‘It’s important for you to understand, James,’ Gibran urged, ‘that we fully support you in what must be a very difficult time for you and your family, and I speak for the entire firm when I say none of us believe these ridiculous allegations.’
Hellier was almost caught daydreaming. He realized just in time he was expected to answer. ‘Yes, of course, and thank you for your support. It really means a lot to my family and me.’ He sounded suitably genuine.
‘James,’ Gibran insisted, ‘you have been one of our most valuable employees since you joined us. You needn’t thank us for supporting you now.’
Sanctimonious bastard. One of their most valuable employees – I’ve made these fuckers millions. And they never cared how the money was earned either, so long as it kept rolling in. Support me during these difficult times. What fucking choice do you fools have? You need me a hell of a lot more than I need you.
‘Well, all the same, I’m very much indebted to you. To you all,’ Hellier lied. ‘I feel very much part of the family here and would hate for that to change.’
‘So would I,’ said Gibran, although his tone and expression were less than reassuring. ‘But incidents such as your late arrival at what is possibly the most important annual event in our diary will not go unnoticed. I’m sure you understand.’
‘I understand,’ Hellier lied. ‘And I apologize for being late, unreservedly. Once this whole mess with the police is cleared up, I’ll be able once again to give a hundred per cent to this firm.’
‘Good,’ said Gibran. ‘Because not only are you important to the company, you’re important to me personally, James, as a valued friend.’
Sally had been at the Public Records Office all morning. She was bored and frustrated. The clerk helping her search for records relating to Stefan Korsakov seemed bored too. He was no more than twenty-five and still had traces of acne. He wasn’t impressed with Sally’s credentials. Sally didn’t know his name. He hadn’t told her.
These days the bulk of the records were on computer, with only the clerk having access to the system. That was fine with Sally, so long as she didn’t have to wait much longer amongst the millions of old paper records stacked from floor to ceiling in the dark, cavernous building.
She heard footsteps approaching along the corridors of shelving and she was relieved to see the clerk return holding a piece of paper, but he wasn’t smiling.
‘I’ve found the person you’re interested in. Stefan Korsakov, born in Twickenham, Middlesex, on the twelfth of November 1971.’ He put the paper on a desk and smoothed it out for Sally to see. ‘Stefan Korsakov’s birth certificate,’ he announced. ‘This is the person you’re interested in?’
‘Yes,’ Sally answered. ‘I was beginning to think I’d imagined him.’
‘Excuse me?’ the clerk asked.
‘Never mind. Don’t worry about me.’
‘Really.’ The clerk sounded bored again.
‘Is he still alive?’ She looked up at the clerk. ‘If he’s dead, I need to see his death certificate.’
‘Do you know where he might have died?’
‘Not a clue,’ Sally answered honestly. ‘Does that help?’
‘I take it you want me to do a national search?’
‘Sorry. Yes.’ Sally sensed the clerk’s annoyance rising.
‘That’ll take days. Maybe weeks. I’ll have to send out a circular to the other offices around the country. All I can do is wait for them to get back to me.’
‘Fine.’ Sally pulled a business card from her handbag and gave it to him. ‘Here’s my card. My mobile number is on there. Call me as soon as you know. Any time. Day or night.’
‘Will there be anything else?’
‘No.’ The word was barely out before Sally changed her mind. ‘Actually, you know what, while I’m here there is one more thing I’d like you to check for.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’d like you to find birth and death certificates, if they exist, for this man.’ She wrote a name and date of birth on some paper and handed it to the clerk.
He read the name. ‘James Hellier. It’ll be done,’ he said. ‘But—’
Sally finished for him. ‘It’ll take time. Yes, I know.’
Hellier made his excuses and left the office shortly after his meeting with Gibran. No one had questioned why or where he was going. He knew no one would.
The police still had his address book. They hadn’t let him take a photocopy of it either. His solicitor was working on recovering it, or at least getting a copy. No matter. If DI Corrigan wanted to be a tough fucker, then that was fine. He had contingency plans.
He had no sense of being watched this morning. Strange. Maybe his instincts were jaded. He was tired. Yesterday had been a long day, even for him. Maybe Corrigan had accepted what he said in interview as the truth, but he doubted it. So where were they, dug in deep or simply not there?
He walked along Knightsbridge, past Harvey Nichols towards Harrods, turning left into Sloane Street, walking fast towards the south. Suddenly he ran across the road dodging cars driven by irate drivers. A black-cab driver blasted his horn and shouted an obscenity in a thick East End accent.
He ran at a fast jog along Pont Street, like a businessman late for a meeting, hardly noticed by the people he ran past. He turned right into Hans Place and jogged around the square.
On the corner with Lennox Gardens was a small delicatessen. Hellier went in and asked for a quarter kilo of Tuscan salami; while being served, he examined the other two customers in the shop. He could tell instantly they weren’t police. As the shopkeeper wrapped the meat, he suddenly ran from the shop at full speed. The shopkeeper shouted after him, but Hellier didn’t stop. After about a hundred and fifty metres he slowed and walked into the middle of the street, standing on the white lines, the traffic sweeping either side of him. He studied the entire area around him, each pedestrian, every car and motorbike, but nobody caught his eye uncomfortably. Nobody checked themselves as they walked. No car swerved away into a side street.
He wasn’t being followed, he was convinced of it. And even if they had been following him, he’d lost them. They’d underestimated him, assumed he wasn’t aware of surveillance and counter-surveillance, and now they’d paid the price. But he knew next time they would be more aware. More difficult to shake off.
Sean studied Dr Canning’s post-mortem report. Some detectives found it easier to look at photographs rather than spend time at the scene. He realized the value of having everything logged photographically, but preferred to be confronted with the real thing than these cold, cruel pictures. At the scenes he felt something for the victims: sorrow and regret – sadness. But when he studied the photographs they felt almost more real than the scenes themselves – the stark coldness of what they depicted and the harshness of the colours somehow even more unnerving than the actual scenes.
The report was excellent, as usual. Dr Canning had missed nothing. Every injury, old and new, had been observed, examined and described. Sean was totally engrossed. Finally he noticed DC Zukov loitering at his door.
‘What is it, Paulo?’ he asked.
‘This little lot just arrived in dispatch for you, guv.’ He held up several dozen paper files.
‘Stick them down here.’ DC Zukov dropped them on to Sean’s desk and retreated. They were the files from General Registry he’d asked for. Each held details of a violent death. These weren’t like the files Sally had studied at Method Index that concentrated on unique and uncommon crimes. These were case files of daily horrors. Young men stabbed to death outside pubs. Children tortured