Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

“Did he enter the flat?”

“No way,” Simpson replied. “He saw enough through the window to turn him into a quivering wreck. Wild horses wouldn’t get him inside after that.”

“Neighbors see her come home with anybody? Hear anybody calling at her flat?” Sean asked.

“Too early to say.”

“Who’s your DI?” Sean should have asked earlier.

“Vicky Townsend,” Simpson told him.

That was good news. Sean knew her of old. He gave a slight nod.

Simpson saw it. “You know her then?”

“Yeah,” Sean replied. “We used to work together.”

“She’s solid,” Simpson said. It was a major compliment. She’d been solid when Sean knew her too. “She’ll be here soon. Shall we?” Simpson pointed to the living room. The door was wide open.

Sean took the lead. He felt Simpson and Watson were about to follow him, but he needed to do this alone. “Listen,” he said as pleasantly as he could. “You’ve already been through this place. Forensics won’t be happy if you walk through again just to help me. I’d rather not cause you any more grief than I probably already have, so best you wait here, or outside if you fancy some fresh air. I’ll find my own way around.”

The two detectives nodded to each other and headed for the front door. “I’ll send DI Townsend up when she arrives,” Simpson told him.

“Thanks,” Sean replied. He was already in the living room. Leaving the outside world behind. Entering the killer’s world.

Hellier had arrived home sometime after 3 A.M. to find that his wife had been waiting for him. She had a lot of questions she wanted him to answer, but he’d insisted he needed to be alone, that the stress of the police investigation was getting to him. He’d told her he loved her, that she and the children were his life. She’d cried tears of both joy and fear.

But someone else had been waiting for him when he arrived home-the police. He could feel them easily enough. They must have been sitting out there all night waiting for him and now they didn’t know where he’d been for over nine hours. Had Corrigan slept at all? He had more unpleasant surprises for DI Sean Corrigan.

It was almost midday and he still hadn’t been to the office. He’d called them to say he’d be working from home in the morning. He’d be in this afternoon. He stood on Westminster Bridge and gazed northwest across the Thames at the Houses of Parliament. He never did buy himself a politician. A cabinet minister would have been handy. Not to worry. Maybe next time.

The midday sun sparkled on the surface of the Thames. It was quite beautiful. Parliament’s reflection was as impressive as the real thing. Most of the architecture along the banks of the great river pleased him. Especially the north bank. Some unpleasant monstrosities had somehow been allowed to appear on the south bank, but it was still magnificent. A river to rival any in the world. He made a note to himself. Wherever he went next must have a river running through its heart, or at least a dominating harbor. Yes, he could make do with a harbor. Or even a lake, surrounded by mountains.

His mobile phone rang in his breast pocket. He considered tossing the damn thing into the Thames. A symbolic gesture of leaving this city. Instead he answered it.

“Mr. Hellier? Mr. James Hellier?” It was the same nervous voice from the previous day. He recognized it immediately.

“I don’t appreciate having my time wasted,” Hellier snapped.

“I was being followed.” The voice sounded strained. “I couldn’t risk leading them to you.”

“Who was following you?” Hellier demanded. “The police? The press?”

“I don’t know, but I need to see you. I’ll contact you soon.”

“Wait. Why do you need to see me? Wait.” The voice was gone. Hellier no longer felt tired. Who was this man, this man telling him he was a friend? James Hellier didn’t have any friends. If the voice belonged to a journalist, then what was he waiting for-what was his angle? Hellier couldn’t see it, and that bothered him. Maybe it was time to consider the possibility that his friend was something entirely different.

Sean didn’t like being in the flat alone, but the quiet peace was a blessing. He could hear what the scene was telling him. He moved around the living room, keeping to the edges to avoid stepping on microscopic evidence. He touched as little as possible and made a permanent mental note of anything he did.

The room was comfortable, almost snug. Too much furniture. Too many colors. A real room. Years of impulse buying and fitting presents from family and friends into the space had produced an uncoordinated history of the occupier. Kate would have hated it. He quite liked it.

Did the killer come in here? If so, why? To be among her things? To spend a moment with the photographs of the victim that were scattered all over the room? Would he have put a light on to see better? Sean doubted it. Maybe he used a torch? If he did and if he was the same killer, it would have been the first time he used one. Again, Sean doubted it.

He’d been in here though. Sean was sure of it. He scanned the room over and over. Is this where the killer came to prepare himself? Not to put on his gloves and other protective clothing-he would have done that outside, before he entered. But to be among her possessions, the very heart of her life. To form a connection with her. The more he connected with her, the sweeter it would be when the moment came to move down the corridor to her bedroom.

Hellier had a connection with the second victim, Daniel Graydon, albeit a fleeting one. Did he have a connection with the first, Heather Freeman? Had the murder team in the east missed something? Sean resolved to go back and check. Was there a connection between the killer and this latest scene? Between Hellier and the third victim?

Did the killer touch anything in here? Take off a glove and touch anything? No. He was too controlled for that. Always in control. No mistakes. He would have confined himself to looking. So he’d stood and looked. Just as Sean was doing now.

Sean left the room and moved back into the hallway. He pushed a door open on his left. It was a small bedroom, being used for storage. Stuffed and tied bin liners littered the floor. The room wasn’t in keeping with the rest of the flat. It was cold and impersonal. Whoever lived here didn’t come in very often. What was in those bin liners? They appeared to be waiting for someone to come and take them away. Sean spotted the handle of a cricket bat protruding from one of the bags. A man had recently been living in the flat. Had he lived with the victim? Probably. Was he a jilted lover? Almost certainly. A suspect? He would have to be.

If the room held little for the victim, then it would hold less for her killer. Sean couldn’t feel him in this place. He left, pulling the door back as he found it, careful not to touch the handle.

He moved slowly down the hallway and pushed open the next door on the left. The bathroom. It smelled like a woman’s bathroom. Dozens of bottles of brightly colored liquids could be seen all over. Creams, makeup, cotton balls, lotions and potions of all descriptions had found their way onto most of the flat surfaces. Sean thought about how a single man’s bathroom would look in comparison. A comb, razor, shaving foam, maybe some hair and shower gel. Aftershave, if he really cared about his appearance. The victim clearly liked to spend time in this room. The room reminded him of Kate. He shook the thought away. His wife had no place here.

The bathroom was very personal to the victim. Was it therefore personal to the killer? He would definitely have been in here, but did he stay? What would have attracted him? What was so personal to her that he may have had to touch it? Maybe he held it up to his face, to his nose, to be as close to her scent as he could. Maybe he had to taste her? Maybe he licked something? If he did, he would have left his DNA.