Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

“What’s your point?” Hellier asked.

“ One print? That makes no sense,” Sean explained. “If you had no reason to conceal the fact you’d been there, then why didn’t we find more of your prints? We should have found dozens. You know what this says to me? It says you cleaned up the scene, wiped down everything you touched, but you missed one thing: the door handle.”

“Daniel was very house proud,” Hellier argued. “My other prints must have been wiped away when he cleaned.”

“No,” Sean snapped. “He couldn’t have, because we found multiple prints belonging to other people who had been in that flat after the date when you said you’d been in there. Daniel didn’t wipe your prints-you did. And why would you do that if you hadn’t killed him? Why, James?”

“Because that’s the way I have to live my life,” Hellier answered. “I look after myself. I’ve always had to. No one has ever done anything for me, ever.”

It was the first chink in Hellier that Sean had seen. The first crack in his persona, allowing a second’s glimpse into his soul. And in that second he could see that Hellier was made the way he was by some terrible circumstances in his past. What those circumstances were, Sean would probably never know, but now he knew that Hellier wasn’t born bad; someone had made him that way. He felt a pang of empathy for the man, but this was no time to wonder about the boy Hellier had once been. A boy whose childhood may very well have mirrored his own.

“I like to stay paranoid,” Hellier continued, bringing Sean back to the present. “It keeps me ahead of the game. I touched little in his flat, and that which I did touch I wiped clean. People like Graydon are not to be trusted. He could have caused me problems.”

“So you killed him before he had a chance to. Why not? You’d already killed Heather Freeman, but you were going to kill him anyway. You selected him as your next victim and a week later you killed him.”

“No,” Hellier shouted. “I didn’t kill any of them. You’re wrong. Completely wrong.”

“We’re getting nowhere,” Sean said, the frustration in his voice obvious. He was so tired he doubted he could properly structure a sentence let alone any intelligent questions. “We’ll take an hour’s break and try again.” He reached for the off switch, but once more Hellier stopped him.

“Does she have a guard?” Hellier hurriedly asked. “At the hospital, your DS Jones. Does she have a guard?”

“That’s not something I would ever be prepared to discuss with you,” Sean answered.

“Of course she does,” Hellier continued. “Are they armed as well, these guards? I think so. I am right, aren’t I, Inspector? Which rather begs the question: why would you have her guarded by men with guns if you truly believe I am the one who would have her dead, when I’m safely locked up here with you? I just can’t work that one out. Can you?”

“Standard procedure,” Sean answered without commitment.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Hellier argued. “I really don’t think so. You have her guarded because you know I’m not the one. Her would-be destroyer is still out there, and you know it, don’t you? Don’t you, Inspector?”

“I haven’t got time for this.” Sean tried to push the fog of doubt from his mind.

“I know who it is, Inspector. I know who killed these people and tried to kill DS Jones. The realization washed over me like a revelation. A moment of absolute clarity. It could only be him. Only he could know so much about me. Only he could watch me so closely.”

“Who?” Sean asked, voice rising. “Let’s play your little game. Tell me who.”

“You already know.” Hellier’s voice rose to match Sean’s.

“Tell me, dammit,” Sean demanded. “You need to tell me and you need to do it now, or this interview will be over and you’ll end up rotting in Broadmoor for someone else’s crimes.”

“You already know,” Hellier repeated. “If I know, you know. Use your imagination. Think as he thinks. Think as we think.”

Sean leaned forward to answer, but suddenly stopped, scene after scene suddenly playing in his mind, no longer under his control: the first time he entered Daniel Graydon’s flat, the body on the floor in a pool of blood; the autopsy; walking into Hellier’s office, the stench of his malevolence; Sebastian Gibran watching them. The photographs of Heather Freeman, her throat cut, green staring lifeless eyes; Hellier’s snarling face when he arrested him at his office; Sebastian Gibran watching. Linda Kotler’s twisted and tortured body; Hellier admitting he practiced sadomasochistic sex; Sebastian Gibran watching. Sebastian Gibran contacting Sally, meeting her, watching her. Sally attacked in her own home. The phone calls Hellier claimed to have received, the instructions he was given that denied him alibis; Sebastian Gibran watching, watching them all, playing them all-him against Hellier and Hellier against him, led by the nose like two lambs to the slaughter. But Hellier had worked it out, his hunger to survive driving him to the answer. And now the revelation washed over Sean too- Sebastian Gibran. Sebastian Gibran. Sebastian Gibran.

His eyes fell away to the ground as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place in his damaged mind. “Jesus Christ,” he finally declared as the face formed behind his eyes. “I need to get to the hospital. I need to go now.”

Sean jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over, the sound of Hellier’s growing laughter tearing at his ears.

“Run to her, Inspector,” Hellier tormented. “Run to her before he beats you to the prize.”

Sean ran from the interview room, almost knocking Donnelly over as he headed for the exit to the holding cell and the car park.

“Problem?” Donnelly asked, bewildered.

“I’ve got to get to the hospital. I’ve got to get to Sally,” Sean said, continuing to move.

“Why?” Donnelly tried to keep pace. “And what about Hellier?”

“Let him go.”

“After what he tried to do to you?”

Sean glanced down at his swollen hand; the image of Hellier’s bloodied face flashed in his mind. “I’d say we’re even. Just get rid of him and tell him I never want to see him again.” On reaching the exit, he turned to face Donnelly. “And then get to the hospital as fast as you can.” He backed out of the exit and was gone.

Only the closing door heard Donnelly’s reply: “Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Saturday afternoon

Isit on a bench in a pretty little garden in the hospital grounds. It’s where people recovering from amputations caused by cancer come to smoke. No one pays me much attention, dressed as I am in a dark blue male nurse’s uniform. A wig, mustache, and spectacles conceal my true features, and the handles of the coiled cheese-wire dig uncomfortably into my hip as they hide in my pocket. A crude weapon, but quiet and effective in the right hands.

I begin to walk to Charing Cross Hospital’s main entrance, feeling the syringe taped to my chest pulling my shaved skin as I stride forward. The sheathed knife tucked into the small of my back feels uncomfortable, but reassuringly so.

I like to plan meticulously, but there’s been no time for that. I must be pragmatic, play things by ear. It will be dangerous for me, and even more so for anyone who gets in my way, but there is no choice, not now. If the pig bitch survives, she will tell the world I was the one who visited her last night. My beautiful charade would be over. I would have to run. . But if I am able to correct my mistake, I will remain anonymous.

It was easy enough to find out where she had been taken. Everybody in this area either gets taken to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital or, as she had, to Charing Cross. A few phone calls were all it took to find out which, and that she was in the ICU. They were also kind enough to tell me it was expected that she would recover from her injuries. People really ought to be more careful with information they give out. You never know who you’re talking to.