Cold Killing: A Novel (29 page)

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?”

S
ally 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.”

H
ellier 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.

I
t 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.

He unlocked his bottom desk drawer and pulled out an unopened bottle of dark rum and a heavy, shallow glass. The rum had been in there for months. He only kept it out of a sense of tradition. He had rarely felt the need to use it, until now.

He poured an inch of rum into the glass and rolled it around. He put the glass tentatively to his lips and drank a quarter of it in one go. It was a lot for him. The back of his throat burned painfully, but he enjoyed the warmth of the liquid.

He reached forward for his desk phone. He needed to call Kate. His ringing mobile stopped him. He answered sounding tired and dispirited.

“Guv. It’s Jean Colville.” DS Jean Colville was running the relief surveillance team, brought in to cover while DS Handy’s team regrouped and licked their collective wounds. “Thought you’d like to know your man just arrived home like nothing happened.”

Sean sprang to his feet as if suddenly standing to attention. “What’s he wearing?” he asked.

“Suit and tie,” Jean answered.

“How’s he look?”

“Fine. Normal, I guess.” She sounded puzzled.

“Okay,” Sean said. He checked his watch. Damn. Half his team would be semidrunk by now, the other half would have headed off toward whichever corner of London they lived in. Had there been time since he went missing for Hellier to find a victim, kill, and calmly return home? Sean doubted it. No, this evening he’d been up to something else. Better to let the team rest for a while. What more could he lose?

“I need you to keep him under obs tonight,” he told DS Colville. “I’ll be there in the morning to take him out. Hopefully he won’t move again until then.”

“No problem, guv,” Jean answered. “If he moves, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.” Sean hung up, waited a few seconds, and called Sally. When she answered he could hear she was in the pub.

“Sally. It’s Sean.”

“Please tell me you’re not still at work.” She sounded sober enough.

“Contact Donnelly and the rest of the team.” He knew Donnelly at least would be close by. “Six
A.M.
briefing back here. We’re taking Hellier out before he leaves for work.”

“Before he leaves for work?” she asked. He could hear the confusion in her voice. “He’s gone home?”

“Don’t ask me why,” Sean replied. “I don’t know what he’s up to, but we’re going to finish this tomorrow.”

T
he light shining through the front door’s window was not a good sign. It was past eleven and he’d expected all to be quiet and dark inside. He turned the key as quietly as he could and carefully pushed the door open. The scent of the family who lived inside pleasantly assaulted his olfactory system. As he stepped inside he could hear the television quietly playing in the living room. He followed the sound. Kate lay on the sofa, and Louise lay across her chest, sleeping fitfully.

“What is she doing out of bed?” Sean asked his wife.

She shushed him before answering. “She has a temperature. Something going around at nursery.”

“Is she all right?”

“She’ll be fine. I’ve given her some ibuprofen. I just hope she doesn’t give it to Mandy. I could do without having to look after two sick children.” Louise stirred on Kate’s chest.

“If it comes to that, I’ll take some time off work and help out.”

“Take some time off work?” she whispered. “How do you plan on doing that?”

“We’ve had a break in the case. Things should start happening pretty quickly now. With any luck we’ll be able to charge our suspect and wrap things up within a few days.”

“And then, no doubt, you’ll inherit another case and we’ll be back to the same old routine.”

“It’s late and I have an early start tomorrow,” he said. “This is probably not a good time to discuss this. You’re tired and stressed. Having this conversation won’t help.”

“Yes. You’re right. I am tired and stressed, as you would be if you’d been at home alone with two young children, one of whom is sick.” She managed to keep her voice down, despite her frustration.

“What do you want me to do, Kate? I get away from work as soon as I can, but sometimes it’s not possible to walk away at five o’clock. I don’t have that luxury. I don’t do a normal job.”

“It’s this damn Murder Squad. It’s too unpredictable. I never know when I’m going to see you. When the kids are going to see you. I can’t plan anything like normal people do. When was the last time we did anything as a family? When was the last time we had a decent holiday? When was the last time you helped bathe the kids, Sean? You know, I work too. Sometimes I need you to be here to help out.”

“I want to be here,” he told her. “But I don’t know how I can make things easier. I don’t sell fucking shoes, Kate. I solve murders. I stop people who kill. I can’t do this job with one hand tied behind my back.”

There was a silence before Kate replied, “Is that what we are to you, Mandy, Louise, and I? Some kind of handicap you’d be better off without?”

“No. No,” he insisted. “That’s not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant, but I need my mind to be clear if I’m going to have any chance of catching these people quickly. If I’m constantly worrying about getting home for bathtime or dinner, I can’t think properly. I can’t think the way I need to think. You and the kids have no place in that world, believe me.”

“But you’re missing them, Sean. Before you know it, they’ll be leaving home and you won’t be able to get that time back. It’ll be gone.”

“Do you want me to leave the police? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No,” she assured him. “That’s the last thing I want. Doing what you do makes you what you are. You need to be a cop. It’s a calling for you, not a job. But maybe it’s time to consider doing something else in the police. Something you can have more control over. Something more predictable. Get away from all this . . . death.”

“But it’s what I’m best at. Where I can do things no one else can.”

“You’ve done your bit, Sean. You’ve given enough of yourself. No one is going to think less of you if you ask for a change.”

Sean glanced at his watch and sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll start asking around to see what’s on offer, but it’ll take a while. They won’t let me go until they’ve found a replacement.”

“I understand that,” she said. “And I don’t want you to rush into anything either. Just think about it. That’s all I ask.”