Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

He turned left into the Marylebone Road and headed west. The traffic was lighter than he had expected. That was unfortunate. He drove carefully.

He headed up and onto the Marylebone Flyover and joined the Westway, a small motorway raised above the heart of West London and designed to speed commuters to the traffic jams of the M4 and M40 that inevitably awaited.

He began checking his mirrors constantly. They couldn’t run parallels to him now. As he drove above Paddington and Notting Hill, they had only one way of staying with him: follow him along the Westway.

He began to make a mental note of all the cars ahead and behind him. Any one of them could be the police: best to remember them all and assume the worst. Effective countersurveillance relied on the target assuming the worst.

He drove for about ten minutes before reaching his exit. The sign read SHEPHERD’S BUSH AND HAMMERSMITH. He moved into the exit lane. He glanced in his mirror. He saw several cars’ indicators blinking, signaling that they too would be leaving the Westway. Any police cars that had been ahead of him were already out of the chase. They would have to stay on the motorway until they could exit at Acton, another four miles along. By the time they rejoined their colleagues, he would be gone.

He left the Westway and followed the large access road, the West Cross Route, that took him to a major traffic circle. Only at the traffic circle did he make the final decision as to where he would go. He could turn left along Holland Park, back toward Central London. Or straight over toward Earl’s Court, along Holland Road. No. He needed traffic. He turned right at the traffic circle and drove past Shepherd’s Bush Green on his right and then turned left into Shepherd’s Bush Road, heading toward Hammersmith.

The three cars of the arrest team waited in Hyde Park for an update. Alone in the middle car, Sean and Sally listened to the surveillance team’s coded chatter on the radio. It made little sense to them. They tried to work out where the team could be, but it was no use. They relied on telephone updates alone.

Sean’s phone rang again.

“Smart lad, your boy,” DS Handy told him. “He took the one route I didn’t want him to take. Over the Westway. He dropped off at Shepherd’s. We’ve already lost our two lead cars. They’re trying to make their way back from Acton.”

“Do you still have him?” Sean’s tension was palpable.

“Yeah. We’ve got plenty of coverage.” Handy sounded calm in comparison.

“Where is he now?”

“Approaching Hammersmith.”

“We’re on our way,” said Sean. “Traveling time from Marble Arch. Don’t lose him, Don. Whatever you do, don’t lose him.”

Hellier cruised toward the chaotic one-way system of Hammersmith that was little more than a giant traffic circle. Four lanes of traffic looped around a central shopping complex. The traffic was always a disaster.

The traffic lights immediately ahead were green, but he wasn’t ready to enter the one-way system yet. He stopped at the green light and studied his rearview and side mirrors. The white van behind him beeped twice, politely. When he didn’t move, it gave him a long angry blast of the horn. Still the lights were green. Still he wouldn’t move.

He could see the van driver in his mirror, leaning out of his window now, shouting obscenities. Another blast on the van’s horn. The van would be a useful barrier between him and his pursuers, but it alone would not be enough.

The lights changed to red just as the van driver was climbing from his cabin, malicious intent spread across his face. Hellier didn’t wait for a break in the traffic speeding across in front of him. He floored the accelerator. The rear wheels of the big automatic gripped almost instantly and launched the car toward the passing vehicles.

Move. Move. Move,” DS Handy screamed at his driver. “Stay with him. For fuck’s sake, stay with him. Shit.” He could see Hellier had pulled farther ahead. “You’re losing him.”

“What’s the fucking point?” the driver snapped back. “We’re burned. He’s wasted us. We can’t follow him driving like this and not show out.”

“Don’t worry about staying covert,” Handy was shouting. “Take the fucker out. Take him out.”

Hellier had already turned right into Hammersmith Road. He gunned the Vauxhall east, toward Kensington. Confused drivers jammed the road in front of the surveillance cars. They couldn’t move, trapped in traffic. Hellier was gone.

Sean spoke into his phone. He didn’t say much, just the occasional word. “How?” “Where?” He paled noticeably the more he listened. “Get back to Knightsbridge, and cover his home too.”

He felt sick. Hellier was lost again. He’d made a bad decision, one he was going to have to live with. He rubbed his reddening eyes, hard. Exhaustion threatened to overtake him. He looked at Sally. “Dammit.”

“We’ll find him,” Sally reassured him.

“Only if he wants us to,” he said. “Only if he’s still playing games with us. With me.”

Hellier dumped the car and made absolutely sure he was alone before walking the short distance to the High Street Kensington underground station and descending calmly to the platforms. He caught the first District line train for two stops to South Kensington. Out of the station, he walked quickly along Exhibition Road, scanning the area for police. There were none. He turned right into Thurloe Place and walked along the row of shops. He knew exactly where he was going.

He looked through the window of Thurloe Arts, casting a knowledgeable eye over the paintings that adorned the interior. It was more of a mini-gallery than a shop, although he decided most of it was crap.

An old-fashioned bell rang above the door as he opened it. Almost immediately the owner appeared from the back of the shop, breaking into a welcoming smile when he saw Hellier.

“Mr. McLennan. What a pleasant surprise. How are you?”

“I’m very well,” Hellier replied. “How has life been treating you these past few years?”

“I mustn’t complain. Business is a little unpredictable, but could be worse.”

“Then I hope our arrangement has been of some financial assistance?”

“Indeed it has, sir,” the shopkeeper answered. “Am I to take it that is the purpose of your visit?”

“You are.”

“If you would be good enough to wait here a moment.”

Hellier nodded. The owner went to the back of the shop, returning a couple of minutes later. He held the door to the rear area open.

“This way, please.”

Hellier walked behind the counter and into the rear of the shop where he was led to a small windowless room lit by a single uncovered lightbulb. There was a table and one chair in the middle, surrounded by bare yellow walls. On the table was a metal box, one foot by nine inches, a heavy combination padlock hanging from its side. Hellier entered the room and found it just as he remembered it from his previous visit, three years ago. The shopkeeper made his excuses and left.

Taking a seat, Hellier examined the outside of the box. It seemed intact. He studied the lock closely. It was untainted. No telltale metal scratch marks. The dials remained at the settings he had left them on three years ago. He pulled a pair of thin leather gloves from his pocket and slipped his hands into the silk lining.

He turned the combination dials and pulled at the lock. Three years was a long time. With a little effort it popped open. He wiggled it free from the box and placed it carefully on the table.

He lifted the lid up as if opening a precious jewelry box. He removed an object wrapped in a white cloth and placed it next to the lock. He would look at it later. He needed to check something else first.