accounts or high finance, what he’d learnt on the streets, what he’d learnt in order to survive, had left him more than qualified to work anywhere he liked.
Hellier moved away from the window and sat back in his desk chair, his hands pyramided in front of his face. He liked his life, he liked all the privileges being James Hellier brought and the cover it provided for his other activities, past, present and future. He wasn’t going to let either Inspector Corrigan or, for that matter, Sebastian Gibran, spoil it for him now, not after all these years. He loved to play the game. He enjoyed the money, but it was the game he loved, and this one wasn’t lost yet.
Sean and Donnelly sat in their car outside Hellier’s office building. ‘Well?’ Donnelly asked. ‘What d’you think about Mr James Hellier? Did you get a feel for him?’
‘He’s a smooth bastard,’ Sean replied. ‘And so was his boss, for that matter. Like a couple of fucking clones. But Hellier, he’s trying to be something he’s not, whereas Gibran’s persona seemed genuine, effortless. We’ll have to watch out for him. He looks like the sort who’ll be wanting to stick his nose into our investigation. As for Hellier, behind the suit and haircut there’s an angry man.’ He didn’t tell Donnelly about the animalistic odour he’d smelled leaking through Hellier’s skin. A musky smell, almost chokingly strong. The same odour he’d smelled on others in the past. Other killers. ‘But why is he so pissed off with the world?’
‘Pissed off with the world?’ Donnelly questioned. ‘I thought he was just pissed off with us.’
Sean realized he was moving too fast for Donnelly. ‘You’re probably right.’ He needed to give Donnelly something more tangible, more logical. ‘But there are already two possible motives for him. Firstly, he was having an intimate relationship with Graydon, and somewhere along the line it went wrong.’
‘So we’re back to a lovers’ tiff?’
‘Or,’ Sean continued, ‘Graydon was blackmailing him and Hellier thought, probably correctly, the only way to make it stop would be to get rid of him. He’s a walking blackmail victim and Graydon liked nice things − remember his flat?’
‘And the seventy-seven stab wounds?’ Donnelly asked. Those needed explaining. ‘If he just wanted him out of the way, why not do it nice and neat − one shot, one well-placed knife wound, strangulation? Makes me favour a domestic bust-up.’
‘No,’ Sean reminded him. ‘Remember what Dr Canning told us − the wounds were placed around the body, almost ritually, as if the killer wanted us to think it was a rage attack to get us chasing our tails looking for a jealous ex-boyfriend. Or even a motiveless stranger attack. That and the lack of forensics at the scene leave me thinking it was premeditated, which means blackmail was his most likely motivation. Or something else we haven’t thought of yet. Everything else was staged.’
Donnelly looked less than completely convinced. ‘Well, in the absence of anything better than a missing barman and recently released homophobic homosexual, it’s worth running with, so long as you’re convinced Hellier has it in him to kill.’
‘Let’s just say I get a very bad feeling about him,’ Sean replied. ‘His attempted show of compassion made me feel sick. Everything about him seemed off, as if he were hiding behind the façade of being a happy family man.’
‘Why are you so sure he was faking it? I thought he registered some real surprise that Daniel had been killed.’
‘False sincerity. I’ve seen that too many times.’
Donnelly had worked with Sean long enough to know that sometimes it was best to simply accept his word and move on. ‘You’re a scary individual,’ he said. ‘Now all we need is the evidence to prove your theory.’
‘That’s the hard part, as always.’
‘Arrest him. Search his house, office, car. Get a look at his bank accounts. Compare his prints and samples to anything and everything from the scene.’
‘No,’ Sean insisted. ‘I sensed no panic when we asked him about being in the flat. He knows he’s left it clean. Or maybe I’m wrong and he’s never been there. Anyway, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. I need to know more before I draw any lasting conclusions. Let’s have him followed for a while.’
‘Round-the-clock surveillance?’ Donnelly asked.
‘Starting as soon as possible,’ Sean confirmed. ‘He may have missed something. Something that could betray him. If we’re lucky he’ll lead us to something that’ll hang him or at least give us grounds to dig further.’
‘If we’re very lucky,’ Donnelly pointed out.
‘Right now we don’t have much else, so let’s start digging into his past. A man like Hellier doesn’t just appear. Have criminal and intelligence records checked, see if Mr Hellier here hasn’t got some skeletons in his closet.’
‘What about Inland Revenue, employment records, general background information?’
‘Not yet. We haven’t got enough for Production Orders. Let’s stick to our own records first − see what we can turn up.’
‘It’ll be done,’ Donnelly told him. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah,’ Sean answered. ‘You take the car and get back to the nick. Concentrate on tracking down the rest of the victim’s clients and let me know as soon as you turn up someone or something interesting.’
‘Fine. And yourself?’
‘I’m going to have a little chat with his wife.’
Sean took the Tube from Knightsbridge to King’s Cross, noting all possible CCTV points that Hellier could have passed, including those covering the taxi rank outside the station, where Hellier probably hopped into a cab for the last leg of his journey home, although from here their journeys differed – Sean travelling the rest of the way by bus. Black cabs were an expensive luxury for him, not a realistic mode of transport. Not so for Hellier. Even so, it hadn’t taken him long to get to Hellier’s place: 10 Devonia Road, Islington, close to Upper Street and the Angel underground station.
Hellier’s house was another beautiful Georgian terrace and looked like a much smaller version of the Butler and Mason office building. Sean was beginning to feel undervalued and underpaid, but at least the time alone had settled his racing mind and allowed him space to clear his thoughts. He bounced up the steps and gently tapped the chrome knocker twice. After an acceptable wait the door was opened. ‘Hello,’ was all she said. Sean had expected her to say more. He showed her his warrant card and tried to look as unofficial as he could.
‘Sorry to bother you, I’m Detective Inspector Corrigan, Metropolitan Police.’
‘Oh,’ she replied, attempting to feign surprise. So Hellier had called and warned her. No matter. Sean had assumed he would − that wasn’t why he was here. He was here for a chance at a snapshot into Hellier’s life.
‘Mrs Hellier?’ Sean asked, smiling.
‘Yes. Elizabeth. Is there a problem?’
Sean was struck by how much she looked and sounded like a female version of James Hellier: tall, slim, attractive, well spoken, the product of finishing school and two skiing holidays a year; the best of everything her whole life,
