Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

“I don’t know a lot of details,” Sean explained. “We know she was attacked with a knife in her own flat and received two serious injuries. She managed to escape and make it to her neighbor’s. She’s lucky to be alive.”

“My God,” Jarratt said. “Who would attack a copper in her own home?”

“Maybe you can help us with that?” Sean asked. Jarratt’s jaw dropped slightly. Sean noticed it.

“Of course,” Jarratt answered. “I’ll help in any way I can, only I’m not sure how.”

“DS Jones was trying to trace a suspect-Stefan Korsakov, a man you’d had dealings with some years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Only she was having trouble locating his fingerprints.”

“Yes, I remember her mentioning it.”

“Her inquiries led her to discover that you had requested the fingerprints be removed from Fingerprint Branch. Apparently Wandsworth Prison needed them to make copies for their records.”

“Yes, I told DS Jones all this.”

“And you’re positive the prison requested them?” Sean asked.

“Yes. My colleague at the time, Graham Wright, collected the prints for me and returned them. Perhaps he could help you.”

“Do you know a man called James Hellier?” Sean asked without warning.

Jarratt was silent for a while. He appeared to be struggling to recall the name. “No, I don’t think I know anyone by that name.”

“You’re sure?”

“It’s not a name that means anything to me,” Jarratt answered.

Sean pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Will you do me a favor?” he asked. “Take a look at these photographs. Tell me if you recognize the man in them.” Sean emptied the surveillance photographs of Hellier onto the table in front of Jarratt.

Jarratt leaned forward and shuffled the photographs around, apparently uninterested. “No,” he said. “I don’t recognize this man. I’ve already told DS Jones I don’t know this man, when she showed me a photograph of the same man when she first came to see me.”

“Are you sure?” Sean asked. “Are you absolutely sure the man in these photographs isn’t Stefan Korsakov?”

“Stefan Korsakov?” Jarratt asked, disbelief in his voice. “This isn’t Stefan Korsakov.”

“If not Korsakov, then what about James Hellier? Is the man in this photograph James Hellier?” Sean persisted.

“I don’t know anyone called James Hellier, so I wouldn’t know if this was or wasn’t him,” Jarratt answered, the increasing anxiety in his voice palpable.

Sean said nothing, instead tossing a piece of paper in front of Jarratt. “What’s this?” Jarratt asked.

“Take a look,” Sean told him.

Jarratt lifted it from the table and began to read through the list of names and telephone numbers on the printout of the e-mail from SO11. “I don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head.

“What’s the matter?” Sean asked. “Don’t you recognize your own name, your own telephone number?” He leaned over Jarratt and stabbed his finger into the printout. “Right there: Jarratt, Paul. And here: your address and your number.”

“What is this?” Jarratt asked.

“This is a list of telephone numbers taken from a notebook belonging to one James Hellier, who is currently under investigation for murder. What is your telephone number doing in his notebook, Mr. Jarratt?”

“I have no idea,” Jarratt pleaded. “So he has my telephone number, what does that mean? There could be any number of reasons why he has my number.”

Sean fell silent. He sat next to Jarratt. “If it was only the telephone number in his book, I might believe you,” he said. “But you’ve already hung yourself. You see, I found out that DS Jones checked with the prison and they told her they never requested Korsakov’s prints. You lied.” Jarratt didn’t respond. “And then there are these,” Sean continued, tapping the photographs of Hellier. “On our way to see you, we called in on an old colleague of yours, DS Graham Wright, and I showed him these very same photographs. And you know what he told me, without any hesitation whatsoever? He told me that the man in these photographs is Stefan Korsakov. The same Stefan Korsakov who now goes by the name of James Hellier. But you already know that, don’t you, Mr. Jarratt?”

“I. . I. .” Jarratt struggled, trapped.

“It’s over,” said Sean. “You were a detective once. You know when the show is over. It’s time to save yourself. Talk to us. Did Hellier attack Sally? You warned him she was digging around his past and he got worried she was getting too close, so he tried to stop her the only way he could-by killing her.”

“No,” Jarratt insisted. “He didn’t attack her.”

“So you admit to knowing him?” Donnelly asked.

“Yes. . I mean no.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Donnelly demanded.

“All right, for Christ’s sake. Yes, I’ve been in contact with him,” Jarratt admitted. “But I’ve got nothing to do with DS Jones being attacked.”

“But you made Korsakov’s photographs and fingerprints disappear, yes?” Sean asked.

Jarratt’s body slumped. “If I talk, you’ll look after me, agreed? You guarantee me no prison time and I’ll talk.”

“I can’t make that sort of promise, but I’ll do what I can. Now talk.”

“Shortly before Korsakov was due to be released from prison I decided to visit him.”

“Why?” Sean asked.

“Because we’d never recovered the money from his frauds. Millions of pounds outstanding.”

“And you fancied helping yourself to an early retirement present, eh?” Donnelly accused.

“No,” Jarratt claimed. “It wasn’t like that. Or at least, not at first. It’s often worth visiting people shortly ahead of their release to remind them that you’re watching them. Make it clear to them that as soon as they start spending their ill-gotten gains you’ll be there to seize everything they have.” Sean was aware of the practice. “Sometimes you can cut a deal, get them to surrender most of the money, in return for allowing them to keep a proportion as a reward for playing the game. All very unofficial, but everybody wins. We get to show moneys recovered, the victims get some compensation, and the thief gets a little sweetener.

“But that’s not the way Korsakov wanted to play it. He wasn’t about to hand over a penny. However, he could see the point in making sure the police weren’t on his back.”

“Go on,” Sean encouraged.

“He offered me a cut. All I had to do was make a few things disappear.”

“Like fingerprints and photographs?”

Jarratt shrugged.

“How much did he pay you?” Donnelly asked.

“Initially, ten thousand, with further installments to follow, but. .” He paused. “The next time we meet, he shows me photographs. Some were of the two of us together, with me counting the cash.”

“He set you up?” said Donnelly.

“Yes, but there was more. He had other photographs-of my kids, for God’s sake, at school, in the park, in my own garden.”

“He threatened them?” Sean questioned.

“He didn’t have to,” Jarratt replied. “I knew what he was capable of. I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life watching over my shoulder, waiting for the inevitable.”

“As soon as he did that, you should have stopped it, cut your losses and stopped it,” said Sean.

“And end up in prison? Old Bill don’t have it good inside. I decided to bide my time and hope that eventually Korsakov would move on and forget about me. Then all of a sudden your DS comes sniffing around, asking all the wrong questions. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Korsakov contacts me, asks me to get you off his back. It was like a nightmare coming true.”