Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

Most appeared to be the numbers of banks, both in the UK and abroad. Other numbers were of accountants, diamond dealers, gold merchants, platinum traders. Hundreds of names, but only a handful of personal numbers. He paid particular attention to these. He read through the names slowly and deliberately. Daniel Graydon’s number was there, as he’d expected: both his home and mobile numbers. So what? It meant nothing, now that Hellier admitted knowing him. He checked for the names of the two other victims, Heather Freeman and Linda Kotler. He didn’t expect to find the runaway’s name, but perhaps Kotler’s. It wasn’t there. He was disappointed, but not surprised.

The mini-cab dropped Hellier off on the outside concourse at London Bridge. He was delighted to see thousands joining the great commute home and even considered waving along the street at the police following him. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they would be able to see him. A little wave would get them thinking, but he resisted the temptation-this was no time to show off. Soon he’d be gone, but first he had some business to take care of. Top of the list being his mysterious friend.

He’d considered leaving, not even bothering to meet the man, but he wasn’t a gambler. He only played when he could manage the risks, and that meant finding out what this man knew, if anything. Could he damage him? Hurt him? Hellier had to find out. No loose ends, he reminded himself. Leave things nice and tidy, just how he liked it. That didn’t mean there wasn’t time for one last thrill. One last indulgence.

Hellier walked fast into the train station, ducking into WHSmith, watching the main entrance through the magazine shelf, waiting for the surveillance team to enter. They were good, only one standing out as she scanned the crowds for him. Commuters never looked around. They were on autopilot. She stood out like an amateur, but the others were invisible.

He took the other exit from the shop and walked back across the inside concourse and out the same exit he’d entered, all the while trying to remember the faces he passed. If he saw them again, he would assume they were police. He crossed the short distance to the underground station, stopping suddenly at the top of the stairs and spinning around. No one reacted. A smile spread across his lips. They were very good indeed.

Once again he descended into the underground that had served him so well in the past. He followed his normal antisurveillance pattern, tactics designed to lose even the best: traveling short distances on trains and then stepping off at the last moment, walking swiftly through tunnels, past zombified commuters, onto another train and away again. Over and over he repeated the procedure, but they stayed with him, leaving him both annoyed and impressed. No matter. As always, James Hellier was one step ahead.

Finally he arrived in Farringdon and made his way to the bar he had chosen the day before. It was busy enough but not heaving. Ideal. He headed straight to the toilet unnoticed. The cubicle he wanted was unoccupied. Two customers stood at the urinals, not noticing him as he shut the door. He didn’t have time to wait for them to leave-in fact, it was better they were there. Soon the police would be here, inside the bar looking for him. He began to undress.

Sean’s mobile vibrated on the desk in front of him. He kept reading the e-mail as he answered absentmindedly. “Hello.”

“Guv. It’s Jean Colville.” Sean recognized the surveillance team’s DS. “Your man certainly knows his countersurveillance tactics.”

“I noticed,” said Sean ironically. “Where are you?”

“Farringdon. Trying to keep up with your target. He’s in a bar in Farringdon Road. He gave us the right runaround, but we’re still on him. Bit thin on the ground, but the others are doing their best to catch up.”

“Is the bar covered?” Sean asked, concerned.

“Just. I’ve got one unit around the back-there’s only one exit there. Three in the bar and two more out the front. Apparently your man’s in the toilet. There’s no other way out of there other than the door leading to the bar. So as long as he stays in there, we’re solid.”

“Good.” Sean breathed easier. “Don’t give this one an inch. If you can’t see what he’s doing, assume he’s doing something we’d rather he wasn’t.”

“Understood. I’ll call you if the situation changes.”

“It’ll change,” Sean warned her. “Just be ready when it does.” He hung up.

“Problem?” Donnelly asked, appearing at Sean’s open door.

“Not yet,” Sean replied. “They’ve followed Hellier to Farringdon.”

“Well, so long as they don’t lose him this time. By the way, you should know Jonnie Dempsey has turned up. Handed himself in at Walworth. The locals are holding him for us. Apparently he’s telling them that he’d been helping himself to a portion of the night’s takings from his till on a regular basis. He thought the management was onto him, so he took off. When he heard the place was crawling with Old Bill, he decided to lay low. But eventually he realized things were getting a bit too serious to ignore and thought it best to hand himself in.”

“Scratch one suspect,” Sean said.

He saw Sally enter the main office. He hadn’t spoken with her since that morning. He caught her eye and beckoned her over. “How did your meeting with Gibran go?” he asked.

Sally took a seat without being invited. “It was interesting enough. He certainly didn’t give me any reason to suspect Hellier less. Said he’d been acting out of character lately, missing appointments and so on, and that he felt he was only now seeing the real James Hellier. That the other Hellier, before this all started happening, was the fake. He also said Hellier had been rambling on about living his life beyond good and evil.”

“Nietzsche.” Sean spoke involuntary.

“Pardon?” Donnelly asked.

“Nothing,” said Sean. “It’s not important. Anything else?” he asked Sally.

“Not really,” she replied. “He was probably just trying to find out what we knew.”

“So long as he paid for lunch,” Donnelly said.

“As a matter of fact, he did,” Sally told him. “Which is more than you’ve ever done,” she added.

“Harsh, but fair,” said Donnelly.

“What did you do with the rest of the afternoon?” Sean asked, not meaning to sound as though he was checking on her.

“Lunch took longer than I’d expected.” She blushed, recalling her time with Gibran and how she’d been in no rush to end their meeting. “After that I chased down some inquiries at the Public Records Office, but they didn’t have my results yet. I hear Hellier’s been bailed.”

“We can’t hold him until the DNA results are confirmed,” Sean explained. “Takes too long.”

“And if the DNA isn’t Hellier’s?” she asked.

“Then I’ll be in the shit,” Sean said bluntly. “So don’t be standing too close.”

Hellier had been in the toilet for less than a minute. He could hear people coming and going outside the cubicle. He moved quickly now. Unconcerned about noise. He stood in only his underpants and socks.

He lifted the lid of the toilet cistern and placed it on the toilet seat. He pulled the plastic bag from the cistern and untied it. Carefully, he undid the parcel and laid out the gun and spare magazine. He checked his watch. Six forty-five. Fifteen minutes to spare. He clicked the battery back into the mobile phone. He would turn it on once he’d left the bar.

He dressed in the tracksuit, T-shirt, and trainers. He stuffed the gun in the back of his waistband and tied the trouser cord tight. He put the phone in one of the top’s pockets and the spare magazine in the other.