Cold Killing Page 12

  ‘I said exactly what you told me to.’

  ‘Good.’ But Hellier could tell she needed more. ‘Look, I was at a very sensitive meeting that night. The company wanted me to meet some potential clients, very important clients, but they were a little worried about their backgrounds. Beware Africans bearing large amounts of cash, as we say these days. They wanted me to run the rule over them, that’s all, see if their wealth could be obviously identified as ill-gotten gains. If so, we wouldn’t touch them. All the same, we can’t afford to have the police sniffing around our affairs − it would be very bad for business. Our clients expect complete confidentiality and privacy. I couldn’t tell the police the truth. I’m sorry I dragged you into it, darling, but I really had no choice.’

  Elizabeth seemed happy with that. Even if she didn’t entirely believe him, the explanation was itself at least believable. ‘You should have told me that straight away, dear. I would have understood. But I’d watch out for that DI Corrigan,’ she warned him. ‘He didn’t come across as the usual PC Plod. There was something unnerving about him. Some sort of animal cunning.’

  Hellier felt rage suddenly swelling in his chest, his temples throbbing, his body trembling involuntarily, but the expression on his face never changed from calm and content. He couldn’t stand to hear his adversary being complimented. Even if his wife had meant it as an insult, it gave Corrigan more credibility in his eyes, even suggested he should somehow fear him. His fists clenched under the table as he imagined Elizabeth’s smashed and bleeding face, his own knuckles bleeding, shredded on her teeth.

  He waited until the rage had swept over him and died, like a passing hurricane, before rising from the table. He kissed her softly on the cheek. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, darling,’ he said. ‘I need to do a little work. The price we have to pay.’

  Hellier headed for his study. He went through the ritual of recovering the key to his safe and then opening it. He flicked through the small address book he’d pulled from inside and found what he was looking for. He called the number.

  ‘Hello?’ the voice answered.

  ‘You’d better call off your fucking dogs,’ Hellier hissed.

  ‘That’s not possible. I haven’t got that sort of influence.’ The voice sounded matter-of-fact. Hellier didn’t like that.

  ‘Listen to me, you fucking moron. As much as it amuses me having these incompetents trying to follow me, they might just stumble across something we’d both rather they didn’t. So you’d better think of something, and soon.’

  ‘I’ve already done more than I should,’ the voice protested. ‘I’ve stuck my neck out. I can’t do anything else. I won’t.’

  ‘Wrong again. I hope you’re not going to make a habit of slipping up. I think you know how costly your mistake could be.’

  Hellier didn’t wait for a reply. He hung up. He heard his wife call out. She wanted to know if he wanted coffee.

  11

  I was late for work today. No matter. I went to my corner office, in an old building in central London. I have a lovely view of the street below. I like to watch people walking past. The office is all mine. I’m wealthy, but I hate this job. I shouldn’t have to work. Everybody else works and I’m far from being like everybody else. I shouldn’t have to work, but it is necessary for my illusion.

  I sit in my leather chair and absorb a couple of tabloid papers while slurping on a skinny caffè latte. Two sugars. The papers are full of the usual garbage. Famine threatens millions in some African country. Flooding threatens millions in some Asian country. The usual appeals for money and clothes. Some rock star on the television, suddenly remorseful about their wealth and fame, screaming about how guilty we should all feel.

  Why can’t everyone understand? These people have been selected by Nature to die. Stop interfering. Nature knows best. You keep them alive now so in a year’s time they die of a disease instead, or you cure the disease and they die of starvation. So you rid the world of starvation and they kill each other by the tens of thousands in tribal wars. These do-gooders are ignorant fools trying to buy a ticket into Utopia. Let us leave these millions to Nature − let them fucking die.

  I am Nature itself. I do what I was born to do and I don’t feel guilty. I have freed myself from the shackles of compassion and mercy. Some of you are simply meant to die by my hand and so you will. Who am I to argue with Nature? Who are you to? Nothing can stand in the way of Nature’s design.

  But I’m no sick case locked in a bed, sitting alone every night slashing my chest with razor blades while masturbating to violent pornography. Not me. I’m no self-destructive psychiatric case just waiting or hoping to be caught. Neither am I seeking fame or notoriety. I don’t even want to be infamous. You’ll not see me sending the police clues, playing a game, phoning them up with tasty morsels of information. None of that interests me. I’ll give them nothing. I must remain free to continue my work. That is all that’s important now.

  And even if they do catch up with me, they’ll never prove a thing.

  My third visit was the most satisfying experience of my life. A development. A further sign of my growing strength and power.

  In a way it is merciful. A new-born killer can make a terrible mess of things. Prolong the victim’s agony. An efficient killer is exactly that. Efficient. I grow more efficient with each kill. That’s not to say I don’t like to have a little fun, every now and then.

  Besides, I have to make a mess sometimes, to keep the police guessing. Can’t stick to the same method of dispatching the chosen few. That would make it all too easy. They’re already sniffing around very close to home, not that that concerns me.

  I rented another car. A big fat Vauxhall, with a big fat boot to match. The car rental companies around London were doing quite nicely out of me lately. Still, I was doing quite nicely out of them. Again I parked the car in a car park overnight, this time in the shopping centre at Brent Cross in North London. I bought a new raincoat from the same shopping centre, along with new plastic-soled shoes. I bought a nylon T-shirt and a new pair of black Nike training bottoms, all of which I stored in the hired car until I needed them.

  I was all set. I returned to the car park early the following evening. The shops were still open. I took the clothes from the boot of the car and changed into them in a public toilet. I returned to the car and quickly covered the real number plates with false ones. I had been careful to park in a CCTV blind spot.

  All went smoothly and I drove south towards King’s Cross railway station, a modern monstrosity of a building. I drove against the flow of traffic and arrived there around 8 p.m. It wasn’t quite dark yet, so I parked the car in a side street. It was free to park at this time of night. That was important. I couldn’t risk a parking ticket or the unwanted attention of a bored policeman.

  I left the car and walked towards the West End, along Euston Road. From my research I knew there was a Burger King close to St Pancras station. Despite the excited tightness in my belly I felt a little hungry, so decided to grab a bite to eat. It was as good a way as any to kill an hour and let the night grow dark. Wait until winter comes, I thought. Sixteen hours of darkness a day. What fun we’ll have then.

  I ate my Whopper with cheese, chewed a few fries and slurped a diet 7UP. I amused myself watching the people milling around me, unaware they were dancing so close to death. Young foreign students mainly, being served by life’s losers.

  My attention became focused on three young Spanish girls. They picked at their food and giggled. They were attracting the attention of a group of dark-skinned youths. I didn’t think the youths were Spanish − probably Italian or, worse, Albanian. Probably more interested in stealing the girls’ handbags than their virginity.

  I would have liked to tie the giggling girls up. Spend plenty of time with them. Watch their tears of pain and fear flow, hear their stifled squeals of agony and humiliation as I had my fun with them one by one. Then I’d make them watch and see my power as I slit
their throats. A twisted, bloody tribute to the beauty of violent death.

  I had to calm myself. My imagination was over-exciting me and the tightness in my belly was becoming painful. I had my subject for the night. It had been arranged. Carefully planned. I had to guard against acting on impulse. The Spanish girls would live. Someone else would not.

  When the time came, I left the restaurant. On the way out I walked close to the Spanish girls. I breathed them in deeply. They smelled sweet. Like bubble gum. One of them glanced at me and smiled. I smiled back. Her friends noticed and all three returned to a giggling scrum. Some other time, perhaps.

  I’d been agitated by the girls. My heart beat faster than normal. I was on the point of being desperate. I’d prayed my chosen subject would be where they should be. I walked faster than I should have. Had anyone noticed me? Thought me a little out of place? On reflection, I didn’t think so.

  I reached my chosen vantage point, at the far west tip of King’s Cross station. I was so excited I almost wandered into the range of some CCTV cameras attached to the side of the station wall. I managed to stop myself. I looked across the five lanes of Euston Road traffic and focused on the small, brightly lit café. I could see straight inside. It was typical of the cafés around the station. A real shit hole. The owner sold poisonous food and child prostitutes.

  The game machines by the front door were a sign. A beacon to the young homeless. Runaways from the North and Midlands often made it no further from the railway station than this café. From here, they would be farmed out to various pimps across London. That would then be their life. Prostitution, crime, drugs and early death.

  Other hunters visited this place. It was like an African watering hole. Most hunting illicit under-age sex. Some, very occasionally, hunting to kill, but none quite like me.

  She was right where she should be. Pumping money into a fruit machine. A lost cause chasing a lost cause. She must have been between fourteen and sixteen, about five foot three, long dirty blonde hair, white skin, beautiful like marble. Slim. Half my size.

  I’d been watching the place off and on for a couple of weeks. Nothing took my fancy, but I persevered. After a few days she appeared, rucksack in hand. From the first moment I saw her, she was mine.

  I hadn’t been any closer to her yet than this. I hadn’t heard her speak, so I didn’t know where she was from. I didn’t know the colour of her eyes yet either. I hoped they were brown. Brown eyes set against that marble skin would be stunning. I needed to see her blood on that skin. I started getting an erection. I took some deep breaths and calmed myself down.

  During the times I’d watched her, she hadn’t been taken away by anyone. I didn’t think she’d succumbed to the inevitable life of prostitution yet. Good. The more innocent they are, the greater my pleasure is. Is there anything sweeter than violated innocence?

  I kept watch. Waiting for her to make a deadly mistake. No one noticed me. There were thousands of people around the station. For once the weather forecast had been accurate and it was drizzling, hence my raincoat seemed perfectly normal, even at this time of year.

  She did it several times a night. Walked out of the café and around into a side street, close to where I’d parked the car. At first I wondered what she was doing. Urinating? Giving clients fumbling oral sex? Then I saw her. She was going for a cigarette. She didn’t want to share it with the other runaway fuckers. And why should she? They say smoking is bad for your health. If only she knew.

  I patiently watched her. Still excited, but less agitated now. I had more control over myself. I could wait. It was only a matter of time.

  My patience was rewarded. I saw her speaking to the other youths huddled around the machine. She was making her excuse to leave. The others didn’t seem interested. She stepped out of the café, looking up and down the street. She knew she was mere prey. She was nervous about moving away from the safety of the herd. She disappeared into the side street. I crossed the road by the pelican crossing. The light rain made the yellow, red and green lights of the street dance on the shiny road and the vehicles that passed.

  The girl was out of view now, but I could smell her. Feel her. I moved in closer. Drawn to her. I had the police identification in my coat pocket. My hand rested on it. Ready. In the other pocket I had a small carving knife in case she tried to run or squeal. I’d bought the knife months ago and hid it in my study at home. It was a common brand. Very good for slicing tomatoes, or so the sales assistant had told me.

  I saw her clearly enough. Standing in the doorway of a derelict shop, smoking her cigarette. She watched me walking in her direction. I sensed her caution, but no real fear yet. Nothing that would make her take flight. I was careful not to look at her as I approached. I used my peripheral vision to watch her. I got to about five metres away from her. If she’d run then, she might have lived. Any longer and she couldn’t have got away. I am strong. I am fast. Much stronger and faster than I look. I exercise a lot. Secretly.

  I drew level and turned to face her. She was trapped by railings on either side of the doorway. With the survival instincts of a wild animal, she spoke immediately: ‘Come near me and I’ll fucking scream. I’ll scream rape and I’ll tell the coppers you touched us up.’ She had a Newcastle accent.

  I smiled at her. I thought about pulling out the knife and slaughtering her right there. There was no one around. I stuck to the plan instead. I pulled out the police badge and showed it to her. Casually.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ she whispered.

  ‘Name and age?’ I asked. She huffed, like a spoilt teenager being asked to make her bed by weak-willed parents. ‘Name and age? I haven’t got all night to waste fucking around with you,’ I lied.

  ‘Heather Freeman.’ She finally looked me in the eyes. Hers were blue. Never mind. ‘And I’m seventeen.’

  I laughed. ‘I don’t think so, Heather. Your parents reported you missing over a week ago. You’re under-age and that means you’re coming with me,’ I lied again.

  ‘Where to?’ she asked. She sounded slightly panicked, but not scared. She certainly wasn’t scared of me.

  ‘The police station. And then we’ll call your parents. See if they can come and pick you up.’

  She argued a little more and I told her she had no choice for now but to come with me. I needed to get her moving while the road was still quiet. I took hold of her upper arm and gripped firmly. She winced.

  ‘You’re hurting me arm,’ she complained in her north-eastern accent.

  ‘Can’t have you running off again, can we?’ I explained. She huffed, her skin was as soft as warm water under my fingers. She would bruise easily. I relaxed my grip somewhat. I didn’t want to leave an impression of my hand in her soft skin. ‘Come on. My car’s around the corner.’

  ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do than hassle me?’ she asked, her accent increasingly annoying.

  ‘Saving you from yourself, young lady,’ I answered. ‘These streets are no place for someone like you. There’s a lot of bad people out there.’

  She huffed again.

  We reached my rented car without incident. No one had seen us. I’d checked the route several times before. It wasn’t overlooked by any residential buildings. No matter how busy King’s Cross and the Euston Road were, the side streets were more often than not deserted of life. Just the occasional vermin looking for a whore.

  I stood her by the boot of the car, so she was slightly side-on to me. I opened the boot, which was already lined with plastic sheets. I’d bought them a few weeks ago from Homebase. You use them for decorating.

  Fear flashed into her body. It electrified her every muscle, every nerve. Her eyes widened and her pupils dilated. ‘What’s this for?’ she was almost pleading.

  I smashed my right fist into her jaw, careful to avoid her mouth. I didn’t want to leave my skin on her teeth. She spun around on the spot and began to fall. I caught her as she did. She was limp. Moaning quietly.

  With almost no effort
I threw her into the boot of the big saloon. I picked up the roll of gaffer tape, another purchase from Homebase, and neatly bound her wrists behind her back. I also bound her ankles, knees, and gagged her pretty mouth. I looked around calmly. Still no one in sight. I stroked the pale skin around her neck. God, I wanted to slice it open right there. I slammed the boot shut before I lost control. All in good time, I told myself. All in good time.

  I drove east along the Pentonville Road. Through wealthy Islington, immigrant-swamped Shoreditch, decaying Mile End and immediately forgettable Plaistow. Finally I reached my chosen destination. A large piece of wasteland in South Hornchurch, not far from the Dagenham Ford factory. A suitably grim and dark place for little Heather Freeman to meet her end.

  I drove along the clean tarmac road to a small brick building in the middle of the waste ground and parked close. I put on a pair of rubber gloves and made sure my coat was fully buttoned. When I opened the boot, she was lying on her side. Tears ran down her face and across the tape over her mouth. Her wet eyes shone like the purest diamonds. I wondered if she had ever looked more beautiful. She was too terrified to manage much more than a whimper.

  I pushed her face into the plastic sheets and turned her on to her stomach. Her crying became more desperate. I grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and by the tape around her knees and lifted her easily out of the boot. She was even slighter than I imagined. I carried her like an old suitcase into the building and threw her on the hard, cold ground. If she hadn’t been gagged, she would have called out in pain.

  I grabbed her hair and pulled her face close. Those beautiful eyes stared into mine. ‘I’m going to cut you free now. Do as I say and you’ll live. Fuck up or scream and you die. You die slowly. Understand?’ She closed her eyes and nodded frantically.

  I pulled the knife out and made sure she saw it. She was squealing again behind the tape. She pulled away from me. I yanked her back painfully. She got the message.