turned right into Hammersmith Road. He gunned the Vauxhall east, towards Kensington. Confused drivers jammed the road in front of the surveillance cars. They couldn’t move, trapped in traffic. Hellier was gone.
Sean spoke into his phone. He didn’t say much, just the occasional word. ‘How?’ ‘Where?’ He paled noticeably the more he listened. ‘Get back to Knightsbridge, and cover his home too.’
He felt sick. Hellier was lost again. He’d made a bad decision, one he was going to have to live with. He rubbed his reddening eyes hard. Exhaustion threatened to overtake him. He looked at Sally. ‘Damn it.’
‘We’ll find him,’ Sally reassured him.
‘Only if he wants us to,’ he said. ‘Only if he’s still playing games with us. With me.’
Hellier dumped the car and made absolutely sure he was alone before walking the short distance to High Street Kensington underground station and descending calmly to the platforms. He caught the first District Line train for two stops to South Kensington. Out of the station, he walked quickly along Exhibition Road, scanning the area for police. There were none. He turned right into Thurloe Place and walked along the row of shops. He knew exactly where he was going.
He looked through the window of Thurloe Arts, casting a knowledgeable eye over the paintings that adorned the interior. It was more of a mini-gallery than a shop, although he decided most of it was crap.
An old-fashioned bell rang above the door as he opened it. Almost immediately the owner appeared from the back of the shop, breaking into a welcoming smile when he saw Hellier.
‘Mr McLennan. What a pleasant surprise. How are you?’
‘I’m very well,’ Hellier replied. ‘How has life been treating you these past few years?’
‘I mustn’t complain. Business is a little unpredictable, but could be worse.’
‘Then I hope our arrangement has been of some financial assistance?’
‘Indeed it has, sir,’ the shopkeeper answered. ‘Am I to take it that is the purpose of your visit?’
‘You are.’
‘If you would be good enough to wait here a moment.’
Hellier nodded. The owner went to the back of the shop, returning a couple of minutes later. He held the door to the rear area open.
‘This way, please.’
Hellier walked behind the counter and into the rear of the shop where he was led to a small windowless room lit by a single uncovered light bulb. There was a table and one chair in the middle, surrounded by bare yellow walls. On the table was a metal box, one foot by nine inches, a heavy combination padlock hanging from its side. Hellier entered the room and found it just as he remembered it from his previous visit, three years ago. The shopkeeper made his excuses and left.
Taking a seat, Hellier examined the outside of the box. It seemed intact. He studied the lock closely. It was untainted. No telltale metal scratch marks. The dials remained at the settings he had left them on three years ago. He pulled a pair of thin leather gloves from his pocket and slipped his hands into the silk lining.
He turned the combination dials and pulled at the lock. Three years was a long time. With a little effort it popped open. He wiggled it free from the box and placed it carefully on the table.
He lifted the lid up as if opening a precious jewellery box. He removed an object wrapped in a white cloth and placed it next to the lock. He would look at it later. He needed to check something else first.
He lifted a heavy parcel from the box. It was wrapped in several yellow dusters, which he patiently unfolded as if peeling back the petals of a tropical flower. The black-grey metal inside shone. He was pleased he’d taken the effort to oil the Browning 9mm automatic pistol before locking it away. He’d made plenty of enemies over the years. He doubted they could find him, but just in case they did, he had insurance.
He checked the two magazines: both held a full load of thirteen 9mm high-velocity bullets. They had been harder to obtain than the gun itself. Squaddies were happy to sell weapons stolen from poorly guarded armouries, but for some reason they were reluctant to sell the bullets to go with them.
Hellier pulled at the back of the gun. The top slide glided backwards and smoothly cocked the weapon. He squeezed the trigger. The hammer hit the firing pin with a reassuring metallic click. Satisfied, he pushed one of the magazines into the butt of the gun. The other he slid into his inside jacket pocket. He tucked the pistol into the small of his back, held in place by his belt.
He opened the other parcel. He laughed at the items inside. A dark brown wig with eyebrows to match. A moustache, no beard. A pair of prescription spectacles. He tried them on. They affected his eyesight, but he could see through them. He picked up the tube of theatrical make-up glue. He squeezed a drop on to his left index finger and rubbed his thumb and finger together. The glue was still good. He rolled the parcel back in the cloth and stuffed it into his trouser pocket as he stood.
He shut the box and replaced the padlock. He set the numbers as he had found them and left the room. The shopkeeper was waiting for him.
‘Everything as it should be?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Everything was fine,’ Hellier replied. ‘Tell me, is there a sports shop near here?’
Sally and the others had decided to retreat to the one pub they ever used, close to Peckham police station. The landlord was only too happy to be running a ‘police pub’. It all but guaranteed his premises remained free of trouble, except for the occasional bust-up between coppers. And that was always dealt with in-house so no black marks went against his licence.
Sally’s phone rang.
‘Sally Jones speaking.’
‘DS Jones, I’m Prison Officer English, from Wandsworth Prison.’
Sally hadn’t expected the prison to call her out of hours. ‘You have something for me?’
‘Your inquiry into a former prisoner: Korsakov, Stefan, released in 1999. You wanted to know why we requested his fingerprints?’
‘Yes.’
‘We made no request for his fingerprints from Scotland Yard.’
‘Are you positive?’
‘Absolutely. Our records are correct. There’s no mistake.’
‘No,’ Sally said, more to herself than anyone. ‘I’m sure there isn’t. Thank you.’ She hung up.
Donnelly appeared next to her. ‘Problem?’
‘Someone’s been lying to me.’
‘About what?’
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Right now I need another drink.’
Hellier found the small sports shop easily enough. He selected a dark blue Nike tracksuit, the plainest he could find. He added a white T-shirt, white Puma training shoes and a pair of white socks to his basket. He asked for
