Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

Finally he arrived in Old Chinatown, with its mix of Chinese, Malay, and Indian architecture. Bustling brown-skinned people filled the streets, trading, talking, eating, living. These streets suited him far better than the glass valleys that filled the rest of the island. He’d made his way to a nondescript ornament and souvenir shop in Temple Street. The owner recognized him immediately and fetched a safety-deposit box that he handed to Hellier. He’d placed his British passport in the box and taken out an Australian one in the name of Scott Thurston. Then he made his way back to the airport. Two hours later he was flying Air New Zealand business class to Auckland.

After an eleven-hour flight he touched down at Auckland Airport feeling refreshed and alive, having slept most of the way. Once again, rather than take a direct transfer flight, he’d cleared Immigration and exited the airport. A cab driven by an overtalkative Samoan took him to Mount Eden, an area popular with young, successful Aucklanders. The owner of the antiques shop almost froze with fear when he saw Hellier enter. He needn’t have been afraid; within minutes, Hellier was heading back to the airport to catch his flight to Queenstown. This time he traveled under a New Zealand passport bearing his photograph and the name Phillip Johnston.

Now he walked through the domestic arrivals exit at Queenstown Airport without attracting a second glance from the security services casually floating around the terminal. People came here for a good time; summer or winter, it didn’t matter. Nobody expected trouble. Nobody suspected who or what he was.

A short cab ride took him to the offices of a property letting and management agency in the center of town. Hellier entered Otago Properties Ltd. and scanned the premises for familiar faces. The middle-aged man recognized him at the same time that Hellier spotted him. Both men smiled, the manager getting to his feet and striding across the office, hand outstretched in friendship. Hellier accepted it.

“Bloody hell, Phillip Johnston, where the hell have you been?” the manager said in his nasal South Island accent. “I thought you must be dead!”

“Not yet,” Hellier answered. “Not yet.”

Twenty minutes later, he used the key he’d collected from Otago Properties to open the heavy wooden door of the house built into the side of a mountain. He stepped inside and spent several minutes surveying his surroundings, mentally noting every item he saw. After a while he was satisfied that everything was as it should be. He dropped his suitcase and closed the front door, walking straight through the house to the living room, with its panoramic view from the huge sliding glass doors. A long wooden coffee table, surrounded by antique leather armchairs, was positioned in front of the windows. A brand-new laptop computer sat in the middle of the table, just as Hellier had arranged, its standby light blinking green, drawing him toward it.

He stood over the computer and opened its lid, the screen immediately filling with the site he’d programmed it to display from the other side of the world: bank account details for Butler and Mason International Finance. The message on the screen questioned him: Are you sure you want to continue with fund transfers? He paused for a while, not wanting to rush this sweet moment. After a minute or so he finally pressed the enter button and watched, only his eyes showing any emotion as they excitedly darted around the screen following the rows and columns of numbers as they gradually fell away to zero. Tens of millions of pounds had flowed out of Butler and Mason’s primary bank account into accounts all around the world set up by Hellier. Not a penny of it entered his own accounts; he already had more money than he could spend. It flowed into the accounts of people he might need in the future: people of influence, people who could get him things that would otherwise be difficult to obtain. And millions more poured into the bank accounts of charities he cared nothing about, under the guise of anonymous benefactors. And it was all absolutely untraceable. When the transactions were complete, he turned the computer off and unplugged it. He would throw it in the lake after nightfall. His face showed no flicker of emotion, no happiness. Only a satisfied sigh betrayed his pleasure.

He walked to the giant windows and undid the latches. Throwing the doors open, he stepped out onto a balcony the size of a tennis court. The lake and the mountains stretched out before him as far as he could see. Seemingly miles below, the TSS Earnslaw, a hundred-year-old steamship, left a shallow wake that spread from shore to shore. He walked to the edge of the balcony and held the rail. Closing his eyes, he allowed the freezing mountain air to hammer against his body, sweeping away the stale air of long-haul travel.

Standing there on the balcony of his long-standing hideaway, his life in London as James Hellier fast-forwarded through his mind, from its very beginning to its very end. The time had come to kill James Hellier, to bury him where he would never be found, just as he had done to Stefan Korsakov. James Hellier was gone forever, and all that went with him. All, that was, but for two names: Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan and Sebastian Gibran. Those two he would never forget.

Hellier opened his eyes, stretched his arms into a crucifix position, and began to laugh.

Two weeks later

Sean sat alone in his office. He waded through a mountain of requests from the Crown Prosecution Service, most totally unreasonable, nothing more than an evidential wish list. It was clear they weren’t entirely happy with the evidence against Sebastian Gibran. Neither was he.

He thought of Sally. He missed having her around the place. Everyone did. He wondered if he would ever see her barreling around the office again, filling it with life. She remained in Intensive Care, but she had phases of consciousness and was expected to live. During one of those phases she had confirmed that Gibran was her attacker.

A knock at his open door made Sean look up. A uniformed constable he didn’t recognize stood waiting to be acknowledged.

“Yes?”

The constable entered and held a large brown envelope out for Sean to take.

“This arrived in the front office,” he said. “It’s addressed to you.”

Sean half stood and leaned over his desk. More CPS requests, no doubt. Thanking the constable, he took the envelope.

The exotic stamps told Sean this envelope didn’t contain memos from the CPS, or anything of that nature. It had been sent from Singapore. Placing the envelope carefully on his desk, he patted it gingerly, feeling for small hard objects: the telltale signs of a letter bomb. It was something he had never done before Korsakov and Gibran came into his life.

There were no suspicious lumps. All the same, Sean opened it carefully, cutting a fine edge away from the side of the envelope with a pair of scissors. He avoided the folded areas where he was meant to tear it open. Just in case.

He remembered himself almost too late. Dropping the envelope, he pulled open his bottom drawer and reached for the box of latex gloves kept there. He pulled a pair on, his hands feeling instantly hot and sweaty. Then he picked the envelope up and spilled the contents onto his desk.

The first items to emerge were photographs. Excellent quality. Color. They appeared to have been taken by a professional. He recognized both of the two men in the shots: Paul Jarratt and Stefan Korsakov. The pictures formed a sequence covering about thirty seconds. Korsakov handing Jarratt a plain brown envelope. Jarratt opening it. Half-pulling fifty-pound notes from inside. Pushing them back in. A handshake. Jarratt walking away. DI Reger would be very interested in the pictures.