DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 5-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network and The Toy Taker. Luke Delaney

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      ‘Probably,’ Sean agreed. ‘What a bloody mess.’

      ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave when we practice to deceive,’ Donnelly added.

      Sean took over: ‘Jonnie the barman has just taken a significant step forward as a viable suspect, so let’s find him. And let’s find out who else had Daniel’s back at the nightclub. And while we’re at it, let’s find Paramore too. We need to speak to all of them – and soon.’

      ‘All right, everybody,’ said Donnelly, stepping on as soon as he judged Sean had finished. ‘You’ve all got plenty to be getting on with, so let’s hustle. And make sure you return all completed actions back to me as soon as they’re ready. You get the jigsaw pieces and I solve the puzzle, remember?’

      The meeting broke up, the few detectives who had been there swiftly exiting the briefing room. Other than Sean, Donnelly was the last to leave. He nodded to Sean on his way out, moving a little faster than normal, but not so anyone would have noticed. Instead of returning to the incident room with everyone else, he headed for the fire exit and walked down two flights of stairs to the main part of the station. Still moving fast, he made his way to a small room that housed two old photocopying machines. It also had a phone. The room was empty. Donnelly picked up the phone and dialled.

      DS Samra answered. ‘Hello.’

      ‘Raj. It’s Dave.’

      ‘David.’ Samra sounded cautious. ‘What you after?’

      ‘That little matter I discussed with Jimmy Dawson and yourself …’ He let it hang, waiting for Samra to respond.

      ‘I remember,’ Samra confirmed.

      ‘Change of plan.’

      ‘I’m listening.’

      ‘I’m not just interested in homosexual murders now. I need to know about anything nasty, and I need to know first.’

      ‘How nasty we talking?’

      ‘Stranger attacks. Lack of motive, lots of mess. Anything sexual too. I’m not interested in domestics, gang-related, drugs or drunks.’

      ‘I’ll do my best,’ Raj said.

      ‘Same as before,’ Donnelly continued. ‘Spread the word, but keep it quiet. Remember, I need to know first.’ He hung up.

      Raj looked at his phone for a moment, then he began to make some calls. He called DS Jimmy Dawson first. If Jimmy was happy to do as Donnelly said, then so was he.

      Hellier stood by the window in the office of one of the other junior partners. They drank coffee and shared a few sexist jokes. Their perfect secretary was the brunt of much of their posturing and sexual boasting. It was as well she couldn’t hear them.

      Hellier meant little of what he said. It was important to engage in this sort of social discourse with his colleagues once in a while. Especially now, following his arrest. The innuendo that he was gay could be more damaging than being suspected of murder. Ridiculous people.

      His mood was excellent this morning. He would have paid a considerable sum to have been a fly on the wall when Corrigan found out he’d slipped past them. They’d look like fools a few more times before he was finished.

      And then, when the time was perfect, he’d disappear. Leave this God-cursed place and start again. But first Corrigan needed breaking. He’d sworn it. Corrigan had humiliated him and now he would pay a heavy price. The Italians say revenge is a dish best served cold. He didn’t agree. His would be served scalding hot.

      The perfect secretary knocked on the open door. He shook the daydreaming from his head.

      ‘What is it, Samantha?’ Hellier’s colleague asked.

      She looked at Hellier. ‘It’s actually Mr Hellier I need to see.’

      Hellier stood away from the window sill. He smiled pleasantly. ‘Fire away.’

      ‘I have someone on the phone for you, sir, but they won’t give me a name or tell me what it’s about.’

      Fucking journalists. Fucking Corrigan. ‘Well, get rid of them then.’

      Strangely, Samantha hesitated at the door, her obedience faltering.

      Hellier saw the hesitation. ‘Well?’ he asked.

      ‘They sound quite desperate, sir. They claim to have very important information for you. They’ll only speak to you personally and in private.’

      Hellier’s eyes narrowed. ‘Put the call through to my office.’

      Sally walked to the Headquarters of the National Criminal Intelligence Service, known as NCIS, situated in Spring Gardens, Lambeth, close to both the forensic laboratory and the nightclub where Daniel Graydon had spent his last night. NCIS remained low profile. You wouldn’t know they were there unless you were looking hard.

      She had abandoned her car to the mercy of traffic wardens and small-time thieves. Life still functioned at the base level in Lambeth. Survival of the fittest was the nature of the game here. Any respect or fear the local population had for the police had long since disappeared. They lived by their own laws now.

      Security was expectedly tight at the NCIS building. Sally buzzed the video intercom and waited. A soulless male voice eventually answered.

      ‘State your business, please.’

      ‘DS Jones, Serious Crime Group. Here to see DS Graham Wright. I believe he works in Counterfeit Currency.’ She held her warrant card up to the camera. The door was opened after a slight delay. She walked to the reception desk. The security guard was already waiting for her. He gave her a visitor’s name tag and directions to the Counterfeit Currency section. She nodded thanks and moved towards the lift.

      When she reached the office she found DS Wright sitting at his desk. He was a fit-looking man in his early forties. His dark hair was matched by clear olive skin. She found him attractive. ‘DS Graham Wright?’ she asked.

      He glanced up from his desk. ‘Yes. That’s me.’

      ‘I’m DS Sally Jones, from SCG.’ She felt Wright’s eyes scan her from head to toes and back.

      ‘And what can I do for you, DS Jones?’

      ‘Please,’ she told him. ‘Call me Sally.’

      ‘Well, Sally?’

      ‘Fingerprints,’ she said. ‘Missing fingerprints.’ She studied him for a reaction. Maybe a hint of confusion, but nothing more. ‘Back in ninety-nine, you took a set of fingerprints out of the Yard.’

      ‘Ninety-nine?’ Wright protested. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to remember back that far. Whose prints were they?’

      ‘Stefan Korsakov’s,’ she answered. Wright flushed a little. She noticed it. ‘You remember?’

      ‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘I remember.’

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