‘DI Corrigan speaking. You can give the results to me.’
‘I don’t have the results yet,’ the anonymous voice replied. ‘The marks from the scene are still being worked up. Identification Officer Collins is working that case. He’ll run comparisons to your scene as soon as he can, starting with the various elimination prints you’ve sent us. If you’re lucky, they’ll be ready by Monday or Tuesday.’
‘This is a murder investigation,’ Sean reminded him. ‘I need them yesterday.’
‘Sorry,’ said the voice. ‘Monday or Tuesday is the absolute earliest they’ll be ready. Listen, we’re snowed under here. Anti-Terrorist Unit just landed a rush job on us. We’ve been told to make it a priority, no exceptions. Sorry.’
Sean understood. It was an unavoidable sign of the times. ‘Okay. Thanks. You can get him to call me direct with the results. One more thing,’ Sean quickly added before the line went dead. ‘Can you check for a set of conviction fingerprints for someone for me?’
‘Sure,’ came the answer. ‘What’s the name?’
Sean was unaware that Donnelly had moved within earshot. ‘James Hellier. Do you need a date of birth?’
‘No. The name’s probably unusual enough. Give me a minute.’ Sean waited, the two or three minutes that passed feeling so much longer, before finally the voice spoke. ‘No. No prints for that name here.’
Sean felt the emptiness of disappointment. ‘No problem,’ he managed to say, and hung up.
Donnelly cut through his state of melancholy. ‘Interesting line of inquiry.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Asking Fingerprints if Hellier had a set of conviction prints on file, given that we already know he doesn’t have any convictions. Remember, I checked.’
‘I thought I’d double check,’ Sean said. ‘I thought maybe his conviction never got sent from the court, or someone forgot to put it on the PNC. Worth a try.’
‘I see, belt and braces, eh. Any luck?’
‘No,’ Sean answered. ‘Hellier’s clean.’
Hellier sat in his study watching for movements in the American money markets on his computer. His wife popped her head around the door without warning, but she wouldn’t enter fully before asking. Elizabeth knew when to leave him alone; it was part of her role as the perfect wife and she was paid well. She liked her life.
‘Are you okay in here, darling?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine, sweetheart. Just catching up on a bit of work. I won’t be long. Promise.’ He threw her a charming smile.
‘You work too hard. It’s almost ten o’clock.’
‘Go to bed. I’m fine.’
‘Don’t stay up too late, darling.’
‘I won’t.’
His wife blew him a kiss and left. Time to make a phone call.
Hellier slid his hand under the desk and peeled a piece of tape from the underside. He examined the two keys stuck to the tape, then pulled one free and carried it across the office to the built-in walnut cabinets. He listened for sounds outside the office before opening the cabinet door and kneeling on the floor. He pulled the carpet back to reveal a floor safe sealed into the concrete foundation of the house. He unlocked the safe with one of the keys and took out a small address book. He locked the safe, closed the cabinet and went back to his desk. He found the number he was looking for and dialled. After a few ringing tones the phone was answered by a sleepy voice. ‘Hello? Hello? Christ.’
Hellier spoke. ‘It’s me.’
Hellier was met by silence. Then the voice spoke with urgency. ‘Please tell me you’re calling from a public phone.’
Hellier could hear the fear. ‘Don’t worry about that. We’ve more important things to discuss.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like are you sure you took care of things? You wouldn’t have been lying to me, would you?’
‘Jesus Christ. Why are you asking me this? I took care of it. I told you. Why the panic? Have you fucked up?’ The voice sounded calmer.
‘No, but your flat-footed friends are making trouble for me. It’s important I know you did what you were paid to do.’
The voice was silent. Hellier gave the person time to think. After a few seconds the voice returned, almost whispering now, nervous. ‘Christ! They haven’t connected you to Korsakov, have they?’ The mention of that name made Hellier lean back into his comfortable chair and smile, as if he was recalling a happy childhood memory. Stefan Korsakov. A name he hadn’t heard in ages. ‘Have the police connected you to Korsakov?’ the voice demanded impatiently.
‘No,’ Hellier answered, still calm and smiling, ‘and they never will. Korsakov’s never coming back. I made sure of that a long time ago. Don’t you remember? You should do. After all, you helped me bury him.’
The voice snapped back. ‘If you’ve fucked up, you’re on your own. I won’t help you again.’
Hellier needed to remind him. ‘If they take me down, I’ll make sure you come with me. Keep that in mind.’ He hung up before the voice could answer.
The voice had sounded genuine enough. Time would tell if he was speaking the truth. For both their sakes, Hellier hoped he was.
10
Sunday morning
Shortly before 8 a.m. Sean arrived at work and Sally pounced on him immediately. ‘Guv’nor.’
‘What is it, Sally?’
She spoke in a whisper. ‘Superintendent Featherstone’s been floating around asking for you.’
Sean rolled his eyes. ‘Thanks for the warning.’ No sooner had he entered his office than he heard a knock on the side of the open door. He walked to his chair and sat down before looking around. ‘Morning, boss. Aren’t you supposed to be at church?’ He pointed at a chair.
Featherstone accepted the invitation, sinking into the visitor’s chair with a slight groan. He was a tall man, over six foot two, heavily built, with red hair. ‘I haven’t been to church since my second wife left me.’ He spoke with no more than a trace of London in his accent. ‘How’s the Graydon investigation going? Any progress for me?’
Featherstone had hardly any detective experience, rising instead through the ranks as an accelerated promotion candidate, but he had hit a ceiling at superintendent after failing or refusing to become one of the new generic breed of senior officers in the Met. He was a little too rough around the edges; a little too outspoken and far too prepared to get his hands dirty. Realizing he could go no higher, he transferred into the CID.
Sean could do business with the man. He knew Featherstone was shrewd enough not to interfere too much with the way he conducted his investigations and that he would watch Sean’s back more than most.
‘We’re still waiting on forensics and fingerprints.’
‘How about other lines of inquiry? Any witnesses?’
‘We’ve spoken with a number of witnesses from the club. Some have supplied statements and elimination samples. Nothing of interest so far. The killer went to a lot of trouble to avoid leaving forensic evidence at the scene. It looks premeditated. Our best chance for now seems to be James Hellier, the potential blackmail target.’
‘Any solid proof yet that the victim was blackmailing him?’
‘No. Hellier’s clever. He’s covered