Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

“No,” she said. “I’m due a break. Besides, I don’t think I could stand the sight of another sandwich.”

“Then here’s to you,” he said, raising his glass slightly. “Here’s to us.”

Sally returned the toast with a cautious smile. “To us.”

“It must be difficult,” said Gibran, suddenly cryptic.

“What must?”

“Learning how to use all that power you have without abusing it. I mean, I meet a lot of people who truly believe they’re powerful, but power through money and influence has its limits. Being a police officer, to have the power to literally take someone’s human rights away from them, to take their freedom from them-now that’s real power.”

“We don’t remove people’s human rights; we can only temporarily remove their civil rights,” Sally explained.

“All the same,” Gibran continued, “it must be very difficult.”

“Maybe, at first. But you get used to it, and before long you don’t even think about it.”

“I’m guessing it can make relationships with men very difficult. So many are intimidated by powerful women. We like to think the power is always with us, so to be involved with a cop would be, I guess, challenging.”

“And are you?” Sally asked. “Intimidated?”

“No,” Gibran answered, his face as serious as Sally had ever seen him. “But then again, I’m not like most men.”

Sally looked at him for as long as she could without speaking, trying to read his thoughts. Gibran broke the silence.

“One thing that’s always fascinated me,” he continued, “is how people who seem to have been born to kill somehow find each other, as if they can recognize their own kind when they meet them: Hindley and Brady, Venables and Thompson, Fred and Rosemary West, and God knows how many others. How do they find each other?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sally answered. “That’s my boss’s field of expertise. He’s a bit more instinctive than most.”

“DI Corrigan? Interesting,” Gibran said. “When you say he’s instinctive, what do you mean?”

“Just that he seems to know things. He sees things that no one else can see.” Sally suddenly felt uncomfortable discussing Sean with an outsider, as if she was somehow betraying him. Gibran sensed her mood.

“An interesting man, your DI Corrigan. Do you think perhaps it’s his dark side that makes him so good?”

Sally was impressed. It struck her that many of the same qualities she saw in Sean were present in Gibran. She decided that if Sean could ever get beyond his preconceived ideas of Gibran, he would probably like him.

“DI Corrigan’s a lot of things, but I’ve never seen anything you would call a dark side. It’s more a question of him being willing and able to search for answers in those dark places the rest of us are too afraid to go, in case we see something about ourselves we don’t like.”

Gibran nodded his understanding and approval. “It’s because he’s prepared to accept his responsibilities,” he said. “And it sounds as if we have more in common than either of us understood. Perhaps when this is all over and he sees me for what I am and not what he thinks I am, we’ll have a chance to speak on friendly terms.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Sally warned him.

“No,” Gibran answered, “I don’t suppose I will.” Again they took a moment to look at each other silently before Gibran spoke again. “But there’s one thing I must make clear to you-I cannot and will not let anything or anybody put the reputation of Butler and Mason at risk. Of course, I respect the fact that your police investigation must take priority, but other than that I will do what must be done to finish this matter with James one way or another, for better or for worse for him.”

Sally glanced away for a second as if considering his words. Then she looked him in the eye. “I understand,” she said. “You do that. Provided you tell us everything we need to know about Hellier, you have my word we won’t interfere in any internal decisions your company makes about him. But tread carefully, Sebastian, for both our sakes.”

Hellier glanced at his watch. Almost 5:30 P.M. The police had been deliberately slow in bailing him. DI Corrigan had been conspicuous by his absence. No matter. He had enough time. Just.

He wore the clean clothes that Templeman had arranged. The police had seized the ones he’d been wearing and once again they’d emptied the wardrobe and drawers back at his house. They didn’t have much to take this time around. He was still in the process of refilling them after the first raid when they’d seized every item of clothing he possessed. Corrigan was costing him a fortune.

There was no time to go home first. Never mind. He had done well to plan in advance. He had a change of clothes, his phone, and the weapon waiting for him. Not that he was expecting a fight. He was the master of gaining instant control. Years of practice ensured that his strength was seldom matched. He feared nothing and nobody, but the gun was nice insurance all the same.

He stood on the front steps of the Peckham police station. He’d already exchanged farewells with Templeman, who had no idea how final Hellier had meant it to be. One more thing to take care of and then he would be gone. He didn’t anticipate needing Templeman’s services again.

He scanned up and down the street. They were back. Did Corrigan never learn his lesson? Fine. If they wanted him to make fools of them again, he was happy to oblige. He looked for a black cab. This was Peckham. There were none. Realizing that he stood out far more than he wanted to, he began walking toward what passed for the center of this southeast London suburb.

Hellier entered the first mini-cab office he came across. A group of elderly, cheerful West Indian men sat around smoking and laughing loudly at some joke Hellier had just missed. One of the men spoke. He spoke slowly and thoughtfully, curbing his accent enough for Hellier to understand.

“Yes, sir. What can I be doing for you today?” he asked.

“I need to get to London Bridge.”

“No problem, sir. I’ll take you myself,” the cabbie replied. Seconds later the car pulled away, and as it did so, six other cars and four motorbikes began to move with it. The driver was unaware he had become the focus of so much police attention, but Hellier knew they were there. Occasionally he stole a glance in the near-side mirror. He spotted one of the motorbikes, nothing else; but he didn’t have to see them to know they were there.

“Lovely day,” Hellier said to the driver.

“Yeah, man,” the driver beamed. “Just like being back in Jamaica.” They both laughed.

Sean was back at his desk, weighing up the options. So far he’d come up with a dozen what-ifs, but none of them helped the investigation. None of them helped him. He’d had no choice but to let Hellier walk away on police bail. Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself to be patient. When the DNA results came back, he could bury Hellier. He was certain of it.

He rubbed his tired eyes with the sides of both fists. For a second he couldn’t see properly. When they cleared, he found himself focused on his computer screen, reminding him he needed to check his e-mail. It was the first chance he’d had to check his in-box. Among the dozens of e-mails there was one from SO11. The details of the telephone numbers from Hellier’s address book. He wasn’t in the mood to start plowing through names and numbers; his quota of patience had been used up hours ago. He peered out into the main office, looking for anyone he could delegate it to, but everyone appeared busy. His conscience got the better of him and he started to read through the list himself.