for cash from Marks & Spencer in Oxford Street a few months ago and hadn’t worn it until then. It was a common enough coat. Nothing special. Deliberately so. I also wore brand-new plain leather-soled men’s shoes, and a pair of leather gloves nestled in the coat pocket. A large bin liner was stuffed into the other pocket.
I had to get the next bit exactly right, or this would be over before it began. We approached the break in the roadside wall that led down to the railway. I put the gloves on. I had to move fast now. Anyone around and this was off.
I ran the short distance between us and punched her as hard as I could in the centre of her back. I felt her spine give way to my fist. I heard the air rush from her lungs. She couldn’t make a sound. She dropped to her knees.
I grabbed her from behind and pulled her through the break in the wall. She was no match for me, but I couldn’t risk being caught by a flailing arm. If she had scratched me, I would have cut her fingers off and taken them with me rather than making a present of my skin, my DNA, for the police.
The way down to the railway lines was exactly what I’d been looking for. I discovered it a while ago when I was out scouting for good spots. The bank fell away steeply, but not so steep as to stop you walking down. But the best bit was that up against the arch of the bridge there was a concrete ledge, a metre wide, on the ground. Past that there was only soil and the dust. It meant I could make the girl walk on the soil, hence leaving her footprints, while I walked on the concrete in my plain shoes, leaving no footprints. It would appear as if she walked the last walk of her pitiful life alone.
About halfway down she began to recover her breath. Couldn’t have that, so I punched her in the stomach. I wonder if it hurt more because of her abortion. Anyway, that took the fight out of her.
I dragged her to the bottom of the bridge arch and pushed her against the side of it. I stared into her eyes hard. They were green and beautiful. She was terrified. The art I imagined was becoming reality. I decided she wouldn’t give me any trouble. I spoke gently.
‘If you make a sound or fight or try and run, I will hurt you. Do you understand?’ I was calm.
She frantically nodded her head. Then she squeaked out a few pathetic words. ‘Please. Don’t rape me. Please. I’ve just had an operation. Please. I won’t tell anyone. Please.’
‘I won’t hurt you,’ I promised. ‘I need you to stand there quietly for a few seconds.’ I could hear the train lines begin to whistle and knew a fast train was approaching. I peeked around the corner and saw the train flying towards me. I’d timed this already. Once it passed the hut on the siding I had five seconds before it hurtled past me.
I gripped the girl by her right arm with both my hands. Five. Four. Three. Two – and I swung her out from behind the bridge arch.
It was as if she jogged out on to the line. She even managed to avoid tripping over the first rail. She made it all the way to between the tracks.
The train that hit her must have looked huge. I saw her stiffen just before it wiped her from the face of the planet. I wonder what she thought, if anything.
I didn’t wait to see where her body landed. I quickly turned and ran up the railway bank. I was well protected from anyone looking out of the train window. I’d had my fun, but ultimately the poetry was lacking. The violence was too mechanical. I hadn’t been able to see her eyes or hear her last breath as the train ripped the life from her. The work lacked feeling. No texture. No colour. I would do better next time.
It’s a shame I didn’t get to her before the abortion. That would have been a marked improvement.
I wonder where the train was going?
As I drove away, I could hear the first sirens approaching. A few days later there was a sad little article in the Evening Standard about a girl who’d had an abortion then killed herself by jumping in front of a train. Apparently all parties had decided she couldn’t live with the guilt. The shame. She still had a receipt for the abortion in her pocket. The last line of the article read, ‘Police are not looking for anyone else in connection with her death.’
8
Saturday morning
Sean was in his car, on his way to the station, when his phone rang. The display showed no number. It made him cautious. He answered without giving his name. ‘Hello.’
‘I need to speak with Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan.’ He recognized the voice. It was Hellier.
‘This is DI Corrigan.’
‘We’ll do it your way, Inspector. I’ll meet you today. I’ll be at Belgravia police station at two p.m. I expect absolute discretion.’ Hellier hung up.
Fine, Sean thought. Pick any station you like, but come tomorrow I’ll have a set of your fingerprints, DNA and your statement. Once I have them, it’s only a matter of time before the web of lies begins to disintegrate.
Sean and Donnelly sat in their Mondeo in Ebury Bridge Road, Belgravia. They had a good view of the front of the police station, but were far enough away not to be seen. Sean wanted to watch Hellier as he approached, wanted to see how he looked ahead of their meeting.
At one forty Sean and Donnelly saw Hellier striding along Buckingham Palace Road. He fitted the affluent area perfectly. Sean focused the lens of the camera on Hellier’s face and pressed the button. ‘A little present for the surveillance boys,’ he told Donnelly.
‘When’s that starting, by the way?’
‘As soon as Featherstone authorizes it. I put in a request first thing this morning.’
‘Rather him than me,’ Donnelly said, thinking of the reams of paperwork Detective Superintendent Featherstone would have to complete before surveillance could begin.
Hellier looked confident. He was with another man who carried a briefcase.
‘I fucking knew he’d bring his brief,’ said Sean.
‘That’ll be one expensive mouthpiece,’ Donnelly replied as they watched Hellier and his solicitor enter the station.
‘We’ll give it a few minutes,’ Sean said. ‘Let them get a bit pissed off. Then we’ll go see them. See if we can’t rattle his cage.’
‘Aye,’ Donnelly agreed.
‘Any luck with criminal records?’
‘No. Nothing on criminal records or the intelligence system. He appears clean.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Maybe he’s had an identity change,’ Donnelly suggested.
‘Wouldn’t surprise me. A set of his prints will soon answer that.’
‘Shall we dance?’
‘Why not?’ They climbed from their car and headed after Hellier.
Sean and Donnelly sat across the table from Hellier and his solicitor, Jonathon Templeman, in the witness interview room.
Templeman
