Cold Killing dsc-1

by Luke Delaney

  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 spoiled. 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 had only 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 bicycle. 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 eye line. It would do.

  He turned back toward 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 gotten 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 neighbor’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 toward her, long confident steps propelling him forward.

  She fell, crashing into her neighbor’s door, and banged her fist twice, as hard as she could, on the door. Still he strode toward 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 past 11 P.M. when George Fuller, inside flat 4, heard something crash into his front door. The surprise made him jump and spill some of his beer. The cold drops fell onto 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 spilled 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 toward the front door. He was a big man. His two favorite 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 inquiring. “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 onto 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 honed 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 onto 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 be, but a phone call at 2 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 drunk. 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 neighbor 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 neighbor?”

  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 cellophane tape and plastic shopping bags to seal the wounds and keep her chest cavity airtight. 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 meters 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.

  “We’ve already got a couple of uniform lads hiding round the back,” one of the DCs informed him.

  Donnelly looked at Sean. “Your call, boss. We could wait for backup. We could have a firearms team within an hour.”

  Sean would have preferred to take Hellier by himself, have some time alone with him. Clearly Hellier didn’t have the guts to come after him or Donnelly, so he went for Sally. Well, now they’d come after him.

  “Let’s do it,” Sean said. “No more waiting.”

  The younger Islington detective opened the boot of their car and pulled out a heavy metal battering ram. It was known as an Enforcer. “We brought this,” he announced. “Just in case.”

  “Shame to waste it,” Sean said grimly. “Listen, he may not look like much, but he’s killed at least three people already. And now he’s gone after one of ours. Don’t drop your guard.”

  They all nodded their understanding and walked silently but rapidly toward the house. Carefully they opened the black wrought-iron gate and moved to the front door. There were three stone steps. The older detective spoke to the officers at the rear of the house on the radio, his voice just above a whisper.

  “Units at the rear. Units at the rear. We’re going in through the front.”

  The radio crackled but they all heard the reply. “Understood and standing by, over.”

  The young detective holding the Enforcer nodded to Sean. Sean counted him down with his fingers. Three. Two. One. The detective smashed the Enforcer into the center door lock. It exploded, but the door held. It had top and bottom dead bolts. He stood and hit the top lock hard. The door began to flap open. He crouched and took out the final lock. The door imploded.

  They poured in through the door holding extendible metal truncheons and screaming, “Police! Police! Police!”

  Sean and Donnelly ran to the staircase. The Islington detectives ran through the ground floor. As Sean neared the top of the stairs, Hellier appeared. Sean saw him just in time. He partially avoided the kick aimed at his head. It stung his cheekbone as it made impact. He slumped against the staircase wall for a second, shaking off the effects of the kick, but was after Hellier before Donnelly could overtake him.

  Hellier climbed the next flight of stairs and disappeared. Sean followed, but slowed as he approached the top. He wouldn’t be caught again. He warned Donnelly to slow down. From below came the sound of the Islington detectives beginning to climb the steps.

  Sean moved on to the second-floor landing. Hellier was there somewhere. He found the light switch on the wall and flicked it on. There were five rooms.

  Someone appeared at the door closest to him. Instinctively he almost lashed out, but realized in time it was Hellier’s wife. He leaned forward and grabbed her, dragging her to the floor where he pinned her before she could speak.

  “Stay there and don’t move,” he shouted. She was too scared to move or argue. Too scared to speak.

  He moved carefully along the landing, his back pressed against the wall. Donnelly and the other detectives followed. Th
e element of surprise was lost. Now they needed stealth.

  He flicked the light on in the room Hellier’s wife had come from, pushing the door wide open so that he could peer inside before entering. A glance over his shoulder told him Donnelly was close. The Islington detectives had begun to search the rooms across the landing. They moved cautiously.

  He slipped into the room, back to the wall. Donnelly followed. Sean dropped into a push-up position and checked under the bed. Nothing. He moved across to the closet, stretching to grasp the handle without exposing himself to a full-frontal attack. He yanked the doors open. Clothes still wrapped in plastic dry-cleaning bags swooshed into the room. Nothing.

  He’d had enough. His heart needed a rest. He nodded for Donnelly to check behind the curtains. Donnelly did so. Nothing. He nodded toward the door and led the way out. They moved to the next room.

  A child’s voice called from the landing below. It sounded stressed. The mother looked at him, appealing. He put his finger to his lips. The last thing he wanted was a crying child walking into the middle of this.

  The distraction had been enough. Hellier seized the opportunity. Sean felt an incredible pressure close around his right wrist. He tried to hold on to the telescopic truncheon, but the grip forced his fingers open. His weapon fell to the floor. He was pulled into the room and spun around by one powerful jolt. He felt his right arm twist up his back. Cold metal pressed into his throat. Some instinct told him not to move. Told him he was teetering on the edge of a cliff.

  He felt Hellier’s bristles rub against his ear. He could smell his sweet breath. It made him want to vomit, to pull away. Hellier pressed the blade harder into his throat.

  “Ah, ah, Inspector.” He recognized Hellier’s voice.

  Someone flicked the light on in the room. It was Donnelly, who froze when he saw them. Hellier smiled. Donnelly regathered himself. “Put the knife down, man.”

  It sounded like a request, not a demand. Hellier gave a shallow laugh. He turned his face to Sean, but kept his eyes on Donnelly. His tongue curled from his mouth. Slowly, deliberately, he licked the side of Sean’s face, his body quivering with the thrill of tasting Sean’s fear. He gripped the earlobe in his teeth and closed his eyes in ecstasy. He released his grip and stopped smiling. He looked deadly serious. He whispered in Sean’s ear.