Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

“James Hellier, I’m Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan. This is Detective Sergeant Jones and Detective Constable Zukov. I’m arresting you for the murder of Daniel Graydon.

“You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so. However, it may harm your defense if you fail to mention something when questioned that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence against you.

“Do you understand the caution, Mr. Hellier?”

By the book, Sean thought. Best way with a slippery bastard like Hellier, especially with three witnesses sitting there with stunned expressions on their faces.

Hellier stared hard at him. Sean saw a flash of pure hatred. Hellier smiled and addressed the three men sitting opposite. “If you’ll please excuse me, gentlemen. It appears the police need me to help them with their inquiries.” He stood slowly, as if bored, and dramatically held out his wrists. “Aren’t you going to handcuff me, Inspector?”

“I would,” Sean said, “but you’d probably enjoy it.” He took hold of Hellier’s upper arm. Hellier felt strong. Solid. Sean was a little surprised. “Let’s go.”

Gibran tried to intervene, stepping in front of them. “Is this necessary?” he asked, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. Forever Butler and Mason’s chief negotiator and protector. “Surely this heavy-handedness is unwarranted?”

“Sorry, I don’t remember your name,” Sean said, leaning uncomfortably close to the man.

“Really?” Gibran said. “That’s odd. You don’t strike me as the sort of man who forgets very much about anything.”

“Keep your nose out of our business, Mr. Gibran,” Sean warned. “And let us decide what is and isn’t necessary.”

Gibran slowly stepped aside, holding out an upturned palm, indicating they could pass, as if they somehow needed his permission.

Sean and Zukov marched Hellier out of the office and along the corridor. When Hellier was certain no one else could hear or see him, his expression changed to a snarl, showing Sean a glimpse of the monster he knew lived beneath the mask. “Just get me my fucking solicitor.” He spat the words into Sean’s face.

Donnelly and the other officers were already inside Hellier’s house. Donnelly was rifling through the drawers in the lounge, well-practiced eyes scanning papers, letters, everything. DC Fiona Cahill was at his side, handing him more papers she had found elsewhere in the room.

Elizabeth Hellier had recovered from mild shock and was now running around talking incessantly. Complaining and threatening. Her threats were idle. They could take the house apart and there would be little she could do about it.

Donnelly could bear her twittering no longer. “Mrs. Hellier, this is gonna happen with or without your objections. The quicker and easier this is, the sooner we’ll be out of here. Why don’t you take a seat in the kitchen? Have a cup of tea and stay out of the way.”

He steered Mrs. Hellier into the kitchen, guiding her onto a stool. Another detective peered around the kitchen door.

“Dave,” he said, “we’ve got a locked door.”

“My husband’s study,” Mrs. Hellier said. “He always keeps it locked during the day. I don’t know where the key is. I think he takes it to work.”

“Fine,” Donnelly said. He turned to the detective. “Break it open.”

“What?” Mrs. Hellier almost squealed. “Please, contact my husband. He’ll open it for you, I’m sure.”

“I think he’s probably got other things on his mind right now, Mrs. Hellier.” As Donnelly spoke, he could hear the unmistakable sound of splintering wood.

Sean left the others to complete the search of Hellier’s office. It would take hours. He’d traveled back to the Peckham police station with Hellier, who had stared out of the window all the way. Hellier hadn’t responded to any approaches Sean had tried, and he’d tried plenty. Disgust. Aggression. Threats. Compassion. Understanding. It had been Sean’s only chance to go one-on-one with Hellier before the rules took over. Nothing had moved him. Yet.

Even when he was booked into the custody area, Hellier never spoke except to give his name and the details of the solicitor he demanded to speak with immediately. The custody officer assured him the solicitor would be called. He was about to have Hellier taken to his cell when Sean spoke. “One other thing. .”

“Yes?” the sergeant asked.

“We want the clothes he’s wearing. All of them.”

“Okay. Take him to his cell-number four’s free. Forensic suits are in the cupboard at the end of the cell passage.”

Sean knew where the white paper suits were. Replacement clothing for suspects whose own clothes had been seized. They marked suspects who’d been arrested for serious crimes. Rapists. Murderers. Armed robbers. Police and other prisoners alike always paid more attention to men in white paper suits.

“Is there anyone I can call to have some replacement clothes brought for you, Mr. Hellier?” the sergeant asked. Hellier didn’t reply. The sergeant shrugged his shoulders. “He’s all yours, guv’nor.”

Sean nodded his appreciation and led Hellier to his cell.

DC Alan Jesson followed Sean and Hellier into the miserably dreary cell. He carried the brown paper bags all clothing exhibits were sealed in. Plastic bags caused too much moisture. Mold could grow quickly and destroy vital evidence. Paper let the clothes breathe. Kept evidence intact.

“Strip. Take everything off and then put this on.” Sean threw the white paper suit on the stone bench.

Hellier smiled and began to undress. The detective constable carefully folded Hellier’s Boss suit, Thomas Pink shirt, and the rest of his clothing, then slid them into the brown paper bags. The detective wasn’t concerned about creasing the clothes, he was taking care not to lose any forensic evidence that might be entwined in the fibers of the clothing.

Sean glanced at Hellier’s naked body. He had the physique of an Olympic gymnast, only slimmer, denser, and more defined. Physically he would be more than a match for Sean, and that rarely happened.

Hellier looked at him. He spoke silently in his mind. Enjoy your moment, bastard, because you will pay for this. I swear I will destroy you, Detective Inspector Corrigan. I will end you.

Donnelly and his team had been searching Hellier’s home for over three hours. They had bagged and tagged most of Hellier’s clothing and shoes, but had found nothing startling.

Donnelly was searching through Hellier’s desk drawers. They’d had to break them all open, one by one. Elizabeth Hellier had sworn she didn’t have keys.

All their search had turned up was further evidence that Hellier was as wealthy as he looked. He had a number of bank accounts: Barclays, HSBC, Bank of America, ASB Bank in New Zealand. Each containing in excess of a hundred thousand pounds or the foreign equivalent. Donnelly let out soft whistles as he added up the sums, but other than that he found nothing.

He needed to stand and stretch. As he pushed the chair back from the desk he felt a stinging pain in his thigh. He looked down and saw a rip in his trouser leg.

“Oh, you bastard,” he declared. “What the bloody hell was that?” He put his hand under the desk and felt around. He touched something. It was small and cold. Something metal.

He pushed the chair away and ducked under the table. He saw them immediately. Not one, but two shiny keys taped underneath the desk. He didn’t touch them.

“Peter-get the photographer in here. I need a picture taken.”

Only when the keys had been photographed and fingerprinted did Donnelly remove them from under the desk. The tape used to hold them in place had been carefully removed and sealed in a plastic evidence bag. Who knew how many microscopic pieces of evidence clung to its sticky back?