Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

Sean looked hard at the items in the bathroom. Nothing particularly caught his attention. She kept it cluttered but clean. There was nothing here the killer couldn’t have resisted. A hairbrush that still had some hair in the bristles was the most likely, but Sean wasn’t hopeful. Nevertheless, it might be worth special attention. Send it to the lab for DNA and fingerprints instead of dusting it on-site.

As he turned toward the door a sunray hit the catch on the small sash window. The reflection was wrong. Uneven. There should have been one starburst of light off the chrome catch, but Sean could see dozens.

The window was directly above the bath. Sean didn’t want to have to climb into the bath to get closer. If the killer somehow came in or went out through this window he would almost certainly have had to put a foot in the bath. Sean wouldn’t risk stepping on a print. He couldn’t see one with the naked eye, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

He examined the window frame from where he was. No deadlocks, only the catch. Easy to open. Horribly easy. A novice burglar could do it in seconds. Sean couldn’t help but think how a ten-pound deadlock might have saved her life. He felt sick at the thought.

He imagined the killer climbing in and out of the window. Where would he have been least likely to touch? He decided on the area of wall directly below and central to the window. He crouched down and reached across the bath with his left arm. He placed the side of his gloved palm against the wall and leaned forward so his face was only inches from the window catch.

Scratches. Dozens of small thin scratches. Fresh, without a doubt. Fresh cuts in metal were always screamingly obvious. They glared like shiny new wounds, but within days they dulled, rusted, or stained. These were newborn.

There would be a drainpipe outside the window. This was the bathroom, so there had to be a drainpipe. He would check the outside, but he already knew what he’d find.

Another change of method, Sean thought. This man’s already thinking of court. A decent defense solicitor would have a field day with this one. The police trying to say three completely different murders were all linked. Sean wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

He knew more than ever that he needed something to hang Hellier with. Some piece of indisputable evidence. If he could at least prove Hellier had committed one murder, maybe he would confess to the others. Appeal to his ego. If he didn’t confess, no one would ever know how clever he’d been. How he’d outfoxed the police. If Sean could prove one, he’d run with it. He wouldn’t wait to be able to prove the others. But a sudden chill froze him, as he pictured the image of a man snaking in through the bathroom window-a man who wasn’t James Hellier. The sudden unexpected doubt momentarily terrified him-was he derailing the investigation with his own prejudice against Hellier and all his perceived type stood for? No. He shook the doubt away, remembering how he felt every time he was in Hellier’s presence, the animalistic scent of a survivor, a predator that he’d smelled on him the very moment they first met. He was right about Hellier-he had to be. He mustn’t allow himself to be confused by Hellier’s camouflaging tactics.

Memories of Hellier’s lies and all-too-convenient alibis reassured him, his considerable efforts to avoid their surveillance, and the crucial fact that he knew at least one of the victims-Daniel Graydon. Sean had no doubts. Hellier was psychopathically bad to the core, so if Hellier hadn’t killed Graydon then that would have to mean Graydon had randomly come into contact with not only one killer, but two. The chances of that were negligible. Satisfied, Sean breathed out a long sigh.

Carefully, he moved out of the bathroom and back into the corridor. The bedroom loomed before him. He had another room to see first. He crossed the hallway and entered the kitchen, again standing to the side to preserve any evidence on the floor. He was suddenly aware of a crushing thirst. But he wouldn’t use a tap at the scene, fearful of destroying evidence that might be hiding in the drains of the sink, just waiting to be found. His thirst would have to wait.

The kitchen was small and a little dingy. The units were from the early eighties and badly needed a face-lift. The oven was old too, made of white metal and free-standing. The killer wouldn’t have liked this room, Sean decided, but he would have come in here. Maybe he took a knife from a cupboard to threaten the victim with? Maybe he took a knife to kill her with, only to change his mind? If he was to be true to form, he’d want to change the way he killed as well as the way he entered. All the knives in the kitchen would be taken away for examination as a matter of routine.

Sean didn’t stay in the kitchen long. Neither had the killer. He stepped backward into the hallway. The door to the bedroom was closed, but not shut altogether. Had it swung shut itself, on uneven hinges? Or had DS Simpson or DC Watson pushed it to in an attempt to show the victim some last respect?

Sean put the side of his left palm on the place the suspect was least likely to have touched, the very top center, between the two oblong panels. He pushed gently. The door swung silently open.

Donnelly and Sally stood next to their car, smoking. Sally had found a café nearby that sold good coffee. It didn’t taste like the coffee sold in the cafés around Peckham. Her mobile rang. She flicked her cigarette away before answering. “Sally Jones speaking.”

“Detective Sergeant Jones?”

“Who’s asking?” She hadn’t recognized the voice.

“You probably won’t remember me. My name is Sebastian Gibran. We met at my office when you came to see an employee of mine-James Hellier.”

She remembered now. It was the senior partner from Hellier’s finance firm. “I remember,” she told him. “But what I don’t remember is giving you this mobile number.”

“I’m terribly sorry, I phoned your office first, but you weren’t there. Another detective was good enough to give me your number.”

She wasn’t impressed. Giving out a team member’s mobile number to unseen parties was a definite no-no. “What is it I can do for you, Mr. Gibran?”

“Not something I want to discuss over the phone, you understand? I feel it’s better if we meet, somewhere private. It’s a sensitive matter.”

“Why don’t you come to the police station?”

“I’d rather not be seen there, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Where then?” Sally asked.

“Can you meet me for lunch tomorrow? I know a place that’ll fit me in at short notice. We’ll be able to talk freely there.”

Overconfident bastard, but what was there to lose? “Okay. Where and when?”

“Excellent,” Gibran responded. “Che, just off Piccadilly, at one o’clock tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there,” Sally told him.

“I look forward to it.” She heard him hang up. Her expression was pensive.

“Problem?” Donnelly asked.

“No. At least I don’t think so. That was Sebastian Gibran, Hellier’s boss. He wants to meet for a chat.”

“Well, well. Maybe Hellier’s fancy friends are getting set to abandon him to his fate.”

“The ritual washing of hands,” she declared. “Not to mention a free lunch for yours truly.”

“Do you want some company at this little get-together?”

“No. I get the feeling it’ll go better if I meet him alone.”

“Fair enough, but don’t forget to run it past the boss before you go,” Donnelly warned her.

“Naturally. Listen, I need to follow up on something over in Surbiton. The boss can do without me here for a while. I’ll check back with you later, okay?”