entered the first mini-cab office he came across. A group of elderly, cheerful West Indian men sat around smoking and laughing loudly at some joke Hellier had just missed. One of the men spoke. He spoke slowly and thoughtfully, curbing his accent enough for Hellier to understand.
‘Yes, sir. What can I be doing for you today?’ he asked.
‘I need to get to London Bridge.’
‘No problem, sir. I’ll take you myself,’ the cabbie replied. Seconds later the car pulled away, and as it did so, six other cars and four motorbikes began to move with it. The driver was unaware he had become the focus of so much police attention, but Hellier knew they were there. Occasionally he stole a glance in the nearside wing mirror. He spotted one of the motorbikes, nothing else; but he didn’t have to see them to know they were there.
‘Lovely day,’ Hellier said to the driver.
‘Yeah, man,’ the driver beamed. ‘Just like being back in Jamaica.’ They both laughed.
Sean was back at his desk, weighing up the options. So far he’d come up with a dozen what ifs, but none of them helped the investigation. None of them helped him. He’d had no choice but to let Hellier walk away on police bail. Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself to be patient. When the DNA results came back he could bury Hellier. He was certain of it.
He rubbed his tired eyes with the sides of both fists. For a second he couldn’t see properly. When they cleared, he found himself focused on his computer screen, reminding him he needed to check his emails. It was the first chance he’d had to check his inbox. Amongst the dozens of emails there was one from SO11. The details of the telephone numbers from Hellier’s address book. He wasn’t in the mood to start ploughing through names and numbers; his quota of patience had been used up hours ago. He peered out into the main office, looking for anyone he could delegate it to, but everyone appeared busy. His conscience got the better of him and he started to read through the list himself.
Most appeared to be the numbers of banks, both in the UK and abroad. Other numbers were of accountants, diamond dealers, gold merchants, platinum traders. Hundreds of names, but only a handful of personal numbers. He paid particular attention to these. He read through the names slowly and deliberately. Daniel Graydon’s number was there, as he’d expected: both his home and mobile numbers. So what? It meant nothing, now that Hellier admitted knowing him. He checked for the names of the two other victims, Heather Freeman and Linda Kotler. He didn’t expect to find the runaway’s name, but perhaps Kotler’s. It wasn’t there. He was disappointed, but not surprised.
The mini-cab dropped Hellier off on the outside concourse at London Bridge. He was delighted to see thousands joining the great commute home and even considered waving along the street at the police following him. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they would be able to see him. A little wave would get them thinking, but he resisted the temptation – this was no time to show off. Soon he’d be gone, but first he had some business to take care of. Top of the list being his mysterious friend.
He’d considered leaving, not even bothering to meet the man, but he wasn’t a gambler. He only played when he could manage the risks, and that meant finding out what this man knew, if anything. Could he damage him? Hurt him? Hellier had to find out. No loose ends, he reminded himself. Leave things nice and tidy, just how he liked it. That didn’t mean there wasn’t time for one last thrill. One last indulgence.
Hellier walked fast into the train station, ducking into WH Smiths, watching the main entrance through the magazine shelf, waiting for the surveillance team to enter. They were good, only one standing out as she scanned the crowds for him. Commuters never looked around. They were on auto-pilot. She stood out like an amateur, but the others were invisible.
He took the other exit from the shop and walked back across the inside concourse and out the same exit he’d entered, all the while trying to remember the faces he passed. If he saw them again he would assume they were police. He crossed the short distance to the underground station, stopping suddenly at the top of the stairs and spinning around. No one reacted. A smile spread across his lips. They were very good indeed.
Once again he descended into the underground that had served him so well in the past. He followed his normal anti-surveillance pattern, tactics designed to lose even the best: travelling short distances on trains and then stepping off at the last moment, walking swiftly through tunnels, past zombified commuters, on to another train and away again. Over and over he repeated the procedure, but they stayed with him, leaving him both annoyed and impressed. No matter. As always, James Hellier was one step ahead.
Finally he arrived in Farringdon and made his way to the bar he had chosen the day before. It was busy enough but not heaving. Ideal. He headed straight to the toilet unnoticed. The cubicle he wanted was unoccupied. Two customers stood at the urinals, not noticing him as he shut the door. He didn’t have time to wait for them to leave – in fact, it was better they were there. Soon the police would be here, inside the bar looking for him. He began to undress.
Sean’s mobile vibrated on the desk in front of him. He kept reading the email as he answered absentmindedly. ‘Hello.’
‘Guv. It’s Jean Colville.’ Sean recognized the surveillance team’s DS. ‘Your man certainly knows his counter-surveillance tactics.’
‘I noticed,’ said Sean ironically. ‘Where are you?’
‘Farringdon. Trying to keep up with your target. He’s in a bar in Farringdon Road. He gave us the right run around, but we’re still on him. Bit thin on the ground, but the others are doing their best to catch up.’
‘Is the bar covered?’ Sean asked, concerned.
‘Just. I got one unit around the back – there’s only one exit there. Three in the bar and two more out the front. Apparently your man’s in the toilet. There’s no other way out of there other than the door leading to the bar. So as long as he stays in there, we’re solid.’
‘Good.’ Sean breathed easier. ‘Don’t give this one an inch. If you can’t see what he’s doing, assume he’s doing something we’d rather he wasn’t.’
‘Understood. I’ll call you if the situation changes.’
‘It’ll change,’ Sean warned her. ‘Just be ready when it does.’ He hung up.
‘Problem?’ Donnelly asked, appearing at Sean’s open door.
‘Not yet,’ Sean replied. ‘They’ve followed Hellier to Farringdon.’
‘Well, so long as they don’t lose him this time. By the way, you should know Jonnie Dempsey has turned up. Handed himself in at Walworth. The locals are holding him for us. Apparently he’s telling them that he’d been helping himself to a portion of the night’s takings from his till on a regular basis. He thought the management were on to him, so he took off. When he heard the place was crawling with Old Bill, he decided to lay low. But eventually he decided things were getting a bit too serious to ignore and thought it best to hand himself in.’
‘Scratch one suspect,’ Sean said.
He saw Sally enter the main office. He hadn’t spoken with her since that morning. He caught her eye and beckoned her over. ‘How did your meeting with Gibran go?’ he asked.
Sally took a seat without being invited. ‘It was interesting enough. He certainly didn’t give me any reason to suspect Hellier less. Said he’d been acting out of character lately, missing
