Sean looked disappointed, although he hadn’t really expected anything else. ‘With his taste in after-work pleasures you’d think he’d be a little bit shy about plastering his face all over the Internet,’ Sean suggested.
‘No photographs,’ Donnelly told him. ‘Lots of info, but no photographs.’
‘He’s a careful one,’ Sean said. ‘Just like whoever killed Graydon. Very careful.’
‘Plenty of people working in the financial sector have taken their mugshots off the Internet since the banking crisis.’
‘Yeah, but Hellier’s a financier, not a banker.’
‘Guv’nor,’ Donnelly reminded him, ‘we live in a country where seventy per cent of the population don’t know the difference between a paedophile and a paediatrician.’
Sean sighed. ‘A good point well made.’ He rubbed his eyes hard enough to make them water, before rummaging in his desk drawers for painkillers. ‘What about the others who were with him on the night he was killed?’ he asked without looking at Donnelly.
‘Most have come forward now or been traced,’ Donnelly answered, ‘but nothing interesting. One or two are known to police, but all for minor stuff. We’ve gathered a small mountain of forensics and fingerprints for comparisons, so you never know.’
‘Maybe, but I’m not feeling particularly lucky right now,’ Sean sighed. ‘What about our two missing persons?’ he asked. ‘What were their names again?’
‘Steven Paramore and the barman, Jonnie Dempsey. We’ve checked at the home addresses of both. Paramore’s mum says he hasn’t been home for a few days now and Jonnie’s flat mates are saying the same about him.’
‘Untraceable suspects,’ Sean complained. ‘That’s all I need.’
‘Maybe this’ll cheer you up.’ Donnelly grinned as he dumped the heavy pile of papers he’d been holding on Sean’s desk.
Sean spread his arms in protest. ‘What’s this?’
‘Witness statements so far, completed actions and other assorted shit that you ought to read. Superintendent Featherstone wants a full briefing in the morning.’
Sean sank deep into his chair, all thoughts of home comforts slipping further and further away. It was going to be another long evening alone, with only the image of Daniel Graydon’s defiled body for company.
Hours later Sean eventually arrived home exhausted but wide awake, the worst possible combination. He was in need of a strong drink, something that would instantly slow his mind and body without filling his bladder. If sleep came he didn’t want it chased away by having to get up to urinate.
Kate had waited up for him. He wished she hadn’t. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted a drink, a sandwich and to watch some trash on TV. He passed the living room where his wife sat, speaking into the room as he headed for the kitchen. ‘It’s only me.’
After a few seconds Kate followed him into the kitchen. ‘You’re back late,’ she said, her tone neutral.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sean replied, conscious he seemed to be saying that more and more. ‘You know what it’s like when I get a new case − first few days are always a nightmare.’
‘A nightmare for who?’ Kate asked, her words more provocative than she had intended.
‘I don’t know,’ Sean answered. ‘For me? For you? For the guy who’s just had his skull smashed in, dead before his life’s even started? For his parents who have to come to terms with the fact their only child is gone and never coming back?’
An oppressive silence gripped the room. Kate took a breath. ‘Are you okay?’
Sean accepted the truce. ‘Yeah. Of course. I’m tired and grumpy, that’s all. Sorry. Are the kids asleep?’
‘It’s gone eleven. What sort of mother would I be if they weren’t?’ She moved towards him. He had his back to her while he looked around for a glass. She put her arms around his waist. He was in good shape for a man in his late thirties. He had the physique of a middleweight boxer, a legacy from his teenage years. The sport had been one of the things that had kept him out of trouble while too many of his childhood friends turned to a life of crime. ‘I’m glad you’re home,’ she said. He leaned back into her.
‘I’m glad too. Sorry. I should have called. Must have lost track of time. How’s Mandy? Will she forgive me?’
‘Well, she’s only three. You’ve plenty of time to make it up. But never mind little Miss Mandy. What about me? How are you going to make it up to me?’
Sean was smiling slightly. ‘I’ll buy you a bunch of flowers.’
‘Not good enough, Detective Inspector. I was thinking of something a bit more immediate and a lot more fun.’
Kate led him to the stairs and made for their bedroom. As Sean’s foot reached the top step he heard a voice coming from Mandy’s room.
‘Daddy.’
He looked apologetically at his wife. ‘I’d better stick my head in,’ he whispered.
Kate slipped her shirt off, her brown skin shining in the semi-dark. ‘Don’t be long,’ she said. ‘I might fall asleep.’
Sean quietly entered Mandy’s room, the night light illuminating a small pyjama-clad figure. She grinned uncontrollably when she saw him. ‘Daddy.’
‘Hey, hey, sweetie. You’re supposed to be asleep,’ Sean reminded her.
‘I was waiting for you to come home, Daddy.’
‘No, you mustn’t do that, because sometimes Daddy doesn’t get home until very late.’
‘Why don’t you get home till late, Daddy?’
‘Now is not the time to talk about it, honey. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’
‘Mummy says you’re catching bad men.’
‘Does she?’ Sean said, not meaning it to be a question.
‘What have the bad men done, Daddy?’
‘Nothing that you should be worried about,’ he lied. ‘Go to sleep now. Daddy is here. Daddy is always here.’
Sean found himself stroking her hair. He watched her eyes flicker shut, but even when he knew she was asleep he couldn’t leave her. Kate would understand. He needed this – needed something to balance the horror of what he dealt with day in, day out. Needed something to suppress the darkness that always lurked just beneath the surface.
7
There were three others before the little queer. I’ve already told you about the solicitor-type I stabbed in the heart. That means there are two I’ve not mentioned.
The first was a young girl. Seventeen or eighteen. I’d parked forty metres from the entrance to an abortion clinic. I didn’t have to wait long. These places do a good trade.
This clinic was in Battersea. Quite far from where I live. It was a low-rise, modern, sandstone building. Very discreet. It was not far from Battersea Rise. Close to Clapham Common. Nice in the summer. Lots of traffic though, and too many mahogany-skinned migrants fleeing poverty, war and starvation.
I knew exactly what I was waiting for and then, there she was. It was a few weeks ago and wasn’t as warm as it is now. She hurried along the pavement. Collar turned