Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

“No comment.”

Sean leaned across the table, closer to Hellier. “I don’t blame you for not answering. And I know why you won’t, because there is only one explanation, isn’t there? That you went to her flat and you killed her.”

“No comment,” Hellier answered quickly.

“You raped her and killed her.”

“No comment.”

“You raped her. You tortured her. And you killed her.” Sean’s anger was rising.

“No comment,” Hellier raised his voice to match Sean’s.

“Do one decent thing in your life,” Sean snapped. “If you can find one shred of humanity in your body, then use it to help the people whose lives you’ve shattered. Give the victims’ families some closure. Admit to these crimes.”

“If you have the evidence, then you give them closure,” Hellier taunted. “Charge me. Tell them you’ve put the man who killed their darling daughter or son behind bars. Why do you need me to confess? Do you lack belief, Inspector?”

“Belief’s got nothing to do with it, James-or should I start calling you by your real name, Mr. Korsakov? Mr. Stefan Korsakov?”

Sean waited for Hellier’s reaction. A slight smile, nothing more.

“Like I said, it’s not about what I believe. It’s about what I can prove, and I can prove who you really are and that ex-detective sergeant Jarratt has been helping you cover your crimes for years.”

“So the pig finally squealed,” Hellier spat. “How appropriate.”

“And that’s why you tried to kill DS Jones. You had to. You knew she was getting close to the truth. Jarratt warned you, so you had no choice. She was going to bring your whole house of cards crashing down, so you broke into her flat and you tried to kill her.”

“You’re delusional. You think I’d kill to protect Jarratt?”

“No. To protect yourself.”

Hellier leaned forward as close to Sean as the table they sat across would allow. “I don’t care if you think you know who I am, or even if you do know who I am. I can be anyone I want to be. I can go anywhere I want to go. Do anything I want to do. Jarratt, a corruptible cop-ten a penny, Inspector. Not reason enough to kill your little pet.”

Sean swallowed his mounting anger as best he could. “Nice touch, by the way,” he told Hellier.

“What are you talking about now?” Hellier asked. “More delusions, Inspector?”

“Using my name when you approached Linda Kotler. Telling her you were me. Did you have a false identification with you? Or did Jarratt provide you with a real one, in my name? Did you show her the card when you were telling her you were me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re insane, man.”

“No,” said Sean, icy calm. “Not me. It’s you who is insane. You have to be.” The room fell silent, Sean and Hellier locked in combat while Templeman and DC Cahill looked on uncomfortably, aware they were little more than intruders in a private duel.

“I think this interview’s gone on long enough,” Templeman interrupted, his head spinning with new revelations, even if Hellier’s was not. “Given the injuries Mr. Hellier suffered while being arrested, I feel this interview should be stopped until such time as my client has received further medical treatment.”

Sean’s broken hand was throbbing to distraction. The double dose of painkillers he’d swallowed two hours ago was wearing off. He was in no hurry. They would take a break. He checked his watch.

“The time is now one thirty-six and I’m suspending this interview so that Mr. Hellier can have his injuries examined by a doctor. We’ll continue the interview later.” Sean moved to press the off button. Hellier stopped him.

“Wait,” he insisted. “Just wait a second.”

What now? What the hell was Hellier up to? Was he finally ready to end the charade?

“I don’t care what your laboratory says or doesn’t say. I didn’t kill these people and I didn’t attack your precious Sergeant Jones.”

“We’re not getting anywhere,” Sean interrupted. “This interview is over.”

“We’re both being used, Inspector,” Hellier snapped back. “Last night, the night your sergeant was attacked, I received a call from a man. I received the call at about seven thirty. It was the same man who called me the night the Kotler woman was killed, at about seven P.M. He always called me on my mobile, except the first time. That was earlier in the afternoon, also on the day the Kotler woman was killed. On that occasion he telephoned my office. The secretary can confirm it.

“Whoever made those calls was ensuring I had no alibi. He always arranged to meet me in places where there was nobody about who would remember me, but he never turned up. He made sure I went to great pains to lose the police surveillance. He always insisted I lose the surveillance-and now I know why.”

“And I suppose this same mystery man planted your hair at the murder scene of Linda Kotler?” Hellier shrugged his shoulders. “I haven’t got time to listen to this crap,” Sean snapped.

“I’m afraid you have no choice,” Hellier reminded him. “It is your duty to investigate my defense statement, as I’m sure Mr. Templeman was about to point out. You have no choice but to try to discover who it was that called me on those days at those times, whether you think it’s a waste of your precious time or not. If you don’t, then there’s not a judge in the land who wouldn’t throw the case against me out of court.”

Sean knew Hellier was right. As ludicrous as the alibi was, he had to investigate it. He had to prove it false.

“Fine,” Sean said. “I’ll need the number of the caller.”

“I don’t have it.”

“You said he called you on your mobile, so the number would have been displayed on the screen.”

“Whenever he called, the number was blocked. The display said nothing.”

“Did you try dialing 1471?”

“Same result. The number was withheld.”

“Then there’s not much I can do.”

“Come, come, Inspector,” Hellier said. “You and I both know that with the right tools the caller’s number can be obtained. You already have my mobile phone. I suggest you have your lab rats examine it.”

“It’ll be done,” Sean said. “But it’ll take more than that to save you. This interview is concluded.” Sean reached for the off switch, but stopped when he heard a sudden urgency in Hellier’s voice.

“I sense your doubt,” said Hellier. “Behind your determination to prove me guilty of crimes I didn’t commit, I know that really you’re not sure, are you? Something grinding away inside you, pulling you in a direction you don’t want to go, pulling you toward the belief that maybe, just maybe, you’ve got the wrong man. And although you wouldn’t give a fuck if I rotted in prison, that thought would always be with you, wouldn’t it? The thought that someone out there got away with murder.”

Sean shook his head and gave a slight laugh. “You know, in a strange way I thought there would be more to you than this. I don’t know what exactly, but something. But it turns out you’re just another loser trying to save his worthless neck. There’s nothing special about you. You thought you couldn’t be caught, that you never made mistakes, but you did-not only the hair at Linda Kotler’s murder scene, but the fingerprint in Daniel Graydon’s flat.”

“I don’t think so,” Hellier said coldly. “Like I told you, I knew Graydon, I’d been to his flat. Anything belonging to me you found there means nothing.”

“That’s true,” Sean agreed. “But one thing’s been eating away at me about that ever since we found your fingerprint in the flat, and it’s exactly that: the fact that we found only one print, on the underside of the bathroom door handle.”