I opened them again she was dead. Her own urine ran down the inside of her legs − even in death the bitch tried to spoil it for me.
I let my penis go flaccid while it was still inside her before carefully pinching the ends of the condoms and pulling myself out. She slumped to the floor on her side. Very carefully I removed the condoms, my flaccid penis falling into my waiting hand, warm and slippery with sperm and spermicide, the feel of it in my hand causing the excitement to return, but there was no time for any more fun here. I put the condoms into a self-sealing freezer bag and then into my rucksack. I took the tape off her mouth and put that into another self-sealing bag. I would have so liked to have been naked myself, but it was too dangerous. I must work out how to be naked next time, without leaving a treasure chest of evidence.
I pulled my tracksuit trousers up and grabbed the rucksack. I checked the room and saw the dressing gown was still over the lamp. It had given off a delicious light, making her pale skin appear blood red. No need to remove it. The drawer I had taken the tights from was open too. No need to close it. There was a slight blood smear on the wall behind the bed. No need to clean it.
I moved quietly across the flat to the bathroom, leaving the same way I came in. I want the police to find it, so considered leaving it open, but decided that might be too obvious. My muscles have grown somewhat tired by now, but I have enough strength to hold on to the drainpipe with one arm while I move the catch back to the locked position. I make sure I leave enough scratches on the latch so even the police can find them.
I climb down the drainpipe as quietly as a spider on a thread. I strip off the clothes worn in the flat and put them in large bin liners. These in turn I place inside the rucksack. My other clothes wait in their neat pile for me. I take my time to dress. No need to hurry. I enjoy the calm I feel spreading beautifully through my body and mind, feeling a hundred times more powerful than I did before my visit. The warm night air wraps around my body like smoke around a smouldering log. I put the bag over my shoulder and head towards Shepherd’s Bush, although I’ll keep walking for a few miles yet before catching a night bus far enough away that it’ll never be checked by the police.
I will go visiting again soon and next time will be the greatest yet.
18
Thursday morning
Sean, Sally and Donnelly were back in Sean’s office. They were assessing the feedback from Sally’s appearance on Crimewatch and Sean’s press conference. It wouldn’t take long. The phone lines hadn’t exactly been set on fire − a couple of teenage prank calls and a few rough descriptions of men seen in the area of Daniel’s flat, possibly on the night of the murder, maybe not. Far from a deluge of information.
They’d expected as much: Hellier was too cautious to have allowed himself to be seen by witnesses at that time of night. But at least the dedicated surveillance team was back, so Hellier wouldn’t slip away quite so easily again.
Donnelly was called to the phone. He crossed the office, took the receiver from a young detective constable.
‘Dave Donnelly.’
‘DS Donnelly? How you doing?’ Donnelly didn’t recognize the voice. ‘I’m a friend of Raj Samra. He said you wanted a call if anything out the ordinary came up. Said you wanted a call before anyone else.’
‘That was my request.’ Donnelly was naturally suspicious. He didn’t know this man who was doing him a favour. He wasn’t about to let himself be set up. ‘Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.’
‘DS John Simpson. SCG out west. Murder Investigation Team.’
‘Can I call you back in a minute?’ Donnelly asked.
‘Sure,’ Simpson replied. ‘I’m on a mobile. Want the number?’
Donnelly scribbled the number on a small notepad. He wasted no time in calling Raj Samra. He confirmed DS John Simpson existed. He vouched for him too. That was good enough. Donnelly called him back.
‘DS Simpson.’
‘Sorry about that. I was right in the middle of something,’ Donnelly lied. ‘So, what have you got that may interest me?’
There was a worrying pause before Simpson answered. ‘A body. But I think you’d better come and see for yourself.’
Donnelly thought hard for a few seconds. Should he go? Was he sure enough yet? Probably not. ‘Okay,’ he answered. ‘I’ll come and take a look. Unofficially for now.’
‘I understand,’ Simpson reassured.
‘Where are you?’
‘It’s a flat over in Shepherd’s Bush. Seventy-three D, Minford Gardens.’
DC Zukov saw Donnelly appear on the pavement outside the crime scene and head towards him, moving nimbly, looking naturally strong. He stamped his cigarette out as Donnelly got closer.
‘You got one of them for me?’
Zukov pulled a squashed packet of Marlboro Lights from his trouser pocket. Donnelly seemed paler than usual. ‘Well?’ Zukov asked. ‘Did you do it?’
Donnelly lit up and took a deep drag. ‘No.’
Zukov went quiet. He looked Donnelly up and down. Had the big man lost his bottle? ‘Why not?’ he finally asked.
‘Because I’m not sure, that’s why.’
‘You’re not sure it’s linked?’ Zukov asked.
‘Oh, it’s linked,’ Donnelly said. ‘I’m sure all three are linked.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ Zukov was pushing way more than he’d done before. He wanted this done. He wanted to be part of a successful murder inquiry and he didn’t want to wait any longer.
‘I’m not sure Hellier is our man.’ He tossed the cigarettes back to Zukov. ‘Do you live alone?’ he asked.
‘Why?’ Zukov answered.
‘Just answer the question.’
‘Yeah. I live alone.’
‘Good,’ Donnelly said. ‘Then you won’t have to worry about somebody stumbling across this.’ He pulled the small sealed evidence bag containing Hellier’s hairs from the cigarette case he’d been concealing it inside. ‘I’m sick of carrying it around. Take it home with you and remember to keep it in your fridge. That way they’ll look fresh. I’ll tell you when I need them again.’ Zukov took the bag without complaining. ‘Now piss off and find us some coffee,’ Donnelly told him. ‘I’ve got a phone call to make.’
Sean moved to the rear of his car and pulled a full forensic suit from the boot. He struggled into the blue overalls before showing his warrant card to a severe-looking female uniformed officer guarding the cordon. He told her he was from the Murder Squad, he just didn’t tell her which one. He could feel the forensic team and local detectives watching him − they’d probably guessed he was the reason they’d been kept out of the scene. Their important work was being delayed and it was his fault.
He
