Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

DC Zukov saw Donnelly appear on the pavement outside the crime scene and head toward him, moving nimbly, looking naturally strong. He stamped his cigarette out as Donnelly got closer.

“You got one of them for me?”

Zukov pulled a squashed packet of Marlboro Lights from his trouser pocket. Donnelly seemed paler than usual. “Well?” Zukov asked. “Did you do it?”

Donnelly lit up and took a deep drag. “No.”

Zukov went quiet. He looked Donnelly up and down. Had the big man lost his nerve? “Why not?” he finally asked.

“Because I’m not sure, that’s why.”

“You’re not sure it’s linked?” Zukov asked.

“Oh, it’s linked,” Donnelly said. “I’m sure all three are linked.”

“So what’s the problem?” Zukov was pushing way more than he’d done before. He wanted this done. He wanted to be part of a successful murder inquiry and he didn’t want to wait any longer.

“I’m not sure Hellier is our man.” He tossed the cigarettes back to Zukov. “Do you live alone?” he asked.

“Why?” Zukov answered.

“Just answer the question.”

“Yeah. I live alone.”

“Good,” Donnelly said. “Then you won’t have to worry about somebody stumbling across this.” He pulled the small sealed evidence bag containing Hellier’s hairs from the cigarette case he’d been concealing it inside. “I’m sick of carrying it around. Take it home with you and remember to keep it in your fridge. That way they’ll look fresh. I’ll tell you when I need them again.” Zukov took the bag without complaining. “Now piss off and find us some coffee,” Donnelly told him. “I’ve got a phone call to make.”

Sean moved to the rear of his car and pulled a full forensic suit from the boot. He struggled into the blue overalls before showing his identification to a severe-looking female uniformed officer guarding the cordon. He told her he was from the Murder Squad, he just didn’t tell her which one. He could feel the forensics team and local detectives watching him-they’d probably guessed he was the reason they’d been kept out of the scene. Their important work was being delayed and it was his fault.

He walked along the driveway toward the front door of number 73 Minford Gardens, his focus intensifying on the half-open front door. He felt tunnel vision overtaking him, the usual surreal feeling that accompanied him when he approached a murder scene.

He gave the constable guarding the front door his name and rank. The constable didn’t ask why Sean needed to enter the scene. He should have. Sean began to climb the communal stairway to the first-floor flat. He could already smell murder.

Love, hate, terror were tangible things. Real things, not simple emotions. They left overpowering traces of themselves wherever they called. The horror and fear of the previous night had seeped out from the flat and stained the surrounding area with its overpowering odor. It was in the wallpaper, the cheap worn-out carpet. Now it was all over Sean. In his clothes, his hair. The longer he stayed in this place, the deeper it would penetrate him, and before too long it would be in his blood. Then he would feel cold and displaced all day until he could get home and shower, be with Kate, be with his children. And even then he might not be able to find his way back to the comfortable world most lived in.

He climbed the stairs silently. He could hear quiet, muffled voices coming from inside flat number 73D. At least the detectives at the scene were showing respect for the dead. It wasn’t always the case. He reached the front door. One last deep breath, and he knocked gently on the door frame. The two men standing in the narrow hallway turned to face him. They were both wearing full forensic suits. Sean was relieved.

“Hello, gentlemen.” He was being as polite as he knew how. He had the rank, but he was the outsider. “DI Sean Corrigan. SCG South. My sergeant tells me you have a scene that may be of interest to us.”

“Guv’nor,” DS Simpson said. He seemed affable enough. “Come in, please.” He and the other detective offered Sean rubber-gloved palms. They all shook hands. The other detective introduced himself as DC Zak Watson. Even in his forensic suit Sean could tell he was built like a boxer. Scarring to both his eyebrows suggested he’d been no stranger to the ring.

“I read your circulation,” DS Simpson said. “Said you were interested in anything out of the ordinary. Well, I’ve never come across a scene like this. I’ve been unfortunate enough to work dozens of murders, but this one’s. .” He struggled to find the appropriate words and gave up trying. “Anyway. Your circulation said contact you if we find anything out of the ordinary and this is certainly that.”

Sean was looking around the hallway. Everything seemed normal. No signs of disturbance. No tipped-over furniture or ornaments. No blood smeared or sprayed on the walls. DS Simpson saw him checking it out.

“The whole place is like that. Nothing out of place. Nothing at all. Except the bedroom. It all seems to have happened in there.” He looked along the corridor to the room at the end. Sean followed his gaze.

There was no metallic scent of blood. Clearly she hadn’t been stabbed or cut. Something else. He could smell the faint odor of urine. He assumed from the victim. Had she fouled herself before or after she died? If it was before, then something, someone, had frightened her enough to make her lose control of her bladder.

Sean wouldn’t rush his questioning of the two detectives. He wanted to jump to the end, but he wouldn’t. Keeping it chronological was the key to not losing yourself. Follow the time line. It helped build up a clearer picture of how the horror had come and gone.

“How did he get in?” Sean asked. He meant the killer.

“Not sure,” DS Simpson replied. “We haven’t had a proper look around yet. We’ve been keeping everyone out, as you requested, so forensics hasn’t had a chance to help us with that.”

“Anything obvious?” Sean asked.

“Forced entry? Nothing we can see. The door was locked and all windows are secure.”

“It was warm last night,” Sean said. “But she kept the windows shut?”

DS Simpson shrugged. “We’re only on the first floor here, but the windows are still pretty high above ground level. They’d be almost impossible to reach without ladders. Would I sleep with the windows open? Sure. But would my wife? I don’t think so.”

Sean nodded in agreement. “Who raised the alarm?”

“Her work,” DS Simpson replied. “Apparently she was a real early bird. A bit of a workaholic. They expected her to turn up around eight, if not before. When she hadn’t arrived by nine thirty they rang her. No answer, mobile or home. No problems reported on her tube line and she hadn’t suggested she would be late or taking the day off, so they began to get a little concerned.

“She’s popular enough at work, so I’m told. Anyway, her boss sends a male colleague around here to make sure she’s okay. They guess she’s in bed with the flu. There’s a bit of a summer virus going around. The male colleague’s a guy called Darryl Wilson. .” DS Simpson paused.

“Is he all right?” Sean wasn’t asking about Wilson’s welfare, he wanted to know if he was under any suspicion.

“Yeah. He’s fine. Anyway, he gets over here midmorning. No answer to the buzzer, so he goes round the side to see what he can see.

“Her blinds still look at least half shut and there’s a faint red light on inside. He’s not happy, so he borrows a ladder from a neighbor and puts it up to her bedroom window. He climbs the ladder and manages to peek through the blinds, sees her on the bed, shits himself, almost falls off the ladder, and does what he should have done in the first place and phones us.”