Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

“We informed Mr. Hellier of where we are from,” Sean responded.

“I’m sure you did,” Gibran replied. “But you didn’t tell me.”

“Our dealings with Mr. Hellier are confidential,” Sean said firmly. “If he wants to tell you more, that’s up to him.”

“If James is involved in anything that could damage the reputation of this institution, then I should be informed, Inspector,” Gibran argued. “Look,” he said, taking a conciliatory tone, the smile back in place, “a lot of people rely on me for their welfare and security in these uncertain times. It is my responsibility to protect their interests. The need of the many is greater than the need of the individual.”

“Meaning if Hellier looks like he’s going to be bad for business, you’ll throw him to the wolves,” Donnelly accused.

Gibran stared hard at Donnelly before speaking again. “James is very privileged to have both a detective inspector and a detective sergeant investigating what appears to be a minor theft.” He watched Sean and Donnelly look at each other; it was only a glance, but he noticed it. “Really, you didn’t think I was that stupid, did you?”

Sean had no answer and felt he needed to counter, to try and knock Gibran out of his stride. “What did you say you do here?” Sean asked. “International finance-what exactly does that mean?”

“Nothing the police need to be concerned about,” Gibran answered. “We help people and organizations raise capital for various business projects, no more. You know, oil people wanting to move into the building and property markets, property people wanting to move into the tech markets, and now and then someone literally walks in off the street with a brilliant idea but no funds. We’ll help them obtain those funds.”

“Well, that all sounds very noble,” Donnelly chipped in.

“We’re not part of the banking system,” Gibran assured them. “There’s no need for animosity here.”

Sean looked him up and down. He had no more he wanted to say. “Good-bye, Mr. Gibran. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

He could feel Gibran’s eyes watching them as they finally escaped into the lift, the streets below beckoning them. Sean needed to drag Hellier out of his natural comfort zone and into his world, away from protectors like Sebastian Gibran. Then and only then would they see the real James Hellier.

James Hellier stood by his office window looking down on the detectives in the street below. He was careful not to be seen. He paid special attention to Sean. He disliked him, sensed the danger in him, but he felt no anger toward him. In his own way he appreciated him-appreciated a worthy adversary who would make the game all the more fun to play. They thought they were clever, but they weren’t going to ruin things for him. He would make sure of it.

He cursed under his breath-somehow he’d been recognized at the damn nightclub and he wondered who by. He should have been more careful. It was unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected. He needed to stay calm. They had nothing on him. Police talk and threats meant nothing. He would wait and see if anything developed. He wouldn’t panic and run. There was no need. Not yet.

But he would have to be careful of Gibran too. Trust him to come and stick his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. He thought he was so fucking clever, senior partner at Butler and Mason, the self-appointed sheriff of the company. If it came to it, he would be long gone before Gibran found out. Gibran should remember who gave him a job at Butler and Mason in the first place. It was Gibran who personally checked his references, glowing reports from previous employers in the United States and Far East. Only thing was, not a single one of them was real. If Gibran had actually gotten on a plane to check Hellier’s background properly, he would have eventually discovered that Hellier’s previous employment history was a myth. But he knew Gibran would rely on telephone calls and e-mails, all of which were easily arranged, especially for someone like Hellier: he had friends in low places and dirt on some in high places. Gibran had been no more difficult to fool than any of the others. And while Hellier might never have been to university to study accounting or high finance, what he’d learned on the streets, what he’d learned in order to survive, had left him more than qualified to work anywhere he liked.

Hellier moved away from the window and sat back in his desk chair, his hands pyramided in front of his face. He liked his life, he liked all the privileges being James Hellier brought and the cover it provided for his other activities, past, present, and future. He wasn’t going to let Inspector Corrigan or, for that matter, Sebastian Gibran, spoil it for him now, not after all these years. He loved to play the game. He enjoyed the money, but it was the game he loved, and this one wasn’t lost yet.

Sean and Donnelly sat in their car outside Hellier’s office building. “Well?” Donnelly asked. “What d’you think about Mr. James Hellier? Did you get a feel for him?”

“He’s a smooth bastard,” Sean replied. “And so was his boss, for that matter. Like a couple of fucking clones. But Hellier, he’s trying to be something he’s not, whereas Gibran’s persona seemed genuine, effortless. We’ll have to watch out for him. He looks like the sort who’ll be wanting to stick his nose into our investigation. As for Hellier, behind the suit and haircut there’s an angry man.” He didn’t tell Donnelly about the animalistic odor he’d smelled leaking through Hellier’s skin. A musky smell, almost chokingly strong. The same odor he’d smelled on others in the past. Other killers. “But why is he so pissed off with the world?”

“Pissed off with the world?” Donnelly questioned. “I thought he was just pissed off with us.”

Sean realized he was moving too fast for Donnelly. “You’re probably right.” He needed to give Donnelly something more tangible, more logical. “But there are already two possible motives for him. First, he was having an intimate relationship with Graydon, and somewhere along the line it went wrong.”

“So we’re back to a lovers’ tiff?”

“Or,” Sean continued, “Graydon was blackmailing him and Hellier thought, probably correctly, the only way to make it stop would be to get rid of him. He’s a walking blackmail victim and Graydon liked nice things-remember his flat?”

“And the seventy-seven stab wounds?” Donnelly asked. Those needed explaining. “If he just wanted him out of the way, why not do it nice and neat-one shot, one well-placed knife wound, strangulation? Makes me favor a domestic bust-up.”

“No,” Sean reminded him. “Remember what Dr. Canning told us-the wounds were placed around the body, almost ritually, as if the killer wanted us to think it was a rage attack to get us chasing our tails looking for a jealous ex-boyfriend. Or even a motiveless stranger’s attack. That and the lack of forensics at the scene leave me thinking it was premeditated, which means blackmail was his most likely motivation. Or something else we haven’t thought of yet. Everything else was staged.”

Donnelly looked less than completely convinced. “Well, in the absence of anything better than a missing barman and a recently released homophobic homosexual, it’s worth running with, so long as you’re convinced Hellier has it in him to kill.”

“Let’s just say I get a very bad feeling about him,” Sean replied. “His attempted show of compassion made me feel sick. Everything about him seemed off, as if he was hiding behind the facade of being a happy family man.”

“Why are you so sure he was faking it? I thought he registered some real surprise that Daniel had been killed.”