Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

“Aye,” Donnelly answered. “He doesn’t really have much choice.”

“Has he learned his lesson?”

Donnelly knew what he meant. “He was trying to do the right thing, but he won’t do it again, not without checking first.”

“Fine,” Sean said. “I’ll deal with it myself, before anyone has a chance to make more of it. I’ll make sure he knows when to and when not to give an investigation a helping hand.”

“I owe you one,” said Donnelly.

“No, you don’t” was Sean’s reply.

“And what do we do about Gibran?”

“Run it past the CPS. Tell them we think we’ve got enough to charge him with two counts. The attempted murder of Sally and the murder of PC O’Connor.” Sean leaned back in his chair. “At least we’ve got a decent chance of getting a conviction there. While he’s banged up on remand, we’ll keep digging on the other murders. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“And if we don’t?” Donnelly asked.

“Pray we get a friendly judge with the brains to read between the lines. If we do, then Gibran will spend the rest of his natural behind bars.

“Changing subjects, is PC O’Connor’s family being looked after?”

“As best we can,” Donnelly said. “Family liaison’s with them already, for what it’s worth.”

“Any kids?

“Three.”

“Christ’s sake.” Sean couldn’t help but imagine his own family sitting, holding each other, crying in disbelief as they were told he’d never walk through the front door again. He felt sad to the pit of his stomach. “Having a dead hero for a father isn’t going to be much use to them, is it?”

Donnelly shrugged an answer.

“Last but not least,” said Donnelly, “what do we do about Hellier? Or rather, Korsakov?”

“Leave him to DI Reger at Complaints. He can have Hellier and Jarratt as a package, assuming he can find him. And good luck to him there.”

“That’s the thing I don’t get about Hellier,” said Donnelly. “He had the money and the means to disappear whenever he wanted. Why didn’t he run when we first came sniffing around him? Why didn’t he just fuck off to the tropics then? Come to think of it, why was he working for Butler and bloody Mason in the first place? He didn’t need the money, he already had a small fortune stashed where the sun don’t shine. He could have put his feet up on a beach someplace where the sex is cheap and the booze is cold, and stayed there happily for all eternity. Why fuck around in London, pretending to be a financier? He may have been a fraud, but he was still working for a living. It doesn’t make sense.”

But it did to Sean. The more he knew about Hellier, the more he understood him.

“It wasn’t about the money with Hellier. For him it’s the game, always the game: proving he’s smarter than everyone else.”

“Proving it to who?” Donnelly asked.

“To himself,” Sean answered. “Always to himself. Proving to himself that everything they said about him was wrong.”

“ ‘They’?” Donnelly asked. “Who are they?”

Sean had said enough. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”

“Whatever,” Donnelly said, dismissing it. “Anyway, speaking of Hellier, Korsakov, whoever the bloody hell he really is, how do you suppose he got to the hospital so soon after we did?”

“Nothing surprises me when it comes to Hellier. Maybe we should check to see if any of our fast-response cars are missing.” Sean managed a slight grin.

“Indeed,” Donnelly replied and stood to leave, but stopped in the doorway. “What was all that about, by the way?” he asked. “In the interview, when Gibran started saying all that shit about your childhood and how you and Hellier were the same?”

“It was nothing,” Sean told him, his voice a little too loud. “It meant nothing. Just rantings. Gibran’s last chance to try and do some harm.”

“Aye,” Donnelly responded. “That’s what I thought.” As he turned to leave Sean’s office, he almost walked into Featherstone. “Guv’nor,” he acknowledged.

Featherstone nodded his appreciation and watched Donnelly leave before turning to Sean. Without speaking, he closed the door and took a seat. Sean had no idea whether he was about to be praised or pilloried.

Finally Featherstone spoke. “Ordinarily, I’d say congratulations-but I’m betting that would feel rather hollow right now.”

“It would,” Sean agreed.

“No one could have done a better job,” Featherstone reassured him. “You displayed some, shall we say, unusual insights. Had you not, Gibran would still be out there. I think you’ve saved some lives today, Sean.” He didn’t answer. “Anyway,” Featherstone continued, “the real hard work starts now, yes? So I’ll leave you to get on with it, but don’t kill yourself. This would be a good point to practice the art of delegation. Your team’s capable. You need to get that hand seen to and to get some rest. Spend a little time at home. You’ll feel better for it.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sean promised.

Featherstone rose to leave, then sank back into his uncomfortable chair. “One more thing you should know.” His words made Sean lean away from him. “Your. . shall we say, special talents have been noticed. Certain people have begun to take an interest in you.” Featherstone wasn’t smiling.

“Such as who?” Sean asked.

“People within the service, mainly. Our seniors, sitting in their ivory towers at the Yard.”

“Mainly?” Sean asked.

“Sorry?” Featherstone replied.

“You said people mainly in the service. Who outside would be taking an interest?”

“Nobody who wants to do you any harm,” Featherstone answered. “We all work together these days. Partnership approach, remember? My advice-if you want it-is to play the game when you have to and don’t be surprised if a few high-profile, interesting cases start finding their way to your door. Well, I’ll let you get on, but don’t forget what I said about getting some rest.”

Sean watched silently as Featherstone rose and left, his eyes following him until he could see him no more.

He knew what Featherstone was telling him-he was about to become a tool, a commodity not to be wasted on tick-the-box murder investigations, where husband kills wife, drug dealer kills drug dealer. They would use him. A freak to catch freaks.

Strong turbulence shook the twin-engine jet and woke Hellier from a light sleep. He could hear the concerned voices of his fellow passengers, unaccustomed to the shaking passenger planes received as they approached Queenstown Airport on New Zealand’s South Island. He peered out of the window and saw the Remarkables mountain range stretching as far as he could see to the south. From peak to base the mountains were reflected in the still, clear waters of Lake Wakatipu. He had left behind a Northern Hemisphere summer and arrived in the middle of the Southern Hemisphere winter. The mountains were covered in snow, which was what most of his fellow passengers had come for. But not Hellier. The plane’s PA system advised the passengers to prepare for landing in five minutes. Reluctantly he fastened his seat belt and stared out of the window, a slight smile on his face, oblivious to the stomach-churning buffeting as the winter winds gripped the jet. Finally they bumped to ground, the engines roaring in reverse to halt the plane on the short, perilous runway. His fellow passengers breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Thirty-six hours ago Hellier had been on the other side of the world. Soon he would be safe in his long-ago-established retreat. He had flown from London to Singapore using a British passport, but instead of catching a connecting transfer flight to his destination, he had taken his carry-on suitcase containing a change of clothing and toiletries, and passed through Customs and Immigration. Outside the airport he had hailed a cab that took him through the shining skyscraper metropolis Singapore had become, a soulless, generic, New Age Eastern business center.