Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

She had survived her operation, the first of several. Still in Intensive Care. She hadn’t regained consciousness. Drugs would ensure she didn’t. For the time being at least.

A familiar silhouette appeared at his door. Featherstone had come to see and be seen. He entered Sean’s office without ceremony.

“You look like shit.” He sounded unconcerned.

“Thanks,” Sean replied.

Featherstone’s expression turned serious. “How is she?”

“Too early to say. She’s in Intensive Care.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do. .” He let the offer hang. Sean said nothing. “And you-should you be at work?”

“I’m fine.”

“If you want someone to steer the ship for a couple of hours while you get some rest, let me know.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sean repeated.

“Of course you will.” He paused before continuing. “Do we have enough evidence to charge Hellier?”

“I have a team searching Sally’s flat and another going over Hellier’s.”

“What about his office?” Featherstone asked.

“No need.” Sean was blunt. “Surveillance confirms he didn’t return to his office. We’re concentrating on his house and Sally’s.”

They were interrupted by Donnelly banging on the door. “Lab’s on the phone, guv’nor.” Sean could tell Donnelly was excited, an excitement that leaped across the office and into Sean’s chest. His heart rate accelerated, becoming irregular. “They’ve got a match to the hairs found in Linda Kotler’s flat.” Donnelly paused, enjoying the drama. “They’re Hellier’s.”

Sean slumped back into his chair. Featherstone slapped his thighs and smiled. It was over. Sean had his critical evidence. The few seconds of pulse-racing excitement were replaced by an overwhelming relief. Finally it was over. He’d been proved right. Hellier was finished.

A female detective appeared in the doorway: “Someone on the phone for DS Jones, guv.”

“Transfer them to my phone,” he instructed. She nodded and left. He waited for the ringing and answered. “DI Corrigan speaking. I’m afraid DS Jones isn’t available. Is there something I can help you with?”

“This is the Public Records Office at Richmond calling,” the male voice explained. “DS Jones had me run a couple of inquiries. I have the results for her.”

“I’ll take them,” said Sean. He grabbed a pen. “I’ll see DS Jones gets them.”

“She wanted birth and death certificates for two individuals: a Stefan Korsakov and a James Hellier.” Sean felt his heart miss a beat. “I have a birth certificate for Korsakov, but no death certificate, so if he’s still in the country, he’s alive.”

“And Hellier?” Sean asked.

“Both birth and death certificates for him. Poor little chap never got past his first birthday.”

“Excuse me?”

“He died in childhood.” The possibilities rushed into Sean’s mind.

“What year was Korsakov born?”

“Nineteen sixty-seven,” came the answer.

“When did Hellier die?”

“Interesting,” the clerk said. “Also nineteen sixty-seven.”

It had to be. Somehow Sean knew it. It had to be. “Thank you,” he managed to say. “I’ll have someone collect them.” He hung up and turned to Donnelly. “Remember the suspect Sally was working on?”

“The one from Method Index?” Donnelly asked.

“Yes, Stefan Korsakov. Do you know where she kept the inquiry file?”

“In her desk, I presume.”

Sean moved quickly across the office to Sally’s desk. Donnelly followed, intrigued. Sean tugged at the locked drawers. “Have you got a skeleton key for these damn things?” Most good detective sergeants did, although they would rarely admit it. Donnelly didn’t look too happy about it, but produced the key anyway. Sean hurriedly unlocked the top drawer. A brown file with the name “Korsakov” written across the front lay inside. He flicked it open and began to read.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Donnelly asked.

“Did Sally discuss this inquiry with you?”

“Not really.”

“Anything at all?” Sean persisted.

“Only thing she told me was that someone was lying to her.”

“When did she tell you that?”

“I think it was Thursday.”

Sean continued to search through the file, forward and backward, almost oblivious to Donnelly’s presence. Finally he looked up. “Bastard has been getting help.”

“Sorry?”

“Sally told me his fingerprints had gone missing from the Yard. His photograph from his intelligence file. She told you she was being lied to-but by whom?”

“Guv’nor,” Donnelly kept his voice down, “what are you talking about?”

“Don’t you understand?” Sean asked unfairly. “Hellier is Korsakov, the man Sally identified through Method Index as being a possible suspect for our murder. Stefan Korsakov is Hellier, but everything she needed to make that connection disappeared. In spite of that, she was getting closer, closer to finding out the truth, even if she didn’t know it herself.”

“Wait a minute,” Donnelly pleaded. “Hellier is Stefan Korsakov?”

“I’d bet my fucking life on it,” Sean answered. “When Korsakov got out of prison, he needed to reinvent himself or he was finished in this country. He’d have to take his money and run. That’s not his style. All it took was a new identity and someone in the police to make his past as good as disappear. The new identity is easy enough. He goes to a graveyard and picks someone who was born in the same year he was, but who died in childhood, the younger the better. Less history.”

“And he gets a bent copper to make his photos and fingerprints disappear,” Donnelly finished for him. “That’s why Hellier attacked Sally, because she was getting too close to finding out his secret.”

“Hellier wouldn’t be the only one who would want to stop Sally. Whoever was helping him had as much to lose as Hellier.”

“Our bent police friend,” Donnelly surmised.

“It has to be a possibility,” Sean admitted.

“Then perhaps the attack on Sally isn’t connected to the other attacks?”

“It is,” Sean assured him. “They’re all connected somehow. We just need to complete the circle of events. Once we do that, we’ll know how this all fits in.”

“Where do we start?”

“We find this bent copper.”

“How?”

Sean scanned the file. He found what he was looking for: the name of the original officer in the case. Detective Sergeant Paul Jarratt. “I know that name.”

“Come again?” Donnelly asked.

“Paul Jarratt, the original investigating officer, I know that name.”

“Maybe you used to work with him?”

“No,” Sean muttered. “Something recent. Something I’ve seen.”

Sean studied the man who opened the door of the neat Surbiton home. He and Donnelly showed their identification and introduced themselves. Jarratt seemed nervous, but composed.

“I believe you know a colleague of mine,” Sean said. “DS Sally Jones?”

“Yes,” Jarratt answered. “She called around here a couple of times, asking about an old case of mine.”

“I know,” Sean told him. “Unfortunately I have some bad news concerning DS Jones.”

“Bad news?”

“I’m afraid she was attacked and seriously injured last night. She’s stable, but critical. I thought as you’d been helping her you should know.”

“Yes,” Jarratt stuttered. “Thank you. Thank you for thinking of me. Can I ask how it happened?”

“You can,” Donnelly said, nodding his head toward the inside.

“Yes, of course,” Jarratt answered. “Please, come in.” He led them to the kitchen and sat. Sean and Donnelly remained standing.