Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

“No. Nor would I,” Sally agreed. “DS Wright told me that he’d taken the prints from the Yard at your request. Do you recall why you pulled the prints?”

“I seem to remember the prison where Korsakov was doing his time wanted them, but I can’t remember the details. Although I do remember giving the prints back to Graham so he could return them.”

“And return them he did, at least according to Fingerprints’ records.”

“Then I don’t see how I can help you find them.”

“It’s just that you requested them back in ninety-nine,” said Sally. “Not long before Korsakov was released from prison. That seems a little unusual.”

Jarratt laughed. “DS Jones, everything to do with Korsakov was a little unusual. However, I remember now. The prison needed the prints to copy onto their records. They liked to keep fingerprints of prisoners they deemed to be more dangerous than the norm. I suppose they consider it to be some sort of deterrent.”

“Why would they wait until a few months before his release to decide that Korsakov needed such a deterrent?”

“That, I cannot answer,” Jarratt told her. “You would have to speak to the prison.”

Sally sighed. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any need for that,” she lied. “At the end of the day it still wouldn’t explain how the prints went missing. Probably just an administrative cock-up at Fingerprint Branch. I’ve wasted enough of your time.”

“Not a problem,” said Jarratt.

They said their good-byes and Sally made her way to her car. She drove a couple of blocks before pulling over and retrieving the Korsakov file from her bag. She flicked through it and found the number she was looking for. Then she paused momentarily, remembering that Sean knew nothing of her investigation’s progress. Perhaps she should call him now, put him in the picture; but he had so many other things on his mind it would be better to speak to him later. She dialed and waited a long time before a military-sounding voice answered.

“Wandsworth Prison. What can I do you for?”

Sean and Vicky approached the Barnes police station. They’d been outside the scene for a while, briefing the forensics team and liaising with the coroner’s office. Sean had arranged to meet Sally at Barnes and update her. The police building was as ugly as ever. They parked outside the four-story construction, bright red bricks in too-straight lines. It was hard to spot a window. When you did it was blacked out.

Vicky led the way to her office. It was three times the size of Sean’s and ten times cleaner and more organized. Sally, having returned from Surbiton, was waiting for them outside the office. Sean introduced her to Vicky and vice versa. The two female detectives eyed each other with a little suspicion. Sean felt it.

Vicky lifted a note she found on her desk. She looked at Sean. “It’s for you. Your pathologist has arrived at the scene, a Dr. Canning.”

“Good.”

“And we’ve traced a sister. The first detectives on the scene, Simpson and Watson, found it in her address book. She’s already on the fast train up from Devon. Squad car will pick her up at the station and bring her straight here. Should be with us soon.”

“Parents?” Sally asked.

Vicky scanned the note. “Yeah. They live in Spain. Retired. Apparently they’ll be here when they can get a flight. That won’t be easy at this time of year. Do you want to see the sister?”

Sean glanced across at Sally. “Yeah. Why not?”

“I’ll arrange it now. Meanwhile, why don’t you tell me about your suspect? What’ve you got on him so far?”

“James Hellier,” Sean said. “A wealthy, polished act. Works for a fancy firm of financiers in Knightsbridge. Self-confessed sadomasochist. Last night he took our surveillance team on a runaround. He lost them about six P.M. He wasn’t picked up again until he got home, sometime after three A.M.”

Vicky raised her eyebrows. “The man knows he’s under surveillance and still he travels to Shepherd’s Bush and commits murder?”

“He can’t stop himself,” Sean told her. “The fact he knows he’s under surveillance probably only adds to his pleasure.”

“If you’re so sure, let’s arrest him, strip him, swab him, and have forensics do the rest,” said Vicky.

“We’ve tried that,” Sean explained. “With the first murder. We found samples matching him at the scene, but he had an answer for everything. Claimed to have been having a long-standing sexual relationship with the victim. It was a waste of time. We showed our hand too soon. Handed him the initiative.

“The second scene was different,” he continued. “A young girl called Heather Freeman, a runaway teenager. She was abducted and killed on waste ground out near Dagenham. He cut her throat, but still the scene was left as clean as a whistle. Nothing but a plain footprint.

“So we wait. If we get alien samples from the scene, we’ll move and arrest Hellier, but we wait until then.” Sean saw Vicky moving in her chair. He knew what she was thinking. He held a hand up. “I know,” he said. “But trust me. Hellier won’t be contaminated with anything from the scene. Any clothing he used will be destroyed by now.”

“You’re absolutely certain of that?”

“No,” he replied. “Not absolutely, but certain enough. I need something irrefutable. Whether it’s from one of the scenes or whether it’s something Hellier leads us to, I don’t care. But I’m not going to have him dance circles around me in an interview again. I need something damning.”

“It’s your call, Sean, but don’t forget the Stephen Lawrence inquiry. Those guys were slaughtered for not making early arrests and seizing clothing for forensics. If you go down, I go down with you.”

“No you won’t,” Sean assured her. “Make an official note of your objections. I’ll do the same, and then you’re covered.”

“Hold on,” Vicky said. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know it isn’t,” Sean replied. “But the branch I’m on is too thin for two people. You register those objections. They’ll be entered into my decision log.”

Vicky didn’t argue further.

“I’d like to get a briefing out to the media today.” Sean changed the subject. “You do it, Vicky. Keep my name out of it and don’t mention the link to other murders. Make it an appeal for public assistance. I want to see it in the Evening Standard tonight.”

“Not a problem,” said Vicky. “Their crime editor owes me a couple of favors.”

A knock at the door ended the conversation. Sean turned to see a detective he didn’t recognize. “Sister’s here, guv’nor” was all he said.

Sean’s hand hesitated as it rested on the handle of the witness room. Linda Kotler’s sister waited inside. Sally was with him, but he’d decided to do the talking this time.

Telling someone a loved one had died was one thing. As devastating as that news could be, it was nothing compared to telling them someone they loved had been murdered. That news would shatter lives. The living would be forever haunted, imagining the last moments of those now dead. The worst was telling parents a child had been murdered-few marriages survived that burden. The parents see their dead child every time they look at each other. Eventually they can take no more reminding, no more torture, and push each other away.

Sean gently nudged the door open. He wanted her to see him entering. Debbie Stryer looked up. She was younger than he’d expected, healthy, and slightly tanned. Her country complexion made Sean conscious of his own ghostly city skin. She’d been crying. Her eyes were pink and rimmed bright red. She wasn’t crying now. It was a long trip from Devon. Had she run out of tears?