your police investigation must take priority, but other than that I will do what must be done to finish this matter with James one way or another, for better or for worse for him.”
Sally glanced away for a second as if considering his words. Then she looked him in the eye. “I understand,” she said. “You do that. Provided you tell us everything we need to know about Hellier, you have my word we won’t interfere in any internal decisions your company makes about him. But tread carefully, Sebastian, for both our sakes.”
Hellier glanced at his watch. Almost 5:30 P.M. The police had been deliberately slow in bailing him. DI Corrigan had been conspicuous by his absence. No matter. He had enough time. Just.
He wore the clean clothes that Templeman had arranged. The police had seized the ones he’d been wearing and once again they’d emptied the wardrobe and drawers back at his house. They didn’t have much to take this time around. He was still in the process of refilling them after the first raid when they’d seized every item of clothing he possessed. Corrigan was costing him a fortune.
There was no time to go home first. Never mind. He had done well to plan in advance. He had a change of clothes, his phone, and the weapon waiting for him. Not that he was expecting a fight. He was the master of gaining instant control. Years of practice ensured that his strength was seldom matched. He feared nothing and nobody, but the gun was nice insurance all the same.
He stood on the front steps of the Peckham police station. He’d already exchanged farewells with Templeman, who had no idea how final Hellier had meant it to be. One more thing to take care of and then he would be gone. He didn’t anticipate needing Templeman’s services again.
He scanned up and down the street. They were back. Did Corrigan never learn
his lesson? Fine. If they wanted him to make fools of them again, he was happy to oblige. He looked for a black cab. This was Peckham. There were none. Realizing that he stood out far more than he wanted to, he began walking toward what passed for the center of this southeast London suburb.
Hellier entered the first mini-cab office he came across. A group of elderly, cheerful West Indian men sat around smoking and laughing loudly at some joke Hellier had just missed. One of the men spoke. He spoke slowly and thoughtfully, curbing his accent enough for Hellier to understand.
“Yes, sir. What can I be doing for you today?” he asked.
“I need to get to London Bridge.”
“No problem, sir. I’ll take you myself,” the cabbie replied. Seconds later the car pulled away, and as it did so, six other cars and four motorbikes began to move with it. The driver was unaware he had become the focus of so much police attention, but Hellier knew they were there. Occasionally he stole a glance in the near-side mirror. He spotted one of the motorbikes, nothing else; but he didn’t have to see them to know they were there.
“Lovely day,” Hellier said to the driver.
“Yeah, man,” the driver beamed. “Just like being back in Jamaica.” They both laughed.
Sean was back at his desk, weighing up the options. So far he’d come up with a dozen what-ifs, but none of them helped the investigation. None of them helped him. He’d had no choice but to let Hellier walk away on police bail. Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself to be patient. When the DNA results came back, he could bury Hellier. He was certain of it.
He rubbed his tired eyes with the sides of both fists. For a second he couldn’t see properly. When they cleared, he found himself focused on his computer screen, reminding him he needed to check his e-mail. It was the first chance he’d had to check his in-box. Among the dozens of e-mails there was one from SO11. The details of the telephone numbers from Hellier’s address book. He wasn’t in the mood to start plowing through names and numbers; his quota of patience had been used up hours ago. He peered out into the main office, looking for anyone he could delegate it to, but everyone appeared busy. His conscience got the better of him and he started to read through the list himself.
Most appeared to be the numbers of banks, both in the UK and abroad. Other numbers were of accountants, diamond dealers, gold merchants, platinum traders. Hundreds of names, but only a handful of personal numbers. He paid particular attention to these. He read through the names slowly and deliberately. Daniel Graydon’s number was there, as he’d expected: both his home and mobile numbers. So what? It meant nothing, now that Hellier admitted knowing him. He checked for the names of the two other victims, Heather Freeman and Linda Kotler. He didn’t expect to find the runaway’s name, but perhaps Kotler’s. It wasn’t there. He was disappointed, but not surprised.
The mini-cab dropped Hellier off on the outside concourse at London Bridge. He was delighted to see thousands joining the great commute home and even considered waving along the street at the police following him. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they would be able to see him. A little wave would get them thinking, but he resisted the temptation-this was no time to show off. Soon he’d be gone, but first he had some business to take care of. Top of the list being his mysterious friend.
He’d considered leaving, not even bothering to meet the man, but he wasn’t a gambler. He only played when he could manage the risks, and that meant finding out what this man knew, if anything. Could he damage him? Hurt him? Hellier had to find out. No loose ends, he reminded himself. Leave things nice and tidy, just how he liked it. That didn’t mean there wasn’t time for one last thrill. One last indulgence.
Hellier walked fast into the train station, ducking into WHSmith, watching the main entrance through the magazine shelf, waiting for the surveillance team to enter. They were good, only one standing out as she scanned the crowds for him. Commuters never looked around. They were on autopilot. She stood out like an amateur, but the others were invisible.
He took the other exit from the shop and walked back across the inside concourse and out the same exit he’d entered, all the while trying to remember the faces he passed. If he saw them again, he would assume they were police. He crossed the short distance to the underground station, stopping suddenly at the top of the stairs and spinning around. No one reacted. A smile spread across his lips. They were very good indeed.
Once again he descended into the underground that had served him so well in the past. He followed his normal antisurveillance pattern, tactics designed to lose even the best: traveling short distances on trains and then stepping off at the last moment, walking swiftly through tunnels, past zombified commuters, onto another train and away again. Over and over he repeated the procedure, but they stayed with him, leaving him both annoyed and impressed. No matter. As always, James Hellier was one step ahead.
Finally he arrived in Farringdon and made his way to the bar he had chosen the day before. It was busy enough but not heaving. Ideal. He headed straight to the toilet unnoticed. The cubicle he wanted was unoccupied. Two customers stood at the urinals, not noticing him as he shut the door. He didn’t have time to wait for them to leave-in fact, it was better they were there. Soon the police would be here, inside the bar looking for him. He began to undress.
Sean’s mobile vibrated on the desk in front of him. He kept reading the e-mail as he answered absentmindedly. “Hello.”
“Guv. It’s Jean Colville.” Sean recognized the surveillance team’s DS. “Your man certainly knows his countersurveillance tactics.”
“I noticed,” said Sean ironically. “Where are you?”
“Farringdon. Trying to keep up with your target. He’s in a bar in Farringdon Road. He gave us the right runaround, but we’re still on him. Bit thin on the ground, but the others are doing their best to catch up.”
“Is the bar covered?” Sean asked, concerned.
“Just. I’ve got one unit around the back-there’s only one exit there. Three in the bar and two more out the front. Apparently your man’s in the toilet. There’s no other way out of there other than the door leading to the bar. So as long as he stays in there, we’re solid.”
“Good.” Sean breathed easier. “Don’t give this one an inch. If you can’t see what he’s doing, assume he’s doing something we’d rather he wasn’t.”
“Understood. I’ll call you if the situation changes.”
“It’ll change,” Sean warned her. “Just be ready when it does.” He hung up.
“Problem?” Donnelly asked, appearing at Sean’s open door.
“Not yet,” Sean replied. “They’ve followed Hellier to Farringdon.”
“Well, so long as they don’t lose him this time. By the way, you should know Jonnie Dempsey has turned up. Handed himself in at Walworth. The locals are holding him for us. Apparently he’s telling them that he’d been helping himself to a portion of the night’s takings from his till on a regular basis. He thought the management was onto him, so he took off. When he heard the place was crawling with Old Bill, he decided to lay low. But eventually he realized things were getting a bit too serious to ignore and thought it best to hand himself in.”
“Scratch one suspect,” Sean said.
He saw Sally enter the main office. He hadn’t spoken with her since that morning. He caught her eye and beckoned her over. “How did your meeting with Gibran go?” he asked.
Sally took a seat without being invited. “It was interesting enough. He certainly didn’t give me any reason to suspect Hellier less. Said he’d been acting out of character lately, missing appointments and so on, and that he felt he was only now seeing the real James Hellier. That the other Hellier, before this all started happening, was the fake. He also said Hellier had been rambling on about living his life beyond good and evil.”
“Nietzsche.” Sean spoke involuntary.
“Pardon?” Donnelly asked.
“Nothing,” said Sean. “It’s not important. Anything els
e?” he asked Sally.
“Not really,” she replied. “He was probably just trying to find out what we knew.”
“So long as he paid for lunch,” Donnelly said.
“As a matter of fact, he did,” Sally told him. “Which is more than you’ve ever done,” she added.
“Harsh, but fair,” said Donnelly.
“What did you do with the rest of the afternoon?” Sean asked, not meaning to sound as though he was checking on her.
“Lunch took longer than I’d expected.” She blushed, recalling her time with Gibran and how she’d been in no rush to end their meeting. “After that I chased down some inquiries at the Public Records Office, but they didn’t have my results yet. I hear Hellier’s been bailed.”
“We can’t hold him until the DNA results are confirmed,” Sean explained. “Takes too long.”
“And if the DNA isn’t Hellier’s?” she asked.
“Then I’ll be in the shit,” Sean said bluntly. “So don’t be standing too close.”
Hellier had been in the toilet for less than a minute. He could hear people coming and going outside the cubicle. He moved quickly now. Unconcerned about noise. He stood in only his underpants and socks.
He lifted the lid of the toilet cistern and placed it on the toilet seat. He pulled the plastic bag from the cistern and untied it. Carefully, he undid the parcel and laid out the gun and spare magazine. He checked his watch. Six forty-five. Fifteen minutes to spare. He clicked the battery back into the mobile phone. He would turn it on once he’d left the bar.
He dressed in the tracksuit, T-shirt, and trainers. He stuffed the gun in the back of his waistband and tied the trouser cord tight. He put the phone in one of the top’s pockets and the spare magazine in the other.
Finally he unwrapped the remaining cloth. He twisted the lid off the tube of theatrical glue and rubbed a little on the back of the fake mustache. He stuck it above his lip, using touch to ensure it was placed perfectly. Next he did the same with the matching eyebrows. The wig he donned last. He didn’t need a mirror to know his appearance had been transformed. He smiled to himself.