that night. Several of the team would stay on at Peckham until midnight, answering any calls from the public the appeal might bring. Sean wasn’t hopeful. He only hoped Hellier was watching. He’d briefed Sally to use Hellier’s description as that of the possible killer, just as he’d done at the press conference.
He also wanted to see the presentation on the Heather Freeman murder. DI Brown would be on the show that night, but no mention would be made of the connection. How would that affect Hellier’s behaviour? He pictured Hellier laughing at their incompetence. Fine. Let him laugh.
His mobile began to ring. He groaned. Kate stared across the living room at him. ‘Hello. Sean Corrigan speaking.’
‘Bad news, guv’nor.’ It was DC Stan McGowan. ‘He left work at about six, but we lost him on the underground. He was definitely trying to shake us. We had no chance. Sorry.’
‘Why didn’t you call earlier?’ Sean asked. It was almost eight thirty now.
‘We’ve been running around trying to find him. I sent a couple of boys to his home address, but he either beat them there or he hasn’t gone home yet.’
‘Okay, Stan,’ Sean said. ‘You’ve done your best. Stay with it tonight. Concentrate on the home address. Tomorrow I’ll see if I can’t get a dedicated surveillance team back.’
‘Sorry,’ Stan said again. Sean hung up. He wondered if he could stay awake long enough to watch Crimewatch.
Hellier checked his watch. It was three minutes since he last checked. Ten past eight. The man had sworn he’d be there by eight. He was late. He hadn’t called. Damn it. Where was the fool? Hellier looked at his watch again.
What did the caller really want? He’d said he could help. Who could help him? Why would they want to? Were they going to try and blackmail him? That would at least be amusing. He checked his phone. No missed calls.
He wasn’t going to stand here all night. He had better things to do. He’d lost the police surveillance, but he needed to be careful. Journalists could still be a problem, even if the police weren’t. He felt excitement rising in him like an old friend. Time for a treat. He deserved one.
Kate watched Sean struggling to stay awake in his chair. A bottle of Stella Artois rested on his chest. She watched it rise and fall gently. If he fell asleep properly he would spill the beer. The cold liquid would wake him up quickly enough. She hoped it would happen. It would make her laugh, and Sean hadn’t made her laugh much lately.
He was losing the battle to keep his eyes open. Hearing the presenter mention a murder in South London, Kate shook Sean by the shoulder. ‘I think you’re on.’
‘Uh?’
‘You’re on,’ she repeated. ‘It’s your case next.’
Sean sat upright. He rubbed his face hard and shook his head. ‘Thanks.’
He watched the presenter outline the case. It was supposed to be informative only, the media helping the police to catch a killer, but the presenter’s background gave him away. He couldn’t help using gutter-press terminology. He tried to look shocked when describing the murder as ‘gruesome’. He dramatically paused as he informed the nation how Daniel had been stabbed ‘seventy-seven times’. The tabloid words flowed from his mouth: ‘Bloody …’ ‘Horrific …’ ‘Mutilated …’ He had them all. In truth, there was only one reason the programme existed. Ratings. The British public liked nothing better than watching other people’s suffering from a safe distance.
The camera switched to Sally. She looked a little nervous, but you couldn’t tell unless you knew her like Sean did. She was as professional as he knew she’d be. Informative, accurate, businesslike, but compassionate too.
She gave the description of Hellier as Sean had asked. He felt satisfaction at the thought of Hellier watching and listening to himself being described on national TV, but he had to remember that Hellier was like a poisonous snake. He was dangerous. It was important to keep a firm grip of his neck or risk being bitten.
The presenter tried to ambush Sally. He asked her if someone had already been arrested. If the police already had a ‘prime suspect’. Sally had been expecting it. Her answer sounded prepared. She told him a number of people had been helping police with the inquiry, but that they were still trying to trace the whereabouts of Steven Paramore and Jonnie Dempsey. The presenter backed off, closing the piece with the usual attempt at a heartfelt appeal for assistance. He read out the two telephone numbers that also appeared at the bottom of the screen. One for the studio and one for the incident room back in Peckham. Then he moved on to the next tragedy of the night.
17
I’ve seen her before. A couple of times. On both occasions I followed her home. She lives in Shepherd’s Bush, in a flat on the first floor of an old mansion block. The building has seen better days, by the look of it, but I suppose it’s not too bad for the area.
She works in a small advertising company in Holborn. She must be thirty or thereabouts. Reasonably attractive, but nothing special. Five foot five and strong, from the look of it, although not very fit. She does have very nice short brown hair though. The cut is unusually short for a woman.
But what really attracted me to her, what really caught my eye, was her skin. She has the most beautiful skin. Very lightly tanned. Faultless. It shone.
Did she know it set her apart? Was that why she kept her hair short, so nothing would distract from her skin? Probably.
But it wouldn’t stay that way for much longer. She worked too hard. Always last out of the office. Trying to impress her boss or maybe just trying to impress herself.
I read an article in the Evening Standard the other day. Apparently young London workers are judging success by the lack of free time a person has. The most successful are judged to be those who have no time for themselves.
Pitiful. How could anyone really question my right to do as I please with you? You have no value any more. You know that yourselves. Pointless little animals, living pointless little lives. Only I can make you worth something.
When I’ve watched her in the past, she hasn’t left her office until after eight. Tonight was no different.
I thought about visiting her in the office. Leave a nasty surprise for her boss in the morning. Perhaps cut her breasts off, Jack the Ripper style, and leave them on his desk with a resignation note I’d make her write, just for the fun of it.
No. I couldn’t guarantee the level of control I’d need. I couldn’t risk being interrupted. A cleaner might walk in on me, or a fucking security guard. I would be able to deal with them easily, but the visit would be spoilt. So I decided to follow her home. Again.
She has an easy journey. Nine bearable stops along the Central Line to Shepherd’s Bush. The simple route makes it easier to follow her. I could wait for her to come home − I know where she lives from my previous follows − but I enjoy the thrill of the chase. It helps me build towards my climax. Allows the excitement to grow. It courses through my veins and arteries.
My blood carries the excitement around my body like oxygen. My heart beats so hard and fast I’m sure people can see my chest pounding, hear my heart thumping like a Zulu drum. But at the same time I know they can’t. It seeps into my muscles. Makes
