‘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 the rest of his natural. 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 dismissed 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 practise 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.
Epilogue
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 centre.
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 safe 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 International 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 over-talkative 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 travelled 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