the system and they’re not here.’
The possibilities spun around Sally’s mind. Korsakov was rapidly becoming the invisible man. First his charging photographs and now his fingerprints. Sally didn’t like what she was finding. She didn’t like it at all. She remembered what Jarratt had said: maybe Korsakov was a ghost.
IDO Collins broke her thoughts. ‘Are you still there, DS Jones?’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I’m still here. In fact, you know what? I think I’d better come see you.’
Hellier hailed a black cab and directed the driver to take him to the Barclays Bank in Great Portland Street, around the corner from Oxford Circus. Tourists and shoppers jammed the pavements. Red buses and cabs jammed the roads. It was an unholy mess. Diesel fumes mixed with the smell of frying onions and cheap meat. The heat of the day kept the air heavy.
The cab drew up directly outside the bank. Hellier was out and paying before the driver knew it. He dropped a twenty-pound note through the driver’s window and walked away without speaking.
He went to a keen-looking female cashier in her early twenties. She would want to do everything by the book. So did he. He handed her the larger envelope he’d taken from the antiques shop. It was documentation of his ownership of a safe-deposit box held in the bank’s vault. ‘I would like access to my deposit box, please,’ he told her.
‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘Can I ask if you have any identification with you, sir?’ She sounded like every other bank clerk in the world.
He smiled and pulled out a passport for the Republic of Ireland. ‘Will this be okay?’
She checked the name and photograph in the passport, smiled and handed it back to him. ‘That’ll be fine, Mr McGrath. If you’d like to take a seat in consultation room number two, I’ll fetch the deposit box.’
Within a few minutes the clerk came to Hellier’s room and placed the stainless-steel box on the table. ‘I’ll leave you alone now, sir. Just let me know when you’ve finished.’ She turned on her heel and left the room, shutting the door with a reassuring thud.
Hellier pulled the smaller envelope from his jacket pocket, opened the flap and shook the contents out on to the table − a silver key. He couldn’t help but look around him as he put the key into the lock. It was stiff, causing him to feel a stab of panic as he jiggled it, eventually turning the lock and opening the box. Slowly he lifted the lid and peered inside. The box was as he had left it. He ignored the rolls of US dollars and pushed the loose diamonds out of the way, flicking a five-carat solitaire to one side as if it was a dead insect, until he found what he was looking for − a scrap of ageing paper. He lifted it closer to the light and examined it, relieved to see the number was still visible after all this time. He smiled, and spent the next ten minutes committing the number to memory. He ignored the first three digits – the outer London dialling code – but he repeated the remainder of the number over and over until he was sure he would never forget it.
‘Nine-nine-one-three. Two-zero-seven-four. Nine-nine-one-three. Two-zero-seven-four.’
Sean read through the files from General Registry. He’d found it difficult to concentrate at first, the logistical problems of the investigation severely hindering his free thinking, but as the office grew quieter he was able to lose himself in the files.
He’d already rejected several. They were all extremely violent crimes that remained unsolved, but they just didn’t feel right. Too many missing elements.
He picked up the next file and flipped open the cover. The first thing he saw was a crime-scene photograph. He winced at the sight of a young girl, no more than sixteen, lying on a cold stone floor, her dead hands clutching her throat. He could see she was lying in a huge pool of her own blood and guessed her throat had been cut.
He leaned into the file. The photographs spoke to him. The victim spoke to him. His nostrils flared. This one, he thought to himself. This one. He flicked past the photographs and began to read.
The victim was a young runaway. Came to London from Newcastle. Parents reported her missing several days before her body was found. Neither parent considered as a suspect. No boyfriend involved. No pimp under suspicion. Her name, Heather Freeman. Body recovered from an unused building on waste ground in Dagenham. No witnesses traced.
Sean rifled through the papers to the forensic report. It was ominously short. No fingerprints, no DNA, no blood other than the victim’s. The suspect had left no trace of himself other than one thing: footprints in the dust inside the scene. They were striking only because of their lack of uniqueness. A plain-soled man’s shoe, size nine or ten, apparently very new with minimal scarring.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered.
Sean checked the date of the murder. It predated Daniel Graydon’s death by more than two weeks. ‘You have killed before, you had to have, but how many times?’ His head began to thump. He searched for the name of the investigating officer and found it: DI Ross Brown, based on the Murder Investigation Team at Old Ilford police station. He bundled together his belongings and, taking the file with him, headed for the exit. He’d phone DI Brown once he was on his way.
Hellier walked along Great Titchfield Street, still in the heart of London’s West End shopping area, although it was a lot quieter. He soon found a phone booth and pumped three pound coins into the slot. He heard the dialling tone and punched the number keypad. Zero-two-zero. Nine-nine-one-three. Two-zero-seven-four.
The dialling tone changed to a ringing one. He waited only two cycles before it was answered. The person on the other end had clearly been expecting a call. Hellier spoke.
‘Hello, old friend,’ he said mockingly. ‘We have much to discuss.’
‘I’ve been waiting for you to call,’ the voice answered. ‘I expected it sooner.’
‘Your friends took my contact book,’ Hellier told him, ‘and you’re not listed in the phone book or with Directory Enquiries. Makes you a difficult person to find.’
‘The police have taken a book off you with my number in it?’ The voice sounded strained. ‘How the hell did you let that happen?’
‘Calm down.’ Hellier was in control. ‘All the numbers in the book were coded. No one will know it’s yours.’
‘They’d better not,’ the voice said. ‘So if they’ve got the book, how did you find my number again?’
‘You gave it to me, don’t you remember? When you first came begging to me. Cap in hand. You wrote it on a piece of paper. I kept it. Thought it might come in useful one day.’
‘You need to get rid of it. Now,’ the voice demanded.
Hellier wished he and the voice were face to face. He’d make him suffer for his insolence. ‘Listen, fucker,’ he shouted into the phone. A passer-by glanced at him, but quickly looked away when he saw Hellier’s eyes. ‘You don’t tell me what to do. You never fucking tell me what to do. Do-You-Understand-Me?’
There was silence. Neither man spoke. It gave Hellier a few seconds to regain his composure. He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed his shining brow. The voice broke the silence.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Get
