Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

“You don’t say,” Featherstone said. “Such as the arrest of a suspect, maybe?”

“Among other things. .”

“An arrest I learned about from the television.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sean. “That shouldn’t have happened, and it won’t happen again.”

“I know things can get a bit manic at times,” Featherstone said, “but I’m here to keep those that would otherwise interfere off your back so you can do what you have to do. I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s going on. In future, make a quick call. Okay?”

“Of course,” Sean agreed. Featherstone was as good a senior officer as Sean could hope for and he knew it. He needed to keep him on his side.

“This James Hellier character,” Featherstone asked. “You sure he’s our man?”

“As sure as I can be, but that means nothing without some usable evidence.”

“If there’s evidence to find, then you’ll find it. Whatever course of action you decide to take will get my backing.”

“Appreciated.”

Featherstone stood to leave. “By the way, this Hellier-he sounds like the sort of man who may have connections, if you understand my meaning.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, guv. Before you go, are you still able to front a media appeal for me?”

“You should do it yourself,” Featherstone answered. “It would do you no harm to increase your public profile. If you ever want to be a chief inspector it’s the sort of bollocks they love to see on your CV.”

“Not really my thing,” Sean demurred.

“Your call. So, what do you have in mind?”

“I think it’s time we did a press conference. I’ll arrange it and let you know where and when.”

“I’ll be there,” Featherstone replied without enthusiasm. “We’ll speak soon.”

Hellier listened to Sebastian Gibran drone on from the other side of an obscenely wide oak desk, flanked by two old men rarely seen in the office. He assumed they were two of the owners of Butler and Mason, about whom little was known, even among the employees. They had olive skin and spoke only passable English. Hellier thought they looked old and weak.

“It’s important for you to understand, James,” Gibran urged, “that we fully support you in what must be a very difficult time for you and your family, and I speak for the entire firm when I say none of us believes these ridiculous allegations.”

Hellier was almost caught daydreaming. He realized just in time he was expected to answer. “Yes, of course, and thank you for your support. It really means a lot to my family and me.” He sounded suitably genuine.

“James,” Gibran insisted, “you have been one of our most valuable employees since you joined us. You needn’t thank us for supporting you now.”

Sanctimonious bastard. One of their most valuable employees-I’ve made these fuckers millions. And they never cared how the money was earned either, so long as it kept rolling in. Support me during these difficult times. What fucking choice do you fools have? You need me a hell of a lot more than I need you.

“ Well, all the same, I’m very much indebted to you. To you all,” Hellier lied. “I feel very much a part of the family here and would hate for that to change.”

“So would I,” said Gibran, although his tone and expression were less than reassuring. “But incidents such as your late arrival at what is possibly the most important annual event in our diary will not go unnoticed. I’m sure you understand.”

“I understand,” Hellier lied. “And I apologize for being late, unreservedly. Once this whole mess with the police is cleared up, I’ll be able once again to give a hundred percent to this firm.”

“Good,” said Gibran. “Because not only are you important to the company, you’re important to me personally, James, as a valued friend.”

Sally had been at the Public Records Office all morning. She was bored and frustrated. The clerk helping her search for records relating to Stefan Korsakov seemed bored too. He was no more than twenty-five and still had traces of acne. He wasn’t impressed with Sally’s credentials. Sally didn’t know his name. He hadn’t told her.

These days the bulk of the records were on computer, with only the clerk having access to the system. That was fine with Sally, so long as she didn’t have to wait much longer among the millions of old paper records stacked from floor to ceiling in the dark, cavernous building.

She heard footsteps approaching along the corridors of shelving and she was relieved to see the clerk return holding a piece of paper, but he wasn’t smiling.

“I’ve found the person you’re interested in. Stefan Korsakov, born in Twickenham, Middlesex, on the twelfth of November 1971.” He put the paper on a desk and smoothed it out for Sally to see. “Stefan Korsakov’s birth certificate,” he announced. “This is the person you’re interested in?”

“Yes,” Sally answered. “I was beginning to think I’d imagined him.”

“Excuse me?” the clerk asked.

“Never mind. Don’t worry about me.”

“Really.” The clerk sounded bored again.

“Is he still alive?” She looked up at the clerk. “If he’s dead, I need to see his death certificate.”

“Do you know where he might have died?”

“Not a clue,” Sally answered honestly. “Does that help?”

“I take it you want me to do a national search?”

“Sorry. Yes.” Sally sensed the clerk’s annoyance rising.

“That’ll take days. Maybe weeks. I’ll have to send out a circular to the other offices around the country. All I can do is wait for them to get back to me.”

“Fine.” Sally pulled a business card from her handbag and gave it to him. “Here’s my card. My mobile number is on there. Call me as soon as you know. Anytime. Day or night.”

“Will there be anything else?”

“No.” The word was barely out before Sally changed her mind. “Actually, you know what, while I’m here there is one more thing I’d like you to check for.”

“Such as?”

“I’d like you to find birth and death certificates, if they exist, for this man.” She wrote a name and date of birth on some paper and handed it to the clerk.

He read the name. “James Hellier. It’ll be done,” he said. “But-”

Sally finished for him. “It’ll take time. Yes, I know.”

Hellier made his excuses and left the office shortly after his meeting with Gibran. No one had questioned why or where he was going. He knew no one would.

The police still had his address book. They hadn’t let him take a photocopy of it either. His solicitor was working on recovering it, or at least getting a copy. No matter. If DI Corrigan wanted to be a tough fucker, then that was fine. He had contingency plans.

He had no sense of being watched this morning. Strange. Maybe his instincts were jaded. He was tired. Yesterday had been a long day, even for him. Maybe Corrigan had accepted what he said in the interview as the truth, but he doubted it. So where were they, dug in deep or simply not there?

He walked along Knightsbridge, past Harvey Nichols toward Harrods, turning left into Sloane Street, walking fast toward the south. Suddenly he ran across the road dodging cars driven by irate drivers. A black-cab driver blasted his horn and shouted an obscenity in a thick East End accent.

He ran at a fast jog along Pont Street, like a businessman late for a meeting, hardly noticed by the people he ran past. He turned right into Hans Place and jogged around the square.

On the corner with Lennox Gardens was a small delicatessen. Hellier went in and asked for a quarter kilo of Tuscan salami; while being served, he examined the other two customers in the shop. He could tell instantly they weren’t police. As the shopkeeper wrapped the meat, he suddenly ran from the shop at full speed. The shopkeeper shouted after him, but Hellier didn’t stop. After about a hundred and fifty meters he slowed and walked into the middle of the street, standing on the white lines, the traffic sweeping on either side of him. He studied the entire area around him, each pedestrian, every car and motorbike, but nobody caught his eye uncomfortably. Nobody checked themselves as they walked. No car swerved away into a side street.