Sally parked close to the entrance of the building where she lived in Fulham, West London. She let herself in and moved quickly through the communal areas. Dim hallway lights helped her. She tried to keep the noise down. She was a good neighbour. She entered her flat and locked the door.
Following her usual routine, she turned on the lamp in the far corner first. She preferred its gentle light to the overheads. Next she flicked the TV on, for company, then moved into the kitchen, opened the fridge and scanned the contents before closing it again. Maybe she’d have more luck in the freezer. She did. A freezing bottle of raspberry vodka rested on its side. Grabbing it by the neck, she looked around for a clean glass. There was one by the sink. She poured a good measure of the thick vodka and threw the bottle back into the freezer.
Sally sat at her kitchen table and rocked back on her chair, kicking her shoes off, the drink in front of her. She pulled the cigarettes from her handbag and lit one. It must have been the thirtieth of the day. She thought about stubbing it out, but hey, cigarettes cost a fortune these days. Covering a mortgage on a flat in this part of London didn’t leave much in the kitty for luxuries.
Staring at the walls suddenly brought on pangs of loneliness. Being thirty-something and single hadn’t been part of her life-plan. The partner thing had just never happened. There had been lovers, two of whom had been close to measuring up to her standards, only to fall away as the stakes were increased.
The fact of the matter was most men were simply intimidated by her. Being a female police officer was bad enough, but a detective sergeant – that scared the crap out of them. The only ones who weren’t scared off were policemen, but the idea of never being able to escape The Job was unbearable. No, they had to be completely unconnected with the police or it would be better to stay single. Besides, these last couple of years hadn’t left a lot of time for relationships.
Naturally, her parents were disappointed. They saw their chances of becoming grandparents slipping away. Didn’t they understand modern women were choosing to have a career first and then children later in life? There was still hope on that front. After all, she didn’t need a permanent partner to have children. Catching herself fantasizing about potential sperm donors, she shook the faces from her thoughts.
‘Fuck it,’ she declared out loud. ‘I’m getting a cat.’
Hellier could see two of them at the front of the building. One had a camera, the other didn’t. One photographer and one journalist, but there would be more. The victim was of no interest to the media, no story there. Rent boy dies, who gives a fuck? He was the story. Wealthy, respected businessman investigated for murder. A sordid murder at that. This story would grow and grow. It was only a matter of time before the national media started to run with it. Once his face hit the papers and TV sets, life would be intolerable. He needed his anonymity. Daniel Graydon had been a mistake, but it was a mistake he would survive.
There would be more journalists covering the rear exit to the building, through the basement car park. There was only one way out. He’d found it within days of starting work at Butler and Mason. He always liked to know alternative ways of leaving a building. Just in case.
He took his house keys and wallet from his briefcase, then slid it under his desk. It would be too cumbersome for what he had in mind. Making his way to the emergency stairwell, he climbed to the top floor. He looked up at the hatch that led to the roof. It was secured with a bolt.
The next bit was the most difficult. He had to climb on the stair rail and keep his balance until he could stretch his hands to the ceiling and hold himself in place. He managed that much. His feet twisted a little on the thin metal banister as he fought to keep his balance. He reached out to the bolt with his right arm. His left hand was still pressed to the ceiling.
The bolt came out after a series of solid jerks. Each jerk almost threw Hellier’s balance. If he lost it now, he would either fall three feet forward to safety, or tumble backwards down the stairwell, six flights.
He pushed on the roof exit cover. It gave way easily. He used his fingers to caterpillar the wooden cover away from the exit. Every sinew of his body was already stretched to breaking point.
The cover removed, he sprang off the banister and hooked both hands over the outside edge of the square hole in the roof. His body dangled below as he pulled himself up and through the roof exit. Hellier was in excellent physical condition. He’d worked hard to build his strength and develop the physique of an acrobat.
He replaced the cover, making a mental note to push back the bolt in the morning before anyone noticed. He took a few seconds to straighten his clothes and admire the view from the rooftop. He felt alone, but strong. Safe. He sucked in the warm night air, heavy and moist. Time to go. He moved fast and silently across the roofs.
15
Last night I had an almost overwhelming desire to be the real me. To release the animal that hides inside and allow it full and free expression. But I resisted the temptation. Too many things to arrange first. If I’m to take advantage of the police’s lapses, then I must be patient. Must take time to prepare. Their heads will be spinning soon enough.
I’m at work again; boring, but necessary. I read the papers and watch the news endlessly. I have to be sure they haven’t linked any of my so-called crimes.
I’ve been considering looking outside of London for my next subject. Can’t say the idea appeals much, though. London lends itself so well to my imagination. It truly is a magnificent backdrop, so I think I’ll stay for now. But it’s almost inevitable I’ll have to leave before too much longer. Sooner or later some bright spark will make a connection. They’ll never connect them all. Impossible. But they’ll connect two, maybe more, and then they’ll start to take things seriously and that won’t be good for me.
16
Wednesday morning
By 7.30 a.m. Sean was back at work. A few hours’ sleep, a shower and clean clothes had partially revived him. He would be briefing half the team soon. The other half were still across London, watching Hellier’s office. Apparently Hellier hadn’t gone home all night. He’d stayed in his office. He was definitely up to something.
Sean’s office phone rang. ‘DI Corrigan speaking.’ He tried to disguise his tiredness.
‘Morning, sir,’ a voice on the other end replied. ‘I’m DC Kelsey, calling from SO11.’ The name meant nothing to Sean. ‘You sent some numbers to us. Telephone numbers in an address book taken from a James Hellier. You wanted subscribers’ checks on them?’
Sean remembered. ‘Yes, of course. How can I help?’
‘Just a courtesy call, really. To let you know we did the checks and none of them came back as a trace. Basically, they’re not telephone numbers as such.’
‘“As such”?’ Sean asked.
‘Yeah. I think they could be telephone numbers ultimately, but they’re probably coded.’
Sean stood up. He’d expected as much. So that was why Hellier denied having Daniel Graydon’s number in the book. If he’d admitted to that, he would have had to declare his code and then they could have deciphered every number in the book. They could have traced all his secret contacts. It would have told them a great many things. Hellier was careful. The killer was careful.
‘Could you decipher the code?’ Sean asked.
‘We