God, she wished she had a lover. Someone special to share her life with, good or bad. Her achievements and her failures. Her hopes and her fears. This wasn’t an easy job to do alone.
Her thoughts turned to Sebastian Gibran. Was that what he wanted? To be her lover? When they’d first met his eyes had definitely rested on her for longer than normal. She was pretty sure he would be married, but maybe that didn’t matter to him. How did she feel about being a mistress to a wealthy benefactor? Was the whole ‘something sensitive to discuss’ a ruse to get her to meet him for lunch? Wine and dine her? Seduce her? She couldn’t deny she had found him attractive: power and presence in a man were strong aphrodisiacs. She would find out soon enough.
The cigarette grew hot between her fingers, snapping her back to the present. She tossed it away and headed back inside the scene, all thoughts of pleasanter things a distant memory.
Dr Canning moved the halogen lamp to the victim’s head. He held a fine-toothed comb in his other hand, the better to groom the victim’s hair before the body was moved. A tiny, vital piece of evidence could easily be lost when moving a body. With the help of DC Zukov, he’d lifted the head very slightly and slipped a three foot by three foot white paper sheet under her head. He began to comb the hair slowly from the scalp outwards.
As he combed, a little of her hair fell on to the sheet. Then he saw it, floating the short distance to the sheet. It landed gently. He dared not breathe. He swapped the comb and lamp for a plastic evidence bag and a pair of delicate metal tweezers. He moved the tweezers stealthily closer to the hair. When he was no more than an inch or two away he suddenly moved quickly, grabbing the hair in the small metal claw. He allowed himself to exhale.
Sean had been watching intently. As Canning held the hair above his head, Sean could see it glistening. ‘The victim’s?’ Sean asked.
‘Definitely not,’ Canning replied. ‘Too long and too fair. And there’s a root on it. Your lab shouldn’t have too much trouble getting DNA off it.’
Sean hid the excitement swelling in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. The root of that hair could solve this murder on its own.
‘What are the chances it belongs to our killer?’ he asked.
‘Unless there was another person here with the victim last night, I’d say it’s almost certainly the killer’s,’ Canning answered. ‘This hair wasn’t buried deep in amongst the victim’s. It was virtually sitting on top of hers, waiting to be found.’
Sean was still concerned. He wanted it to be absolute. In court it would have to be absolute. ‘How could that be?’ he asked. ‘A hair, with a root, just lying there?’
‘Most likely caused by the killer removing a head cover of some description,’ Canning surmised. ‘When you remove a hat or similar there is always a good chance you’ll pull a hair out, and often the root will come with it.’
‘So you think he took his off?’ Sean asked.
‘Yes. Hairs like this, with roots attached, don’t fall out naturally.’
‘Why the hell would he take his head cover off?’ Sean wondered.
‘That I can’t answer,’ Canning said. ‘But if he did take a head cover off, then we’ve a good chance of finding more hair on the body or around it. That would further diminish the possibility of an accidental transfer of hair from body to body at some other point during the day at another location.’ Sean understood the importance of eliminating that possibility. Defence solicitors had become skilled in arguing their way around forensic evidence.
The pathologist handed the evidence bag containing the hair to DC Zukov. He handled it as if it was an unstable bomb. Canning picked up his lamp again and began to examine the area around the body. He bent so low his face was almost on the carpet. Sean hadn’t blinked for minutes. He watched as Canning’s eyes suddenly narrowed. He saw him stretch out with his tweezers and snare the thin fibre. Canning looked directly at him.
‘It would seem the forensic gods are with us today, Inspector.’
‘The same?’ he asked.
‘I would say so,’ Canning answered. ‘This has a root too. DNA will no doubt confirm they come from the same person. If your killer’s on the National DNA Database, then it’ll be case closed for you.’
‘The man who did this isn’t on the database,’ Sean told him. ‘But that doesn’t matter, because I know where to find his DNA.’
Canning looked a little confused. ‘And where would that be?’
Sean answered: ‘In his blood.’
Hellier hadn’t been asked to see any clients in over two days. He no longer cared. Only a few weeks before he would have taken steps to ensure the firm weren’t trying to cut him out. Now it was irrelevant. The firm had served its purpose. He didn’t need them any more.
It was almost 6 p.m. Only he, Sebastian Gibran and the perfect secretary remained in the office. It was a shame he couldn’t be alone with the secretary. He would have liked to give the beautiful bitch a going-away present she wouldn’t forget, but he couldn’t risk it with Gibran lurking inside his office. Maybe sometime in the distant future their paths would cross again.
His mobile phone began to ring, the display telling him the number had been withheld. Something told him he should answer.
‘James Hellier speaking.’
‘Mr Hellier. You are in great danger.’ It was him again.
‘Like I said earlier – you were supposed to meet me last night.’ Hellier sounded strong. He knew how to dominate. ‘I don’t like being fucked around.’
‘I just want to help you,’ the voice said. ‘You must believe me.’
‘Why?’ Hellier demanded. ‘Why do you want to help me? You don’t know me.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ the voice asked.
Hellier didn’t answer. He was thinking. The caller sensed his doubt.
‘Corrigan. I can give you something, show you something that’ll keep him away from you. Keep them all away from you.’
‘I’m not worried about the police.’ Hellier sounded insulted. ‘They can’t touch me.’
‘Yes, they can,’ the voice replied. ‘Corrigan. He’s not intending to take you to court. He won’t risk that.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Hellier began to sound more concerned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Meet me tomorrow night if you value your neck as much as I think you do.’
‘Where?’ Hellier asked.
‘Somewhere in central London. I’ll call you again tomorrow. At about seven. And don’t bring the police. They’re still following you.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Hellier was too late. The line was dead.
The three unmarked cars drove down the middle of Bayswater Road. Traffic on both sides yielded to their sirens and madly spinning blue lights. They were heading towards Knightsbridge. Towards Hellier.
Sean had the forensic evidence he’d been praying for. The killer had made a serious mistake, but it was too early to say anything other than that the hairs appeared to be the same colour as Hellier’s. Sandy.
Sally drove while Sean sat in the passenger seat. She broke the silent tension. ‘Maybe we should process the hair first, guv’nor. Get its DNA profile and compare it to the DNA database?’ She had to shout to be heard above the screaming sirens.
‘Hellier’s not on the DNA database, remember. He’s got no previous,’ Sean argued.