DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 6-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network, The Toy Taker and The Jackdaw. Luke Delaney

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СКАЧАТЬ Two weeks later

      Sean sat alone in his office. He waded through a mountain of requests from the Crown Prosecution Service, most totally unreasonable, nothing more than an evidential wish list. It was clear they weren’t entirely happy with the evidence against Sebastian Gibran. Neither was he.

      He thought of Sally. He missed having her around the place. Everyone did. He wondered if he would ever see her barrelling around the office again, filling it with life. She remained in Intensive Care, but she had phases of consciousness and was expected to live. During one of those phases she had confirmed that Gibran was her attacker.

      A knock at his open door made Sean look up. A uniform constable he didn’t recognize stood waiting to be acknowledged.

      ‘Yes?’

      The constable entered and held an A4 brown envelope out for Sean to take.

      ‘This arrived in the Front Office,’ he said. ‘It’s addressed to you.’

      Sean half-stood and leaned over his desk. More CPS requests, no doubt. Thanking the constable, he took the envelope.

      The exotic stamps told Sean this envelope didn’t contain memos from the CPS, or anything of that nature. It had been sent from Singapore. Placing the envelope carefully on his desk, he patted it gingerly, feeling for small hard objects: the telltale signs of a letter bomb. It was something he had never done before Korsakov and Gibran came into his life.

      There were no suspicious lumps. All the same, Sean opened it carefully, cutting a fine edge away from the side of the envelope with a pair of scissors. He avoided the folded areas where he was meant to tear it open. Just in case.

      He remembered himself almost too late. Dropping the envelope, he pulled open his bottom drawer and reached for the box of latex gloves kept there. He pulled a pair on, his hands feeling instantly hot and sweaty. Then he picked the envelope up and spilled the contents on to his desk.

      The first items to emerge were photographs. Excellent quality. Colour. They appeared to have been taken by a professional. He recognized both of the two men in the shots: Paul Jarratt and Stefan Korsakov. The pictures formed a sequence covering about thirty seconds. Korsakov handing Jarratt a plain brown envelope. Jarratt opening it. Half-pulling fifty-pound notes from inside. Pushing them back in. A handshake. Jarratt walking away. DI Reger would be very interested in the pictures.

      As he shuffled through the photographs, a folded piece of paper fell out. A letter. He opened it. It had only been folded once. He saw the blue handwriting, neat, but not ornate. Clear, but not printed. There was no sender’s name and address. It could only have been from one person. He began to read.

       Thought these might come in useful. I used them to ensure his loyalty for a time, but I have no use for him now. He failed me. He shouldn’t have done that. I only regret I won’t be able to give evidence at his trial.

       Sorry about skipping off. I’m sure you understand. I had no intention of becoming a corpse for the media vultures to pick over. Your fault entirely. I haven’t forgotten.

       Imagine Gibran thinking he could outwit me. I look forward to seeing him again. I’ll have a nice little surprise waiting for that jumped-up fucker.

       How are my wife and children? Crying for my return, no doubt. They don’t know what they pray for. If they did, they wouldn’t.

       I’m sure we’ll meet again. I feel I still owe you something.

      Sean held the letter for a long time. He had hoped he’d heard the last of Stefan Korsakov, but in his heart he knew he hadn’t. Korsakov liked games too much.

      His desk phone rang, making him jump. He tossed the letter aside and answered. It was Kate.

      ‘How you doing today?’ she asked. She had called him a lot more often these last two weeks. He used to seem so invulnerable. Now there was something tenuous about him. As if he might easily be snatched away.

      ‘I’m doing all right,’ he said, before she could continue. ‘Listen, I was thinking. Maybe we should get out of London.’

      ‘And move where?’ Kate asked.

      ‘Well,’ Sean answered, ‘I got an email the other day. The police in New Zealand are looking to recruit British cops. I can even do a direct transfer as a DI. We’d get full residency. The kids would love it.’

      ‘And me?’ Kate asked.

      ‘Come on, Kate,’ he reassured her. ‘You’re a doctor. There isn’t a country in the world doesn’t want more doctors.’

      ‘What brought this on?’ Kate asked cheerfully.

      Sean looked at the letter on his desk. ‘Nothing,’ he lied, remembering how close he’d been to falling off the edge – remembering being alone in the toilet, staring into the mirror and seeing the swirling darkness of his nature. ‘I guess I’m just sick of the traffic.’

      Free, I was a thing of nightmares. Now, in my cage, I have become the object of morbid fascination. You lock me away to lock your fears away. You view me from a safe distance. The newspapers and television your window into my cage. The gaps between the bars through which you peer.

      And what is it that scares you most? Is it that there’s a little bit of me in all of you? That little bit of madness waiting to be let loose? When that person standing too close on the underground stamps on your foot, they apologize and you tell them it’s all right. It doesn’t matter, but really you want to stamp on their head until blood and brains cover your feet, but you swallow the violence down. Keep the madness deep inside.

      As for me, I’m not finished yet. The British legal system will give me a chance. Anything is possible. The judge will call my arrest and prosecution a travesty. The police will be lambasted. The media will rally to my cause. I’ll be interviewed by Jeremy Paxman. I’ll walk free from the court. Will there be cheering crowds? So many other killers have been greeted by cheering crowds, why not me? I’ll raise my arms in victory as I walk towards the waiting photographers. I’ll call to them. ‘Innocent. Proven innocent.’

       THE KEEPER

      Luke Delaney

       Copyright

       Harper

      An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

      HarperCollins Publishers

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      London SE1 9GF

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