Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

He lifted a heavy parcel from the box. It was wrapped in several yellow cloths, which he patiently unfolded as if peeling back the petals of a tropical flower. The black-gray metal inside shone. He was pleased he’d taken the effort to oil the Browning 9-millimeter automatic pistol before locking it away. He’d made plenty of enemies over the years. He doubted they could find him, but just in case they did, he had insurance.

He checked the two magazines: each held a full load of thirteen 9-millimeter high-velocity bullets. They had been harder to obtain than the gun itself. Soldiers were happy to sell weapons stolen from poorly guarded armories, but for some reason they were reluctant to sell the bullets to go with them.

Hellier pulled at the back of the gun. The top slide glided backward and smoothly cocked the weapon. He squeezed the trigger. The hammer hit the firing pin with a reassuring metallic click. Satisfied, he pushed one of the magazines into the butt of the gun. The other he slid into his inside jacket pocket. He tucked the pistol into the small of his back, held in place by his belt.

He opened the other parcel. He laughed at the items inside. A dark brown wig with eyebrows to match. A mustache, no beard. A pair of prescription spectacles. He tried them on. They affected his eyesight, but he could see through them. He picked up the tube of theatrical makeup glue. He squeezed a drop onto his left index finger and rubbed his thumb and finger together. The glue was still good. He rolled the parcel back in the cloth and stuffed it into his trouser pocket as he stood.

He shut the box and replaced the padlock. He set the numbers as he had found them and left the room. The shopkeeper was waiting for him.

“Everything as it should be?” he asked.

“Yes. Everything was fine,” Hellier replied. “Tell me, is there a sports shop near here?”

Sally and the others had decided to retreat to the one pub they ever used, close to the Peckham police station. The landlord was only too happy to be running a “police pub.” It all but guaranteed that his premises remained free of trouble, except for the occasional bust-up between coppers. And that was always dealt with in-house so no black marks went against his license.

Sally’s phone rang.

“Sally Jones speaking.”

“DS Jones, I’m Prison Officer English, from Wandsworth Prison.”

Sally hadn’t expected the prison to call her outside of office hours. “You have something for me?”

“Your inquiry into a former prisoner: Korsakov, Stefan, released in 1999. You wanted to know why we requested his fingerprints?”

“Yes.”

“We made no request for his fingerprints from Scotland Yard.”

“Are you positive?”

“Absolutely. Our records are correct. There’s no mistake.”

“No,” Sally said, more to herself than anyone else. “I’m sure there isn’t. Thank you.” She hung up.

Donnelly appeared next to her. “Problem?”

“Someone’s been lying to me.”

“About what?”

“Never mind,” she said. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Right now I need another drink.”

Hellier found the small sports shop easily enough. He selected a dark blue Nike tracksuit, the plainest he could find. He added a white T-shirt, white Puma training shoes, and a pair of white socks to his basket. He asked for the items to be placed in separate plastic bags. He had been an easy customer who paid cash. The assistant was more than happy to lavish him with extra plastic bags.

He left the shop, headed back to the tube station, and caught a train to Farringdon. He didn’t have to search long to find what he wanted. A bar where men and women in suits mixed easily enough with others wearing casual clothes, even tracksuits.

He ordered a stiff gin and tonic from the bar. Gin, lots of ice, lime not lemon. The barman was good. The long drink both refreshed him and gave his brain a nice alcoholic kick, without affecting his clarity of thought-his control.

Hellier sat and familiarized himself with the layout of the bar. Satisfied, he went to the men’s toilet, entered a cubicle, and shut the door. It was fairly solid. That was good. He looked up at the window. It was quite high. If he tried to climb out of it, he would be seen. It was probably sealed shut anyway.

He checked the toilet cistern. It was low on the wall. That was good. He lifted the lid from the cistern. Then he emptied the contents of the plastic bags onto the toilet seat, taking the gun from his belt and the spare magazine from his jacket pocket. He placed them on the tracksuit. Next he took the training shoes out of the box and wrapped them, the T-shirt, and the socks in the tracksuit, making a tight parcel; the shoes flattened to little more than the width and thickness of the soles, the light material of the T-shirt and tracksuit folded to almost nothing. He placed them in one of the smaller plastic bags and tied a knot at the open end. He placed that bag inside another and fastened it with a tight knot.

At the last minute he recalled that the man who described himself as a friend would be calling on his mobile phone tomorrow at seven. He pulled the phone from a pocket and looked at it pensively. If the police were waiting for him, they would surely seize the phone. They always did. It was the only way he had of allowing the “friend” to contact him. He decided he couldn’t take the risk, but no matter what, he would have to recover the phone before 7 P.M. the next day. Separating the phone from its battery, he undid the plastic bags and dropped both phone and battery in. Then he wrapped and knotted the bags again.

Hellier was about to place the plastic bag in the toilet cistern when he stopped short. The gun was too big a prize to risk. Maybe he should just check into a hotel for the night instead of going home; that way he could stay hidden until it was time to meet the man from the phone calls. He shook his doubts away. He would go home. The police would undoubtedly be waiting for him there, but it wasn’t as if they were going to arrest him. What did they have? Nothing. If they had, they would have arrested him earlier instead of trying to follow him. And even if they did arrest him, so what? He would be out in time to make the meeting and he would know whatever the police were thinking too. It was an uneven match. Every time the police moved against him, they had to tell him what they knew. The laws of the land demanded it. This was a fair and just country. He, on the other hand, had to tell them nothing. And if they were stupid enough to try and follow him again after today, which he absolutely believed they were, then he had made plans for that too.

All doubt gone, he smiled to himself and tucked the plastic bag containing the clothes and pistol neatly into the toilet cistern, expertly packing it around the working parts as he’d practiced hundreds of times before, ensuring that enough water was allowed into the small tank. He flushed once to make certain it still worked and watched the cistern fill again. Satisfied, he replaced the lid and left the bar carrying the largest of the plastic bags containing only the empty shoe box. He would squash it flat and dump it in a bin on his way to the underground station and home.

It was almost 10 P.M. on Thursday. Sean sat alone in his office. The inquiry room was dark and quiet. The rest of the team had adjourned to a nearby pub, where they would be deep into analyzing what had gone wrong. They would argue that Hellier should have been arrested earlier, that it had been an unnecessary risk to try and follow him around London on the off chance he would lead them to some clinching evidence. Sean’s absence from the pub would be noticed, but it would be welcome too. They could speak their minds better if he wasn’t around.