Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

“Where’s Hellier now?”

“Still at work, like us.”

“He’s up to something.”

“I’m sure he probably is.”

“I’ve found another murder Hellier may have committed.”

“What?” Donnelly sat bolt upright.

“About two weeks ago. A teenage runaway found dead out by the Ford factory.”

Donnelly’s eyes darted left and right as he thought hard. “I remember. It was on the news, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s still unsolved. No suspects. I met the DI running the inquiry. They’ve got nothing.”

“How, though. .” Donnelly was a little confused. “How did you connect it to ours?”

“Long story, bad time,” Sean said. “Phone around and organize an office meeting for the morning. I’ll update you then.” Sean hung up before Donnelly could ask any more questions.

“Fuck it,” Donnelly said out loud.

DC Zukov lowered his binoculars and turned to Donnelly. “Problem?” he asked.

“Aye, son,” Donnelly replied. “But nothing we can’t handle.”

Hellier sat in the deep leather chair. It creaked satisfyingly. He’d completed the transfers. It had taken him less than three hours to move over two million pounds out of his UK and American accounts. He’d left a nominal few thousand in each, to keep them fluid.

He buried the account details in the concealed web page and exited the Internet. He was happy with his night’s work. Extremely happy. He couldn’t help laughing. God, if they could see him, sitting here in the dark laughing to himself, they really would think him mad. He was anything but.

It was time to get home. He cleaned up the desk and took one last look around the room to make sure nothing had been overlooked, then returned to his own office. Leaving the lights on, he went to the window and peeked out through the corner of the venetian blinds. They made a plastic tinkling sound.

He had an excellent view of the road below. It was always busy, no matter what time of day or night. He could still feel the police close by. It was of no matter tonight; there were others of more concern to him than the police. The press. The vile media. They had the power to ruin him with mere rumor. They wouldn’t be interested in proof. They wanted a story to titillate the masses. Something for people to drool over at breakfast. They wanted him. He couldn’t afford to let them take a single photograph. He couldn’t afford to be recognized.

Sally parked close to the entrance of the building where she lived in Fulham, West London. She let herself in and moved quickly through the communal areas. Dim hallway lights helped her. She tried to keep the noise down. She was a good neighbor. She entered her flat and locked the door.

Following her usual routine, she turned on the lamp in the far corner first. She preferred its gentle light to the overheads. Next she flicked the TV on, for company, then moved into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and scanned the contents before closing it again. Maybe she’d have more luck in the freezer. She did. A frosty bottle of raspberry vodka rested on its side. Grabbing it by the neck, she looked around for a clean glass. There was one by the sink. She poured a good measure of the thick vodka and threw the bottle back into the freezer.

Sally sat at her kitchen table and rocked back on her chair, kicking her shoes off, the drink in front of her. She pulled the cigarettes from her handbag and lit one. It must have been the thirtieth of the day. She thought about stubbing it out, but hey, cigarettes cost a fortune these days. Covering a mortgage on a flat in this part of London didn’t leave much in the kitty for luxuries.

Staring at the walls suddenly brought on pangs of loneliness. Being thirty-something and single hadn’t been part of her life plan. The partner thing had just never happened. There had been lovers, two of whom had been close to measuring up to her standards, only to fall away as the stakes were increased.

The fact of the matter was, most men were simply intimidated by her. Being a female police officer was bad enough, but a detective sergeant-that scared the crap out of them. The only ones who weren’t scared off were policemen, but the idea of never being able to escape the job was unbearable. No, they had to be completely unconnected with the police or it would be better to stay single. Besides, these last couple of years hadn’t left a lot of time for relationships.

Naturally, her parents were disappointed. They saw their chances of becoming grandparents slipping away. Didn’t they understand modern women were choosing to have a career first and then children later in life? There was still hope on that front. After all, she didn’t need a permanent partner to have children. Catching herself fantasizing about potential sperm donors, she shook the faces from her thoughts.

“Fuck it,” she declared out loud. “I’m getting a cat.”

Hellier could see two of them at the front of the building. One had a camera, the other didn’t. One photographer and one journalist, but there would be more. The victim was of no interest to the media, no story there. Rent boy dies, who gives a fuck? He was the story. Wealthy, respected businessman investigated for murder. A sordid murder at that. This story would grow and grow. It was only a matter of time before the national media started to run with it. Once his face hit the papers and TV sets, life would be intolerable. He needed his anonymity. Daniel Graydon had been a mistake, but it was a mistake he would survive.

There would be more journalists covering the rear exit to the building, through the basement car park. There was only one way out. He’d found it within days of starting work at Butler and Mason. He always liked to know alternative ways of leaving a building. Just in case.

He took his house keys and wallet from his briefcase, then slid them under his desk. They would be too cumbersome for what he had in mind. Making his way to the emergency stairwell, he climbed to the top floor. He looked up at the hatch that led to the roof. It was secured with a bolt.

The next bit was the most difficult. He had to climb on the stair rail and keep his balance until he could stretch his hands to the ceiling and hold himself in place. He managed that much. His feet twisted a little on the thin metal banister as he fought to keep his balance. He reached out to the bolt with his right arm. His left hand was still pressed to the ceiling.

The bolt came out after a series of solid jerks. Each jerk almost threw off Hellier’s balance. If he lost it now, he would either fall three feet forward to safety, or tumble backward down the stairwell, six flights.

He pushed on the roof exit cover. It gave way easily. He used his fingers to caterpillar the wooden cover away from the exit. Every sinew of his body was already stretched to the breaking point.

The cover removed, he sprang off the banister and hooked both hands over the outside edge of the square hole in the roof. His body dangled below as he pulled himself up and through the roof exit. Hellier was in excellent physical condition. He’d worked hard to build his strength and develop the physique of an acrobat.

He replaced the cover, making a mental note to push back the bolt in the morning before anyone noticed. He took a few seconds to straighten his clothes and admire the view from the rooftop. He felt alone, but strong. Safe. He sucked in the warm night air, heavy and moist. Time to go. He moved quickly and silently across the roofs.

Last night I had an almost overwhelming desire to be the real me. To release the animal that hides inside and allow it full and free expression. But I resisted the temptation. Too many things to arrange first. If I’m to take advantage of the police’s lapses, then I must be patient. Must take time to prepare. Their heads will be spinning soon enough.