Stalkers
Stalkers
Paul Finch
Get #HookedonHeck with the first book in the #1 bestselling DS Mark Heckenburg series."All he had to do was name the woman he wanted. It was that easy. They would do all the hard work."Detective Sergeant Mark 'Heck' Heckenburg is investigating the disappearance of 38 different women. Each one was happy and successful until they vanished without a trace.Desperate to find her missing sister, Lauren Wraxford seeks out Heck’s help. Together they enter a seedy underworld of gangsters and organised crime.But when they hear rumours about the so-called 'Nice Guys Club' they hit a brick wall. They're the gang that no one will talk about. Because the Nice Guys can arrange anything you want. Provided you pay the price…Dark, terrifying and unforgettable. Stalkers will keep fans of Stuart MacBride and Katia Lief looking over their shoulder.
Copyright (#ulink_d0c42b4b-ad7f-5df2-a1e7-be35c457f501)
AVON
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Copyright © Paul Finch 2013
Paul Finch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007492299
Ebook Edition © February 2013 ISBN: 9780007492305
Version: 2018-10-02
Dedication (#ulink_e8dbf8a3-4b98-50eb-ad20-dd01df2c6a39)
For Mum and Dad, whose encouragement never flagged
Contents
Cover (#u0774667e-1f95-5928-8b5c-6339e6fd6f9f)
Title Page (#u47356111-47b9-5d5e-b31f-2810a819c0a9)
Copyright (#u6ac48019-a917-5f94-bfc1-fafcfc6116c0)
Dedication (#ub6ac2ee1-3130-5300-9d70-cc164946c92f)
Prologue (#ucfe1fc0a-f626-5d12-b514-8be08c807847)
Chapter 1 (#u6756bc5e-d7f4-570a-9f14-ca7123bdfb14)
Chapter 2 (#ub5c2c3aa-fd6e-5283-9fd2-a55df04f5a72)
Chapter 3 (#ud0c00a51-1992-5027-b769-19ba3614d2b3)
Chapter 4 (#u67cb41c5-cd38-5790-902b-f3d780bf6ae0)
Chapter 5 (#u8d46f1ef-a8ed-5158-a986-0972458932e3)
Chapter 6 (#u93953639-233c-5686-ac40-1a8270d3130c)
Chapter 7 (#uf90421f7-0465-5625-b104-c4fdbd40043d)
Chapter 8 (#u0a92ea5f-2072-5403-88f9-3e3366d9d6f8)
Chapter 9 (#u6239045d-ddff-5ec1-a7f5-f03db9297338)
Chapter 10 (#udb6ed010-6f53-5eac-a1ed-d42d82be207e)
Chapter 11 (#ua4eaf6a4-6f88-5b57-9cd8-43c457e8c140)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_705372d6-07ae-53da-a705-cfbb3fcc7cd5)
The night before, they met up one final time to go through the plan.
They were consummate professionals. Each one of them knew his role to the last. Nothing had been left to chance: they’d researched the target thoroughly; any possible glitch had been considered and accounted for. Timing would be all-important, but as they’d rehearsed exhaustively there were no real concerns. Of course, the target wouldn’t be keeping to a schedule, so there were potential problems there. But they’d be in full contact with each other throughout by phone, and one of the things experience had taught them was how to think on their feet and, if necessary, improvise. Another was patience. If the schedule slipped drastically, to the point where there might be genuine variables to deal with, they’d withdraw, regroup and move again on a later date.
It was always best to keep things safe and simple. But good planning was the whole thing: gathering intelligence, assimilating it and then striking at exactly the right moment with speed and practised precision. And in many ways that was its own reward. As job satisfaction went, there was nothing quite like it.
After they’d run things through a couple of times, they treated themselves to a drink; a bottle of thirty-year-old Glen Albyn bought with the proceeds of the last mission. And while they drank, they destroyed all the data they’d accumulated during the prep: written documentation, drawn plans, photographs, timetables, tapes containing audio information, memory sticks loaded with footage shot by mobile phones or digital cameras. They placed it all in a brazier, on top of logs and kindling, doused it with lighter-fluid and torched it.
On the off-chance something did go wrong and they had to start the whole process again – the trailing, the observing, the intelligence-gathering – they would do it without question or complaint. Proficiency was all; they didn’t believe in taking shortcuts. In any case, with minds as focused as theirs, much of the key detail would be retained in their memories. They’d only had to delay things once previously, and on that occasion the second run had been much easier than the first.
As they watched it all burn, the hot sparks spiralling into the night sky, they slapped each other’s shoulders and drank toasts: for good luck – which they wouldn’t need; and for the catch – which they’d enjoy as much as the chase. They’d almost finished the Glen Albyn, but if they woke up in the morning with muzzy heads, it wouldn’t matter: the mission was only due to commence late in the day. They’d be fine. They were on form, on top of their game, a well-oiled machine. And of course it would help that the target didn’t have an inkling and would get up with the alarm clock, prepared for nothing more than another routine day.
That was the way most women seemed to live. How often it was their undoing.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_38bf6931-abb4-5930-9e6f-e61fa90d239b)
There was something innately relaxing about Friday evenings in London.
They were especially pleasant in late August. As five o’clock came and went, and the minute hand progressed steadily around towards six, you could feel the city unwinding beneath the balmy, dust-filled sky. The chaos of its streets was as wild and noisy as ever – the rivers of traffic flowed and tooted, the sidewalks thronged with bustling pedestrians – yet the ‘grump’ was absent. People were still rushing, yes, but now they were rushing to get somewhere where they wanted to be, not because they were on a time-clock.
In the offices of Goldstein & Hoff, on the sixth floor of Branscombe Court in the heart of the capital’s glittering Square Mile, Louise Jennings felt exactly the same way. She had ten minutes’ worth of paperwork to finish, and then the weekend officially began – and how she was anticipating it. She was out riding on Saturday morning, and in the afternoon was shopping for a new outfit as they had a rotary club dinner that evening. Sunday would just be a nice, lazy day, which, if the weather reports were anything to go by, they could spend in the garden or on a drive into the Chilterns.
Louise was a secretary by trade, but that job-title might have been a little misleading. She was actually a ‘senior secretary’; she had several staff of her own, was ensconced for most of the working day in her private office, and answered directly to Mr Malcolm Forester, who was MD of Goldstein & Hoff’s Compliance department. She turned over a neat forty thousand pounds per annum, which wasn’t bad for an ex-secondary school girl from Burnt Oak, and was held in high esteem by most of the company’s employees, particularly the men – though this might have owed as much to her shapely thirty-year-old figure, long strawberry-blonde hair and pretty blue eyes as to her intellect. Not that Louise minded. She was spoken for – she’d been married to Alan for six years now, and had dated him for three years before that. But she enjoyed being attractive. It made her husband proud, and so long as other men restricted themselves to looking, she had no gripes. If she was honest, her looks were a weapon in her armoury. Few in the financial sector, of either sex, were what you’d call ‘reconstructed’. It was a patriarchal society, and though the potential was always there for women to wield great power, they still had to look and behave like women. When Louise had first been interviewed for a job with Goldstein & Hoff, she’d been under strict orders from Alan to make the best of herself – to wear a smart tight skirt, high heels, a clingy, low-cut blouse. It had got her the job, and had remained her official uniform ever since.
Okay, on one hand it might be a little demeaning to consider that you’d only advanced through life because you were gorgeous, but that was never the whole story. Louise was highly qualified, but so were numerous other women; in which case, anything that gave you an edge was to be embraced.
It was just after six when she got away, hurrying across the road to Mad Jack’s, where Simone, Nicola and Carly, her three underlings – all of whom had been released at the generous ‘Friday afternoon only’ time of four-thirty – would be waiting for her.
Mad Jack’s, a onetime gin palace dating from Dickens’s day, had been refurbished for the modern age, but still reeked of atmosphere. Behind its traditional wood and glass entrance was a dimly-lit interior, arranged on split-levels and filled wherever you looked with timber beams, hardwood panelling and exposed brickwork. As always at this time of the week, it was crowded to its outer doors with shouting, besuited revellers. The noise level was astonishing. Guffaws echoed from wall to wall; there was a clashing of glasses and a banging of tables and chairs on the solid oak floor. It could have been worse of course: Louise had started at Goldstein & Hoff before the smoking-ban had been introduced, and back in those days the place was fogged with cigar fumes.
The four girls made a little enclave for themselves in one of the far corners, and settled down. They ordered a salad each, though with a central order of chips accompanied by mayo and ketchup dips. Louise made sure to drink only a couple of Chardonnays with hers. It wasn’t just that she was the boss and therefore had a responsibility to behave with wisdom and decorum, but she had to drive some of the way home. Nevertheless, it was a part of the week that they all looked forward to; a time for the sort of rude quips that were strictly forbidden during company hours (at least, on Louise’s watch). Occasionally other colleagues would drag up stools and join them, men to drunkenly flirt or women to share tasty snippets they’d just picked up. At some point that evening it would assume the dimensions of a free-for-all. By seven-thirty, Carly was onto her sixth Southern Comfort and coke and Nicola was in a deep conversation with a handsome young chap from Securities. The ornately glazed doors crashed open as yet more City guys piled in. There were further multi-decibel greetings, increased roars of laughter. The place was starting to smell of sweat as well as alcohol, and, checking her watch, Louise decided that she’d soon be on her way.
Before heading for home, she went downstairs into the basement, where the lavatories were. The ladies was located at the end of a short passage, alongside several other doors – two marked ‘Staff Only’, one marked ‘Gents’. When she entered, it was empty. She went into one of the cubicles, hiked her skirt up, lowered her tights and sat down.
And heard someone come into the room after her.
Louise expected the normal ‘click-click-click’ of heels progressing to one of the other cubicles or to the mirror over the washbasins. But for the briefest time there was no sound at all. Then she heard it – the slow stump of flat shoes filled by heavy feet.
They advanced a couple of yards and then halted. Louise found herself listening curiously. Why did she suddenly have the feeling that whoever it was had stopped just on the other side of her door? She glanced down. From this angle it was impossible to see beneath the door, but she was suddenly convinced there was someone there, listening.
She glanced at the lock. It was fully engaged.
The silence continued for several seconds, before the feet moved away.
Louise struggled not to exhale with relief. She was being absurd, she realised. There was nothing to worry about. She was only seven or eight feet below the brawling bedlam that was Mad Jack’s on a Friday evening.
Once more the feet halted.
Louise listened again. Had they entered one of the other cubicles? Almost certainly they had, but there was no sound of a door being closed or a lock being thrown. And now that she was listening particularly hard, she fancied she could hear breathing – steady, regular, but also deep and husky. Like a man’s breathing.
Maybe it was a member of staff, a caretaker or repairman? She was about to clear her throat, to let him know that there was a woman in here, when it suddenly struck her as a bad idea. Suppose it wasn’t a member of staff?
The breathing continued, and the feet moved again across the room; more dull heavy thuds on the tiled floor, getting louder. Whoever it was, they were backtracking along the front of the row of cubicles.
Unconsciously, Louise raised a knuckle to her mouth. Was he going to stop outside her door again?
But he didn’t.
He stumped heavily past, veering away across the room. A second later, she heard the lavatories’ main door open and close. And then there was silence.
Louise waited. Still there was silence.
Eventually she stood, pulled her tights back up, pushed her skirt down, cautiously disengaged the lock, and peeked out. She couldn’t see everything, but she appeared to be alone. She took a breath, then rushed across to the door, opened it and went out into the passage – and stopped in her tracks. Halfway up it on the right, one of the other doors was ajar. It was one of those marked ‘Staff Only’ and a thin slice of blackness was visible on the other side. Louise stared at it hard. Was that faint movement she could see through there? Was someone partly concealed but staring back at her?
The door crashed open with a violent bang.
But the man who came through it was young and wearing the pressed black trousers and olive-green t-shirt of the bar-staff. He was carrying a plastic tray filled with gleaming wet crockery. When he saw her and realised that he’d made her jump, he grinned apologetically. ‘Sorry love.’
He sauntered away up the stairs, towards the bar area.
With one hand on her heart, Louise ventured forward and glanced through the door as it swung slowly closed. Beyond it, a darkened corridor with boxes down one side connected with a series of lit rooms, and at its far end, with a door opening out into one of the service alleys behind the building. Several other members of staff were moving around down there.
Feeling foolish, she hurried on upstairs and rejoined the others.
Louise finally left the premises, briefcase in hand, just before eight. It was a five-minute walk down to Bank, where she took the Central Line to Oxford Circus. There, she changed to the Bakerloo.
She rode down the escalator to the northbound line, and when she got to the bottom found that she was alone. This might have been odd at any other time of day, but it was now Friday evening and most travellers would have been headed into town rather than away from it. The arched passageways were equally deserted, yet Louise had only walked a few yards when she thought she heard footsteps somewhere behind her. She stopped and listened, but now heard nothing.
She strolled through onto the platform. Again, no one else was present. A gust of warm wind blew a few scraps of waste paper along the gleaming tracks. And then she heard the footsteps again – apparently drawing closer. Discomforted, she gazed back along the passage, seeing nothing but expecting someone to come into view.
No one did. And now the footsteps stopped. It was almost as though whoever it was had sensed that she was waiting for him.
A train groaned into the station behind her.
Relieved, she climbed aboard.
At Marylebone, back among commuters, she bought an evening paper and had a coffee before boarding an overland train to High Wycombe. It was now close to eight-thirty. There was no real rush – Alan, who owned his own insurance company, spent his Friday afternoons on the golf course and would be in the clubhouse bar until well after eleven, but it was always good to feel you were almost home. She glanced through the window as she sped along. In the smoky dusk, the drear West London suburbs gradually blended with the woods and fields of the Home Counties. Darkness was encroaching fast; twenty-five minutes later, when she left the train at Gerrards Cross, it had fallen completely.
She was alone again, and it was very quiet. But she wasn’t worried – this was entirely normal. Gerrards Cross was a typical South Bucks country town, so small that it was actually more of a village. Being the most expensive postcode outside London, it was way too upmarket to have a lively night-life, even on Fridays. Its main street, which ran through it from one end to the other, boasted a few bars and restaurants, but these were quality establishments; pub-crawlers and binge-drinkers never darkened their doors.
Louise left the station, which was unmanned at this hour, and followed a hedged side-path down towards the parking area. Gerrards Cross railway station was built in a deep cutting, on a much lower level than the town itself, so its car park was a dark, secluded spot at the best of times. Now, as she descended the steeply sloping path from the station, she noted that several of its electric floodlights were not working. What was more, as the car park came into view she thought that her car was missing.
She stopped, surprised, but then spotted it. It was the only vehicle left and it was down at the farthest end, under the low, leafy boughs of a very ancient chestnut tree. Thanks to the damaged lights, that particular corner was deep in gloom. She set off walking.
And heard footsteps again.
She halted and glanced over her shoulder.
The path curved away behind, so she could only see twenty yards along it. There was no one in sight, and the footsteps abruptly stopped.
Louise continued to peer behind her. The slope of the station roof was visible over the hedge. Beyond that, higher up, there were lights along the balustrade of the bridge – it was possible she’d heard someone crossing it on foot. But again, there was no sign of anyone.
She started out across the car park, which was perhaps two hundred yards long by fifty wide and was bordered on its right-hand side by thick undergrowth. Louise now imagined she could hear movement in this undergrowth: a persistent crackling of foliage, as if something heavy was pushing its way through. An animal, she told herself. This part of the county was alive with badgers and foxes, especially at night.
Then she saw the figure sitting against the trunk of the chestnut tree.
She stopped short, a cold chill down her spine.
Was it a tramp, a hobo of some sort? You rarely, if ever, saw anyone like that in this exclusive district. He was slumped and ragged, and wearing what looked like a dirty old coat, tatters of which were moving in the breeze.
But then she realised what she was actually seeing.
The ragged, bundled object ‘seated’ against the tree-trunk was nothing more than a bin-bag stuffed with rubbish and waste paper.
Again feeling ridiculous, Louise hurried on.
The car was still half-hidden in murk. Its near-side, where the driver’s door was, was up against the undergrowth, and the narrow gap this afforded was completely hidden in shadow. But now Louise just wanted to get home. She was spooking herself with all these daft, pointless worries. So she went deliberately and boldly around to the driver’s side, acutely aware of the deep undergrowth at her back as she fiddled with the key-fob. But she could no longer hear movement in it, and even if she could, so what? It was summer. Birds would be roosting in there. She was only a few hundred yards from the Packhorse Common, where wild deer had been sighted. In any case, there was no sound now.
She unlocked the car, threw her briefcase into the back and climbed in behind the wheel. A moment later, she’d gunned the engine, and was on her way out.
She left Gerrards Cross via the B416, heading south towards Slough. At Stoke Poges she turned right and continued west along narrow, unnamed lanes. It was a breezy but warm night, so she had her window partially wound down. Moths and other bugs fluttered in her headlights. The eyes of a cat sparkled as it slid across the road in front of her. At Farnham Common she swung south towards Burnham. Belts of trees growing on either side of the road hemmed her in a tunnel, their branches interlacing overhead like fingers.
Louise had relaxed again. She was only three miles from the snug comforts of home.
But with a thunderous bang, she lost control of the vehicle. It lurched violently downward and slewed across the road, the steering wheel spinning in her hands. She jammed her brakes on, skidding to a halt with a fearsome screech.
When finally at rest against the verge, she sat there, stunned. The only sound was the engine ticking as it cooled. She jumped out.
What she saw left her astounded: her front two tyres hung in shreds around their wheel-trims. It was the same with her rear tyres. They’d literally been ripped to pieces; spokes of broken ply-cord poked out from them. She walked around the vehicle in a circle, scarcely able to comprehend the misfortune of it. One blow-out would have been bad enough; she’d never changed a wheel before and thought she could probably do it, but here – in the middle of the woods, at this time of night? Not that it mattered now, because she didn’t have spares for all four of them.
She fumbled in her jacket pocket for her mobile phone. She’d have to call Alan. Okay, he was at the golf club and would probably have had too many drinks to drive, but there might be someone who could come and pick her up. If not, he’d know what to do.
Then Louise spotted something else.
The phone was now in her hand, but her finger froze on the keypad.
About forty yards behind the car, something glinted with moonlight as it lay across the road. She walked slowly towards it, but stopped when she was only halfway.
It was a ‘stinger’ – at least, that’s what she thought they were called. One of those retractable beds of nails that police use to stop getaway cars after bank robberies. Someone had deliberately left it across the road.
Louise realised that she was shaking. She backtracked towards the car. Had some hooligans done this, some idiotic bunch of kids who had no better way to waste their time? Or was it something more sinister? Not allowing herself to think about the latter option, and certainly not glancing into the unlit reaches of woodland on all sides, she scrambled back to the car and yanked open the driver’s door.
She paused briefly to consider: she couldn’t drive on her hubcaps of course. But she could lock herself in. Yes, that was what she’d do. She’d lock herself in and call for help. She climbed behind the wheel, closed the door and made to apply the locks when she sensed the presence, just to the left of her.
Slowly, she twisted around to look.
He was in the front passenger seat, having clearly climbed in while she’d been distracted by the stinger. He was of heavy build and wore dark clothing: a bulky leather jacket and underneath that a ‘hoodie’ top with the hood actually pulled back. His hair was thinning and he had a pair of huge, jug-handle ears. But he had no nose – just a gristle-filled cavity – and no eyelids, while the rest of his face was a patchwork of puffy, raddled scar tissue.
Louise tried to scream, but a thick hand in a leather glove slapped onto her mouth. A second hand, also gloved, fastened around her throat.
And began to squeeze.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_4c27954b-b2a4-567b-9979-48ac5ae6f85a)
It was typical Bermondsey – scrap yards, wasteland, litter, graffiti running over everything.
Heck drove through it with a jaundiced eye, thinking only that his battered old Fiat Brava matched this decayed environment perfectly. To his left somewhere lay the river, delineated by the occasional crane or wharf-tower. He passed a row of boarded-up buildings on his right. A bag-lady sat on the kerb, her knees spread indecently wide as she drank from a bottle of cheap wine. Directly ahead, derelict tower blocks – bleak edifices of stained concrete and broken glass – were framed on the slate-grey sky.
He drove on, too weary to be oppressed by such a scene.
The appointed meeting-place turned out to be a crossroads close to a low railway arch. Corrugated steel fences hemmed it in from all sides and there was a single streetlight, its bulb long smashed. On the left, a mound of flattened brick rubble provided sufficient room for parking. However, Heck cruised on past, surveying the place carefully. There was nobody there, which, checking his watch – it was now ten minutes to six – was not surprising. He was early for the rendezvous, but at this hour on a Sunday morning there was unlikely to be anyone about in this desolate neck of the woods. He passed under the arch and drove another three hundred yards until a broken fence and a patch of scorched ground afforded him a turning-space. After that, driving slowly this time, he made his way back.
At the crossroads, another vehicle was now present. A maroon Bentley had parked, and a tall, lean man was standing against it, reading the Sunday Sport. He wore a black suit and had short hair bleached a shocking blonde. When Heck saw the car and the man, he groaned with disbelief. In truth, he hadn’t expected a great deal from this meeting. The voice on his office answering-machine had been abrupt and to the point, stating simply that it had information he might find useful. It had then given a time and place, and had rung off. When Heck had traced it, the call had been made from a payphone somewhere in South London. He’d received dozens of similar things over the last few months, but on this occasion, perhaps because he was so dog-tired, he’d started thinking irrationally; he’d wondered if maybe he’d get a break simply because he was due one.
Not so apparently. It was another false dawn.
He pulled up on the opposite side of the crossroads and climbed from his Fiat. He knew that he looked like shit: he was groggy with fatigue, sallow-faced, unshaven. His jacket and tie were rumpled, his shirt stained from drips of late-night coffee.
Heck idled across the road, hands in his trouser pockets. The tall, blond man, whose name was Dale Loxton, glanced up over his newspaper. This close, his otherwise smart appearance was belied by the ugly, jagged scar down his left cheek and the fanged snakehead tattoo on the side of his neck. He wore black leather gloves.
Heck sensed that another figure had appeared from a concealed position to his right. It was Lennie ‘the Loon’ Asquith: he was burly, almost ape-like. He too wore a black suit and black leather gloves, but he had long, greasy red hair and a brutal face pock-marked with acne scars. Neither of the men was smiling.
‘Regular double-act, you two, aren’t you?’ Heck said.
Loxton folded his paper. ‘Mr Ballamara would like a word with you.’
‘And I’d like to get home and find Jessica Alba making my breakfast wearing only an apron and high heels. What are the chances of that, do you reckon?’
‘It’s just a little chat,’ Loxton said, opening the Bentley’s rear off-side door.
Asquith had advanced until he was very close and now stood there like a rock, his big arms folded across his barrel chest. Heck knew he had no option. Not that he fancied it. Even ‘little chats’ with Bobby Ballamara had a habit of turning nasty.
He climbed in and Loxton closed the door behind him. The car’s interior was plush, all fragrant leather and varnished woodwork. Ballamara, as always, immaculate in a pinstriped suit with a shirt and tie of pink silk and a pink handkerchief peeking from his breast pocket, was engrossed in a copy of The Times. He was an elderly man, maybe sixty, rat-faced, with close-cropped white hair and a white, pencil-thin moustache. To all intents and purposes he looked like an ordinary businessman, until you saw his eyes; they were dead, flat, ice-grey in colour.
‘Ah,’ he said, in his only slightly noticeable Cockney accent. ‘Heck.’
‘My friends call me “Heck”. To you it’s “Detective Sergeant Heckenburg”.’
Ballamara smiled to himself and closed the newspaper.
‘What do you want?’ Heck asked.
‘How’s it going? You making any progress?’
Heck reached up to loosen his tie, only to find that it was already loose; it hung at his throat in a limp knot. ‘Do I look like I am?’
‘You’ve certainly been putting the hours in. There’s no question about that.’
‘Been keeping tabs on me, have you?’
‘Now and then. As a scrupulous tax-payer, I like to know my money’s being well-spent.’
Heck feigned surprise. ‘They tax drugs and prostitution now, do they?’
‘Let’s try and keep this friendly, Heckenburg.’
‘You asking me that, or telling me?’
Ballamara’s smile faded a little. ‘You know, these snappy comebacks may win you kudos with the secretaries in the CID office. But I’d remind you that my daughter has now been missing for two years.’
‘And I’d remind you that a large number of other people’s daughters have been missing for a similar period of time, if not longer. And I’m no more personally answerable to them than I am to you.’
‘You still the only officer on the case?’
‘You know I can’t divulge information regarding an ongoing enquiry.’
Ballamara nodded thoughtfully. ‘Which means you are the only officer on the case. In the whole of the Metropolitan Police only one detective is working on my daughter’s disappearance.’
Heck sighed. He felt like they’d been over this ground umpteen times. ‘I’m not in the Metropolitan Police anymore, Mr Ballamara. I’m with the National Crime Group, as you well know. That means we have less manpower and we’re not only investigating crime in London, we’re investigating it in the whole of England and Wales. However, the point is a good one. So why don’t you lodge your complaint with Commander Laycock at New Scotland Yard? Believe me, I’d like nothing better. Now, if that’s all there is, I’ve been on a surveillance operation all night, I have about six hours of paperwork still to do, and after that I’m off to bed.’
He opened the door and made to climb out, but Asquith was standing on the other side, and slammed it closed again. Heck pulled back sharply, only just managing to avoid smashing his face on the window.
‘Heckenburg, there’s something you should know about me,’ Ballamara said. It was said casually; a simple statement. But the gang leader’s flat, grey eyes had now hardened until they were more like coins. ‘I have personally used the foundations of motorway bridges to bury coppers who were much tougher, much cleverer, and much, much higher up the food-chain than you. You think I’m just going to sit back and let some low-rank pipsqueak keep fobbing me off while my daughter is suffering God knows what?’
Heck rubbed his forehead. ‘I’m doing what I can.’
‘It isn’t enough.’
‘There’s no case, alright?’ Heck stared at him as earnestly as he could. ‘I’ve told you this before. Your Noreen went missing. I’m sorry about that, but she was nineteen and a big girl. She had money, she had her independence – she’s hardly what you’d class as a vulnerable person. You need to accept the possibility that she might have disappeared because she wanted to.’
‘She was out with her mates in the West End,’ Ballamara reminded him. ‘It was their usual Saturday night get-together. All she had with her was her handbag and the very skimpy clothes she was standing up in. The next day I searched her flat, myself. The wardrobes were still full. All her suitcases were there, her passport was in the fucking drawer, for Christ’s sake.’
Heck didn’t really know how to reply. They’d had this conversation over and over, and in any case the gangster was preaching to the converted. Heck also believed that Noreen Ballamara had fallen victim to foul play, and, in that respect, his toeing the ‘official’ line was becoming thankless and tiresome.
‘Look Ballamara,’ he finally said, ‘you need to understand …’
‘Mister Ballamara, while we’re insisting on formalities.’
‘Mr Ballamara, it’s not me you’ve got to convince. But with no body, no crime scene and basically no evidence of anything at all, I’m pissing in the wind. At present, all we can do is class Noreen as a missing person.’
‘And what about all the others?’
‘The same thing. There’s no proof that any of these disappearances are connected.’
‘You don’t think it’s a hell of a coincidence?’
‘Look at the bigger picture. Thousands of people drop out of sight every year, but only a fraction of them in suspicious circumstances.’
Ballamara nodded at this and smiled. ‘In which case, why are you, an officer in the NCG’s Serial Crimes Unit, looking into these particular forty cases?’
‘That’s what my gaffers are wondering.’
‘It isn’t good enough, Heckenburg. I want answers.’
‘What do you think I want?’
‘I don’t give a flying fuck what you want!’ The gangster leaned across and peered into Heck’s face with lupine intensity. He’d now blanched to a very unhealthy shade of white and was so close that his breath filled the cop’s nostrils with a reek of peppermint. When he spoke again, it was in a low, menacing monotone. ‘Now you listen, my son. I’ve had it up to here with this bullshit. So from now on, you aren’t just working for the police – you’re working for me. Consider the fact that you’re still walking around with an intact spine your salary. Now get out and get back on the job, or I’ll personally rearrange your face so your fucking mum wouldn’t recognise it.’
Right on cue, the car door opened again.
Heck found himself being helped out by Asquith, though, with a bunched fist gripping him by the back of his collar, it was the sort of help he probably didn’t need. The door closed with a thud, and then Heck was standing in the road watching as Asquith sidled around the vehicle to the front passenger door, and Loxton made to climb behind the steering wheel.
‘Don’t suppose you lot have been looking for Noreen, have you?’ Heck asked them.
Loxton eyed him as though he couldn’t believe a copper could ask so stupid a question. ‘Course we fucking have.’
‘Any leads you’d care to share?’
‘Dale!’ Ballamara shouted from inside the car. ‘Stop jawing with that fucking waste of space. He hasn’t got time for idle chat.’
Heck stood back as the Bentley swerved off the rubble and drove away in a cloud of dust and debris. In truth, there was any number of things he could have charged Bobby Ballamara with. That morning alone he was good for wasting police time, threatening to kill, unlawful imprisonment, and so on. But these were Mickey Mouse offences, arrests that would only distract from the main story, which was the thirty-eight missing women that Heck had been looking for since the beginning of 2010. What was more, Bobby Ballamara and his boys who, by their own admission, were keeping their ear to the ground, had a potentially useful role to play in this, so alienating them even further would be self-defeating. Besides, for all his bravado, Ballamara was unlikely to whack a copper. He was strictly old school. A vicious, violent racketeer, he wouldn’t hesitate to have a fellow lowlife’s brains beaten out of him if he felt like it. But his traditional gangland ethics made him seem anachronistic in this age of crazy, gun-toting killers who’d think nothing of massacring school-kids should they get in the way.
Heck walked back to his car, only to spot that its front nearside tyre was flat. For an angry moment he assumed that either Asquith or Loxton had got bored while he’d been in conversation with their boss. But then he saw the rusty nail sticking out of it, almost certainly picked up on the patch of burned ground that he’d used as a turning-space earlier. Irritated with his own carelessness, and feeling way too tired for the physical effort now required, he went to the boot for his spare.
That was when it began to rain.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_83ef45b1-af48-56b6-8e61-4f8c2f19a669)
Each time Louise woke up it seemed like she was emerging from a horrific nightmare, only to discover that it was reality.
She was in the boot of a vehicle – she’d realised that much from the rumbling of the engine and the constant jolting and bumping. Her hands were secured behind her back in what felt like a pair of plastic cuffs, which were pulled so tight that they burned into her flesh. Her legs were crooked painfully beneath her because she couldn’t lie full-length in such an enclosed space. It was pitch-black and stiflingly hot; her clothes were damp with sweat, and yet her body was utterly frozen with terror. She didn’t know how long she’d been in here. It seemed like days, though surely it couldn’t have been that long – a day and a night maybe, possibly a little longer? Either way, she was parched with thirst, hunger was gnawing her insides out and the atmosphere was unspeakably foul as she’d urinated on herself at least twice. Yet none of that compared to the mind-numbing fear of what might lie ahead.
A piece of duct-tape had been smacked across her mouth and wrapped around the back of her head so she could barely whimper, let alone scream. A blindfold made of cloth was bound around her eyes. The memory of what had happened on the quiet country road was only vague. Whoever the man was who’d attacked her – if it had been a man (that diabolical face was still imprinted on her mind) – he’d choked her into unconsciousness. But at least that brief instant of agony and dread had been swift. She’d have swapped the merciful oblivion it brought for the prolonged, torturous ordeal that she was going through now. She’d been enclosed in this metal coffin for so long that she’d even slept once or twice, though that was mainly because each time when she’d woken she’d thrashed about frantically until she was exhausted. Louise struggled again, futilely, wailing beneath her gag. The problem was that the boot was claustropho-bically tight and confined; its lid was only a couple of inches above her, and she had no leverage with which to kick against it.
For the thousandth time, her thoughts raced chaotically as she tried to recall the contradictory advice she’d heard over the years about what a woman should do if she was attacked by a rapist. She was sure a police officer on television had said that you should fight, scratch, bite – but what if this antagonised the assailant? Someone else had said that you should plead with him, humanise yourself by talking about your family, your children. But again – what if he was a sadist, and that gave him even more pleasure?
Of course, at the end of the day all this was theory. It had never occurred to Louise that she might at some time be in a position to put such horrors to the test. Even now they barely seemed real. Some thirty-six hours later – it was at least that long, she decided, which made it sometime on Sunday morning – she was still numb with shock, still faint, still nauseated by fear. Fresh sweat seeped through her clothes as she pondered the many possibilities behind her abduction. Above all, Louise clung to the fact that she was still alive so many hours later. She hadn’t been raped yet, or beaten, or murdered. In addition, the car had stopped once – quite a few hours ago now, it seemed – the boot had opened, her gag had briefly been removed and someone who never spoke had forced a plastic straw between her lips, allowing her a few sips of water. Surely all this meant she was more to them than a mere plaything? It seemed increasingly likely that they needed her alive, though she hardly dared anticipate such. Alan was a wealthy guy and Goldstein & Hoff were major players on the international banking scene: obvious targets for ransom demands. In addition, her kidnapper had gone to great trouble to snare her in the first place: she hadn’t just been dragged into an alley. That slow pursuit all the way from the City, the stinger across the country road – clear evidence of deliberation, of forward planning. In some ways that made it even more frightening, but it also gave Louise hope that she was merely a pawn in a larger game. What game that might be, she had no clue; it wasn’t necessarily financial – heaven knew what the top brass in the City sometimes got involved with – but as long as this was not a personal attack against her surely she stood at least a reasonable chance of being released unharmed …?
Very abruptly, the vehicle slid to a halt.
There was a squeal of tyres, and a loud clunk as the handbrake was applied.
Louise lay shuddering as the engine was switched off and two car doors opened and closed simultaneously. This had already happened several times during the course of her imprisonment in here. There was the incident when she was given water, but on the other occasions no one had come to her. Hours had then passed, during which she’d squirmed and wrestled with her bonds, and again had tried to cry out – to no avail. Whoever had taken her was clearly moving her from place to place and, on the few occasions when they’d left her, they chose somewhere very private where not a sound could be heard. In due course, they’d always returned and the car had started up again.
However, that didn’t happen this time.
Icy fingers scurried all over Louise as she listened to the sound of heavy feet approaching. A key was fitted into the lock, there was another clunk, and light spilled down on her; it was so bright after her long hours of confinement that it poured through her blindfold, searing her retinas. When the cloth strap was torn away, she snapped her eyelids shut and averted her face, but rough hands took hold of her. She moaned and went dizzy as they hauled her upright and left her in a sitting position. Blinking rapidly, she tried to adjust her vision, but only after several seconds did everything swim into focus. What she saw proved just how long she’d been peering into empty blackness: it wasn’t glaring sunshine that had half-blinded her, but the gloomy twilight of an underground car park.
Her eyes darted fearfully around, seeing water-marks on concrete pillars, loops of corroded chain hanging from overhead. About twenty yards in front was the hulk of a burned-out vehicle. Beyond that lay deep shadows, cross-cut with occasional shafts of dull, grimy daylight. Then she saw the two men looking down at her.
Both wore dark overalls and gloves, and knitted ski-masks with holes cut for their eyes and mouths. One ski-mask was purple, the other day-glo orange. She stared helplessly back, eyes bulging, as they appraised her.
‘She’s a fucking sight,’ the one in the purple mask said.
But it was the reply from the one in the orange mask which sent a deeper, more paralysing chill through Louise than she’d ever known. ‘Aren’t they always.’
‘I suppose she’ll scrub up,’ Purple added.
Orange continued to stare at her. He was taller than his comrade. Narrow circles of skin were visible around his eye-sockets, and, by the looks of these, he was black. When he’d spoken it had been without an obvious accent, though the other one, who looked to be white, sounded as though he was from the Midlands somewhere.
‘Nice legs on her,’ Purple remarked.
Belatedly, Louise realised that her skirt and shoes had been removed, though her tights, torn full of holes, were still in place.
Purple leaned down and squeezed her left breast. ‘Firm tits too. Keeps herself in shape for her old fella.’
Louise barely noticed the personal violation. With each passing second, this ordeal was becoming ever more real. Suddenly it seemed terribly, terribly certain that she’d never see Alan again, or their lovely house in rural Buckinghamshire.
Purple chuckled. ‘Least she’s not shit herself. Hate it when they do that.’
‘P-please,’ she stammered. ‘Let me go, let me go, just let me go … I won’t say anything … how can I say anything, I don’t know anything!’ But it was a spittle-slurred mumble that was barely audible outside the duct-tape. The men paid no attention anyway.
‘How we doing for time?’ Orange asked.
Purple glanced at his watch. ‘No problem.’
Orange nodded, bent down to a haversack and fumbled around inside it. Louise watched, hair stiffening, not knowing how she’d react if he took out a knife. She was bewildered rather than relieved when he produced a bottle of water and what looked like a ham roll wrapped in cellophane.
Before doing anything else, Orange regarded her intently with his liquid brown eyes. At last he spoke again, and this time it was to her, not to his henchman.
‘Listen love, and listen good. I’m going to take that gag off. You can scream and shout all you want. No one’ll hear. But it’ll piss us off royally, and what’s going to happen to you is still going to happen. The only difference is if we’re pissed off we might decide to beat the fucking shit out of you first. You understand?’
Louise returned his gaze helplessly, before vaguely nodding. She was in no doubt that he was absolutely serious.
‘Now you be a good girl and keep things nice and quiet,’ he added, reaching out and slowly peeling back the duct-tape.
It snagged on her dry lips and when he tore it loose from the back of her head, yanked out several strands of hair, but at that moment she didn’t mind, she was too thankful to have it taken off her. It was so good to be able to breathe properly.
She sucked the air in great lungfuls, but despite the promise she’d just made, couldn’t stop herself speaking. ‘Look … whatever it is you want, my husband’ll get it for you. Or my company. I don’t know who you are or why you’re doing this – I don’t even want to know, but look …’
Orange glared at her. ‘I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut?’
‘Just let my husband know I’m alright,’ she begged. ‘That’s all I ask …’
‘Alright?’ Purple said casually. ‘Who said you’re alright?’
She glanced from one to the other, trying to be bold, trying to look as if she wasn’t frightened, but knowing that she was little more than a scared rabbit in their unblinking gaze. ‘You just … you just should know that whatever you took me for, whatever you’ve got planned … you can make money out of this. Good money. All you need to—’
Orange leaned menacingly towards her. ‘I said shut – the – fuck – up.’
The edge to his voice was so hard, the maniac gleam in his eye so intense that this time, desperate as she was, Louise clammed up.
He watched her closely for several seconds, and then, satisfied, unscrewed the cap from the water bottle and offered it to her. At first, Louise felt inclined to refuse – as if such an act of miniature defiance would be a victory over them – but it just as quickly occurred to her that it was ludicrous to think it would ever matter to men like these how dry her throat became. She had to remain clear-minded and level-headed; any action she took must be geared towards survival – that was the only way she was going to get through this. So when she finally drank, she drank deeply, thirstily.
After that, they presented her with the sandwich, holding it to her mouth, though despite her hunger pangs she was still so sick with fear that she could do no more than nibble at it. As she did, she eyed her surroundings again, wondering if there was any possible means of escape. Far to her right, what looked like an exit/entry ramp sloped down from above, but now that her vision was fully attuned, there were other shattered cars on view: mangled masses of burned or rusty metal, dumped in forgotten corners and thick with dust and cobwebs. It had entered her head that, wherever she was, someone might unknowingly venture down here and prove her accidental saviour, but the more dankness and dereliction she spied, the less likely this seemed. In addition, there was nowhere for her to run to, even in the unlikely event she got free. God knew how many exit ramps she’d have to scramble up before she reached the surface, and she was so weak from her confinement that she doubted she could even stand. Once again, that sense of horror and despair overwhelmed her.
Giving up on the sandwich, Orange scrunched it in its wrapper and tossed it. He screwed the top back onto the bottle and shoved it into his pocket. ‘Now for dessert,’ he said, delving into the haversack again and taking out a small steel box.
He opened it to reveal two slim objects, one of which he handed to his compatriot, the other which he kept hold of himself. Louise felt her heart miss a beat when she saw that the objects were hypodermic syringes. The fluid in the one in Purple’s hand was transparent, whilst the one in Orange’s hand was a dark, brackish red.
‘We’re going to inject you,’ Orange said matter-of-factly. He showed her his syringe. ‘As you can see, this one’s dirty. It’s been used loads of times, and currently contains blood that was recently extracted from a heroin-addicted prostitute. However, the one my mate here’s got is sterile and contains a medically-approved sedative. It’s up to you which one we use?’
There was a brief silence, during which Louise tried to speak but could only gag. Once she’d dry-heaved a couple of times, she glanced up again, but said nothing. She inclined her head slightly to indicate that she’d give them no trouble.
‘Smart move,’ Orange said, replacing his blood-filled syringe in the box and putting it away, then clamping a hand across her mouth and pushing her back down into the boot. ‘I knew you’d be sensible.’
Behind him, Purple removed the cap from the sterile needle and flicked steadily at it with his gloved finger.
‘Just lie still,’ Orange added, ‘and think of England.’
Chapter 4 (#ulink_e084e585-1560-54c2-ba4d-fe5dcfef2f98)
Deptford Green Police Station was built in the 1970s, and, typically of that soulless era, was a monolithic structure of grey, faceless cement. It was three floors high and sat with its back to the Thames on a toe of land jutting out into the part of the river that looped south around the Isle of Dogs. From the front it had a relaxed air: there was a blue lamp over its tall, wide entrance and blinds in its windows.
However, the appearance of life at Deptford Green and its reality were two different things. At the rear of the station, its three impounds, which were crammed to bursting with vehicles recovered after theft or use in crime, and the official personnel car park, were surrounded by nine-foot-high steel fences that were covered in anti-climb paint and had security lights located at regular intervals along their parapets. Also around the rear of the station, offensive, anti-police graffiti was much in evidence (the local commander only insisted on its prompt removal when it appeared at the front), alongside a litter of bricks and broken bottles, which had all been used as missiles on various occasions. There were even bullet-holes in some parts of the station’s exterior, though these too tended to be repaired quickly.
Deptford, once a thriving dockland, had gone through various incarnations in its past. In the present post-industrial era it had become an urban waste, and even though at the same time it had developed a lively arts and cultural scene, crime and poverty were rampant behind its colourful façade. As a result, though things had improved a little since the dawn of the twenty-first century, there was still an aura of ‘Fort Apache’ about Deptford Green nick, and this was reflected inside as well as out. Even by normal London standards, it was an extraordinarily busy police station. Both uniform and plain clothes officers tended to scramble about its cramped rabbit-warren of passages and rooms as though in a ‘life or death’ hurry. There was a constant trilling of telephones and barking of orders. The custody suite was never less than full of prisoners waiting to be processed.
Of course, Sunday morning could be an exception. Even the bleakest corners of the inner city tended to be quiet in the soporific hours following the weekly Saturday night booze-fest.
For this reason, when Heck drove in just after ten that morning, he was surprised to see several more cars parked up than usual, and one in particular – a white BMW Coupe. He stood looking at it for a moment, before going wearily in through the personnel door. The first person he met on entering was Paula Clark, his civilian admin assistant. She was a short, buxom lady, a local lass – bleached-blonde and busty, very much in the Barbara Windsor mould – who’d been loaned to him from local CID Admin.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said, surprised to see her at the weekend.
Paula appeared to be on her way out. She was carrying her coat and a handbag under one arm, and a bundle of reports, which she presumably intended to type up at home, under the other. She didn’t smile when she saw him – not that she smiled very much – though on this particular occasion she looked even more irate than usual.
‘I had to come in and sort some papers out because you weren’t answering your phone,’ she said.
He filched his mobile from his jacket pocket and saw that it was dead. ‘Bastard thing’s on the blink again.’
‘Superintendent Piper’s here,’ she added.
‘I know. I’ve just seen her car outside. What does she want?’
‘You.’ Paula gave him a long, meaningful look, then bustled past on her spike-heels and exited the building.
Heck ascended to the second floor via the back stairs. The office he currently worked from was located in what he was sure was the most under-used and least accessible corner of the building. Local officers here still referred to it as ‘the spare parade room’ even though Heck had now occupied it for over two years.
He headed down the corridor towards it, only stopping when he saw that the door was already open and the tall shape of Detective Inspector Des Palliser standing there. Palliser was fifty-five now and a hard-bitten cop of many years’ experience, though his lean, grizzled appearance – he was leathery skinned and had sported a scraggy grey beard and moustache for as long as Heck could remember – belied a genial personality. He spotted Heck immediately and beckoned. Heck slouched on towards him, in no hurry. There was someone else in the office, pacing around behind Palliser. By the statuesque shape, pearl blouse, tight black skirt and mass of tawny hair (she wasn’t known as ‘the Lioness’ for nothing), he knew it was Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper. Not atypically, she had a pile of documents in her hand and was discarding them irritably, one after another, as she read speedily through them.
‘Morning at last,’ Palliser said, when Heck reached him.
Heck didn’t say anything. He’d just spotted a notice that someone had hung on the outside of the office door, which read:
WDFA Squad
(We Do Fuck All)
He could have done without that at a time like this, he thought.
Detective Superintendent Piper was now regarding him from the other side of the room. Locks of hair, which she tended to wear up during the day, had come loose and hung to either shoulder, making her look rather fetching. But she was pale in the cheek and her steel-blue eyes blazed.
‘Do you know we’ve been waiting nearly two hours?’ she said.
‘Er … no, I didn’t.’
‘What do you think you’re playing at, Heck?’ she demanded. Heck was six foot, but Superintendent Piper wasn’t a great deal shorter than him; even if she had been, her force of personality was colossal. She stalked the room in anger. ‘You think I want to spend my Sunday mornings sifting through your chaotic trash?’
‘My phone’s not working.’
‘Well get one that does!’
‘I will … if I can include it on my expenses.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘You what?’
‘I’ve worn it out on this job, so if I have to buy another one …’
‘Are you deliberately winding me up?’
‘No, it’s just that …’
‘Because I’m not in the mood.’
‘I can see that.’
She jabbed a finger at him. ‘And don’t smart-mouth me either.’
‘An apology might be in order, Heck,’ Palliser said. ‘You have kept us waiting.’
‘I know, sorry. But I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘That’s plainly obvious,’ Superintendent Piper replied, gesturing at the piles of disorderly documentation stacked between the computer terminals, at the unwashed coffee mugs, at the overflowing in-trays. ‘Look at this place; it’s like a bomb site. And while we’re on the subject …’ She crossed the room and snatched the notice from the outside of the door. ‘What’s this supposed to be?’
Heck gave a wry smile. ‘Wouldn’t be a normal day without one of these appearing.’
‘You been rubbing people up the wrong way?’
‘I don’t get close enough to rub anyone up any way,’ he said. ‘Not anymore. I’m pretty sure it was one of this nick’s detectives who tipped off Bobby Ballamara that his daughter’s disappearance is being treated as part of a series. Don’t see how else he could have found out. He’s made my life hell ever since.’
‘Have you got proof of that?’ Palliser asked, looking shocked.
‘Course I haven’t.’
‘And in the meantime, what does this mean?’ Superintendent Piper asked, still brandishing the notice.
Heck shrugged. ‘You know what Division are like – they don’t think anyone works as hard as they do. According to them, I’m on a very cushy number here.’
‘Unfortunately, they’re not the only ones who think that.’ There was a brief silence. Superintendent Piper suddenly looked awkward, uncomfortable.
‘Oh,’ Heck replied. ‘So that’s how it is?’
‘You must’ve known something like this was coming,’ Palliser said.
‘Rumblings at the Yard, are there?’
‘Your comparative-case-analysis didn’t have the desired effect,’ Palliser explained.
Heck slumped into a chair, making no effort to disguise his irritation. ‘Three bloody weeks I worked on that.’
‘The effort was clearly there,’ Superintendent Piper said, sitting opposite. ‘But that’s all. Considering the time put in, the evidence is too thin. How long have you been on this case now?’
‘Two years, four months.’
‘And ground gained – zero.’
‘I need more men,’ he protested.
‘Well you’ve got one less from today.’
Heck sat up slowly. ‘How can I have one less than none?’
‘The one less is you, Heck,’ Palliser said.
Heck glanced from one to the other, finally fixing on Superintendent Piper. ‘You’re not shutting it down?’
‘It’s not my choice.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Laycock. What a surprise.’
‘It’s a nothing case,’ she retorted. ‘You’ve admitted that yourself.’
‘In moments of frustration I may have admitted that.’
‘There seems to be more frustration than anything else.’
He stood up. ‘Look, what’s the problem? I’m working every hour God sends, but most of it’s for free. I haven’t made any unreasonable requests for overtime.’
‘The problem is you could be better used elsewhere,’ she said. ‘Crime doesn’t stop just because you’re involved in something you find more interesting.’
‘“Interesting”?’ Heck could hardly believe what she’d just said. ‘We’ve got thirty-eight missing women here! Surely it’s more than “interesting”?’
Superintendent Piper responded by rifling through a few files and print-outs, of which there were plenty strewn across the desk. ‘Where’s the evidence they’re connected? Where’s the pattern? Some of them are four hundred miles apart, for God’s sake! Sorry … I’ve trusted you on this for nearly two years, but that’s it. The trust’s run out.’
‘Look, ma’am …’
‘Don’t give me the usual blarney, Heck. You’re one of the best detectives I’ve got, but these hunches of yours are proving an expensive luxury. And look at the bloody state of you! For God’s sake, tidy yourself up!’
‘Don’t you even want to know why I’m in this state?’ he wondered.
‘No.’
‘I’ve been on an all-night surveillance operation. And guess what, I had to do it all myself because there’s no one else to help.’
Voices could now be heard out in the corridor; one of them had a distinct South London twang, distinguishing it as that of DCI Slackworth, who ran the CID office here at Deptford Green.
‘I’ve got one new lead in particular, which is looking really good,’ Heck added. ‘But I haven’t even had a chance to start following it yet.’
‘Put it all on paper,’ Superintendent Piper said, half-listening to the voice outside and looking again at the notice that had been pinned to her officer’s door. ‘Each case is being referred back to the divisional CID or mis-pers department that originally dealt with it. Your new stuff can go with them.’
‘Thirty-eight missing women, ma’am.’
‘You think,’ Palliser said.
‘But how can we just close it down?’ Heck asked. ‘We’re the Serial Crimes Unit, for Christ’s sake!’
Superintendent Piper stood up. ‘We’ll keep it under review. But at present we haven’t got the resources.’
‘How about if …’
‘I’m not arguing with you, Heck. I’ve actually done you a courtesy coming down here to tell you in person. I could’ve sent Des, I could’ve told you on the bloody phone. Just deal with it, alright.’
She marched to the door, pulling on her suit jacket.
‘You know, it’s a miracle anyone stays in this job,’ Heck said. ‘And I’ll tell you another miracle – that we ever catch anyone with some of the clowns we’ve got in charge.’
‘Watch it!’ She rounded on him fiercely. ‘Just watch it, Sergeant!’
‘I didn’t mean you …’
‘I don’t give a damn! I won’t have insubordination! Now your work here is done. So do us all a favour, get your paperwork in order and, following that, get your head in order. Then get your scruffy arse back to the Yard, pronto.’
And she was off, storming down the passage to catch up with DCI Slackworth – a burly, foursquare slaphead with flabby cheeks and pig-mean eyes – who was busy chatting up a pretty young female constable from the day-shift.
Heck watched her go, sourly.
‘Do you think anyone’ll mind if I light up in here?’ Palliser wondered, edging out of view of those in the corridor.
‘How should I know?’ Heck replied.
‘It’s your office.’
‘Not anymore.’
At the end of the corridor, Superintendent Piper was standing arms folded, yet still managing to wave the notice around, as she gave both barrels to Slackworth. The familiar whipcrack voice came echoing along the passage, and Slackworth, a tough-nut in front of his own crew, was soon shuffling awkwardly and looking abashed.
‘“The Lioness”,’ Heck said. ‘Talk about well named.’
‘She has a softer side.’ Palliser was now beside an open window, blowing smoke. ‘If anyone should know that, it’s you.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘She still cares about you though.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘For one thing, she reckons you need some leave.’
‘What?’
‘You’re in a state, Heck. You haven’t had a break in two years.’
‘I haven’t been able to.’
‘Beside the point.’
‘No it isn’t.’ Heck indicated the empty desks and tables. ‘I used to have six officers working for me in here, Des. One by one, I’ve watched them get shunted to other duties. All I’ve had for the last nine weeks is an admin assistant, part-time.’
Palliser shrugged. ‘Understanding why you’re knackered isn’t really a solution to it. She’s the gaffer and she reckons that your judgment’s become impaired. You’re losing sight of the wood for the trees.’
‘So I’m a burn-out as well?’
‘Not far off.’
‘This is bollocks.’
‘No, she’s genuinely concerned.’
‘I mean this whole thing.’
‘Oh that, yeah. That’s definitely bollocks.’ Palliser suddenly glanced up at the ceiling, wondering belatedly if there was a smoke-detector present, and relaxing when he saw that there wasn’t. ‘You’re a DS, Heck, that’s all. Yet for two years you’ve been working under your own steam, authorising your own hours and resources. It was inevitable someone was going to whinge about it. It’s politics, typical office bullshit. But it’s not unimportant.’
‘Especially not when someone like Laycock’s involved, eh?’
While Superintendent Piper was head of the Serial Crimes Unit, her immediate supervisor, Commander Jim Laycock, was director of the National Crime Group and was, to all intents and purposes, God. Despite this, Heck had managed to bump heads with him on a number of occasions.
‘Laycock’s answerable to a higher power as well,’ Palliser said, as if this was some kind of consolation.
‘He’s a pencil-pushing suit.’
‘Which is all the more reason to fall in line for him. He has to balance the books somehow. Given the history you and him have got, it’s a wonder he’s let it drag on this long.’
Heck walked back to his desk, his head aching with frustration. He sat down heavily. ‘At the end of the day, all I’m concerned about is these missing women. I can crack this, Des. I know it. I can find them, or at least find out what happened to them.’
Palliser chucked his cig-butt from the window. ‘We’ve been through this already, mate. Wrap it up and get some rest. God knows, you need it.’
Chapter 5 (#ulink_9790fc6d-5a1f-5b0d-901b-ae7abf427b09)
When Louise came round, she felt ghastly: headachey and sick to the pit of her stomach.
Initially the awful memory of her abduction eluded her. All she could do at first was puzzle about why she was slumped in a ratty old armchair that smelled of stale urine. But then, when she looked around and realised that she was in a small, windowless room and that the throbbing pain in her right bicep was the result of an injection, everything surged back – and with it, a wild panic.
She tried to leap to her feet, but was still groggy and immediately overbalanced, her shoeless feet sliding on the white linoleum floor. She fell heavily, landing alongside an open cardboard box, which, when she looked inside it, was stuffed to the brim with lingerie: pairs of lacy knickers, silk stockings, suspender belts. She recoiled from it the way she would if it had been full of snakes. Struggling to her knees, she backed away, only to collide with something else: a steel-framed clothes rack, which again was loaded with garments. In this case they were dresses, camisoles and skirts of various sizes and colours, though in all cases they were slinky, flimsy, transparent, the sort of things glamour models would wear. Again the tawdriness of it both revolted and terrified her – in no way could this be good.
Heart thumping, Louise tried to lurch back to her feet, but it wasn’t easy. She’d evidently been sedated for several hours, and now felt as if she was recovering from a fever; every quick or ill-timed move brought on a new flutter of dizziness. But there was one thing at least – whoever had put her here, they’d left her unbound. Tender weals were impressed into her wrists, but thankfully the plastic cuffs had been removed, and, small and stuffy as this room might be, it had to be an improvement on the claustrophobic confines of that car boot. She pivoted around, looking for any means of escape.
The room was lit by a single unshaded bulb and was no larger than a shop fitting-room, but it contained two doors, both made of varnished wood. Louise blundered to the first. It had a lever-handle, which she pushed down. The door opened, but on the other side of it there was only a narrow, white-tiled cubicle, containing a toilet, a wash-bowl and a shower. There was also a mirror, and fleetingly she caught her own reflection – it was so different from any previous mirror image of herself that she jumped backward with a shriek.
Only after a split second of disbelief did she come forward again.
Then she started to cry.
Her face looked like it had been made up for a stage-show of the macabre. Her eyes were red with weeping; her hair hung in rat-tails; what remained of her make-up was smeared and blotched grotesquely; beneath that, her normal healthy complexion had paled to an ashen, almost greenish hue. Even though she’d only been in captivity for a couple of days at the most, she already looked to have lost weight: her cheekbones were painfully prominent. She glanced down at herself and saw that what remained of her clothing was in a disgusting state: stained with engine oil and body fluids. The vile stench of urine was suddenly explainable.
The shock of all this was simply too much. Louise had tried to maintain her composure, tried to rationalise her way through this entire kidnapping ordeal rather than keep surrendering to panic, but surely she was insane to think that remaining calm would serve any purpose now? Good God, she’d been in these animals’ clutches no time at all, and she resembled a corpse already! Suppose they kept her for weeks, months, maybe longer?
There was no option. She had to escape from here, any way she could, whatever it cost her.
She backed into the main room again, turning frantically. She’d been correct in her first impression that there were no windows in here. She glanced up: the ceiling, which comprised bare wooden boards, was only about two feet above her head. She reached up and pressed it; it was unyielding. What she’d been expecting, she didn’t know – that it would lift like a lid? Ridiculous. But for some reason she pressed again, even harder, exerting all her strength, then overbalanced, almost fell.
At first she assumed that she was having a relapse; that maybe the drugs were kicking in for a second time. But then she realised something bizarre: she wasn’t the one who’d overbalanced – it was the room itself. The floor had tilted. It tilted again and she had to stagger to keep upright. The entire room was swaying – not hugely, but noticeably.
So what in Christ’s name was this? Where the hell was she?
Panic once again nagged at her to get out of here, insisting that, whatever this horrendous situation was, she needed to get out – for Christ’s sake, she just had to get out!
There was still the remaining door.
Louise had no doubt that this one would be locked. And indeed, when she pushed against it and tried the handle – in this case a brass knob – it wouldn’t budge. She swore under her breath, struggling to suppress whimpers of despair. She tried again, but couldn’t even get the knob to turn.
‘Goddamn,’ she moaned, thrusting her shoulder against the wood, but only succeeding in hurting herself. ‘Goddamn it!’ Her voice rose to a desperate cry. ‘Goddamn it, someone please help me!’
Abruptly, the handle turned in the opposite direction. There was a loud click as a lock was disengaged. Louise retreated. The door virtually flew open, and a man came through, closing it behind him. It was the tall black man in the overalls, gloves and day-glo orange ski-mask, an ensemble he was still wearing. He eyed her up and down. As before, it was not the way she’d been eyed by men in the past. There was no hunger there, no arousal – it was strictly professional; a cool, clinical appraisal. When he finally spoke, she was so astonished by what he said that at first she thought she’d misheard.
‘I said you’re size four, yeah? Your feet, I mean?’
Hardly knowing what to say, Louise nodded.
‘Good. These are for you.’
He pushed a pair of shoes into her hands. With a sense of unreality, she looked down at them: heeled sling-backs, black patent with red trim, evidently brand new. Under normal circumstances, they’d be far too trashy for Louise’s taste. Yet somehow she didn’t think that they were intended as a gift for her.
‘And for Jesus’s sake, take a shower,’ he added. ‘You’re stinking the entire place out.’
She glared up at him, the injustice of the situation finally firing her spirit. ‘Surely that doesn’t bloody surprise you?’
He pointed to the shower-room. ‘In there. You’ll find a toothbrush and toothpaste in the cabinet next to the mirror, so clean your teeth as well. And freshen your breath.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve got two hours. Better do a good job.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘Pretty yourself up, you silly tart!’
Perhaps the fact that they still hadn’t killed her, proving that she was of more value alive, was giving her extra courage. Or maybe, in some basic animal way, she now realised they were approaching the main event and that all bets were off. Either way, Louise was suddenly angry rather than afraid.
‘I’m not going to do any such thing,’ she stated.
The man lurched towards her. ‘Listen girl, you have no say here. You have no opinions. You have no views. You just do as you’re told. Understand?’
‘You’re not going to get away with this!’
‘No?’
‘The police will be looking for me.’
‘Occupational hazard for us, darling.’ And he smiled, showing white, shark-like teeth. ‘But I have to say, not much of one.’
She made a dash to get past him.
He caught her before she could even open the door, clamping one gloved hand to her throat and throwing her violently back across the room. She landed in the armchair with sufficient force to drive the wind from her. For all his size, he advanced like a cat – lithe, sinuous. He sprang onto her, thrusting his face into hers. This close, the whites of his eyes were red-rimmed; his breath reeked of garlic. She craned her neck to look away from him, but his weight pinned her down.
‘You stupid bitch!’ he hissed. ‘I’m under orders not to mess you up until this is all over, but I won’t hesitate to do it afterwards! So don’t try that shit again!’
‘My name is Louise Samantha Jennings,’ she said in a quaking but determined voice. ‘I am thirty years old. You may think my family are rich because I work in the City and live in South Buckinghamshire. But I was born in North London. My father is a taxi-driver, my mother a day-care worker. I have two older sisters and one little brother. We see each other all the time. We’re a very close-knit family. I also have a niece and nephew, one on my side and one on my …’
‘What am I supposed to do?’ he snickered. ‘Fall on the floor blubbing?’
‘I’m a human being. I don’t care what you think you’re going to get from this, you can’t treat human beings this way …’
He slapped her across the left side of her face – not hard; to humiliate rather than hurt. ‘How about this way?’ he wondered. Then he slapped her across the right side. ‘How about that way?’
She mashed her lips together, determined not to cry out, trying desperately to show that she wasn’t the crumpled wreck she must have appeared. But her mouth trembled and fresh tears brimmed from her eyes. ‘I … I want to speak to your boss …’
‘Really?’
‘If I can’t reason with the oily rag, I’ll try with the engine driver.’
He gazed down at her for several long moments, licking his lips with a sharp, pink tongue. ‘Well … who knows,’ he finally said, ‘you may get that chance.’ He seemed excited by the resistance she’d shown: sweat greased the flesh around his eyes; he panted rather than breathed. But perhaps thinking that he was starting to enjoy himself too much here, he now released her and rose slowly, reluctantly to his feet. ‘Not yet though … first you’ve got some business to attend to. These clothes, these undies.’ He pointed at the jumbled garb. ‘Get yourself something sexy and pretty on.’ While Louise watched in amazement, he reached down and pulled a foot-locker out from under the rack of dresses. ‘There’s make-up in here, perfume and what-not.’ He kicked at a second locker. ‘This one’s jewellery. Help yourself. Just make sure you look and smell good.’ He moved to the door, but turned to face her one more time. ‘You’ve got two hours. Do not disappoint us.’
‘Dis— disappoint you?’ she stammered in near-disbelief. And then she laughed, though it was actually more like a deranged cackle. ‘And … and if I do?’
‘Ask the women all this stuff used to belong to.’
He closed the door behind him. And locked it.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_cc965b84-139e-5db3-a8f9-98fad70402f2)
The National Crime Group was based at New Scotland Yard, where it shared several floors with the Metropolitan Police’s Specialist Crime Directorate. Its own Serial Crimes Unit, whose remit was primarily to consult on nationwide crime sprees and, where necessary, to elicit and organise multi-force cooperation, was on the sixth floor, and basically comprised one corridor. The DO – or Detectives’ Office, the hub of all activity – was located part way along it, next door to the admin room where the NCG’s civilian secretaries worked. At this late hour on a Sunday afternoon its various desks and computer monitors were deserted, with half the unit off duty and the rest out on enquiries. In fact, the only person present when Heck began humping his sacks of paperwork and boxes of disks up from the car park was DI Palliser, who, given his age, was these days more a duty officer than an investigator, and tended to remain at base, working as coordinator for all SCU operations.
At present, he stood, hands in pockets, in the doorway to his own office which, like the offices belonging to the other three detective inspectors in the department, was separated from the main area by a glazed partition wall. ‘That the lot?’ he asked.
Heck dumped down the last heavy bag of documentation, and nodded. He mopped sweat from his brow. ‘It’s in no particular order, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll sort it.’
There was a brief silence as they surveyed the immense pile of materials now spilling out all over the floor of the department’s tea making area.
‘You know, none of this work will get wasted,’ Palliser said. ‘All these cases will continue to be investigated.’
‘Yeah, but as the lowest of low priorities.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘You know they will,’ Heck said glumly. ‘I spent months zeroing in on each one of these, and now they’ll just get thrown back in with the runaway teens and the absentee fathers.’
‘Well … it’s not your problem now.’
‘The trouble is, Des, it won’t be anyone’s problem. Apart from the families who are missing their loved ones.’
Palliser didn’t even try to argue with that assessment. ‘Whatever … the Lioness wants to see you.’
Heck nodded and went out into the corridor. Detective Superintendent Piper’s office was at its far end. He knocked on the door and when she called him, went in.
She was seated at her desk, writing what looked like a lengthy report. ‘Take a seat, Heck. I’ll not be a moment.’
There were two chairs to one side. Heck slumped down into one. He glanced around. It wasn’t a particularly showy office for so senior a rank. In fact, it was quite small. With its row of filing cabinets, single rubber plant and dusty Venetian blind over the window, it was like something from the 1970s; the only concession to modernity being the quiet hum of the air-conditioning. It was a far cry from the palatial residence upstairs enjoyed by Commander Laycock and his PA.
‘Our office at Deptford Green has now been closed down, yes?’ she asked.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She continued writing. Heck waited, ruminating on whether or not, if he’d centred his investigation here at the Yard and had not set up a separate incident room down at Deptford, thus saving them some expense, it might have bought him a little extra time. The problem was that the first cluster of disappearances he’d linked together had all occurred, probably by coincidence, in South London – Peckham, Greenwich, Lewisham and Sydenham – and he’d wanted to be ‘on-site’. At the time, of course, he hadn’t realised the enquiry would soon widen to cover most of the country.
Not that any of this mattered now.
‘Is that it, ma’am?’ he asked.
She glanced up. ‘You got somewhere else you need to be?’
He shrugged. ‘Well … I presume I’m being reassigned.’
‘Yes you are. You’re being reassigned to Cornwall. Or the Lake District. Or Spain or the Florida Keys, or even your own back garden. Anywhere you fancy taking a long vacation.’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘You’re going on extended leave.’ She pushed the top sheet of paperwork she’d been working on across the desk towards him. ‘All I need now is your signature on the request form.’
Heck stood up as he read it. Only slowly did the reality sink in.
‘December?’ he said. ‘That’s three months off.’
‘I don’t want to see you back a day sooner.’
‘But three months!’
‘Heck, your willingness to work, work and work is well known. But it’s hardly healthy.’
‘I don’t need three months.’
‘That’s entirely a matter of opinion, and mine carries more weight than yours. You’ve been under massive pressure this last year, and it’s showing – in your work, your appearance, your general demeanour.’
‘This is bollocks!’
‘Especially your demeanour.’
‘Gemma, please …’
‘Can you honestly say, hand on heart – bearing in mind that, on occasion, lives may depend on how fit you are to work – that you don’t need a decent break? That your batteries will go on forever without being recharged?’ She waited for an answer. ‘Or is it just that you think the Serial Crimes Unit will fall apart without you?’
Heck was lost for words. Then, very abruptly, he shrugged and took a pen from his inside pocket. ‘No, it’s okay. In fact it’s great. Three months is extremely generous.’
He scribbled his signature on the form and handed it back.
She eyed him with sudden suspicion. ‘So you’re happy with this?’
‘Sure.’
‘Good. In that case …’ though she still didn’t seem convinced, ‘bye for now.’
Heck nodded and moved towards the door.
‘Mark, before you go,’ she said – and that was a red-letter moment, because these days she hardly ever called him ‘Mark’. He glanced back. She softened her tone, which was also highly unusual. ‘Mark, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry the case you were building didn’t work out.’
‘It’s alright. I know it wasn’t your fault.’
‘It was nobody’s fault. This job’s about balancing time and resources, you know that. You’re needed on other cases.’
‘Which is why I’m being discharged from duty for the entire autumn?’
‘You’re no good to anyone running on empty. Least of all yourself.’
‘No, I guess not.’
‘So what’re you planning to do?’
He mused. ‘Fool around, I suppose.’ Mischievously, he added, ‘See if I can pull a bird.’
She didn’t rise to that bait and began filing his completed paperwork in her out-tray. ‘You could do with getting some sun on your back. And start eating properly; you look underweight to me.’
‘You care?’ he asked.
She glanced up again, almost looking hurt by the question. ‘Of course I care.’
‘I mean more than just because I’m part of your team?’
‘Why should my personal feelings matter to you?’
Heck couldn’t reply. She’d reversed the situation very neatly.
‘Take yourself on holiday, Heck,’ she said, resuming business mode. ‘Relax, have a good time. Pull yourself a bird, if you must. But when you’re back in this office on December first, I want you full of piss and vinegar, okay?’
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘Off you go.’
And he went.
Heck peeled his jacket off and strolled into the rec room to see if there was anyone to shoot some pool with. But it was empty. Instead, he got himself a coffee from the vending machine and stood by the window, looking down on Victoria Street. The hot drink had a soothing effect. Gemma had been right about one thing – at present he was running on empty, but even so, being forced to take a holiday for three months was the last thing he’d wanted. If anyone asked why, he’d tell them that this was because he was a workaholic, but in his more honest, introspective moments he’d admit that it probably owed more to there being nothing else going on in his life. There was no question that Heck loved the job. Catching criminals, putting them away, slamming cell doors on those who brought terror and misery to the lives of the innocent gave him a buzz that he didn’t get anywhere else.
But on this occasion – on this one occasion – being ordered to stay away from the office for a few months might well be to his advantage.
Before he could ponder the situation further, someone else came into the room. He turned, and saw that it was Commander Laycock.
‘Heck,’ Laycock said with a grin. ‘Glad I caught you.’ He sauntered over.
Laycock’s looks belied his age, which was somewhere in the early-to-mid forties. He was a big, burly bloke, tall and broad at the shoulder, yet trim at the waist. Even now he wore the shorts and sweat-dampened vest that he’d no doubt been working out in down in the gym. A towel was looped around the back of his bull-neck. At first glance he had the look of the archetypical man’s man: he was fair-haired, square-jawed, handsome, and yet he had a rugged edge. You’d imagine he could easily go round for round with the lads – and this wasn’t an inaccurate impression. He nearly always adopted a ‘hail fellow, well met’ approach when dealing with ‘his troops’, as he liked to call them, an attitude he’d inherited from his early days in the Royal Military Police.
Heck wasn’t fooled by any of it.
‘I just wanted to congratulate you on the time and effort you put in on the missing women case,’ Laycock said.
Heck nodded. ‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘You understand why I had it wound up?’
‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’
‘Your last CCA wasn’t totally convincing, I’m afraid. Not considering the amount we’ve been spending on this.’
‘It’s alright, Sir. It’s all been explained to me.’
‘Okay. You don’t seem very happy about it, though?’
Heck feigned surprise. ‘What, I’m supposed to be happy as well? Sorry, I didn’t get the written order for that.’
Laycock’s smile faded. ‘There’s no being nice to you, is there?’
‘I don’t see any point in pretending we’re friends, that’s all.’
‘Blunt as ever, I see. Okay, well let’s cut to the chase. One of the problems of being a detective and having cases to investigate is that, now and then, you’re expected to close a few – not widen them and widen them until every bloody person in the service is at your beck and call.’
‘And why would that be, Sir?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Perhaps you can explain it to me,’ Heck said. ‘Why do we – sorry, why do you – prefer cases we can close quickly and easily to cases that require a load of work?’
Laycock’s eyes were now hard; his lips had tightened. ‘You’re going on leave, I understand. I suggest you go now, before you get on my wrong side.’
‘You’re not going to answer the question? Would that be because, as far as you’re concerned, the National Crime Group’s an ego-trip?’
‘I’m warning you, Heckenburg …’
‘Gold-plated job for a Bramshill brat-packer like you, isn’t it? Very high profile, lots of TV interviews, regular briefings with whichever Home Secretary happens to be in power this week.’
Laycock looked as though he was about to explode, but his anger quickly abated and he smiled again. ‘You know, I always had misgivings about having you in my outfit, Heck. And now I can see they were well-placed. You’re a chancer, an adventurer – and that doesn’t work in the modern police.’
‘I’d have been delighted to be a team-player, if you’d actually given me a team.’
Laycock chuckled. ‘Forget about a team. You should be more concerned now about whether you actually fit into this department. You know they’ve started calling the National Crime Group “the British FBI”. And that’s something I’m encouraging. It makes us sound like the slick, smart, modern organisation I want us to be. Oddballs won’t have any place in it.’
‘So who’ll be running it when you leave?’
‘Insubordinates won’t either.’
‘Ahh … you’re saying you’re kicking me out?’
‘I’m saying you’re not the sort of police officer I necessarily want working under me.’
‘I’d never have guessed.’ At last Heck allowed himself to show some emotion. ‘From the very first day of that missing women enquiry, I didn’t get one word of support from you, Sir. Not one.’
‘I wasn’t convinced by the evidence.’
‘What would you know about evidence? You’re not a copper, you’re a politician.’
Laycock’s lips tightened again. Consummate actor though he was, Heck always managed to bring out the beast in him. ‘You’re lucky no one else is present to hear this, sergeant.’
‘If anyone else was present, I wouldn’t be saying it.’
‘I can still break you, Heckenburg.’
‘Yeah, you’re apparently an expert.’ Heck knew he was going too far now, but suddenly all the frustration and annoyance of the last few months was pouring out. ‘They tell me that when you were a uniformed inspector at Ladbroke Grove, after refusing to spare anyone to clear the yobs away from the war memorial, where they’d been drinking all day, you personally supervised the arrest and conviction of an old lady who’d hit one of them with her brolly.’
‘If you’ve got a job to come back to in December, I’ll be extraordinarily surprised.’
‘It’s a pity you can’t divert some of that belligerence into standing up to the Home Office and demanding more money for our major enquiries,’ Heck retorted. ‘Or how about standing up to the CPS when they say we can’t proceed with a prosecution because there’s only a small chance of success?’
‘You really think you’re fireproof just because you used to shag your super?’
That comment caught Heck on the hop. He’d thought that only Des Palliser was aware he’d once had a romance with Gemma Piper; it was ancient history after all, when they were both young, newly made detectives.
Laycock chuckled again. ‘Oh yes. You’d be amazed at some of the things I know. You see, that’s the difference between you and me, Heckenburg. You’re just a foot-soldier, a grunt. And I’m a five-star general. I’m running the whole show. It’s my job to know everything. But by all means, if you really fancy it, try and take me on. I’d relish the contest, though it wouldn’t last for long.’
Realising that he was on dodgier ground than he’d first thought, Heck said nothing. He grabbed his jacket from a chair and pulled it on.
‘All my service I’ve been meeting coppers like you,’ Laycock added, leaning so close that Heck could smell his sweat. ‘Surly, resentful, jealous of those who’ve earned promotion, embittered that they have to take orders from people they consider themselves superior to. Determined that anyone who doesn’t operate at their mediocre level is to be sneered at. Well I’m not going to stand for it in NCG anymore. We’re an elite outfit. There’ll be no dissent in these ranks. And if you think you’re going to be the exception to that rule because you’re protected, you – and your protectress, I might add – could both be in for a big shock. Now get out of my sight.’
As Heck left, he realised that he should have gone earlier, before he’d let his mouth run away with him. It was just that, with three months of leave looming, he might not have got another chance to have a pop at the person most responsible for wrecking his case.
Not that some of the things said in retaliation hadn’t stung him. To start with, his attitude to Laycock had nothing to do with Gemma Piper providing him cover. In truth, he’d never even considered her that way – until now. The real reason was that he’d always found his supreme boss so aggravating that open criticism of him was unavoidable. It wasn’t even a personality clash; the wound went much deeper than that. To Heck, Laycock was a poster-child for the modern-day senior policeman; young, good looking, university-educated as well as being an ex-military man – and more than capable of kissing all the right buttocks. In short, he embodied everything that was turning British law-enforcement into a career opportunity rather than a vocation.
Not that going lip-to-lip with your commanding officer like Heck had just done, was well-advised. Okay, there’d been no witnesses, so there’d be no one to corroborate accusations at a disciplinary hearing. But he had no doubt that Laycock could and would fix it for him somehow, if he got the chance. There were times when Heck would say that he didn’t care about stuff like that; that as far as he was concerned an idiot was an idiot, and he would always use that exact terminology because he couldn’t abide being disingenuous. But there were other times when he regretted this impulsive nature. It wasn’t as if he was innately rebellious or insolent. Fair enough, he resented having seventeen years in and still only holding the rank of sergeant, but he accepted his place in the pyramid of power. But there was something about Laycock and the number-crunching suits he represented that really stuck in Heck’s craw.
Of course, whatever the reason for it, today’s confrontation – and it was only one of several he’d had with Laycock, but it had been more explosive than most – might have more serious repercussions than usual. Until now Heck had always relied on his reputation for being a highly productive officer who’d sent way more than his fair share of slags and skags to prison, to guarantee his job security. In addition to that, aside from his differences with Laycock, he had a relatively clean shirt. So it wouldn’t be easy ousting him. And it would be even harder to oust Gemma. She was probably the NCG’s most prized asset: not only was she a woman, which was always a bonus these days, but she’d blazed her way through the male-dominated world of CID with skill, guile, determination and, above all, results, and had earned her high position because she deserved it rather than because of positive discrimination. On top of all that, she was eye-candy, so it looked particularly good when she was accepting her commendations on TV. But Laycock would still try to stick the knife in, possibly using the missing women enquiry, and how much cash had drained into it for so little return, as the main springboard of his assault.
Which, when Heck thought about it, made the plan he was now hatching for the next three months – extremely risky though it was – all the more important.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_1b2c5b78-87d4-5f47-8166-8d2ca8831004)
Louise looked herself over in the mirror.
She’d had the shower as instructed, and had done the best she could with her hair and make-up, though it had hardly been a labour of love. The clothes she’d finally selected would never have been her normal choice, but there hadn’t been much option. She’d put on dark stockings, a short, black, pleated skirt, a red silk blouse with ruffles at the front, and a smart black jacket. The trashy red and black shoes had come last, though in truth the whole thing was trashy, not to mention demeaning; it was the ‘office look’ perhaps, though a male fantasy version of it rather than the real thing. She hadn’t been able to find a single item of underwear that didn’t come straight from the advertising section of Penthouse, and after some searching had eventually opted for a matching set of black lace bra and knickers, though the knickers were so sheer that they might as well not have been there.
Not that this troubled her now. Briefly, as she stood rigid in front of the cold glass, wearing skimpy drawers seemed the very least of her problems.
She kept envisioning her house, her garden, Alan’s tousled head and grinning face when he woke her up each morning with a cup of tea, the spare bedroom they’d tentatively begun to think of as a nursery, which she’d filled in her imagination with soft, pink and white furniture, with cuddly toys, with animal mobiles turning on strings, with Disney wallpaper – but no, no, NO!
It didn’t pay to dwell on those things. She had to focus on the positives. She’d been a prisoner all this time, but they hadn’t yet brutalised her; in fact they’d fed her, watered her, allowed her to wash. In some ways that was sinister, but in others it was good. And she had definitely been abducted to order – they hadn’t just grabbed her off the streets; she wasn’t a random victim. As such, the idea had coalesced in her mind that this kidnapping could only be some kind of plot against Goldstein & Hoff – which was less frightening than it being directed against her, but even so it could have a fatal outcome, so she had to play it smart and go along with them for the moment. She had no other choice.
At least, this was what she told herself as she assessed her reflection for the umpteenth time. Cheap – that was the only way to describe the version of Louise Jennings that her captors wanted; cheap and slutty, like a porno actress on set. It was such a different look from her normal tasteful preference that this in itself almost made her cry, but she resisted resolutely. They’d degraded her enough; she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of breaking down. Besides, as she kept reminding herself, it was vital to keep a cool head. Cooperate but be cool – that was her plan. It was the only way to earn their respect. Never show a dangerous animal that you’re frightened.
But of course, it was easier to say such a thing than to do it.
The jewellery for example – Louise had glanced into the jewellery box, and had been surprised by the quality of the stuff it contained: earrings, bracelets, brooches, rings, necklaces, all of real gold and silver, encrusted with gems. But after the rather large hint her jailer had dropped about where this high-class merchandise had come from, she couldn’t bring herself to touch any of it, much less wear it. She doubted that she’d ever be able to wear jewellery again, not even her own – assuming she ever got home to it. Her bravado half-crumbled and fresh tears sprang into her eyes, though she hurriedly wiped them away with a tissue, determined to be brave.
As she did this, the door clicked open.
She spun around. Surely two hours hadn’t passed already?
Nobody came in. Louise waited tensely, hands clasped in front of her. Then she heard a voice from the next room.
‘Louise?’ it said hesitantly. Incredibly, it sounded familiar. ‘Do you want to come in here?’
At first bewildered, but then with sudden desperate energy, she dashed forward and pushed the door open. On the other side she saw a larger room, which was much more luxurious than her dressing-room-sized prison. There was a thick pile carpet on the floor, and soft fabric covering the walls. A shaded bulb cast a rosy glow over a double bed, its eiderdown folded neatly back on crisp, golden sheets. However, none of this amazed her as much as the person occupying the room.
He was a middle-aged man, but tall and well built, with grey at his temples and pale, handsome features. He was usually a very imposing figure; scrupulously neat, with a formal air and stern attitude which appeared to brook no nonsense, but at present, though he wore his normal pinstriped suit, his jacket and collar were unbuttoned and his tie hung in a loose knot.
Despite this, there was no mistaking him.
‘Mr Blenkinsop,’ she said, hardly able to believe her eyes – new tears now appeared there, tears of relief.
He gave a helpless shrug. ‘Hi.’
Ian Blenkinsop was not part of Louise’s department at Goldstein & Hoff, but a director in Commodity Finance, two floors above her. She didn’t know him particularly well, but they’d been part of the same company long enough to be on speaking terms. He was now standing on the other side of the bed, in front of an oak-panelled door, next to what looked like a well-stocked drinks cabinet.
She slammed the dressing-room door behind her and rushed towards him, jabbering frantically. ‘They … they grabbed me on my way home. I didn’t realise until it was too … there was nothing I could do … I’m so, so sorry … honestly, there was nothing …’
He nodded patiently, but seemed rather nervous. He was breathing quickly; sweat glinted on his brow – which was not his normal form. Ordinarily, Ian Blenkinsop was a man of poise, a smooth operator from whose fingertips multi-million-pound deals flowed on a daily basis. But why was he here? The question hit Louise hard. He was a banker, for Christ’s sake! Why was he the one who’d been sent to find her? Unless …
‘Oh my God,’ she breathed. ‘Did they get you too?’
‘Er …’ He half-smiled. ‘In a way, yes.’
‘Oh … Jesus!’ She put her fingers to her brow as it furrowed with disappointment. She wasn’t saved after all. Still, if nothing else, at least here was a friend, an ally, someone to share the ordeal with.
‘Who … who are these people?’ she said, trying her damnedest not to start crying again. ‘I mean … who?’
‘I don’t know. Listen, come and have a drink.’
To her bemusement, he turned to the cabinet. On its shelf there was a bottle of champagne, which he’d uncorked, and two glasses. He’d already filled one and now filled the other. He came around the bed and offered it to her.
‘Are you serious?’ she said, ignoring it. ‘Don’t you think we should be trying to get out of here?’
Still he pushed the drink towards her. ‘I know this has all been a bit of a shock for you, Louise, but if you play along it’ll be a lot easier.’
‘“Play along”?’ Confusion made her tone shrill. ‘What the hell do you mean?’
He drained his own glass and placed hers on a sideboard, before sitting on the bed and patting the mattress next to him. ‘Come here for a minute.’
‘What? Mr Blenkinsop … what are you doing?’
‘Louise, there’s no point trying to resist. These people are professionals.’
‘You know them?’
He stood up again, frustrated, pacing the room. ‘You haven’t guessed what this is about yet?’
‘Am I supposed to have?’ In the midst of her fear, she was completely bewildered.
‘You should just accept the inevitable.’ His voice had hardened, but he eyed her up and down as if noticing her attire for the first time and appreciating it a great deal. ‘You look good, I must admit.’
She backed away from him. ‘You’re not a prisoner here at all, are you?’
‘You want the truth?’ He stared at her, glassy-eyed. Suddenly he’d dropped all pretence at friendship. He looked cold, indifferent. ‘It’s the first time I’ve done anything like this here in the UK. But why not? Every day I create wealth and jobs for others. Society owes me so very much, so if I see something I want, why shouldn’t I take it? Because at the end of the day, I will have the things I desire and deserve. And if that means hurting a few little idiot-bitches who think it’s alright to dress provocatively because it makes them feel good, but who scream “harassment” the moment someone so much as looks at them … well, that’s hardly my problem. On the subject of which, you do look good, Louise.’
He slid towards her. She continued to back away; the dressing-room door was close behind her, but of course that offered no escape.
‘I’ve watched you every day for quite a few years now,’ he added. ‘Sashaying around Branscombe Court in those “fuck-my-wet-cunt” outfits.’
Despite everything, it was a chilling shock to hear such profanity from him. Louise couldn’t suppress a gasp.
‘Though you never looked as good then as you do now.’
‘You bastard,’ she whispered.
She’d now backed right up to the door. He didn’t come straight up to her but stopped a few yards short, from where he continued to eye her in the sort of brazenly lustful way that nowadays could land a man in court.
‘It’s up to you how you play this,’ he said. ‘But if you comply, I reckon we’ll both have a good time.’
Finally she understood. Several times in the office recently she’d suspected that Blenkinsop was furtively observing her. Evidently it hadn’t just been her imagination. ‘I … I …’
‘I think the words you’re looking for are “okay, let’s do it.”’ Blenkinsop was clearly growing impatient; his mouth fixed in a half-smile/half-snarl. ‘Look Louise … it’s not like you’ve got a choice here. You’ve seen the sort of team I’m working with. They don’t mess around. They’ve been watching you for weeks, noting your every move. They know who your friends are, where your family can be found …’
‘My … my family?’ she said, with a new sense of creeping horror.
‘That’s correct, Louise … your family. If this thing goes tits up, it isn’t going to finish with you. I’m going to get what I want, and I don’t care how. Of course it would be easier for all of us if we kept things nice and friendly.’ He ogled her revealing outfit again. ‘At least … as much as I’m capable of that. Your play, my darling.’
‘I … I need a drink first.’
He looked surprised by that, and not a little pleased. ‘That’s a good girl. Well done.’ He turned to the sideboard, collecting her champagne. ‘This is a Bollinger 1990 by the way. I spared no expense, as you can see.’
She stepped forward to accept it, trying her best to smile, though it was difficult to keep her lips from trembling. Perhaps he sensed this as she took the drink from him – his expression suddenly changed, but it was too late. She hurled the drink into his face, glass and all. The glass broke with the impact, a shard slicing open his left cheek.
‘You fucking bitch!’ he squawked, flailing blindly at her.
She pushed past him and went straight for the door next to the drinks cabinet, praying that it wouldn’t be locked – though of course it was. She wanted to scream as she pounded on it with her fists. Behind her, Blenkinsop was still swearing. She swung around to face him, expecting to have to ward off blows. But he hadn’t followed her. Instead he was addressing someone else, gazing up at a corner of the ceiling where she now saw a small surveillance camera.
‘Look what she’s fucking done!’ he shouted, clamping a handkerchief to his bloodied cheek. ‘I told you I need her compliant. I’ve given her every fucking chance, but she doesn’t want to know.’
There was a loud thumping of wood, and a clunk as a bolt was drawn. Louise toppled forward as the door burst open behind her. Two men came barging in: the black guy in the orange ski-mask and the white guy in the purple. Orange grabbed her by the wrists and threw her onto the bed. Purple, she could see, was already tapping another needle.
‘No!’ she shrieked, but her struggles were futile.
Orange held her down easily, pressing her on the mattress with his own body as his associate leaned forward and applied the injection. Blenkinsop stood to one side and watched in silence, though his face had gone a little grey; blood was turning his handkerchief crimson. When Orange got back to his feet, Louise lay still, limp as a rag doll. He casually flicked her skirt up, before turning to face Blenkinsop.
‘Reckon you can manage now?’
Blenkinsop nodded nervously, unable to take his eyes off Louise’s exposed underwear and the golden triangle of pubic hair visible through its filmy material.
‘You might need this.’ Orange pushed something into Blenkinsop’s hand.
It was a jar of lubricant.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_318be53a-f74a-59c7-983b-6f5aaffc0b57)
The Raven’s Nest at Hammersmith was the closest thing Heck had to a local. He’d lived in Fulham for fourteen years now, and had finally chosen ‘the Nest’ not just because it was small and homely – as opposed to being large and impersonal, like so many London pubs – but also because its landlord Phil Mackintosh was an Aussie, who regularly had the widescreen TV in his snug tuned to Australian rugby league. Heck, being a Lancashire lad by origin, also had a fondness for the thirteen-a-side rugby code, so this had proved a draw for him.
Unfortunately, that first Sunday evening of Heck’s enforced leave there was no match on, Phil was off duty and, this being one of the quieter nights of the week, there wasn’t really anyone else to talk to. Instead, Heck drank a few beers and sank a few whiskies – since leaving the Yard that afternoon, the idea of getting totally plastered had become very appealing. It was another warm August evening, so he spent his first couple of hours on the terrace watching the river glide by, then finally traipsed back indoors where he bought another beer with a whisky chaser, and moved into the pool room. He shot a few balls around, hoping someone would turn up and offer him a game, but no one did. Going into the bar again, he exchanged pleasantries with a couple of customers who he knew vaguely, but it was difficult striking up conversation purely for the sake of it.
Mid-evening had now arrived, so he bought yet another round and retreated back to the pool room. He was warming up inside and his vision was getting blurry, which was just the way he wanted it. The downside of course was that hitting targets accurately had become a complex process. It took an age working his way round to the black, and he then spent several minutes squinting along his cue, trying to focus on the final pocket, only to be distracted by a very shapely pair of crossed legs that he suddenly noticed on the other side of the table. He tried to concentrate on what he was doing, but those legs were brown, bare, very smooth, and went all the way up to the hem of an indecently short denim skirt. A backless white sandal with a stiletto heel dangled sexily.
Perhaps not surprisingly, the shot went wide.
‘Oh dear,’ said a sympathetic voice.
Heck glanced up at the girl to whom the legs belonged. She was seated on a high stool, from where she’d clearly been watching him for several minutes.
She was somewhere in her late twenties and a stunner – with dark eyes, full lips and perfectly symmetrical features, she almost looked like a young Halle Berry. Her thick black hair was held up with wooden pins, though it would probably fall to her shoulders in a slick of glossy curls if released. A tight green vest with an image of Jay-Z emblazoned on the front accentuated a trim waist and generous bosom.
Heck realised he was gawking. He clamped his mouth shut.
‘See anything you like?’ she asked innocently.
‘Er, no … I mean yeah obviously … er, sorry.’ He smiled awkwardly, placed his cue on the table and headed for the bar.
‘Play with yourself here often?’ she called after him.
He turned and looked back. She was smiling provocatively, as if dying to hear his response.
‘I wouldn’t usually,’ he said. ‘But I’ve never found anyone else who’s up to the job.’
‘That’s a brave boast after what I’ve just seen.’
‘You challenging me, miss?’
She leaned forward and rested her chin on her fist. ‘It would be no contest at all.’
He indicated the vacant table. ‘Rack ’em up.’
She did. And very gallantly, he let her take the first shot. Which proved to be a big mistake. She potted four stripes one after another, only missing a fifth by millimetres. In response, he potted a spot, but the white followed it down. She then embarked on another break, which only ended when she potted the black after bouncing it skilfully off two opposing cushions.
‘You know, all that proves is you’ve had a misspent youth,’ Heck said.
‘My mum wouldn’t need that proving to her.’
‘I’ll bet she wouldn’t.’ He couldn’t help checking her out again, especially those shiny, shapely legs. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘You offering?’
They went through to the bar, where Heck – still unable to believe his luck, because this sort of thing never, ever happened – ordered her a rum with coke, getting himself another pint of bitter and a double Scotch.
‘You drinking to forget, or something?’ she asked, as they settled at a table.
‘I’m drinking because I’m on holiday.’
‘You’re on holiday?’ She sounded surprised, which puzzled him a little.
‘That bothers you?’
‘No, it’s just …’ She smiled again. ‘I’m on holiday too. Sort of.’
He shrugged. ‘Good health.’
The glasses clinked; they both sipped.
‘I’m Lauren,’ she said. ‘I’m from Yorkshire.’
He nodded. Her accent had already given that away – he guessed Huddersfield or Leeds.
‘You’re not a local either, are you?’ she asked. ‘Manchester, is it?’
‘Near there. Bradburn.’
‘You’re a long way from home.’
He swilled more beer. ‘Sometimes it feels like that. But I travel a lot, so it’s as broad as long. My name’s Mark, by the way. But friends call me “Heck”.’
‘I know. The barmaid told me.’
‘She did?’ Now Heck was really puzzled. The girl had been interested enough to ask someone his name? That had to be a first. He had a certain rugged appeal – he was aware of that, but he wasn’t the sort of bloke that lookers like this moved in on. Unless? – abruptly his mood changed. He’d been right to remind himself that this sort of thing never, ever happened – because it wasn’t happening now either.
‘This your local?’ she wondered.
‘Suppose so. I don’t get in too often. What can I do for you, anyway?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, love. You’re not on the pull. If you were, you wouldn’t choose me.’
She folded her arms – an unconsciously defensive gesture, he noted. ‘Maybe I just fancied a chat with someone who looked pleasant.’
‘Same as before. You wouldn’t choose me.’
‘You don’t have a very high opinion of yourself, do you?’
‘My opinion doesn’t count for much, I’m afraid.’
‘Listen, I’m just trying to be friendly.’
‘No you’re not. You’re up to something. Now if I didn’t know better …’ he glanced again at her legs, and then much more closely at her arms, but couldn’t spot any tell-tale needle-tracks, ‘I’d guess you were the sort of lady who Phil Mackintosh doesn’t normally allow into this establishment.’
She stiffened. ‘I’m not a hooker, if that’s what you mean.’
‘So why’re you acting like one?’ He gave her the gaze he normally reserved for the interview room, his eyes boring into her. She became flustered, ill-at-ease.
‘I just wanted some information?’ she finally said.
‘So it’s not my amazing body you’re interested in. Now there’s a surprise.’
‘About your investigation …’
‘Ahhh.’
She now looked very uncomfortable. ‘How – look, how’s it going?’
Heck finished his beer. He shouted across to the bar for another, before turning back to her. ‘So what is this? Mr Ballamara’s decided that, as the rough stuff doesn’t work, he’ll try a gentler touch?’
‘Eh?’
‘Is that the deal? I deliver, and I get a night in the sack with some quality tail?’
She looked totally baffled.
He leaned forward. ‘Go back to your boss and tell him to shove it. Not only do I not take orders from him, I don’t take bribes either. And frankly I’m surprised anyone does. You know why? Because he’s a walking-talking anachronism, a throwback – a gobshite who runs a few South London boozers and thinks he’s Pablo Escobar. Another year and I dare say he’ll be at the beck and call of some sixteen-year-old Romanian, and no doubt he’ll be grateful for it.’
He pushed his chair back and stood up.
‘For someone who doesn’t rate himself, you don’t half like the sound of your own voice,’ she said.
‘For someone who looks as good as you, you keep very trashy company. And just in case he decides to send the heavies round again, tell him not to waste his time. I’m off the case. It’s finished.’
‘Finished?’ She sounded startled. But Heck had gone. He was over at the bar again, paying for his next round, when she reappeared. ‘Finished, did you say?’
‘Yes. It’s been closed down. And if Mr Ballamara doesn’t like that – as I told him before, he can take it up with Commander Laycock at Scotland Yard.’
‘You mean no one’s looking into it at all?’
‘Someone will be somewhere.’ He sipped his fresh pint, leaving froth on his top lip. ‘But only if they haven’t got something much, much more important to do. Like watch some paint dry.’
He tried to move away, but she grabbed his arm tightly. He turned to face her – and was surprised to see that she was livid with rage. Tears were welling in her eyes.
‘I heard good things about you,’ she said. ‘I thought you were going to help me, but now I can see you’re just another FUCKING DICKHEAD!’ She banged money on the bar-top. ‘That’s for the drink I owe you. Stick it up your arse!’
And she stormed out of the pub, stopping only to grab up her handbag and sling it over her shoulder.
‘You coppers really know how to make friends and influence people,’ the barmaid, who happened to be Phil Mackintosh’s eldest daughter, commented.
Heck was equally bemused. ‘I’m guessing I’ve just cost her a decent commission.’
He went back to his seat, shaking his head. The lowlifes he had to deal with. Mind you, hookers didn’t generally scream and cry when johns turned them down. Now that he looked back on it, the entire meeting had been a little surreal – but what the hell, this was London. Nothing should be a surprise here. He put it from his mind and the evening rolled on tediously. He managed a couple more rounds and a few more brief exchanges of mundane chat with other punters before the bell rang for last orders.
Before leaving, he went for a pee, and then stood looking at himself in the greasy toilet mirror. Considering he was now in his late thirties, he’d kept reasonably well. Some might say he was handsome but he was also rumpled; his black hair didn’t have any grey in it yet but seemed to be permanently mussed, and he did look tired. He was unshaved and his normally piercing blue eyes were bloodshot, though that might be due to drink rather than fatigue. The rest of him was in okay shape. He certainly wasn’t overweight, though that was because during the investigation he hadn’t been eating properly or even regularly enough. But he was still reasonably solid and well-built; years of sports activities in his younger police days had served a purpose after all.
He yawned, scratched his grizzled cheek, then ambled back out and shouted his goodbyes to the bar staff. The muggy atmosphere outside did little to help with his semi-inebriated state, and he tottered across the pub car park to his Fiat. Even leaning against it, he had trouble inserting his key into the lock.
‘You’re not seriously thinking of driving in that state?’ someone asked.
Heck turned around. At first he didn’t recognise Gemma Piper. Her white Coupe was parked about twenty yards away. She’d got out and approached without him noticing. She was wearing jeans, trainers and a lilac running top.
‘I, er … no, my jacket’s in the back,’ he said.
‘Really?’
He opened the door and, with a flourish, pulled a lightweight leather jacket from the rear seat, where it had been dumped earlier. She eyed him sceptically, unconvinced.
‘What’s the matter anyway?’ he asked. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Yeah? Well tough. I’m off duty.’
He turned, stumbled across the car park and onto the pavement, though he hadn’t walked more than thirty yards before he realised that he’d be lucky to make it home. He’d drunk far more that evening than he had in quite some time. The white Coupe pulled up alongside him, and Gemma powered down her window.
‘Stop acting like a kid, Heck, and get in. At the very least, I can give you a ride home.’
Heck fumbled his way around the vehicle, and all but collapsed into the front passenger seat. Gemma leaned across him to check that his seatbelt was secure. As she did, he tried to nuzzle her neck. She pulled back sharply, glaring at him.
‘Don’t even go there. That’s not what this is about, and you know it.’
He shrugged as she put the car in gear and drove them away from the kerb.
‘What is it about?’ he asked sulkily.
‘I wanted to talk some business, but by the looks of it you’re in no fit state.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.’
‘Will you, indeed.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s difficult enough getting you to exercise good judgment when you’re stone-cold sober. It’d be a laugh a minute watching you try to do it tonight.’
Chapter 9 (#ulink_e9961f61-95ab-5ddf-a2a8-5ab531409a89)
Cherrybrook Drive was a cul-de-sac, with Heck’s place situated at its far end, where a ten-foot-high wall of soot-black bricks separated the residential neighbourhood from a stretch of tube running overland. The houses, which faced each other in two sombre rows, were tall and narrow, and fronted straight onto the pavement. Heck occupied an upstairs flat in the last one, accessible via a steep, dingy stairway. When he’d swayed up to the top, he flicked a light on, revealing a threadbare carpet and walls stripped to the plaster.
‘Nothing like living in style,’ Gemma observed.
‘I forgot … you haven’t been to this pad, have you?’ he replied. ‘Well … doesn’t matter, does it? I’m hardly ever here.’
The apartment itself was warm and not quite as gloomy as its entrance suggested. The kitchen was small but modern, and very clean – every worktop sparkled (though this might have been because food was rarely prepared here, as a bin crammed with kebab wrappers and pizza boxes seemed to suggest). There was a basic but surprisingly spacious lounge-diner, which would have been fairly pleasant had it not been for its window gazing down on the trash-filled cutting where the trains passed, a bathroom and a bedroom. The final room, separated from the hall by a sliding screen door, was box-sized and windowless. Its dim interior appeared to be scattered with disordered paperwork, but Heck closed the door on that before Gemma had a chance to check it out properly. It was his office, he said, though at present it was more like a junk room.
‘Coffee?’ he asked. ‘Tea? Something stronger?’
‘Coffee’s fine,’ she said.
He went into the kitchen, filled the kettle and prepared a single mug. As the water boiled, he took a tumbler and a bottle of whisky from a cupboard and poured himself three fingers. Walking back into the lounge, he threw his jacket across the armchair and hit the button on the phone-messaging system. There was only one message. It was from his older sister, Dana: ‘Mark, when am I going to see you? It’s been ages. I mean, if you’re not coming up, you can at least call.’
He pressed ‘delete’.
‘You and Dana still not getting on?’ Gemma asked.
‘Everything’s fine. I just can’t be bothered.’
‘Charming.’
Gemma glanced around at the lounge. It was neat enough, but very functional. The word ‘minimalist’ wouldn’t cover it – ‘Spartan’ would be more accurate. The walls were bare of paintings, the sideboard and shelves empty of flowers or photographs. The red and orange flowered curtains, blue vinyl sofa, and mauve carpet were a tasteless mish-mash.
‘Still no sign of a woman’s touch,’ she said.
‘Surely that doesn’t surprise you?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
He swilled his whisky, and went back into the kitchen.
She took in the room again. A few books sat on a sideboard, all recent titles from the bestseller list, covering various genres, which again was no surprise – it suggested Heck had neither the time nor inclination for a more specialised interest. DVDs occupied a wooden tower alongside the television, their cases thick with dust. It was clearly a while since he’d sat down and watched one of them. Next to the sofa there was a newspaper rack, but it contained only one item – yesterday’s edition of the Standard. Periodicals and style magazines of the sort that cluttered most people’s lounges were noticeably absent. Heck returned, carrying her coffee. She noticed that he’d poured himself another two fingers.
‘Have you got a drink problem that I don’t know about?’ she asked.
He dropped into the armchair. ‘The only problem I have is that I don’t get enough time to drink. Until now of course. Cheers!’
She placed her coffee down. ‘You know, there are times when a little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘Okay … you’re right. Thanks for the lift home.’
‘You’re as impossible now as you were …’
‘As I was then?’
She bit her lip and shook her head, as if suppressing a response that she’d regret.
For some reason, this half-conciliatory act warmed Heck inside. He added to it by swilling more whisky. ‘Well … I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.’
Gemma sighed. ‘Heck, I’ve defended your corner for a long time. But there’s only so much even I can do if you insist on winding up Jim Laycock every time you meet him.’
‘Oh, so that’s what this is about …’
‘No, it isn’t. And don’t start giving me attitude, Heck . . . because I’m not going to put up with it either.’ She paused, picked her coffee up and took a sip. ‘My God, that’s foul. You know they call me “the Lioness”?’
‘I’d noticed.’
‘Yeah, well that’s except where you’re concerned. Where you’re concerned, they call me “the Pussy Cat”. Now what do you think that’s doing to my self-esteem, eh?’
‘Alright, I’m sorry.’ He grabbed at his tie to loosen it, only to find that he wasn’t wearing one. ‘But he’s got to get off my back …’
‘For Christ’s sake, Heck! He’s a commander, you’re a sergeant!’
‘Yeah, and I close cases he wouldn’t have the first idea how to approach.’
‘That’s not the point. History’s written by the top brass, not the cannon fodder. So would you mind, now and then, just trying to make my job a little bit easier?’
‘I said I’m sorry.’ The thread of conversation was beginning to elude Heck. No doubt it was the booze. On the subject of which – he drained his glass, and lurched back into the kitchen for a refill.
‘That’s really going to help,’ Gemma said, following him.
‘It helps me,’ he retorted, though the corners of his vision were fogging badly.
‘Good Lord,’ she said, as he filled his glass almost to the brim.
‘It’s not like I’ve got something to get up for in the morning, is it?’
‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion.’
Even in Heck’s state, he detected meaning in those words. He swung round to face her. She was watching him carefully, suspiciously.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.
‘You accepted this enforced leave way too easily in my opinion.’
‘Naw … the idea just grew on me, that’s all.’
‘Heck, this is me you’re talking to. Give me some credit, eh!’
Her gaze was suddenly intense. Heck tried to return it, but doubted it would have much effect. He wasn’t just tipsy anymore, he was properly drunk. Which might explain why he suddenly wanted to spill the whole thing, tell her everything about his plans. Not that it was purely because his inhibitions had fled. Partly it was because confiding in someone – anyone – about the worry and uncertainty accrued over so many months of tireless effort and soul-destroying frustration, not to mention the bitterness at the way his gaffers had treated him, would be a kind of release, a burden shared.
Gemma was still talking. ‘You’re planning to continue investigating while you’re on leave, aren’t you?’
‘That would be against every rule in the book and completely unethical.’
‘And you expect me to believe that would make a difference to you?’
‘Do you want a drink yet?’ he asked, reaching for the bottle.
‘No.’ She snatched it away. ‘And you don’t either.’
They stared at each other, Heck having to lean on the kitchen units to stay upright. He rubbed at his face. It was numb, damp with sweat.
‘What’s in that room?’ she asked.
‘Which room?’
‘The room you didn’t want me to look in when we first got here.’
‘Have you come as a friend or a boss, Gemma?’
She looked surprisingly torn by the question. ‘Heck, I can’t be one or the other. Not when the stakes are as high as this.’
He nodded gravely, as if there was no point denying reality any longer, and levered himself upright, beckoning her to follow him out of the kitchen. In the hall, he yanked open the screen door he’d hurried to close on arriving. Again, a mess of heaped paperwork met their gaze. He switched the light on, bringing it into full clarity.
It was, as he’d said, an office. There was a desk, a swivel chair and a computer terminal. All were swamped with documents – official police documents by the looks of them, covered in typing and handwritten notes – but also maps, wanted posters, newspaper clippings. Two of the walls were occupied by noticeboards hung with further paperwork. A closer glance at this revealed witness statements, progress reports, criminal intelligence print-outs. The facing wall was more neatly arrayed with glossy photographs: the blown-up headshots of various different women. Lines and arrows had been drawn between them with a blue marker pen; captions and notations had been scribbled on the wallpaper.
‘Jesus H. Christ,’ Gemma said with slow disbelief. ‘You’ve set up your own incident room.’
‘Sorry boss, but I couldn’t let this go. I don’t care what anyone says.’
She picked a few documents up – gingerly, almost as if she wanted to check they were real but was hoping they weren’t. ‘You haven’t done all this in one evening. I know you haven’t … not when you were in the bloody pub getting wasted.’
Heck shrugged. ‘I had a feeling this was coming. I’ve been making copies of everything and bringing them here for weeks.’
‘You understand what this means, Heck?’ She turned to look at him with an expression that was more fear than anger. ‘This isn’t just a bit of indiscipline, this is an actual crime. This is all Laycock will need to bounce you right out of the job.’
Heck offered her his wrists. ‘You’d better take me in then, hadn’t you?’
Gemma gazed back into the makeshift incident room, at the thirty-eight lovely, smiling faces on its far wall. Even now, after seeing them so many times, their effect on her was physically sobering. Each one didn’t just represent a human life snatched away in its prime, but a devastated family: sorrowing children, tortured parents, a bereft spouse.
‘You may recall I drew up this profile some time ago,’ Heck said. ‘Women who were never likely to go off under their own steam. Career women, graduates, young mothers. Girls who’ve all got a good family life, good prospects, that sort of thing. You’ll notice there are no hookers or drug addicts here …’
‘Heck, I’m familiar with the facts!’ she snapped, sounding furious but still pale with shock. Her voice dropped to an intense whisper. ‘What I’m not familiar with is a level of disrespect for the chain of command that knocks everything else you’ve ever done into a cocked hat! In God’s name, what did you not understand about me telling you this case was closed?’
‘Every part of it,’ he replied brazenly. ‘Every single word.’ He wheeled around and tottered back into the lounge, where he slumped into the armchair. When she reappeared in the doorway, he picked up the telephone. ‘Shall I call for prisoner transport, or will you?’
She shook her head. ‘You have put me in some difficult situations, Mark Heckenburg, but this is …’
‘I’m sorry, Gemma,’ he slurred. ‘But we are where we are.’
‘Oh great. The philosophy of the drunk. That’s all I bloody need.’ She paced back and forth, rubbing at her brow with a carefully manicured finger. ‘You know, Heck, when we were hotshot young DCs at Bethnal Green, you were always three or four steps ahead of the game. You ran rings round the scrotes, the guv’nors. You were a risk-taker, but you so knew what you were doing. That’s what made it exciting to work with you. The angles and tangents we went off at – we never knew where we were going to finish up. It was like living in a high-octane cop movie. And then one day, DCI Jewson – remember him, fat belly, shaggy beard – we used to call him Grizzly Adams? A real old-stager, he was. He took me to one side and said: “Darling, you’ve got a great future. But you’re too close to young Heckenburg for your own good. That lad’s running before he can walk and he’s got way too many tricks up his sleeve. Mark my words, when he goes down – and he will – he’s going to take a chunk of the service with him.” Those were his exact words, Heck. I’ve never forgotten them. How could I? Because that’s when I decided that enough was as good as a feast, and that maybe me and you should cool things a little …’
A gentle snore from the other side of the room interrupted her.
She turned, to find Heck asleep in the armchair. She regarded him for several anguished moments, before shaking her head, taking him by the armpits and lugging him out of his seat, across his lounge and down the hall. Finally, with no little grunting and struggling, she deposited him on his bed, where she stared at him again for several long seconds. ‘Damn it, Heck, why do you always do this to me?’
He didn’t respond. So she switched the light out, before leaving the room.
Chapter 10 (#ulink_baaca634-a63a-56c0-a6f1-2952053b7cae)
Ian Blenkinsop sat in silence as he was driven down what he presumed were dark and empty roads. He presumed, because he couldn’t actually see. He was wearing a blindfold, a leather strap pulled tightly around his head, but with a cotton wool pad fitted over each of his eyes to prevent any possible chink of vision. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was unnerving, as was the presence of the two men who sat one on either side of him.
They never spoke, except to make the odd laconic comment about other road users, or the state of the towns and villages they passed through. Noticeably, they never once put a name to any of these places. Neither did they name each other. They were clearly aware that Blenkinsop was listening.
Not that he had much interest in their conversation at present.
He was physically weak, drained of energy and emotion. He was also nauseous; his gut tightened progressively until soon the muscles in his back and sides were tense and aching. His mouth had gone dry; his throat was constricted, and chill sweat bathed his cheeks. The motion of the car wasn’t responsible: it glided smoothly, without as much as a jolt. It was also air-conditioned, its interior fragrant of leather and felt.
‘Excuse me, I’m sick,’ he finally said. ‘Can we stop the car?’
‘Funny how so many of them want to be sick on the way back,’ one of the men remarked.
‘I’m serious. I’m going to throw up.’
‘Wait a minute.’
Slowly, the vehicle eased to a halt. There was a click as the handbrake was applied but the engine was allowed to continue running. Blenkinsop felt cool air as the door on his left-hand side was opened. Feet clumped on tarmac as one of the men climbed out.
‘Lean over this way, Mr Blenkinsop. And don’t even think about taking that blindfold off.’
Blenkinsop wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone, but now he did exactly as instructed. The man on the right-hand side took hold of him by the collar of his coat, so that he wouldn’t fall out of the car completely.
‘Okay, let it go,’ the first man said.
Blenkinsop felt a surge in his belly, as though everything inside him was about to explode out of his mouth in a torrent. But to his surprise, it was only a trickle, and it felt frothy, light. It didn’t even taste of vomit. Rather disgustingly, he realised, it was the champagne he’d drunk earlier; that was all he’d taken into his system in the last few hours. He retched again – another trickle, this one even thinner than the first. The next one was a dry-heave.
‘That it?’ the man asked. ‘Okay, back in with you.’
Blenkinsop was pulled back into the vehicle. The man climbed in alongside him. The door was closed, and the car moved on.
The journey seemed endless. It had been lengthy when he’d been coming the other way – somewhere between two and three hours by his reckoning; and on that occasion he’d been in a state of eager anticipation. Now that he was riddled with horror and fear, it seemed infinitely longer. They’d first picked him up in a rural lay-by near Tring. In the amount of time it had taken to reach their destination, they could have visited almost any part of southern or central England. Of course, by the same token, they may have taken him no more than a few miles, but had driven round and round in deliberate circles to throw him off the trail.
He tried to put these thoughts from his mind. What did he think he was doing, for Christ’s sake: collating evidence? The best thing now was to keep his mouth shut. As soon as they released him, he’d head for home and not look back once. But that would be easier said than done. That horrendous thing . . .
Blenkinsop was still shaking with disbelief at what he’d just participated in. At what – for Christ’s sake – he’d actually purchased. Oh, he was under no illusions about himself: he liked to think that he was a family man, but when it came to sex there were some real quirks in his character. He’d discovered that on umpteen trips overseas on behalf of the bank – to the Gulf and North Africa, to developing countries with unstable governments, where just about anything was available if you were prepared to pay for it. He’d often tried to reconcile these dark inner traits with the knowledge that this was the anything-goes twenty-first century, and that sexual experimentation was no longer frowned upon the way it once had been. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel dirty and wretched whenever his lust had been sated – not that any previous experience, no matter how extreme, compared with this one.
He wondered if he was going to be sick again, and struggled to fight it down. It seemed unlikely that the men in the car would tolerate another unscheduled stoppage.
He had to put it all from his mind. That was the only solution. Time healed everything. Even the most dreadful things faded from importance eventually. Another few weeks and it wouldn’t matter to him a jot, he was sure. He could relax again, get on with his life. It was all behind him. But still he had to wrestle with himself, to silence the voice of his conscience that was calling shame upon him, to shut the image of Louise’s frightened, child-like face from his mind’s eye.
If only they hadn’t made him stay behind afterwards.
‘Just a bit of extra insurance, Mr Blenkinsop,’ the one in the orange mask had said, as the one in purple had laid a body-length PVC bin-bag on the bed alongside Louise’s unconscious, naked form, and then produced a coil of what looked like piano wire. Blenkinsop knew he’d never forget the heart-stopping shock of that moment. As Purple unravelled the wire, he’d noticed that it was fitted with wooden grip-handles, one at either end.
Orange had chuckled. ‘You being here – involved, if you like – means you’re even less likely to go telling tales, doesn’t it?’
Blenkinsop had been half-dressed at the time and still coming down from the rapture of thoroughly enjoying the woman who had taunted him for so long. But he’d never expected to be made to witness the winding of that gleaming wire around her soft, white neck. He’d never imagined having to listen to the grunting efforts of the man in purple as he used the wooden handles to twist and twist and twist, exerting incredible pressure. Most of all, he’d never expected the inert body to start moving slightly, the leaden limbs jerking and twitching.
‘Amazing how they do that, isn’t it?’ Orange had remarked. ‘Out for the count, but there’s still something inside that’s aware she’s about to snuff it. Still, kinder than if she was fully conscious, eh?’
The contents of Blenkinsop’s gut lurched into his mouth again, but again – thankfully – there was nothing there of note, and he was able to gulp it back.
When she’d finally gone limp – had just flopped down lifeless – that was probably the most horrible part of it. Of course, he’d seen that a dozen times in the movies: a body fighting to survive for torturously long moments and then abruptly giving up the ghost; but in real life it was the most numbing, hair-raising thing he’d ever seen. Even then it had felt unreal – probably because at some subconscious level he couldn’t bring himself to accept what he was seeing – though now, in retrospect, it seemed naive to have expected the situation with Louise to be resolved any other way. They always undertook to ensure the crime would go unreported. That was their firm guarantee; they had dozens and dozens of satisfied customers who were still free men, who were at no risk of losing their liberty, and if he asked no questions about how this was brought about, he’d be told no lies – so he hadn’t asked. Of course he hadn’t. And even now, appalled again by the memory of Louise’s final, futile death struggles, he didn’t think he’d necessarily have wanted them to take a different course of action. He hadn’t known the girl well enough to like her, much less care about her, but he wouldn’t have wished such a fate upon her – that was never his intention, and he needed to keep reassuring himself of that; it had never been his plan to … murder (yes, like it or not, that was the word). And yet, loath to admit it though he was, it suited his purpose. Now there was absolutely no danger she would talk – you could never say that about someone you’d paid off or simply threatened.
Oh, it was hideous; there was no denying it – her eyes frozen in a lovely face turned purple and disfigured; her body, once young and supple, now cold, broken, stiffening, being wrapped in soulless plastic, bound with fishing twine like some demonic Christmas package – but it was for the best. Louise Jennings was now gone. It was over for her. But for him, life must go on.
Somewhere inside a distant voice berated him for attempting to rationalise it in this way, but he wanted to shout the voice down as if it wasn’t his own (good Christ, was he going mad?). He hadn’t sought this outcome, he reiterated to himself, but in all honesty how else could his freedom be guaranteed? Alright, there was no doubt it hadn’t been too clever getting himself into this mess in the first place, but you couldn’t roll back time … and Jesus you didn’t want to do or say anything that might antagonise men like this. No Sir, not in any shape or form. You had to approve of men like this. He almost cackled, he was so frightened, and again he wondered if shock had driven him mad.
The car now slowed to another halt, disrupting his thoughts.
A door opened and one of the men – by the sounds of it, the driver – climbed out. Blenkinsop knew what this meant, and at that moment it seemed like the greatest relief in his life. When they’d picked him up previously, black tape had been used to mask the vehicle’s registration mark. No doubt, once they’d blindfolded him and put him in the car, they’d stripped it away again. Now they were probably re-applying it. When the driver returned, Blenkinsop was told to climb out.
The two other men went first, one of them lending him a hand.
Initially, his legs were shaking so much that he could hardly stand up – but he’d manage it, because nothing was going to keep him here. It was over and he was out of this, and at last he could get away from these people and the terrible thing he’d done. Slowly, they removed his blindfold. It was now dark, there wasn’t even a streetlamp nearby, but he still had to blink until his eyes adjusted.
To one side, he spotted the vehicle he’d just driven in; it was the same white Range Rover with tinted windows that they’d collected him with earlier. But he pointedly didn’t look at it – that was the last thing he wanted; to know any more about these guys than he knew already. In any case, his own car, a new model Audi, was sitting alone in the lay-by. It was in a slightly different position from where he’d left it earlier, but that didn’t surprise him. He’d had to surrender his keys so that they could move it; a car like that left for half the day in a place like this would attract attention. Beyond the Audi, the fields were hidden by the night. The narrow country lane curved off into opaque shadow.
Two of the men now faced him. Despite everything he knew and had already seen, he drew a sharp breath. The hair on his scalp prickled like wildfire.
They were masked again. He hadn’t seen their faces once, which was exactly how he wanted it, but those masks themselves had become a thing of horror – made from orange and purple wool respectively – yet fearfully implicit of violent crime. It wasn’t just the masks: their bodies were solid, bulky, powerfully built, and clad in overalls. Their hands were gloved, their feet no doubt booted, perhaps with steel toecaps; the final perfect touch for the modern-day hoodlum’s killing outfit. How often he’d seen figures like these on television or in the newspapers: serial murderers, gangsters, terrorists – and, of course, rapists, a heinous club of which he was now a paid-up member.
At least, he assumed he was paid up.
When the man in the orange mask next spoke, he confirmed that this was the case.
‘Apparently we’re in full receipt of the cash, Mr Blenkinsop,’ he said, slipping a mobile phone back into his overalls pocket. ‘It’s all cleared. So as far as we’re concerned, our transaction is complete. You’ll never hear from us again, except in the occasional discreet mail drop, which is the only way you’ll be able to request our services a second time.’
Blenkinsop nodded. The mere thought of getting involved with these characters again was enough to make him faint. Just having them in such close proximity to him, and knowing what they were capable of, made him want to turn and run for his life.
‘You can drive home from here, yeah?’
Again, Blenkinsop nodded. ‘Yes …’ he whispered. ‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’
‘And your wife won’t ask any questions?’
Good Lord, Yvonne! Blenkinsop hadn’t thought about her once during today’s activities. Even now that it was all over, it was agony to do so.
‘She’s … er, she’s abroad with my daughter,’ he said.
‘Course, it doesn’t really matter whether she does or doesn’t,’ the one in the purple mask added. ‘It doesn’t matter if anyone asks you any questions. You know the answers you need to give.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a client of ours, Mr Blenkinsop,’ Orange added. ‘And we respect you for that. Not many men would have the bottle to do what you’ve done. But we’re not in the liking or trusting business. Bear this in mind – you don’t know anything about us, but we know an awful lot about you. Where you live, where you work, where you socialise. And it’s going to stay that way. From now on, we’ll be keeping you under covert surveillance. Not all the time obviously, but you’ll never know when we’re there and when we’re not. This is another of those insurance things, I’m sure you understand.’
Blenkinsop couldn’t speak; he simply nodded again.
‘If there’s any indication that you … shall we say, even feel tempted to discuss things that you shouldn’t be discussing – with anyone at all – then be prepared to suffer a very severe repercussion.’
Blenkinsop would have swallowed, but he had no spittle left in his mouth.
‘That’s not a threat, by the way. It’s just the way things are. So don’t go off disliking us. After all, you’re a man after our own heart.’
Blenkinsop smiled weakly, then lurched around and marched to his Audi. Climbing in, he found the keys in the ignition, switched the engine on and drove away. It was only ten miles from here to London. At this late hour, it should be plain sailing. Yet he already knew it would be the darkest, loneliest road he’d ever taken.
Chapter 11 (#ulink_2c16ca07-a367-5cd6-a4be-7291ca927d3b)
When Heck woke that morning, the first thing he thought was that he was being hit over the head with a plank. The next thing, he was bewildered to hear the sound of someone clattering around in his kitchen. He squinted with pain-fuzzed vision at the bedside clock; it wasn’t yet eight, but there was no doubt there was somebody else here. He got up shakily – slightly nauseous, his mouth lined with fur – and stumbled down the hall, which was filled with the scent of grilled bacon.
‘Morning,’ Gemma said from in front of the range, where she was juggling pots and pans.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘I, er …’ Slowly and sluggishly, his memories of the previous night began to return. ‘Oh, yeah … ouch.’ He touched his forehead delicately.
‘How’s your head?’ she asked, opening and closing the cutlery drawer seemingly as loudly as she could.
‘This is one of those occasions when I think I could live without it.’
‘You smell like a camel.’
He glanced down and saw that he was still wearing his jeans, t-shirt and socks from the night before, all rumpled and sweat soaked. ‘You put me to bed?’
‘Who else?’
‘Didn’t bother getting me undressed then, eh?’
‘Making you comfortable wasn’t a priority. If I was going to sleep on your sofa, I had to get you out of the lounge.’
‘You slept on the sofa?’ Heck could scarcely believe it.
‘How do you like your eggs?’
‘Erm … poached.’
‘Okay, coming up. Bacon, beans, sausage?’
Only now did he notice the food items arrayed along the worktop. Some were still in packages. ‘Where’s this stuff come from? I haven’t got any of this in.’
‘I’ve been round the corner to the supermarket.’
‘So this is the condemned man’s last breakfast, is it?’
‘Just get a shower, Heck, get dressed, and present yourself in a fit state for duty.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m actually at home here … on holiday?’
She glared at him. ‘You’ve stolen a mountain of police evidence. You’re lucky you’re not enjoying an extended holiday at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Now do as I say.’
Heck did, taking a long shower and climbing into a clean pair of shorts and a vest. When he wandered back, their two breakfasts were on the table, along with a round of toast, a jug of orange juice and a pot of coffee.
‘Just like the old days,’ he said, sitting opposite her.
‘Nothing like the old days,’ she corrected him. ‘Eat, while it’s hot.’
‘Only you could make an invitation to breakfast sound like an order from a concentration camp guard.’ But feeling refreshed and suddenly hungry, he tucked in.
She watched him as he ate, barely picking at her own food. ‘First of all, let’s hear what you’ve got,’ she finally said.
He regarded her over the rim of his coffee cup. ‘What do you mean?’
‘After all these months and months of backbreaking work, with no tangible results, what reason is there to persist with this enquiry? You must have a reason.’
‘I’ve got thirty-eight reasons.’
‘Thirty-eight possible reasons.’ She sighed. ‘Heck … we have to face the truth. There’s no guarantee these women haven’t gone off on purpose. There are all sorts of explanations why someone might want to disappear. We don’t know what goes on in people’s lives. Look … remember back in the 1980s, there was the case of the Oxford don? He was about to be awarded a professorship and made head of his department. The kids from his first marriage were all grown-up and successful in their own right. He had another kid on the way courtesy of his second wife, who was a lot younger than him and hot as hell. I mean, this guy had everything to live for. Yet, the morning after the award ceremony he vanished. They found his car in a lane off the M40. The keys were still in it. His wallet was still in it. There was even a solid gold watch, engraved, that his family had bought him in honour of the award – it had been left on the dashboard. Aside from that there was no trace. Then, about six years later, he was found – working under a false name on a sheep farm in the Outer Hebrides. And living rough. I mean, this guy slept in a croft with a peat sod roof.’
‘Remind me why he did that.’
‘I don’t know why. Some kind of breakdown. The point is it happens.’
‘Gemma, that was a one-off. We’re talking nearly forty people … ’
‘None of whom you’d class as vulnerable.’
‘Exactly.’ He took another swig of coffee. ‘There are no children on our list, no OAPs, no mental patients. The youngest was eighteen, the eldest forty-nine. More to the point, they’re mostly professional types, organised, able to look after themselves. Like it or not, that’s a pattern. I mean, it’s an unlikely one, but it’s still a pattern. Not only that, all our women vanished during routine activities … while they were doing something they did every day. None were taken while on holiday for example, or on day trips to other parts of the country …’
‘Heck …’
‘If you’re going to abduct someone, and not make a complete bollocks of it, you’ve got to watch them, memorise their patterns of behaviour. I hate using this analogy but, in nature, predators hunt along game trails. Because then they know exactly when the prey animals are coming, and exactly how many or how few of them there’ll be. After that, all they have to do is pick their moment and intercept …’
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Paul Finch
Get #HookedonHeck with the first book in the #1 bestselling DS Mark Heckenburg series."All he had to do was name the woman he wanted. It was that easy. They would do all the hard work."Detective Sergeant Mark 'Heck' Heckenburg is investigating the disappearance of 38 different women. Each one was happy and successful until they vanished without a trace.Desperate to find her missing sister, Lauren Wraxford seeks out Heck’s help. Together they enter a seedy underworld of gangsters and organised crime.But when they hear rumours about the so-called 'Nice Guys Club' they hit a brick wall. They're the gang that no one will talk about. Because the Nice Guys can arrange anything you want. Provided you pay the price…Dark, terrifying and unforgettable. Stalkers will keep fans of Stuart MacBride and Katia Lief looking over their shoulder.
Copyright (#ulink_d0c42b4b-ad7f-5df2-a1e7-be35c457f501)
AVON
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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Copyright © Paul Finch 2013
Paul Finch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007492299
Ebook Edition © February 2013 ISBN: 9780007492305
Version: 2018-10-02
Dedication (#ulink_e8dbf8a3-4b98-50eb-ad20-dd01df2c6a39)
For Mum and Dad, whose encouragement never flagged
Contents
Cover (#u0774667e-1f95-5928-8b5c-6339e6fd6f9f)
Title Page (#u47356111-47b9-5d5e-b31f-2810a819c0a9)
Copyright (#u6ac48019-a917-5f94-bfc1-fafcfc6116c0)
Dedication (#ub6ac2ee1-3130-5300-9d70-cc164946c92f)
Prologue (#ucfe1fc0a-f626-5d12-b514-8be08c807847)
Chapter 1 (#u6756bc5e-d7f4-570a-9f14-ca7123bdfb14)
Chapter 2 (#ub5c2c3aa-fd6e-5283-9fd2-a55df04f5a72)
Chapter 3 (#ud0c00a51-1992-5027-b769-19ba3614d2b3)
Chapter 4 (#u67cb41c5-cd38-5790-902b-f3d780bf6ae0)
Chapter 5 (#u8d46f1ef-a8ed-5158-a986-0972458932e3)
Chapter 6 (#u93953639-233c-5686-ac40-1a8270d3130c)
Chapter 7 (#uf90421f7-0465-5625-b104-c4fdbd40043d)
Chapter 8 (#u0a92ea5f-2072-5403-88f9-3e3366d9d6f8)
Chapter 9 (#u6239045d-ddff-5ec1-a7f5-f03db9297338)
Chapter 10 (#udb6ed010-6f53-5eac-a1ed-d42d82be207e)
Chapter 11 (#ua4eaf6a4-6f88-5b57-9cd8-43c457e8c140)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_705372d6-07ae-53da-a705-cfbb3fcc7cd5)
The night before, they met up one final time to go through the plan.
They were consummate professionals. Each one of them knew his role to the last. Nothing had been left to chance: they’d researched the target thoroughly; any possible glitch had been considered and accounted for. Timing would be all-important, but as they’d rehearsed exhaustively there were no real concerns. Of course, the target wouldn’t be keeping to a schedule, so there were potential problems there. But they’d be in full contact with each other throughout by phone, and one of the things experience had taught them was how to think on their feet and, if necessary, improvise. Another was patience. If the schedule slipped drastically, to the point where there might be genuine variables to deal with, they’d withdraw, regroup and move again on a later date.
It was always best to keep things safe and simple. But good planning was the whole thing: gathering intelligence, assimilating it and then striking at exactly the right moment with speed and practised precision. And in many ways that was its own reward. As job satisfaction went, there was nothing quite like it.
After they’d run things through a couple of times, they treated themselves to a drink; a bottle of thirty-year-old Glen Albyn bought with the proceeds of the last mission. And while they drank, they destroyed all the data they’d accumulated during the prep: written documentation, drawn plans, photographs, timetables, tapes containing audio information, memory sticks loaded with footage shot by mobile phones or digital cameras. They placed it all in a brazier, on top of logs and kindling, doused it with lighter-fluid and torched it.
On the off-chance something did go wrong and they had to start the whole process again – the trailing, the observing, the intelligence-gathering – they would do it without question or complaint. Proficiency was all; they didn’t believe in taking shortcuts. In any case, with minds as focused as theirs, much of the key detail would be retained in their memories. They’d only had to delay things once previously, and on that occasion the second run had been much easier than the first.
As they watched it all burn, the hot sparks spiralling into the night sky, they slapped each other’s shoulders and drank toasts: for good luck – which they wouldn’t need; and for the catch – which they’d enjoy as much as the chase. They’d almost finished the Glen Albyn, but if they woke up in the morning with muzzy heads, it wouldn’t matter: the mission was only due to commence late in the day. They’d be fine. They were on form, on top of their game, a well-oiled machine. And of course it would help that the target didn’t have an inkling and would get up with the alarm clock, prepared for nothing more than another routine day.
That was the way most women seemed to live. How often it was their undoing.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_38bf6931-abb4-5930-9e6f-e61fa90d239b)
There was something innately relaxing about Friday evenings in London.
They were especially pleasant in late August. As five o’clock came and went, and the minute hand progressed steadily around towards six, you could feel the city unwinding beneath the balmy, dust-filled sky. The chaos of its streets was as wild and noisy as ever – the rivers of traffic flowed and tooted, the sidewalks thronged with bustling pedestrians – yet the ‘grump’ was absent. People were still rushing, yes, but now they were rushing to get somewhere where they wanted to be, not because they were on a time-clock.
In the offices of Goldstein & Hoff, on the sixth floor of Branscombe Court in the heart of the capital’s glittering Square Mile, Louise Jennings felt exactly the same way. She had ten minutes’ worth of paperwork to finish, and then the weekend officially began – and how she was anticipating it. She was out riding on Saturday morning, and in the afternoon was shopping for a new outfit as they had a rotary club dinner that evening. Sunday would just be a nice, lazy day, which, if the weather reports were anything to go by, they could spend in the garden or on a drive into the Chilterns.
Louise was a secretary by trade, but that job-title might have been a little misleading. She was actually a ‘senior secretary’; she had several staff of her own, was ensconced for most of the working day in her private office, and answered directly to Mr Malcolm Forester, who was MD of Goldstein & Hoff’s Compliance department. She turned over a neat forty thousand pounds per annum, which wasn’t bad for an ex-secondary school girl from Burnt Oak, and was held in high esteem by most of the company’s employees, particularly the men – though this might have owed as much to her shapely thirty-year-old figure, long strawberry-blonde hair and pretty blue eyes as to her intellect. Not that Louise minded. She was spoken for – she’d been married to Alan for six years now, and had dated him for three years before that. But she enjoyed being attractive. It made her husband proud, and so long as other men restricted themselves to looking, she had no gripes. If she was honest, her looks were a weapon in her armoury. Few in the financial sector, of either sex, were what you’d call ‘reconstructed’. It was a patriarchal society, and though the potential was always there for women to wield great power, they still had to look and behave like women. When Louise had first been interviewed for a job with Goldstein & Hoff, she’d been under strict orders from Alan to make the best of herself – to wear a smart tight skirt, high heels, a clingy, low-cut blouse. It had got her the job, and had remained her official uniform ever since.
Okay, on one hand it might be a little demeaning to consider that you’d only advanced through life because you were gorgeous, but that was never the whole story. Louise was highly qualified, but so were numerous other women; in which case, anything that gave you an edge was to be embraced.
It was just after six when she got away, hurrying across the road to Mad Jack’s, where Simone, Nicola and Carly, her three underlings – all of whom had been released at the generous ‘Friday afternoon only’ time of four-thirty – would be waiting for her.
Mad Jack’s, a onetime gin palace dating from Dickens’s day, had been refurbished for the modern age, but still reeked of atmosphere. Behind its traditional wood and glass entrance was a dimly-lit interior, arranged on split-levels and filled wherever you looked with timber beams, hardwood panelling and exposed brickwork. As always at this time of the week, it was crowded to its outer doors with shouting, besuited revellers. The noise level was astonishing. Guffaws echoed from wall to wall; there was a clashing of glasses and a banging of tables and chairs on the solid oak floor. It could have been worse of course: Louise had started at Goldstein & Hoff before the smoking-ban had been introduced, and back in those days the place was fogged with cigar fumes.
The four girls made a little enclave for themselves in one of the far corners, and settled down. They ordered a salad each, though with a central order of chips accompanied by mayo and ketchup dips. Louise made sure to drink only a couple of Chardonnays with hers. It wasn’t just that she was the boss and therefore had a responsibility to behave with wisdom and decorum, but she had to drive some of the way home. Nevertheless, it was a part of the week that they all looked forward to; a time for the sort of rude quips that were strictly forbidden during company hours (at least, on Louise’s watch). Occasionally other colleagues would drag up stools and join them, men to drunkenly flirt or women to share tasty snippets they’d just picked up. At some point that evening it would assume the dimensions of a free-for-all. By seven-thirty, Carly was onto her sixth Southern Comfort and coke and Nicola was in a deep conversation with a handsome young chap from Securities. The ornately glazed doors crashed open as yet more City guys piled in. There were further multi-decibel greetings, increased roars of laughter. The place was starting to smell of sweat as well as alcohol, and, checking her watch, Louise decided that she’d soon be on her way.
Before heading for home, she went downstairs into the basement, where the lavatories were. The ladies was located at the end of a short passage, alongside several other doors – two marked ‘Staff Only’, one marked ‘Gents’. When she entered, it was empty. She went into one of the cubicles, hiked her skirt up, lowered her tights and sat down.
And heard someone come into the room after her.
Louise expected the normal ‘click-click-click’ of heels progressing to one of the other cubicles or to the mirror over the washbasins. But for the briefest time there was no sound at all. Then she heard it – the slow stump of flat shoes filled by heavy feet.
They advanced a couple of yards and then halted. Louise found herself listening curiously. Why did she suddenly have the feeling that whoever it was had stopped just on the other side of her door? She glanced down. From this angle it was impossible to see beneath the door, but she was suddenly convinced there was someone there, listening.
She glanced at the lock. It was fully engaged.
The silence continued for several seconds, before the feet moved away.
Louise struggled not to exhale with relief. She was being absurd, she realised. There was nothing to worry about. She was only seven or eight feet below the brawling bedlam that was Mad Jack’s on a Friday evening.
Once more the feet halted.
Louise listened again. Had they entered one of the other cubicles? Almost certainly they had, but there was no sound of a door being closed or a lock being thrown. And now that she was listening particularly hard, she fancied she could hear breathing – steady, regular, but also deep and husky. Like a man’s breathing.
Maybe it was a member of staff, a caretaker or repairman? She was about to clear her throat, to let him know that there was a woman in here, when it suddenly struck her as a bad idea. Suppose it wasn’t a member of staff?
The breathing continued, and the feet moved again across the room; more dull heavy thuds on the tiled floor, getting louder. Whoever it was, they were backtracking along the front of the row of cubicles.
Unconsciously, Louise raised a knuckle to her mouth. Was he going to stop outside her door again?
But he didn’t.
He stumped heavily past, veering away across the room. A second later, she heard the lavatories’ main door open and close. And then there was silence.
Louise waited. Still there was silence.
Eventually she stood, pulled her tights back up, pushed her skirt down, cautiously disengaged the lock, and peeked out. She couldn’t see everything, but she appeared to be alone. She took a breath, then rushed across to the door, opened it and went out into the passage – and stopped in her tracks. Halfway up it on the right, one of the other doors was ajar. It was one of those marked ‘Staff Only’ and a thin slice of blackness was visible on the other side. Louise stared at it hard. Was that faint movement she could see through there? Was someone partly concealed but staring back at her?
The door crashed open with a violent bang.
But the man who came through it was young and wearing the pressed black trousers and olive-green t-shirt of the bar-staff. He was carrying a plastic tray filled with gleaming wet crockery. When he saw her and realised that he’d made her jump, he grinned apologetically. ‘Sorry love.’
He sauntered away up the stairs, towards the bar area.
With one hand on her heart, Louise ventured forward and glanced through the door as it swung slowly closed. Beyond it, a darkened corridor with boxes down one side connected with a series of lit rooms, and at its far end, with a door opening out into one of the service alleys behind the building. Several other members of staff were moving around down there.
Feeling foolish, she hurried on upstairs and rejoined the others.
Louise finally left the premises, briefcase in hand, just before eight. It was a five-minute walk down to Bank, where she took the Central Line to Oxford Circus. There, she changed to the Bakerloo.
She rode down the escalator to the northbound line, and when she got to the bottom found that she was alone. This might have been odd at any other time of day, but it was now Friday evening and most travellers would have been headed into town rather than away from it. The arched passageways were equally deserted, yet Louise had only walked a few yards when she thought she heard footsteps somewhere behind her. She stopped and listened, but now heard nothing.
She strolled through onto the platform. Again, no one else was present. A gust of warm wind blew a few scraps of waste paper along the gleaming tracks. And then she heard the footsteps again – apparently drawing closer. Discomforted, she gazed back along the passage, seeing nothing but expecting someone to come into view.
No one did. And now the footsteps stopped. It was almost as though whoever it was had sensed that she was waiting for him.
A train groaned into the station behind her.
Relieved, she climbed aboard.
At Marylebone, back among commuters, she bought an evening paper and had a coffee before boarding an overland train to High Wycombe. It was now close to eight-thirty. There was no real rush – Alan, who owned his own insurance company, spent his Friday afternoons on the golf course and would be in the clubhouse bar until well after eleven, but it was always good to feel you were almost home. She glanced through the window as she sped along. In the smoky dusk, the drear West London suburbs gradually blended with the woods and fields of the Home Counties. Darkness was encroaching fast; twenty-five minutes later, when she left the train at Gerrards Cross, it had fallen completely.
She was alone again, and it was very quiet. But she wasn’t worried – this was entirely normal. Gerrards Cross was a typical South Bucks country town, so small that it was actually more of a village. Being the most expensive postcode outside London, it was way too upmarket to have a lively night-life, even on Fridays. Its main street, which ran through it from one end to the other, boasted a few bars and restaurants, but these were quality establishments; pub-crawlers and binge-drinkers never darkened their doors.
Louise left the station, which was unmanned at this hour, and followed a hedged side-path down towards the parking area. Gerrards Cross railway station was built in a deep cutting, on a much lower level than the town itself, so its car park was a dark, secluded spot at the best of times. Now, as she descended the steeply sloping path from the station, she noted that several of its electric floodlights were not working. What was more, as the car park came into view she thought that her car was missing.
She stopped, surprised, but then spotted it. It was the only vehicle left and it was down at the farthest end, under the low, leafy boughs of a very ancient chestnut tree. Thanks to the damaged lights, that particular corner was deep in gloom. She set off walking.
And heard footsteps again.
She halted and glanced over her shoulder.
The path curved away behind, so she could only see twenty yards along it. There was no one in sight, and the footsteps abruptly stopped.
Louise continued to peer behind her. The slope of the station roof was visible over the hedge. Beyond that, higher up, there were lights along the balustrade of the bridge – it was possible she’d heard someone crossing it on foot. But again, there was no sign of anyone.
She started out across the car park, which was perhaps two hundred yards long by fifty wide and was bordered on its right-hand side by thick undergrowth. Louise now imagined she could hear movement in this undergrowth: a persistent crackling of foliage, as if something heavy was pushing its way through. An animal, she told herself. This part of the county was alive with badgers and foxes, especially at night.
Then she saw the figure sitting against the trunk of the chestnut tree.
She stopped short, a cold chill down her spine.
Was it a tramp, a hobo of some sort? You rarely, if ever, saw anyone like that in this exclusive district. He was slumped and ragged, and wearing what looked like a dirty old coat, tatters of which were moving in the breeze.
But then she realised what she was actually seeing.
The ragged, bundled object ‘seated’ against the tree-trunk was nothing more than a bin-bag stuffed with rubbish and waste paper.
Again feeling ridiculous, Louise hurried on.
The car was still half-hidden in murk. Its near-side, where the driver’s door was, was up against the undergrowth, and the narrow gap this afforded was completely hidden in shadow. But now Louise just wanted to get home. She was spooking herself with all these daft, pointless worries. So she went deliberately and boldly around to the driver’s side, acutely aware of the deep undergrowth at her back as she fiddled with the key-fob. But she could no longer hear movement in it, and even if she could, so what? It was summer. Birds would be roosting in there. She was only a few hundred yards from the Packhorse Common, where wild deer had been sighted. In any case, there was no sound now.
She unlocked the car, threw her briefcase into the back and climbed in behind the wheel. A moment later, she’d gunned the engine, and was on her way out.
She left Gerrards Cross via the B416, heading south towards Slough. At Stoke Poges she turned right and continued west along narrow, unnamed lanes. It was a breezy but warm night, so she had her window partially wound down. Moths and other bugs fluttered in her headlights. The eyes of a cat sparkled as it slid across the road in front of her. At Farnham Common she swung south towards Burnham. Belts of trees growing on either side of the road hemmed her in a tunnel, their branches interlacing overhead like fingers.
Louise had relaxed again. She was only three miles from the snug comforts of home.
But with a thunderous bang, she lost control of the vehicle. It lurched violently downward and slewed across the road, the steering wheel spinning in her hands. She jammed her brakes on, skidding to a halt with a fearsome screech.
When finally at rest against the verge, she sat there, stunned. The only sound was the engine ticking as it cooled. She jumped out.
What she saw left her astounded: her front two tyres hung in shreds around their wheel-trims. It was the same with her rear tyres. They’d literally been ripped to pieces; spokes of broken ply-cord poked out from them. She walked around the vehicle in a circle, scarcely able to comprehend the misfortune of it. One blow-out would have been bad enough; she’d never changed a wheel before and thought she could probably do it, but here – in the middle of the woods, at this time of night? Not that it mattered now, because she didn’t have spares for all four of them.
She fumbled in her jacket pocket for her mobile phone. She’d have to call Alan. Okay, he was at the golf club and would probably have had too many drinks to drive, but there might be someone who could come and pick her up. If not, he’d know what to do.
Then Louise spotted something else.
The phone was now in her hand, but her finger froze on the keypad.
About forty yards behind the car, something glinted with moonlight as it lay across the road. She walked slowly towards it, but stopped when she was only halfway.
It was a ‘stinger’ – at least, that’s what she thought they were called. One of those retractable beds of nails that police use to stop getaway cars after bank robberies. Someone had deliberately left it across the road.
Louise realised that she was shaking. She backtracked towards the car. Had some hooligans done this, some idiotic bunch of kids who had no better way to waste their time? Or was it something more sinister? Not allowing herself to think about the latter option, and certainly not glancing into the unlit reaches of woodland on all sides, she scrambled back to the car and yanked open the driver’s door.
She paused briefly to consider: she couldn’t drive on her hubcaps of course. But she could lock herself in. Yes, that was what she’d do. She’d lock herself in and call for help. She climbed behind the wheel, closed the door and made to apply the locks when she sensed the presence, just to the left of her.
Slowly, she twisted around to look.
He was in the front passenger seat, having clearly climbed in while she’d been distracted by the stinger. He was of heavy build and wore dark clothing: a bulky leather jacket and underneath that a ‘hoodie’ top with the hood actually pulled back. His hair was thinning and he had a pair of huge, jug-handle ears. But he had no nose – just a gristle-filled cavity – and no eyelids, while the rest of his face was a patchwork of puffy, raddled scar tissue.
Louise tried to scream, but a thick hand in a leather glove slapped onto her mouth. A second hand, also gloved, fastened around her throat.
And began to squeeze.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_4c27954b-b2a4-567b-9979-48ac5ae6f85a)
It was typical Bermondsey – scrap yards, wasteland, litter, graffiti running over everything.
Heck drove through it with a jaundiced eye, thinking only that his battered old Fiat Brava matched this decayed environment perfectly. To his left somewhere lay the river, delineated by the occasional crane or wharf-tower. He passed a row of boarded-up buildings on his right. A bag-lady sat on the kerb, her knees spread indecently wide as she drank from a bottle of cheap wine. Directly ahead, derelict tower blocks – bleak edifices of stained concrete and broken glass – were framed on the slate-grey sky.
He drove on, too weary to be oppressed by such a scene.
The appointed meeting-place turned out to be a crossroads close to a low railway arch. Corrugated steel fences hemmed it in from all sides and there was a single streetlight, its bulb long smashed. On the left, a mound of flattened brick rubble provided sufficient room for parking. However, Heck cruised on past, surveying the place carefully. There was nobody there, which, checking his watch – it was now ten minutes to six – was not surprising. He was early for the rendezvous, but at this hour on a Sunday morning there was unlikely to be anyone about in this desolate neck of the woods. He passed under the arch and drove another three hundred yards until a broken fence and a patch of scorched ground afforded him a turning-space. After that, driving slowly this time, he made his way back.
At the crossroads, another vehicle was now present. A maroon Bentley had parked, and a tall, lean man was standing against it, reading the Sunday Sport. He wore a black suit and had short hair bleached a shocking blonde. When Heck saw the car and the man, he groaned with disbelief. In truth, he hadn’t expected a great deal from this meeting. The voice on his office answering-machine had been abrupt and to the point, stating simply that it had information he might find useful. It had then given a time and place, and had rung off. When Heck had traced it, the call had been made from a payphone somewhere in South London. He’d received dozens of similar things over the last few months, but on this occasion, perhaps because he was so dog-tired, he’d started thinking irrationally; he’d wondered if maybe he’d get a break simply because he was due one.
Not so apparently. It was another false dawn.
He pulled up on the opposite side of the crossroads and climbed from his Fiat. He knew that he looked like shit: he was groggy with fatigue, sallow-faced, unshaven. His jacket and tie were rumpled, his shirt stained from drips of late-night coffee.
Heck idled across the road, hands in his trouser pockets. The tall, blond man, whose name was Dale Loxton, glanced up over his newspaper. This close, his otherwise smart appearance was belied by the ugly, jagged scar down his left cheek and the fanged snakehead tattoo on the side of his neck. He wore black leather gloves.
Heck sensed that another figure had appeared from a concealed position to his right. It was Lennie ‘the Loon’ Asquith: he was burly, almost ape-like. He too wore a black suit and black leather gloves, but he had long, greasy red hair and a brutal face pock-marked with acne scars. Neither of the men was smiling.
‘Regular double-act, you two, aren’t you?’ Heck said.
Loxton folded his paper. ‘Mr Ballamara would like a word with you.’
‘And I’d like to get home and find Jessica Alba making my breakfast wearing only an apron and high heels. What are the chances of that, do you reckon?’
‘It’s just a little chat,’ Loxton said, opening the Bentley’s rear off-side door.
Asquith had advanced until he was very close and now stood there like a rock, his big arms folded across his barrel chest. Heck knew he had no option. Not that he fancied it. Even ‘little chats’ with Bobby Ballamara had a habit of turning nasty.
He climbed in and Loxton closed the door behind him. The car’s interior was plush, all fragrant leather and varnished woodwork. Ballamara, as always, immaculate in a pinstriped suit with a shirt and tie of pink silk and a pink handkerchief peeking from his breast pocket, was engrossed in a copy of The Times. He was an elderly man, maybe sixty, rat-faced, with close-cropped white hair and a white, pencil-thin moustache. To all intents and purposes he looked like an ordinary businessman, until you saw his eyes; they were dead, flat, ice-grey in colour.
‘Ah,’ he said, in his only slightly noticeable Cockney accent. ‘Heck.’
‘My friends call me “Heck”. To you it’s “Detective Sergeant Heckenburg”.’
Ballamara smiled to himself and closed the newspaper.
‘What do you want?’ Heck asked.
‘How’s it going? You making any progress?’
Heck reached up to loosen his tie, only to find that it was already loose; it hung at his throat in a limp knot. ‘Do I look like I am?’
‘You’ve certainly been putting the hours in. There’s no question about that.’
‘Been keeping tabs on me, have you?’
‘Now and then. As a scrupulous tax-payer, I like to know my money’s being well-spent.’
Heck feigned surprise. ‘They tax drugs and prostitution now, do they?’
‘Let’s try and keep this friendly, Heckenburg.’
‘You asking me that, or telling me?’
Ballamara’s smile faded a little. ‘You know, these snappy comebacks may win you kudos with the secretaries in the CID office. But I’d remind you that my daughter has now been missing for two years.’
‘And I’d remind you that a large number of other people’s daughters have been missing for a similar period of time, if not longer. And I’m no more personally answerable to them than I am to you.’
‘You still the only officer on the case?’
‘You know I can’t divulge information regarding an ongoing enquiry.’
Ballamara nodded thoughtfully. ‘Which means you are the only officer on the case. In the whole of the Metropolitan Police only one detective is working on my daughter’s disappearance.’
Heck sighed. He felt like they’d been over this ground umpteen times. ‘I’m not in the Metropolitan Police anymore, Mr Ballamara. I’m with the National Crime Group, as you well know. That means we have less manpower and we’re not only investigating crime in London, we’re investigating it in the whole of England and Wales. However, the point is a good one. So why don’t you lodge your complaint with Commander Laycock at New Scotland Yard? Believe me, I’d like nothing better. Now, if that’s all there is, I’ve been on a surveillance operation all night, I have about six hours of paperwork still to do, and after that I’m off to bed.’
He opened the door and made to climb out, but Asquith was standing on the other side, and slammed it closed again. Heck pulled back sharply, only just managing to avoid smashing his face on the window.
‘Heckenburg, there’s something you should know about me,’ Ballamara said. It was said casually; a simple statement. But the gang leader’s flat, grey eyes had now hardened until they were more like coins. ‘I have personally used the foundations of motorway bridges to bury coppers who were much tougher, much cleverer, and much, much higher up the food-chain than you. You think I’m just going to sit back and let some low-rank pipsqueak keep fobbing me off while my daughter is suffering God knows what?’
Heck rubbed his forehead. ‘I’m doing what I can.’
‘It isn’t enough.’
‘There’s no case, alright?’ Heck stared at him as earnestly as he could. ‘I’ve told you this before. Your Noreen went missing. I’m sorry about that, but she was nineteen and a big girl. She had money, she had her independence – she’s hardly what you’d class as a vulnerable person. You need to accept the possibility that she might have disappeared because she wanted to.’
‘She was out with her mates in the West End,’ Ballamara reminded him. ‘It was their usual Saturday night get-together. All she had with her was her handbag and the very skimpy clothes she was standing up in. The next day I searched her flat, myself. The wardrobes were still full. All her suitcases were there, her passport was in the fucking drawer, for Christ’s sake.’
Heck didn’t really know how to reply. They’d had this conversation over and over, and in any case the gangster was preaching to the converted. Heck also believed that Noreen Ballamara had fallen victim to foul play, and, in that respect, his toeing the ‘official’ line was becoming thankless and tiresome.
‘Look Ballamara,’ he finally said, ‘you need to understand …’
‘Mister Ballamara, while we’re insisting on formalities.’
‘Mr Ballamara, it’s not me you’ve got to convince. But with no body, no crime scene and basically no evidence of anything at all, I’m pissing in the wind. At present, all we can do is class Noreen as a missing person.’
‘And what about all the others?’
‘The same thing. There’s no proof that any of these disappearances are connected.’
‘You don’t think it’s a hell of a coincidence?’
‘Look at the bigger picture. Thousands of people drop out of sight every year, but only a fraction of them in suspicious circumstances.’
Ballamara nodded at this and smiled. ‘In which case, why are you, an officer in the NCG’s Serial Crimes Unit, looking into these particular forty cases?’
‘That’s what my gaffers are wondering.’
‘It isn’t good enough, Heckenburg. I want answers.’
‘What do you think I want?’
‘I don’t give a flying fuck what you want!’ The gangster leaned across and peered into Heck’s face with lupine intensity. He’d now blanched to a very unhealthy shade of white and was so close that his breath filled the cop’s nostrils with a reek of peppermint. When he spoke again, it was in a low, menacing monotone. ‘Now you listen, my son. I’ve had it up to here with this bullshit. So from now on, you aren’t just working for the police – you’re working for me. Consider the fact that you’re still walking around with an intact spine your salary. Now get out and get back on the job, or I’ll personally rearrange your face so your fucking mum wouldn’t recognise it.’
Right on cue, the car door opened again.
Heck found himself being helped out by Asquith, though, with a bunched fist gripping him by the back of his collar, it was the sort of help he probably didn’t need. The door closed with a thud, and then Heck was standing in the road watching as Asquith sidled around the vehicle to the front passenger door, and Loxton made to climb behind the steering wheel.
‘Don’t suppose you lot have been looking for Noreen, have you?’ Heck asked them.
Loxton eyed him as though he couldn’t believe a copper could ask so stupid a question. ‘Course we fucking have.’
‘Any leads you’d care to share?’
‘Dale!’ Ballamara shouted from inside the car. ‘Stop jawing with that fucking waste of space. He hasn’t got time for idle chat.’
Heck stood back as the Bentley swerved off the rubble and drove away in a cloud of dust and debris. In truth, there was any number of things he could have charged Bobby Ballamara with. That morning alone he was good for wasting police time, threatening to kill, unlawful imprisonment, and so on. But these were Mickey Mouse offences, arrests that would only distract from the main story, which was the thirty-eight missing women that Heck had been looking for since the beginning of 2010. What was more, Bobby Ballamara and his boys who, by their own admission, were keeping their ear to the ground, had a potentially useful role to play in this, so alienating them even further would be self-defeating. Besides, for all his bravado, Ballamara was unlikely to whack a copper. He was strictly old school. A vicious, violent racketeer, he wouldn’t hesitate to have a fellow lowlife’s brains beaten out of him if he felt like it. But his traditional gangland ethics made him seem anachronistic in this age of crazy, gun-toting killers who’d think nothing of massacring school-kids should they get in the way.
Heck walked back to his car, only to spot that its front nearside tyre was flat. For an angry moment he assumed that either Asquith or Loxton had got bored while he’d been in conversation with their boss. But then he saw the rusty nail sticking out of it, almost certainly picked up on the patch of burned ground that he’d used as a turning-space earlier. Irritated with his own carelessness, and feeling way too tired for the physical effort now required, he went to the boot for his spare.
That was when it began to rain.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_83ef45b1-af48-56b6-8e61-4f8c2f19a669)
Each time Louise woke up it seemed like she was emerging from a horrific nightmare, only to discover that it was reality.
She was in the boot of a vehicle – she’d realised that much from the rumbling of the engine and the constant jolting and bumping. Her hands were secured behind her back in what felt like a pair of plastic cuffs, which were pulled so tight that they burned into her flesh. Her legs were crooked painfully beneath her because she couldn’t lie full-length in such an enclosed space. It was pitch-black and stiflingly hot; her clothes were damp with sweat, and yet her body was utterly frozen with terror. She didn’t know how long she’d been in here. It seemed like days, though surely it couldn’t have been that long – a day and a night maybe, possibly a little longer? Either way, she was parched with thirst, hunger was gnawing her insides out and the atmosphere was unspeakably foul as she’d urinated on herself at least twice. Yet none of that compared to the mind-numbing fear of what might lie ahead.
A piece of duct-tape had been smacked across her mouth and wrapped around the back of her head so she could barely whimper, let alone scream. A blindfold made of cloth was bound around her eyes. The memory of what had happened on the quiet country road was only vague. Whoever the man was who’d attacked her – if it had been a man (that diabolical face was still imprinted on her mind) – he’d choked her into unconsciousness. But at least that brief instant of agony and dread had been swift. She’d have swapped the merciful oblivion it brought for the prolonged, torturous ordeal that she was going through now. She’d been enclosed in this metal coffin for so long that she’d even slept once or twice, though that was mainly because each time when she’d woken she’d thrashed about frantically until she was exhausted. Louise struggled again, futilely, wailing beneath her gag. The problem was that the boot was claustropho-bically tight and confined; its lid was only a couple of inches above her, and she had no leverage with which to kick against it.
For the thousandth time, her thoughts raced chaotically as she tried to recall the contradictory advice she’d heard over the years about what a woman should do if she was attacked by a rapist. She was sure a police officer on television had said that you should fight, scratch, bite – but what if this antagonised the assailant? Someone else had said that you should plead with him, humanise yourself by talking about your family, your children. But again – what if he was a sadist, and that gave him even more pleasure?
Of course, at the end of the day all this was theory. It had never occurred to Louise that she might at some time be in a position to put such horrors to the test. Even now they barely seemed real. Some thirty-six hours later – it was at least that long, she decided, which made it sometime on Sunday morning – she was still numb with shock, still faint, still nauseated by fear. Fresh sweat seeped through her clothes as she pondered the many possibilities behind her abduction. Above all, Louise clung to the fact that she was still alive so many hours later. She hadn’t been raped yet, or beaten, or murdered. In addition, the car had stopped once – quite a few hours ago now, it seemed – the boot had opened, her gag had briefly been removed and someone who never spoke had forced a plastic straw between her lips, allowing her a few sips of water. Surely all this meant she was more to them than a mere plaything? It seemed increasingly likely that they needed her alive, though she hardly dared anticipate such. Alan was a wealthy guy and Goldstein & Hoff were major players on the international banking scene: obvious targets for ransom demands. In addition, her kidnapper had gone to great trouble to snare her in the first place: she hadn’t just been dragged into an alley. That slow pursuit all the way from the City, the stinger across the country road – clear evidence of deliberation, of forward planning. In some ways that made it even more frightening, but it also gave Louise hope that she was merely a pawn in a larger game. What game that might be, she had no clue; it wasn’t necessarily financial – heaven knew what the top brass in the City sometimes got involved with – but as long as this was not a personal attack against her surely she stood at least a reasonable chance of being released unharmed …?
Very abruptly, the vehicle slid to a halt.
There was a squeal of tyres, and a loud clunk as the handbrake was applied.
Louise lay shuddering as the engine was switched off and two car doors opened and closed simultaneously. This had already happened several times during the course of her imprisonment in here. There was the incident when she was given water, but on the other occasions no one had come to her. Hours had then passed, during which she’d squirmed and wrestled with her bonds, and again had tried to cry out – to no avail. Whoever had taken her was clearly moving her from place to place and, on the few occasions when they’d left her, they chose somewhere very private where not a sound could be heard. In due course, they’d always returned and the car had started up again.
However, that didn’t happen this time.
Icy fingers scurried all over Louise as she listened to the sound of heavy feet approaching. A key was fitted into the lock, there was another clunk, and light spilled down on her; it was so bright after her long hours of confinement that it poured through her blindfold, searing her retinas. When the cloth strap was torn away, she snapped her eyelids shut and averted her face, but rough hands took hold of her. She moaned and went dizzy as they hauled her upright and left her in a sitting position. Blinking rapidly, she tried to adjust her vision, but only after several seconds did everything swim into focus. What she saw proved just how long she’d been peering into empty blackness: it wasn’t glaring sunshine that had half-blinded her, but the gloomy twilight of an underground car park.
Her eyes darted fearfully around, seeing water-marks on concrete pillars, loops of corroded chain hanging from overhead. About twenty yards in front was the hulk of a burned-out vehicle. Beyond that lay deep shadows, cross-cut with occasional shafts of dull, grimy daylight. Then she saw the two men looking down at her.
Both wore dark overalls and gloves, and knitted ski-masks with holes cut for their eyes and mouths. One ski-mask was purple, the other day-glo orange. She stared helplessly back, eyes bulging, as they appraised her.
‘She’s a fucking sight,’ the one in the purple mask said.
But it was the reply from the one in the orange mask which sent a deeper, more paralysing chill through Louise than she’d ever known. ‘Aren’t they always.’
‘I suppose she’ll scrub up,’ Purple added.
Orange continued to stare at her. He was taller than his comrade. Narrow circles of skin were visible around his eye-sockets, and, by the looks of these, he was black. When he’d spoken it had been without an obvious accent, though the other one, who looked to be white, sounded as though he was from the Midlands somewhere.
‘Nice legs on her,’ Purple remarked.
Belatedly, Louise realised that her skirt and shoes had been removed, though her tights, torn full of holes, were still in place.
Purple leaned down and squeezed her left breast. ‘Firm tits too. Keeps herself in shape for her old fella.’
Louise barely noticed the personal violation. With each passing second, this ordeal was becoming ever more real. Suddenly it seemed terribly, terribly certain that she’d never see Alan again, or their lovely house in rural Buckinghamshire.
Purple chuckled. ‘Least she’s not shit herself. Hate it when they do that.’
‘P-please,’ she stammered. ‘Let me go, let me go, just let me go … I won’t say anything … how can I say anything, I don’t know anything!’ But it was a spittle-slurred mumble that was barely audible outside the duct-tape. The men paid no attention anyway.
‘How we doing for time?’ Orange asked.
Purple glanced at his watch. ‘No problem.’
Orange nodded, bent down to a haversack and fumbled around inside it. Louise watched, hair stiffening, not knowing how she’d react if he took out a knife. She was bewildered rather than relieved when he produced a bottle of water and what looked like a ham roll wrapped in cellophane.
Before doing anything else, Orange regarded her intently with his liquid brown eyes. At last he spoke again, and this time it was to her, not to his henchman.
‘Listen love, and listen good. I’m going to take that gag off. You can scream and shout all you want. No one’ll hear. But it’ll piss us off royally, and what’s going to happen to you is still going to happen. The only difference is if we’re pissed off we might decide to beat the fucking shit out of you first. You understand?’
Louise returned his gaze helplessly, before vaguely nodding. She was in no doubt that he was absolutely serious.
‘Now you be a good girl and keep things nice and quiet,’ he added, reaching out and slowly peeling back the duct-tape.
It snagged on her dry lips and when he tore it loose from the back of her head, yanked out several strands of hair, but at that moment she didn’t mind, she was too thankful to have it taken off her. It was so good to be able to breathe properly.
She sucked the air in great lungfuls, but despite the promise she’d just made, couldn’t stop herself speaking. ‘Look … whatever it is you want, my husband’ll get it for you. Or my company. I don’t know who you are or why you’re doing this – I don’t even want to know, but look …’
Orange glared at her. ‘I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut?’
‘Just let my husband know I’m alright,’ she begged. ‘That’s all I ask …’
‘Alright?’ Purple said casually. ‘Who said you’re alright?’
She glanced from one to the other, trying to be bold, trying to look as if she wasn’t frightened, but knowing that she was little more than a scared rabbit in their unblinking gaze. ‘You just … you just should know that whatever you took me for, whatever you’ve got planned … you can make money out of this. Good money. All you need to—’
Orange leaned menacingly towards her. ‘I said shut – the – fuck – up.’
The edge to his voice was so hard, the maniac gleam in his eye so intense that this time, desperate as she was, Louise clammed up.
He watched her closely for several seconds, and then, satisfied, unscrewed the cap from the water bottle and offered it to her. At first, Louise felt inclined to refuse – as if such an act of miniature defiance would be a victory over them – but it just as quickly occurred to her that it was ludicrous to think it would ever matter to men like these how dry her throat became. She had to remain clear-minded and level-headed; any action she took must be geared towards survival – that was the only way she was going to get through this. So when she finally drank, she drank deeply, thirstily.
After that, they presented her with the sandwich, holding it to her mouth, though despite her hunger pangs she was still so sick with fear that she could do no more than nibble at it. As she did, she eyed her surroundings again, wondering if there was any possible means of escape. Far to her right, what looked like an exit/entry ramp sloped down from above, but now that her vision was fully attuned, there were other shattered cars on view: mangled masses of burned or rusty metal, dumped in forgotten corners and thick with dust and cobwebs. It had entered her head that, wherever she was, someone might unknowingly venture down here and prove her accidental saviour, but the more dankness and dereliction she spied, the less likely this seemed. In addition, there was nowhere for her to run to, even in the unlikely event she got free. God knew how many exit ramps she’d have to scramble up before she reached the surface, and she was so weak from her confinement that she doubted she could even stand. Once again, that sense of horror and despair overwhelmed her.
Giving up on the sandwich, Orange scrunched it in its wrapper and tossed it. He screwed the top back onto the bottle and shoved it into his pocket. ‘Now for dessert,’ he said, delving into the haversack again and taking out a small steel box.
He opened it to reveal two slim objects, one of which he handed to his compatriot, the other which he kept hold of himself. Louise felt her heart miss a beat when she saw that the objects were hypodermic syringes. The fluid in the one in Purple’s hand was transparent, whilst the one in Orange’s hand was a dark, brackish red.
‘We’re going to inject you,’ Orange said matter-of-factly. He showed her his syringe. ‘As you can see, this one’s dirty. It’s been used loads of times, and currently contains blood that was recently extracted from a heroin-addicted prostitute. However, the one my mate here’s got is sterile and contains a medically-approved sedative. It’s up to you which one we use?’
There was a brief silence, during which Louise tried to speak but could only gag. Once she’d dry-heaved a couple of times, she glanced up again, but said nothing. She inclined her head slightly to indicate that she’d give them no trouble.
‘Smart move,’ Orange said, replacing his blood-filled syringe in the box and putting it away, then clamping a hand across her mouth and pushing her back down into the boot. ‘I knew you’d be sensible.’
Behind him, Purple removed the cap from the sterile needle and flicked steadily at it with his gloved finger.
‘Just lie still,’ Orange added, ‘and think of England.’
Chapter 4 (#ulink_e084e585-1560-54c2-ba4d-fe5dcfef2f98)
Deptford Green Police Station was built in the 1970s, and, typically of that soulless era, was a monolithic structure of grey, faceless cement. It was three floors high and sat with its back to the Thames on a toe of land jutting out into the part of the river that looped south around the Isle of Dogs. From the front it had a relaxed air: there was a blue lamp over its tall, wide entrance and blinds in its windows.
However, the appearance of life at Deptford Green and its reality were two different things. At the rear of the station, its three impounds, which were crammed to bursting with vehicles recovered after theft or use in crime, and the official personnel car park, were surrounded by nine-foot-high steel fences that were covered in anti-climb paint and had security lights located at regular intervals along their parapets. Also around the rear of the station, offensive, anti-police graffiti was much in evidence (the local commander only insisted on its prompt removal when it appeared at the front), alongside a litter of bricks and broken bottles, which had all been used as missiles on various occasions. There were even bullet-holes in some parts of the station’s exterior, though these too tended to be repaired quickly.
Deptford, once a thriving dockland, had gone through various incarnations in its past. In the present post-industrial era it had become an urban waste, and even though at the same time it had developed a lively arts and cultural scene, crime and poverty were rampant behind its colourful façade. As a result, though things had improved a little since the dawn of the twenty-first century, there was still an aura of ‘Fort Apache’ about Deptford Green nick, and this was reflected inside as well as out. Even by normal London standards, it was an extraordinarily busy police station. Both uniform and plain clothes officers tended to scramble about its cramped rabbit-warren of passages and rooms as though in a ‘life or death’ hurry. There was a constant trilling of telephones and barking of orders. The custody suite was never less than full of prisoners waiting to be processed.
Of course, Sunday morning could be an exception. Even the bleakest corners of the inner city tended to be quiet in the soporific hours following the weekly Saturday night booze-fest.
For this reason, when Heck drove in just after ten that morning, he was surprised to see several more cars parked up than usual, and one in particular – a white BMW Coupe. He stood looking at it for a moment, before going wearily in through the personnel door. The first person he met on entering was Paula Clark, his civilian admin assistant. She was a short, buxom lady, a local lass – bleached-blonde and busty, very much in the Barbara Windsor mould – who’d been loaned to him from local CID Admin.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said, surprised to see her at the weekend.
Paula appeared to be on her way out. She was carrying her coat and a handbag under one arm, and a bundle of reports, which she presumably intended to type up at home, under the other. She didn’t smile when she saw him – not that she smiled very much – though on this particular occasion she looked even more irate than usual.
‘I had to come in and sort some papers out because you weren’t answering your phone,’ she said.
He filched his mobile from his jacket pocket and saw that it was dead. ‘Bastard thing’s on the blink again.’
‘Superintendent Piper’s here,’ she added.
‘I know. I’ve just seen her car outside. What does she want?’
‘You.’ Paula gave him a long, meaningful look, then bustled past on her spike-heels and exited the building.
Heck ascended to the second floor via the back stairs. The office he currently worked from was located in what he was sure was the most under-used and least accessible corner of the building. Local officers here still referred to it as ‘the spare parade room’ even though Heck had now occupied it for over two years.
He headed down the corridor towards it, only stopping when he saw that the door was already open and the tall shape of Detective Inspector Des Palliser standing there. Palliser was fifty-five now and a hard-bitten cop of many years’ experience, though his lean, grizzled appearance – he was leathery skinned and had sported a scraggy grey beard and moustache for as long as Heck could remember – belied a genial personality. He spotted Heck immediately and beckoned. Heck slouched on towards him, in no hurry. There was someone else in the office, pacing around behind Palliser. By the statuesque shape, pearl blouse, tight black skirt and mass of tawny hair (she wasn’t known as ‘the Lioness’ for nothing), he knew it was Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper. Not atypically, she had a pile of documents in her hand and was discarding them irritably, one after another, as she read speedily through them.
‘Morning at last,’ Palliser said, when Heck reached him.
Heck didn’t say anything. He’d just spotted a notice that someone had hung on the outside of the office door, which read:
WDFA Squad
(We Do Fuck All)
He could have done without that at a time like this, he thought.
Detective Superintendent Piper was now regarding him from the other side of the room. Locks of hair, which she tended to wear up during the day, had come loose and hung to either shoulder, making her look rather fetching. But she was pale in the cheek and her steel-blue eyes blazed.
‘Do you know we’ve been waiting nearly two hours?’ she said.
‘Er … no, I didn’t.’
‘What do you think you’re playing at, Heck?’ she demanded. Heck was six foot, but Superintendent Piper wasn’t a great deal shorter than him; even if she had been, her force of personality was colossal. She stalked the room in anger. ‘You think I want to spend my Sunday mornings sifting through your chaotic trash?’
‘My phone’s not working.’
‘Well get one that does!’
‘I will … if I can include it on my expenses.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘You what?’
‘I’ve worn it out on this job, so if I have to buy another one …’
‘Are you deliberately winding me up?’
‘No, it’s just that …’
‘Because I’m not in the mood.’
‘I can see that.’
She jabbed a finger at him. ‘And don’t smart-mouth me either.’
‘An apology might be in order, Heck,’ Palliser said. ‘You have kept us waiting.’
‘I know, sorry. But I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘That’s plainly obvious,’ Superintendent Piper replied, gesturing at the piles of disorderly documentation stacked between the computer terminals, at the unwashed coffee mugs, at the overflowing in-trays. ‘Look at this place; it’s like a bomb site. And while we’re on the subject …’ She crossed the room and snatched the notice from the outside of the door. ‘What’s this supposed to be?’
Heck gave a wry smile. ‘Wouldn’t be a normal day without one of these appearing.’
‘You been rubbing people up the wrong way?’
‘I don’t get close enough to rub anyone up any way,’ he said. ‘Not anymore. I’m pretty sure it was one of this nick’s detectives who tipped off Bobby Ballamara that his daughter’s disappearance is being treated as part of a series. Don’t see how else he could have found out. He’s made my life hell ever since.’
‘Have you got proof of that?’ Palliser asked, looking shocked.
‘Course I haven’t.’
‘And in the meantime, what does this mean?’ Superintendent Piper asked, still brandishing the notice.
Heck shrugged. ‘You know what Division are like – they don’t think anyone works as hard as they do. According to them, I’m on a very cushy number here.’
‘Unfortunately, they’re not the only ones who think that.’ There was a brief silence. Superintendent Piper suddenly looked awkward, uncomfortable.
‘Oh,’ Heck replied. ‘So that’s how it is?’
‘You must’ve known something like this was coming,’ Palliser said.
‘Rumblings at the Yard, are there?’
‘Your comparative-case-analysis didn’t have the desired effect,’ Palliser explained.
Heck slumped into a chair, making no effort to disguise his irritation. ‘Three bloody weeks I worked on that.’
‘The effort was clearly there,’ Superintendent Piper said, sitting opposite. ‘But that’s all. Considering the time put in, the evidence is too thin. How long have you been on this case now?’
‘Two years, four months.’
‘And ground gained – zero.’
‘I need more men,’ he protested.
‘Well you’ve got one less from today.’
Heck sat up slowly. ‘How can I have one less than none?’
‘The one less is you, Heck,’ Palliser said.
Heck glanced from one to the other, finally fixing on Superintendent Piper. ‘You’re not shutting it down?’
‘It’s not my choice.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Laycock. What a surprise.’
‘It’s a nothing case,’ she retorted. ‘You’ve admitted that yourself.’
‘In moments of frustration I may have admitted that.’
‘There seems to be more frustration than anything else.’
He stood up. ‘Look, what’s the problem? I’m working every hour God sends, but most of it’s for free. I haven’t made any unreasonable requests for overtime.’
‘The problem is you could be better used elsewhere,’ she said. ‘Crime doesn’t stop just because you’re involved in something you find more interesting.’
‘“Interesting”?’ Heck could hardly believe what she’d just said. ‘We’ve got thirty-eight missing women here! Surely it’s more than “interesting”?’
Superintendent Piper responded by rifling through a few files and print-outs, of which there were plenty strewn across the desk. ‘Where’s the evidence they’re connected? Where’s the pattern? Some of them are four hundred miles apart, for God’s sake! Sorry … I’ve trusted you on this for nearly two years, but that’s it. The trust’s run out.’
‘Look, ma’am …’
‘Don’t give me the usual blarney, Heck. You’re one of the best detectives I’ve got, but these hunches of yours are proving an expensive luxury. And look at the bloody state of you! For God’s sake, tidy yourself up!’
‘Don’t you even want to know why I’m in this state?’ he wondered.
‘No.’
‘I’ve been on an all-night surveillance operation. And guess what, I had to do it all myself because there’s no one else to help.’
Voices could now be heard out in the corridor; one of them had a distinct South London twang, distinguishing it as that of DCI Slackworth, who ran the CID office here at Deptford Green.
‘I’ve got one new lead in particular, which is looking really good,’ Heck added. ‘But I haven’t even had a chance to start following it yet.’
‘Put it all on paper,’ Superintendent Piper said, half-listening to the voice outside and looking again at the notice that had been pinned to her officer’s door. ‘Each case is being referred back to the divisional CID or mis-pers department that originally dealt with it. Your new stuff can go with them.’
‘Thirty-eight missing women, ma’am.’
‘You think,’ Palliser said.
‘But how can we just close it down?’ Heck asked. ‘We’re the Serial Crimes Unit, for Christ’s sake!’
Superintendent Piper stood up. ‘We’ll keep it under review. But at present we haven’t got the resources.’
‘How about if …’
‘I’m not arguing with you, Heck. I’ve actually done you a courtesy coming down here to tell you in person. I could’ve sent Des, I could’ve told you on the bloody phone. Just deal with it, alright.’
She marched to the door, pulling on her suit jacket.
‘You know, it’s a miracle anyone stays in this job,’ Heck said. ‘And I’ll tell you another miracle – that we ever catch anyone with some of the clowns we’ve got in charge.’
‘Watch it!’ She rounded on him fiercely. ‘Just watch it, Sergeant!’
‘I didn’t mean you …’
‘I don’t give a damn! I won’t have insubordination! Now your work here is done. So do us all a favour, get your paperwork in order and, following that, get your head in order. Then get your scruffy arse back to the Yard, pronto.’
And she was off, storming down the passage to catch up with DCI Slackworth – a burly, foursquare slaphead with flabby cheeks and pig-mean eyes – who was busy chatting up a pretty young female constable from the day-shift.
Heck watched her go, sourly.
‘Do you think anyone’ll mind if I light up in here?’ Palliser wondered, edging out of view of those in the corridor.
‘How should I know?’ Heck replied.
‘It’s your office.’
‘Not anymore.’
At the end of the corridor, Superintendent Piper was standing arms folded, yet still managing to wave the notice around, as she gave both barrels to Slackworth. The familiar whipcrack voice came echoing along the passage, and Slackworth, a tough-nut in front of his own crew, was soon shuffling awkwardly and looking abashed.
‘“The Lioness”,’ Heck said. ‘Talk about well named.’
‘She has a softer side.’ Palliser was now beside an open window, blowing smoke. ‘If anyone should know that, it’s you.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘She still cares about you though.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘For one thing, she reckons you need some leave.’
‘What?’
‘You’re in a state, Heck. You haven’t had a break in two years.’
‘I haven’t been able to.’
‘Beside the point.’
‘No it isn’t.’ Heck indicated the empty desks and tables. ‘I used to have six officers working for me in here, Des. One by one, I’ve watched them get shunted to other duties. All I’ve had for the last nine weeks is an admin assistant, part-time.’
Palliser shrugged. ‘Understanding why you’re knackered isn’t really a solution to it. She’s the gaffer and she reckons that your judgment’s become impaired. You’re losing sight of the wood for the trees.’
‘So I’m a burn-out as well?’
‘Not far off.’
‘This is bollocks.’
‘No, she’s genuinely concerned.’
‘I mean this whole thing.’
‘Oh that, yeah. That’s definitely bollocks.’ Palliser suddenly glanced up at the ceiling, wondering belatedly if there was a smoke-detector present, and relaxing when he saw that there wasn’t. ‘You’re a DS, Heck, that’s all. Yet for two years you’ve been working under your own steam, authorising your own hours and resources. It was inevitable someone was going to whinge about it. It’s politics, typical office bullshit. But it’s not unimportant.’
‘Especially not when someone like Laycock’s involved, eh?’
While Superintendent Piper was head of the Serial Crimes Unit, her immediate supervisor, Commander Jim Laycock, was director of the National Crime Group and was, to all intents and purposes, God. Despite this, Heck had managed to bump heads with him on a number of occasions.
‘Laycock’s answerable to a higher power as well,’ Palliser said, as if this was some kind of consolation.
‘He’s a pencil-pushing suit.’
‘Which is all the more reason to fall in line for him. He has to balance the books somehow. Given the history you and him have got, it’s a wonder he’s let it drag on this long.’
Heck walked back to his desk, his head aching with frustration. He sat down heavily. ‘At the end of the day, all I’m concerned about is these missing women. I can crack this, Des. I know it. I can find them, or at least find out what happened to them.’
Palliser chucked his cig-butt from the window. ‘We’ve been through this already, mate. Wrap it up and get some rest. God knows, you need it.’
Chapter 5 (#ulink_9790fc6d-5a1f-5b0d-901b-ae7abf427b09)
When Louise came round, she felt ghastly: headachey and sick to the pit of her stomach.
Initially the awful memory of her abduction eluded her. All she could do at first was puzzle about why she was slumped in a ratty old armchair that smelled of stale urine. But then, when she looked around and realised that she was in a small, windowless room and that the throbbing pain in her right bicep was the result of an injection, everything surged back – and with it, a wild panic.
She tried to leap to her feet, but was still groggy and immediately overbalanced, her shoeless feet sliding on the white linoleum floor. She fell heavily, landing alongside an open cardboard box, which, when she looked inside it, was stuffed to the brim with lingerie: pairs of lacy knickers, silk stockings, suspender belts. She recoiled from it the way she would if it had been full of snakes. Struggling to her knees, she backed away, only to collide with something else: a steel-framed clothes rack, which again was loaded with garments. In this case they were dresses, camisoles and skirts of various sizes and colours, though in all cases they were slinky, flimsy, transparent, the sort of things glamour models would wear. Again the tawdriness of it both revolted and terrified her – in no way could this be good.
Heart thumping, Louise tried to lurch back to her feet, but it wasn’t easy. She’d evidently been sedated for several hours, and now felt as if she was recovering from a fever; every quick or ill-timed move brought on a new flutter of dizziness. But there was one thing at least – whoever had put her here, they’d left her unbound. Tender weals were impressed into her wrists, but thankfully the plastic cuffs had been removed, and, small and stuffy as this room might be, it had to be an improvement on the claustrophobic confines of that car boot. She pivoted around, looking for any means of escape.
The room was lit by a single unshaded bulb and was no larger than a shop fitting-room, but it contained two doors, both made of varnished wood. Louise blundered to the first. It had a lever-handle, which she pushed down. The door opened, but on the other side of it there was only a narrow, white-tiled cubicle, containing a toilet, a wash-bowl and a shower. There was also a mirror, and fleetingly she caught her own reflection – it was so different from any previous mirror image of herself that she jumped backward with a shriek.
Only after a split second of disbelief did she come forward again.
Then she started to cry.
Her face looked like it had been made up for a stage-show of the macabre. Her eyes were red with weeping; her hair hung in rat-tails; what remained of her make-up was smeared and blotched grotesquely; beneath that, her normal healthy complexion had paled to an ashen, almost greenish hue. Even though she’d only been in captivity for a couple of days at the most, she already looked to have lost weight: her cheekbones were painfully prominent. She glanced down at herself and saw that what remained of her clothing was in a disgusting state: stained with engine oil and body fluids. The vile stench of urine was suddenly explainable.
The shock of all this was simply too much. Louise had tried to maintain her composure, tried to rationalise her way through this entire kidnapping ordeal rather than keep surrendering to panic, but surely she was insane to think that remaining calm would serve any purpose now? Good God, she’d been in these animals’ clutches no time at all, and she resembled a corpse already! Suppose they kept her for weeks, months, maybe longer?
There was no option. She had to escape from here, any way she could, whatever it cost her.
She backed into the main room again, turning frantically. She’d been correct in her first impression that there were no windows in here. She glanced up: the ceiling, which comprised bare wooden boards, was only about two feet above her head. She reached up and pressed it; it was unyielding. What she’d been expecting, she didn’t know – that it would lift like a lid? Ridiculous. But for some reason she pressed again, even harder, exerting all her strength, then overbalanced, almost fell.
At first she assumed that she was having a relapse; that maybe the drugs were kicking in for a second time. But then she realised something bizarre: she wasn’t the one who’d overbalanced – it was the room itself. The floor had tilted. It tilted again and she had to stagger to keep upright. The entire room was swaying – not hugely, but noticeably.
So what in Christ’s name was this? Where the hell was she?
Panic once again nagged at her to get out of here, insisting that, whatever this horrendous situation was, she needed to get out – for Christ’s sake, she just had to get out!
There was still the remaining door.
Louise had no doubt that this one would be locked. And indeed, when she pushed against it and tried the handle – in this case a brass knob – it wouldn’t budge. She swore under her breath, struggling to suppress whimpers of despair. She tried again, but couldn’t even get the knob to turn.
‘Goddamn,’ she moaned, thrusting her shoulder against the wood, but only succeeding in hurting herself. ‘Goddamn it!’ Her voice rose to a desperate cry. ‘Goddamn it, someone please help me!’
Abruptly, the handle turned in the opposite direction. There was a loud click as a lock was disengaged. Louise retreated. The door virtually flew open, and a man came through, closing it behind him. It was the tall black man in the overalls, gloves and day-glo orange ski-mask, an ensemble he was still wearing. He eyed her up and down. As before, it was not the way she’d been eyed by men in the past. There was no hunger there, no arousal – it was strictly professional; a cool, clinical appraisal. When he finally spoke, she was so astonished by what he said that at first she thought she’d misheard.
‘I said you’re size four, yeah? Your feet, I mean?’
Hardly knowing what to say, Louise nodded.
‘Good. These are for you.’
He pushed a pair of shoes into her hands. With a sense of unreality, she looked down at them: heeled sling-backs, black patent with red trim, evidently brand new. Under normal circumstances, they’d be far too trashy for Louise’s taste. Yet somehow she didn’t think that they were intended as a gift for her.
‘And for Jesus’s sake, take a shower,’ he added. ‘You’re stinking the entire place out.’
She glared up at him, the injustice of the situation finally firing her spirit. ‘Surely that doesn’t bloody surprise you?’
He pointed to the shower-room. ‘In there. You’ll find a toothbrush and toothpaste in the cabinet next to the mirror, so clean your teeth as well. And freshen your breath.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve got two hours. Better do a good job.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘Pretty yourself up, you silly tart!’
Perhaps the fact that they still hadn’t killed her, proving that she was of more value alive, was giving her extra courage. Or maybe, in some basic animal way, she now realised they were approaching the main event and that all bets were off. Either way, Louise was suddenly angry rather than afraid.
‘I’m not going to do any such thing,’ she stated.
The man lurched towards her. ‘Listen girl, you have no say here. You have no opinions. You have no views. You just do as you’re told. Understand?’
‘You’re not going to get away with this!’
‘No?’
‘The police will be looking for me.’
‘Occupational hazard for us, darling.’ And he smiled, showing white, shark-like teeth. ‘But I have to say, not much of one.’
She made a dash to get past him.
He caught her before she could even open the door, clamping one gloved hand to her throat and throwing her violently back across the room. She landed in the armchair with sufficient force to drive the wind from her. For all his size, he advanced like a cat – lithe, sinuous. He sprang onto her, thrusting his face into hers. This close, the whites of his eyes were red-rimmed; his breath reeked of garlic. She craned her neck to look away from him, but his weight pinned her down.
‘You stupid bitch!’ he hissed. ‘I’m under orders not to mess you up until this is all over, but I won’t hesitate to do it afterwards! So don’t try that shit again!’
‘My name is Louise Samantha Jennings,’ she said in a quaking but determined voice. ‘I am thirty years old. You may think my family are rich because I work in the City and live in South Buckinghamshire. But I was born in North London. My father is a taxi-driver, my mother a day-care worker. I have two older sisters and one little brother. We see each other all the time. We’re a very close-knit family. I also have a niece and nephew, one on my side and one on my …’
‘What am I supposed to do?’ he snickered. ‘Fall on the floor blubbing?’
‘I’m a human being. I don’t care what you think you’re going to get from this, you can’t treat human beings this way …’
He slapped her across the left side of her face – not hard; to humiliate rather than hurt. ‘How about this way?’ he wondered. Then he slapped her across the right side. ‘How about that way?’
She mashed her lips together, determined not to cry out, trying desperately to show that she wasn’t the crumpled wreck she must have appeared. But her mouth trembled and fresh tears brimmed from her eyes. ‘I … I want to speak to your boss …’
‘Really?’
‘If I can’t reason with the oily rag, I’ll try with the engine driver.’
He gazed down at her for several long moments, licking his lips with a sharp, pink tongue. ‘Well … who knows,’ he finally said, ‘you may get that chance.’ He seemed excited by the resistance she’d shown: sweat greased the flesh around his eyes; he panted rather than breathed. But perhaps thinking that he was starting to enjoy himself too much here, he now released her and rose slowly, reluctantly to his feet. ‘Not yet though … first you’ve got some business to attend to. These clothes, these undies.’ He pointed at the jumbled garb. ‘Get yourself something sexy and pretty on.’ While Louise watched in amazement, he reached down and pulled a foot-locker out from under the rack of dresses. ‘There’s make-up in here, perfume and what-not.’ He kicked at a second locker. ‘This one’s jewellery. Help yourself. Just make sure you look and smell good.’ He moved to the door, but turned to face her one more time. ‘You’ve got two hours. Do not disappoint us.’
‘Dis— disappoint you?’ she stammered in near-disbelief. And then she laughed, though it was actually more like a deranged cackle. ‘And … and if I do?’
‘Ask the women all this stuff used to belong to.’
He closed the door behind him. And locked it.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_cc965b84-139e-5db3-a8f9-98fad70402f2)
The National Crime Group was based at New Scotland Yard, where it shared several floors with the Metropolitan Police’s Specialist Crime Directorate. Its own Serial Crimes Unit, whose remit was primarily to consult on nationwide crime sprees and, where necessary, to elicit and organise multi-force cooperation, was on the sixth floor, and basically comprised one corridor. The DO – or Detectives’ Office, the hub of all activity – was located part way along it, next door to the admin room where the NCG’s civilian secretaries worked. At this late hour on a Sunday afternoon its various desks and computer monitors were deserted, with half the unit off duty and the rest out on enquiries. In fact, the only person present when Heck began humping his sacks of paperwork and boxes of disks up from the car park was DI Palliser, who, given his age, was these days more a duty officer than an investigator, and tended to remain at base, working as coordinator for all SCU operations.
At present, he stood, hands in pockets, in the doorway to his own office which, like the offices belonging to the other three detective inspectors in the department, was separated from the main area by a glazed partition wall. ‘That the lot?’ he asked.
Heck dumped down the last heavy bag of documentation, and nodded. He mopped sweat from his brow. ‘It’s in no particular order, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll sort it.’
There was a brief silence as they surveyed the immense pile of materials now spilling out all over the floor of the department’s tea making area.
‘You know, none of this work will get wasted,’ Palliser said. ‘All these cases will continue to be investigated.’
‘Yeah, but as the lowest of low priorities.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘You know they will,’ Heck said glumly. ‘I spent months zeroing in on each one of these, and now they’ll just get thrown back in with the runaway teens and the absentee fathers.’
‘Well … it’s not your problem now.’
‘The trouble is, Des, it won’t be anyone’s problem. Apart from the families who are missing their loved ones.’
Palliser didn’t even try to argue with that assessment. ‘Whatever … the Lioness wants to see you.’
Heck nodded and went out into the corridor. Detective Superintendent Piper’s office was at its far end. He knocked on the door and when she called him, went in.
She was seated at her desk, writing what looked like a lengthy report. ‘Take a seat, Heck. I’ll not be a moment.’
There were two chairs to one side. Heck slumped down into one. He glanced around. It wasn’t a particularly showy office for so senior a rank. In fact, it was quite small. With its row of filing cabinets, single rubber plant and dusty Venetian blind over the window, it was like something from the 1970s; the only concession to modernity being the quiet hum of the air-conditioning. It was a far cry from the palatial residence upstairs enjoyed by Commander Laycock and his PA.
‘Our office at Deptford Green has now been closed down, yes?’ she asked.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She continued writing. Heck waited, ruminating on whether or not, if he’d centred his investigation here at the Yard and had not set up a separate incident room down at Deptford, thus saving them some expense, it might have bought him a little extra time. The problem was that the first cluster of disappearances he’d linked together had all occurred, probably by coincidence, in South London – Peckham, Greenwich, Lewisham and Sydenham – and he’d wanted to be ‘on-site’. At the time, of course, he hadn’t realised the enquiry would soon widen to cover most of the country.
Not that any of this mattered now.
‘Is that it, ma’am?’ he asked.
She glanced up. ‘You got somewhere else you need to be?’
He shrugged. ‘Well … I presume I’m being reassigned.’
‘Yes you are. You’re being reassigned to Cornwall. Or the Lake District. Or Spain or the Florida Keys, or even your own back garden. Anywhere you fancy taking a long vacation.’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘You’re going on extended leave.’ She pushed the top sheet of paperwork she’d been working on across the desk towards him. ‘All I need now is your signature on the request form.’
Heck stood up as he read it. Only slowly did the reality sink in.
‘December?’ he said. ‘That’s three months off.’
‘I don’t want to see you back a day sooner.’
‘But three months!’
‘Heck, your willingness to work, work and work is well known. But it’s hardly healthy.’
‘I don’t need three months.’
‘That’s entirely a matter of opinion, and mine carries more weight than yours. You’ve been under massive pressure this last year, and it’s showing – in your work, your appearance, your general demeanour.’
‘This is bollocks!’
‘Especially your demeanour.’
‘Gemma, please …’
‘Can you honestly say, hand on heart – bearing in mind that, on occasion, lives may depend on how fit you are to work – that you don’t need a decent break? That your batteries will go on forever without being recharged?’ She waited for an answer. ‘Or is it just that you think the Serial Crimes Unit will fall apart without you?’
Heck was lost for words. Then, very abruptly, he shrugged and took a pen from his inside pocket. ‘No, it’s okay. In fact it’s great. Three months is extremely generous.’
He scribbled his signature on the form and handed it back.
She eyed him with sudden suspicion. ‘So you’re happy with this?’
‘Sure.’
‘Good. In that case …’ though she still didn’t seem convinced, ‘bye for now.’
Heck nodded and moved towards the door.
‘Mark, before you go,’ she said – and that was a red-letter moment, because these days she hardly ever called him ‘Mark’. He glanced back. She softened her tone, which was also highly unusual. ‘Mark, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry the case you were building didn’t work out.’
‘It’s alright. I know it wasn’t your fault.’
‘It was nobody’s fault. This job’s about balancing time and resources, you know that. You’re needed on other cases.’
‘Which is why I’m being discharged from duty for the entire autumn?’
‘You’re no good to anyone running on empty. Least of all yourself.’
‘No, I guess not.’
‘So what’re you planning to do?’
He mused. ‘Fool around, I suppose.’ Mischievously, he added, ‘See if I can pull a bird.’
She didn’t rise to that bait and began filing his completed paperwork in her out-tray. ‘You could do with getting some sun on your back. And start eating properly; you look underweight to me.’
‘You care?’ he asked.
She glanced up again, almost looking hurt by the question. ‘Of course I care.’
‘I mean more than just because I’m part of your team?’
‘Why should my personal feelings matter to you?’
Heck couldn’t reply. She’d reversed the situation very neatly.
‘Take yourself on holiday, Heck,’ she said, resuming business mode. ‘Relax, have a good time. Pull yourself a bird, if you must. But when you’re back in this office on December first, I want you full of piss and vinegar, okay?’
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘Off you go.’
And he went.
Heck peeled his jacket off and strolled into the rec room to see if there was anyone to shoot some pool with. But it was empty. Instead, he got himself a coffee from the vending machine and stood by the window, looking down on Victoria Street. The hot drink had a soothing effect. Gemma had been right about one thing – at present he was running on empty, but even so, being forced to take a holiday for three months was the last thing he’d wanted. If anyone asked why, he’d tell them that this was because he was a workaholic, but in his more honest, introspective moments he’d admit that it probably owed more to there being nothing else going on in his life. There was no question that Heck loved the job. Catching criminals, putting them away, slamming cell doors on those who brought terror and misery to the lives of the innocent gave him a buzz that he didn’t get anywhere else.
But on this occasion – on this one occasion – being ordered to stay away from the office for a few months might well be to his advantage.
Before he could ponder the situation further, someone else came into the room. He turned, and saw that it was Commander Laycock.
‘Heck,’ Laycock said with a grin. ‘Glad I caught you.’ He sauntered over.
Laycock’s looks belied his age, which was somewhere in the early-to-mid forties. He was a big, burly bloke, tall and broad at the shoulder, yet trim at the waist. Even now he wore the shorts and sweat-dampened vest that he’d no doubt been working out in down in the gym. A towel was looped around the back of his bull-neck. At first glance he had the look of the archetypical man’s man: he was fair-haired, square-jawed, handsome, and yet he had a rugged edge. You’d imagine he could easily go round for round with the lads – and this wasn’t an inaccurate impression. He nearly always adopted a ‘hail fellow, well met’ approach when dealing with ‘his troops’, as he liked to call them, an attitude he’d inherited from his early days in the Royal Military Police.
Heck wasn’t fooled by any of it.
‘I just wanted to congratulate you on the time and effort you put in on the missing women case,’ Laycock said.
Heck nodded. ‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘You understand why I had it wound up?’
‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’
‘Your last CCA wasn’t totally convincing, I’m afraid. Not considering the amount we’ve been spending on this.’
‘It’s alright, Sir. It’s all been explained to me.’
‘Okay. You don’t seem very happy about it, though?’
Heck feigned surprise. ‘What, I’m supposed to be happy as well? Sorry, I didn’t get the written order for that.’
Laycock’s smile faded. ‘There’s no being nice to you, is there?’
‘I don’t see any point in pretending we’re friends, that’s all.’
‘Blunt as ever, I see. Okay, well let’s cut to the chase. One of the problems of being a detective and having cases to investigate is that, now and then, you’re expected to close a few – not widen them and widen them until every bloody person in the service is at your beck and call.’
‘And why would that be, Sir?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Perhaps you can explain it to me,’ Heck said. ‘Why do we – sorry, why do you – prefer cases we can close quickly and easily to cases that require a load of work?’
Laycock’s eyes were now hard; his lips had tightened. ‘You’re going on leave, I understand. I suggest you go now, before you get on my wrong side.’
‘You’re not going to answer the question? Would that be because, as far as you’re concerned, the National Crime Group’s an ego-trip?’
‘I’m warning you, Heckenburg …’
‘Gold-plated job for a Bramshill brat-packer like you, isn’t it? Very high profile, lots of TV interviews, regular briefings with whichever Home Secretary happens to be in power this week.’
Laycock looked as though he was about to explode, but his anger quickly abated and he smiled again. ‘You know, I always had misgivings about having you in my outfit, Heck. And now I can see they were well-placed. You’re a chancer, an adventurer – and that doesn’t work in the modern police.’
‘I’d have been delighted to be a team-player, if you’d actually given me a team.’
Laycock chuckled. ‘Forget about a team. You should be more concerned now about whether you actually fit into this department. You know they’ve started calling the National Crime Group “the British FBI”. And that’s something I’m encouraging. It makes us sound like the slick, smart, modern organisation I want us to be. Oddballs won’t have any place in it.’
‘So who’ll be running it when you leave?’
‘Insubordinates won’t either.’
‘Ahh … you’re saying you’re kicking me out?’
‘I’m saying you’re not the sort of police officer I necessarily want working under me.’
‘I’d never have guessed.’ At last Heck allowed himself to show some emotion. ‘From the very first day of that missing women enquiry, I didn’t get one word of support from you, Sir. Not one.’
‘I wasn’t convinced by the evidence.’
‘What would you know about evidence? You’re not a copper, you’re a politician.’
Laycock’s lips tightened again. Consummate actor though he was, Heck always managed to bring out the beast in him. ‘You’re lucky no one else is present to hear this, sergeant.’
‘If anyone else was present, I wouldn’t be saying it.’
‘I can still break you, Heckenburg.’
‘Yeah, you’re apparently an expert.’ Heck knew he was going too far now, but suddenly all the frustration and annoyance of the last few months was pouring out. ‘They tell me that when you were a uniformed inspector at Ladbroke Grove, after refusing to spare anyone to clear the yobs away from the war memorial, where they’d been drinking all day, you personally supervised the arrest and conviction of an old lady who’d hit one of them with her brolly.’
‘If you’ve got a job to come back to in December, I’ll be extraordinarily surprised.’
‘It’s a pity you can’t divert some of that belligerence into standing up to the Home Office and demanding more money for our major enquiries,’ Heck retorted. ‘Or how about standing up to the CPS when they say we can’t proceed with a prosecution because there’s only a small chance of success?’
‘You really think you’re fireproof just because you used to shag your super?’
That comment caught Heck on the hop. He’d thought that only Des Palliser was aware he’d once had a romance with Gemma Piper; it was ancient history after all, when they were both young, newly made detectives.
Laycock chuckled again. ‘Oh yes. You’d be amazed at some of the things I know. You see, that’s the difference between you and me, Heckenburg. You’re just a foot-soldier, a grunt. And I’m a five-star general. I’m running the whole show. It’s my job to know everything. But by all means, if you really fancy it, try and take me on. I’d relish the contest, though it wouldn’t last for long.’
Realising that he was on dodgier ground than he’d first thought, Heck said nothing. He grabbed his jacket from a chair and pulled it on.
‘All my service I’ve been meeting coppers like you,’ Laycock added, leaning so close that Heck could smell his sweat. ‘Surly, resentful, jealous of those who’ve earned promotion, embittered that they have to take orders from people they consider themselves superior to. Determined that anyone who doesn’t operate at their mediocre level is to be sneered at. Well I’m not going to stand for it in NCG anymore. We’re an elite outfit. There’ll be no dissent in these ranks. And if you think you’re going to be the exception to that rule because you’re protected, you – and your protectress, I might add – could both be in for a big shock. Now get out of my sight.’
As Heck left, he realised that he should have gone earlier, before he’d let his mouth run away with him. It was just that, with three months of leave looming, he might not have got another chance to have a pop at the person most responsible for wrecking his case.
Not that some of the things said in retaliation hadn’t stung him. To start with, his attitude to Laycock had nothing to do with Gemma Piper providing him cover. In truth, he’d never even considered her that way – until now. The real reason was that he’d always found his supreme boss so aggravating that open criticism of him was unavoidable. It wasn’t even a personality clash; the wound went much deeper than that. To Heck, Laycock was a poster-child for the modern-day senior policeman; young, good looking, university-educated as well as being an ex-military man – and more than capable of kissing all the right buttocks. In short, he embodied everything that was turning British law-enforcement into a career opportunity rather than a vocation.
Not that going lip-to-lip with your commanding officer like Heck had just done, was well-advised. Okay, there’d been no witnesses, so there’d be no one to corroborate accusations at a disciplinary hearing. But he had no doubt that Laycock could and would fix it for him somehow, if he got the chance. There were times when Heck would say that he didn’t care about stuff like that; that as far as he was concerned an idiot was an idiot, and he would always use that exact terminology because he couldn’t abide being disingenuous. But there were other times when he regretted this impulsive nature. It wasn’t as if he was innately rebellious or insolent. Fair enough, he resented having seventeen years in and still only holding the rank of sergeant, but he accepted his place in the pyramid of power. But there was something about Laycock and the number-crunching suits he represented that really stuck in Heck’s craw.
Of course, whatever the reason for it, today’s confrontation – and it was only one of several he’d had with Laycock, but it had been more explosive than most – might have more serious repercussions than usual. Until now Heck had always relied on his reputation for being a highly productive officer who’d sent way more than his fair share of slags and skags to prison, to guarantee his job security. In addition to that, aside from his differences with Laycock, he had a relatively clean shirt. So it wouldn’t be easy ousting him. And it would be even harder to oust Gemma. She was probably the NCG’s most prized asset: not only was she a woman, which was always a bonus these days, but she’d blazed her way through the male-dominated world of CID with skill, guile, determination and, above all, results, and had earned her high position because she deserved it rather than because of positive discrimination. On top of all that, she was eye-candy, so it looked particularly good when she was accepting her commendations on TV. But Laycock would still try to stick the knife in, possibly using the missing women enquiry, and how much cash had drained into it for so little return, as the main springboard of his assault.
Which, when Heck thought about it, made the plan he was now hatching for the next three months – extremely risky though it was – all the more important.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_1b2c5b78-87d4-5f47-8166-8d2ca8831004)
Louise looked herself over in the mirror.
She’d had the shower as instructed, and had done the best she could with her hair and make-up, though it had hardly been a labour of love. The clothes she’d finally selected would never have been her normal choice, but there hadn’t been much option. She’d put on dark stockings, a short, black, pleated skirt, a red silk blouse with ruffles at the front, and a smart black jacket. The trashy red and black shoes had come last, though in truth the whole thing was trashy, not to mention demeaning; it was the ‘office look’ perhaps, though a male fantasy version of it rather than the real thing. She hadn’t been able to find a single item of underwear that didn’t come straight from the advertising section of Penthouse, and after some searching had eventually opted for a matching set of black lace bra and knickers, though the knickers were so sheer that they might as well not have been there.
Not that this troubled her now. Briefly, as she stood rigid in front of the cold glass, wearing skimpy drawers seemed the very least of her problems.
She kept envisioning her house, her garden, Alan’s tousled head and grinning face when he woke her up each morning with a cup of tea, the spare bedroom they’d tentatively begun to think of as a nursery, which she’d filled in her imagination with soft, pink and white furniture, with cuddly toys, with animal mobiles turning on strings, with Disney wallpaper – but no, no, NO!
It didn’t pay to dwell on those things. She had to focus on the positives. She’d been a prisoner all this time, but they hadn’t yet brutalised her; in fact they’d fed her, watered her, allowed her to wash. In some ways that was sinister, but in others it was good. And she had definitely been abducted to order – they hadn’t just grabbed her off the streets; she wasn’t a random victim. As such, the idea had coalesced in her mind that this kidnapping could only be some kind of plot against Goldstein & Hoff – which was less frightening than it being directed against her, but even so it could have a fatal outcome, so she had to play it smart and go along with them for the moment. She had no other choice.
At least, this was what she told herself as she assessed her reflection for the umpteenth time. Cheap – that was the only way to describe the version of Louise Jennings that her captors wanted; cheap and slutty, like a porno actress on set. It was such a different look from her normal tasteful preference that this in itself almost made her cry, but she resisted resolutely. They’d degraded her enough; she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of breaking down. Besides, as she kept reminding herself, it was vital to keep a cool head. Cooperate but be cool – that was her plan. It was the only way to earn their respect. Never show a dangerous animal that you’re frightened.
But of course, it was easier to say such a thing than to do it.
The jewellery for example – Louise had glanced into the jewellery box, and had been surprised by the quality of the stuff it contained: earrings, bracelets, brooches, rings, necklaces, all of real gold and silver, encrusted with gems. But after the rather large hint her jailer had dropped about where this high-class merchandise had come from, she couldn’t bring herself to touch any of it, much less wear it. She doubted that she’d ever be able to wear jewellery again, not even her own – assuming she ever got home to it. Her bravado half-crumbled and fresh tears sprang into her eyes, though she hurriedly wiped them away with a tissue, determined to be brave.
As she did this, the door clicked open.
She spun around. Surely two hours hadn’t passed already?
Nobody came in. Louise waited tensely, hands clasped in front of her. Then she heard a voice from the next room.
‘Louise?’ it said hesitantly. Incredibly, it sounded familiar. ‘Do you want to come in here?’
At first bewildered, but then with sudden desperate energy, she dashed forward and pushed the door open. On the other side she saw a larger room, which was much more luxurious than her dressing-room-sized prison. There was a thick pile carpet on the floor, and soft fabric covering the walls. A shaded bulb cast a rosy glow over a double bed, its eiderdown folded neatly back on crisp, golden sheets. However, none of this amazed her as much as the person occupying the room.
He was a middle-aged man, but tall and well built, with grey at his temples and pale, handsome features. He was usually a very imposing figure; scrupulously neat, with a formal air and stern attitude which appeared to brook no nonsense, but at present, though he wore his normal pinstriped suit, his jacket and collar were unbuttoned and his tie hung in a loose knot.
Despite this, there was no mistaking him.
‘Mr Blenkinsop,’ she said, hardly able to believe her eyes – new tears now appeared there, tears of relief.
He gave a helpless shrug. ‘Hi.’
Ian Blenkinsop was not part of Louise’s department at Goldstein & Hoff, but a director in Commodity Finance, two floors above her. She didn’t know him particularly well, but they’d been part of the same company long enough to be on speaking terms. He was now standing on the other side of the bed, in front of an oak-panelled door, next to what looked like a well-stocked drinks cabinet.
She slammed the dressing-room door behind her and rushed towards him, jabbering frantically. ‘They … they grabbed me on my way home. I didn’t realise until it was too … there was nothing I could do … I’m so, so sorry … honestly, there was nothing …’
He nodded patiently, but seemed rather nervous. He was breathing quickly; sweat glinted on his brow – which was not his normal form. Ordinarily, Ian Blenkinsop was a man of poise, a smooth operator from whose fingertips multi-million-pound deals flowed on a daily basis. But why was he here? The question hit Louise hard. He was a banker, for Christ’s sake! Why was he the one who’d been sent to find her? Unless …
‘Oh my God,’ she breathed. ‘Did they get you too?’
‘Er …’ He half-smiled. ‘In a way, yes.’
‘Oh … Jesus!’ She put her fingers to her brow as it furrowed with disappointment. She wasn’t saved after all. Still, if nothing else, at least here was a friend, an ally, someone to share the ordeal with.
‘Who … who are these people?’ she said, trying her damnedest not to start crying again. ‘I mean … who?’
‘I don’t know. Listen, come and have a drink.’
To her bemusement, he turned to the cabinet. On its shelf there was a bottle of champagne, which he’d uncorked, and two glasses. He’d already filled one and now filled the other. He came around the bed and offered it to her.
‘Are you serious?’ she said, ignoring it. ‘Don’t you think we should be trying to get out of here?’
Still he pushed the drink towards her. ‘I know this has all been a bit of a shock for you, Louise, but if you play along it’ll be a lot easier.’
‘“Play along”?’ Confusion made her tone shrill. ‘What the hell do you mean?’
He drained his own glass and placed hers on a sideboard, before sitting on the bed and patting the mattress next to him. ‘Come here for a minute.’
‘What? Mr Blenkinsop … what are you doing?’
‘Louise, there’s no point trying to resist. These people are professionals.’
‘You know them?’
He stood up again, frustrated, pacing the room. ‘You haven’t guessed what this is about yet?’
‘Am I supposed to have?’ In the midst of her fear, she was completely bewildered.
‘You should just accept the inevitable.’ His voice had hardened, but he eyed her up and down as if noticing her attire for the first time and appreciating it a great deal. ‘You look good, I must admit.’
She backed away from him. ‘You’re not a prisoner here at all, are you?’
‘You want the truth?’ He stared at her, glassy-eyed. Suddenly he’d dropped all pretence at friendship. He looked cold, indifferent. ‘It’s the first time I’ve done anything like this here in the UK. But why not? Every day I create wealth and jobs for others. Society owes me so very much, so if I see something I want, why shouldn’t I take it? Because at the end of the day, I will have the things I desire and deserve. And if that means hurting a few little idiot-bitches who think it’s alright to dress provocatively because it makes them feel good, but who scream “harassment” the moment someone so much as looks at them … well, that’s hardly my problem. On the subject of which, you do look good, Louise.’
He slid towards her. She continued to back away; the dressing-room door was close behind her, but of course that offered no escape.
‘I’ve watched you every day for quite a few years now,’ he added. ‘Sashaying around Branscombe Court in those “fuck-my-wet-cunt” outfits.’
Despite everything, it was a chilling shock to hear such profanity from him. Louise couldn’t suppress a gasp.
‘Though you never looked as good then as you do now.’
‘You bastard,’ she whispered.
She’d now backed right up to the door. He didn’t come straight up to her but stopped a few yards short, from where he continued to eye her in the sort of brazenly lustful way that nowadays could land a man in court.
‘It’s up to you how you play this,’ he said. ‘But if you comply, I reckon we’ll both have a good time.’
Finally she understood. Several times in the office recently she’d suspected that Blenkinsop was furtively observing her. Evidently it hadn’t just been her imagination. ‘I … I …’
‘I think the words you’re looking for are “okay, let’s do it.”’ Blenkinsop was clearly growing impatient; his mouth fixed in a half-smile/half-snarl. ‘Look Louise … it’s not like you’ve got a choice here. You’ve seen the sort of team I’m working with. They don’t mess around. They’ve been watching you for weeks, noting your every move. They know who your friends are, where your family can be found …’
‘My … my family?’ she said, with a new sense of creeping horror.
‘That’s correct, Louise … your family. If this thing goes tits up, it isn’t going to finish with you. I’m going to get what I want, and I don’t care how. Of course it would be easier for all of us if we kept things nice and friendly.’ He ogled her revealing outfit again. ‘At least … as much as I’m capable of that. Your play, my darling.’
‘I … I need a drink first.’
He looked surprised by that, and not a little pleased. ‘That’s a good girl. Well done.’ He turned to the sideboard, collecting her champagne. ‘This is a Bollinger 1990 by the way. I spared no expense, as you can see.’
She stepped forward to accept it, trying her best to smile, though it was difficult to keep her lips from trembling. Perhaps he sensed this as she took the drink from him – his expression suddenly changed, but it was too late. She hurled the drink into his face, glass and all. The glass broke with the impact, a shard slicing open his left cheek.
‘You fucking bitch!’ he squawked, flailing blindly at her.
She pushed past him and went straight for the door next to the drinks cabinet, praying that it wouldn’t be locked – though of course it was. She wanted to scream as she pounded on it with her fists. Behind her, Blenkinsop was still swearing. She swung around to face him, expecting to have to ward off blows. But he hadn’t followed her. Instead he was addressing someone else, gazing up at a corner of the ceiling where she now saw a small surveillance camera.
‘Look what she’s fucking done!’ he shouted, clamping a handkerchief to his bloodied cheek. ‘I told you I need her compliant. I’ve given her every fucking chance, but she doesn’t want to know.’
There was a loud thumping of wood, and a clunk as a bolt was drawn. Louise toppled forward as the door burst open behind her. Two men came barging in: the black guy in the orange ski-mask and the white guy in the purple. Orange grabbed her by the wrists and threw her onto the bed. Purple, she could see, was already tapping another needle.
‘No!’ she shrieked, but her struggles were futile.
Orange held her down easily, pressing her on the mattress with his own body as his associate leaned forward and applied the injection. Blenkinsop stood to one side and watched in silence, though his face had gone a little grey; blood was turning his handkerchief crimson. When Orange got back to his feet, Louise lay still, limp as a rag doll. He casually flicked her skirt up, before turning to face Blenkinsop.
‘Reckon you can manage now?’
Blenkinsop nodded nervously, unable to take his eyes off Louise’s exposed underwear and the golden triangle of pubic hair visible through its filmy material.
‘You might need this.’ Orange pushed something into Blenkinsop’s hand.
It was a jar of lubricant.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_318be53a-f74a-59c7-983b-6f5aaffc0b57)
The Raven’s Nest at Hammersmith was the closest thing Heck had to a local. He’d lived in Fulham for fourteen years now, and had finally chosen ‘the Nest’ not just because it was small and homely – as opposed to being large and impersonal, like so many London pubs – but also because its landlord Phil Mackintosh was an Aussie, who regularly had the widescreen TV in his snug tuned to Australian rugby league. Heck, being a Lancashire lad by origin, also had a fondness for the thirteen-a-side rugby code, so this had proved a draw for him.
Unfortunately, that first Sunday evening of Heck’s enforced leave there was no match on, Phil was off duty and, this being one of the quieter nights of the week, there wasn’t really anyone else to talk to. Instead, Heck drank a few beers and sank a few whiskies – since leaving the Yard that afternoon, the idea of getting totally plastered had become very appealing. It was another warm August evening, so he spent his first couple of hours on the terrace watching the river glide by, then finally traipsed back indoors where he bought another beer with a whisky chaser, and moved into the pool room. He shot a few balls around, hoping someone would turn up and offer him a game, but no one did. Going into the bar again, he exchanged pleasantries with a couple of customers who he knew vaguely, but it was difficult striking up conversation purely for the sake of it.
Mid-evening had now arrived, so he bought yet another round and retreated back to the pool room. He was warming up inside and his vision was getting blurry, which was just the way he wanted it. The downside of course was that hitting targets accurately had become a complex process. It took an age working his way round to the black, and he then spent several minutes squinting along his cue, trying to focus on the final pocket, only to be distracted by a very shapely pair of crossed legs that he suddenly noticed on the other side of the table. He tried to concentrate on what he was doing, but those legs were brown, bare, very smooth, and went all the way up to the hem of an indecently short denim skirt. A backless white sandal with a stiletto heel dangled sexily.
Perhaps not surprisingly, the shot went wide.
‘Oh dear,’ said a sympathetic voice.
Heck glanced up at the girl to whom the legs belonged. She was seated on a high stool, from where she’d clearly been watching him for several minutes.
She was somewhere in her late twenties and a stunner – with dark eyes, full lips and perfectly symmetrical features, she almost looked like a young Halle Berry. Her thick black hair was held up with wooden pins, though it would probably fall to her shoulders in a slick of glossy curls if released. A tight green vest with an image of Jay-Z emblazoned on the front accentuated a trim waist and generous bosom.
Heck realised he was gawking. He clamped his mouth shut.
‘See anything you like?’ she asked innocently.
‘Er, no … I mean yeah obviously … er, sorry.’ He smiled awkwardly, placed his cue on the table and headed for the bar.
‘Play with yourself here often?’ she called after him.
He turned and looked back. She was smiling provocatively, as if dying to hear his response.
‘I wouldn’t usually,’ he said. ‘But I’ve never found anyone else who’s up to the job.’
‘That’s a brave boast after what I’ve just seen.’
‘You challenging me, miss?’
She leaned forward and rested her chin on her fist. ‘It would be no contest at all.’
He indicated the vacant table. ‘Rack ’em up.’
She did. And very gallantly, he let her take the first shot. Which proved to be a big mistake. She potted four stripes one after another, only missing a fifth by millimetres. In response, he potted a spot, but the white followed it down. She then embarked on another break, which only ended when she potted the black after bouncing it skilfully off two opposing cushions.
‘You know, all that proves is you’ve had a misspent youth,’ Heck said.
‘My mum wouldn’t need that proving to her.’
‘I’ll bet she wouldn’t.’ He couldn’t help checking her out again, especially those shiny, shapely legs. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘You offering?’
They went through to the bar, where Heck – still unable to believe his luck, because this sort of thing never, ever happened – ordered her a rum with coke, getting himself another pint of bitter and a double Scotch.
‘You drinking to forget, or something?’ she asked, as they settled at a table.
‘I’m drinking because I’m on holiday.’
‘You’re on holiday?’ She sounded surprised, which puzzled him a little.
‘That bothers you?’
‘No, it’s just …’ She smiled again. ‘I’m on holiday too. Sort of.’
He shrugged. ‘Good health.’
The glasses clinked; they both sipped.
‘I’m Lauren,’ she said. ‘I’m from Yorkshire.’
He nodded. Her accent had already given that away – he guessed Huddersfield or Leeds.
‘You’re not a local either, are you?’ she asked. ‘Manchester, is it?’
‘Near there. Bradburn.’
‘You’re a long way from home.’
He swilled more beer. ‘Sometimes it feels like that. But I travel a lot, so it’s as broad as long. My name’s Mark, by the way. But friends call me “Heck”.’
‘I know. The barmaid told me.’
‘She did?’ Now Heck was really puzzled. The girl had been interested enough to ask someone his name? That had to be a first. He had a certain rugged appeal – he was aware of that, but he wasn’t the sort of bloke that lookers like this moved in on. Unless? – abruptly his mood changed. He’d been right to remind himself that this sort of thing never, ever happened – because it wasn’t happening now either.
‘This your local?’ she wondered.
‘Suppose so. I don’t get in too often. What can I do for you, anyway?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, love. You’re not on the pull. If you were, you wouldn’t choose me.’
She folded her arms – an unconsciously defensive gesture, he noted. ‘Maybe I just fancied a chat with someone who looked pleasant.’
‘Same as before. You wouldn’t choose me.’
‘You don’t have a very high opinion of yourself, do you?’
‘My opinion doesn’t count for much, I’m afraid.’
‘Listen, I’m just trying to be friendly.’
‘No you’re not. You’re up to something. Now if I didn’t know better …’ he glanced again at her legs, and then much more closely at her arms, but couldn’t spot any tell-tale needle-tracks, ‘I’d guess you were the sort of lady who Phil Mackintosh doesn’t normally allow into this establishment.’
She stiffened. ‘I’m not a hooker, if that’s what you mean.’
‘So why’re you acting like one?’ He gave her the gaze he normally reserved for the interview room, his eyes boring into her. She became flustered, ill-at-ease.
‘I just wanted some information?’ she finally said.
‘So it’s not my amazing body you’re interested in. Now there’s a surprise.’
‘About your investigation …’
‘Ahhh.’
She now looked very uncomfortable. ‘How – look, how’s it going?’
Heck finished his beer. He shouted across to the bar for another, before turning back to her. ‘So what is this? Mr Ballamara’s decided that, as the rough stuff doesn’t work, he’ll try a gentler touch?’
‘Eh?’
‘Is that the deal? I deliver, and I get a night in the sack with some quality tail?’
She looked totally baffled.
He leaned forward. ‘Go back to your boss and tell him to shove it. Not only do I not take orders from him, I don’t take bribes either. And frankly I’m surprised anyone does. You know why? Because he’s a walking-talking anachronism, a throwback – a gobshite who runs a few South London boozers and thinks he’s Pablo Escobar. Another year and I dare say he’ll be at the beck and call of some sixteen-year-old Romanian, and no doubt he’ll be grateful for it.’
He pushed his chair back and stood up.
‘For someone who doesn’t rate himself, you don’t half like the sound of your own voice,’ she said.
‘For someone who looks as good as you, you keep very trashy company. And just in case he decides to send the heavies round again, tell him not to waste his time. I’m off the case. It’s finished.’
‘Finished?’ She sounded startled. But Heck had gone. He was over at the bar again, paying for his next round, when she reappeared. ‘Finished, did you say?’
‘Yes. It’s been closed down. And if Mr Ballamara doesn’t like that – as I told him before, he can take it up with Commander Laycock at Scotland Yard.’
‘You mean no one’s looking into it at all?’
‘Someone will be somewhere.’ He sipped his fresh pint, leaving froth on his top lip. ‘But only if they haven’t got something much, much more important to do. Like watch some paint dry.’
He tried to move away, but she grabbed his arm tightly. He turned to face her – and was surprised to see that she was livid with rage. Tears were welling in her eyes.
‘I heard good things about you,’ she said. ‘I thought you were going to help me, but now I can see you’re just another FUCKING DICKHEAD!’ She banged money on the bar-top. ‘That’s for the drink I owe you. Stick it up your arse!’
And she stormed out of the pub, stopping only to grab up her handbag and sling it over her shoulder.
‘You coppers really know how to make friends and influence people,’ the barmaid, who happened to be Phil Mackintosh’s eldest daughter, commented.
Heck was equally bemused. ‘I’m guessing I’ve just cost her a decent commission.’
He went back to his seat, shaking his head. The lowlifes he had to deal with. Mind you, hookers didn’t generally scream and cry when johns turned them down. Now that he looked back on it, the entire meeting had been a little surreal – but what the hell, this was London. Nothing should be a surprise here. He put it from his mind and the evening rolled on tediously. He managed a couple more rounds and a few more brief exchanges of mundane chat with other punters before the bell rang for last orders.
Before leaving, he went for a pee, and then stood looking at himself in the greasy toilet mirror. Considering he was now in his late thirties, he’d kept reasonably well. Some might say he was handsome but he was also rumpled; his black hair didn’t have any grey in it yet but seemed to be permanently mussed, and he did look tired. He was unshaved and his normally piercing blue eyes were bloodshot, though that might be due to drink rather than fatigue. The rest of him was in okay shape. He certainly wasn’t overweight, though that was because during the investigation he hadn’t been eating properly or even regularly enough. But he was still reasonably solid and well-built; years of sports activities in his younger police days had served a purpose after all.
He yawned, scratched his grizzled cheek, then ambled back out and shouted his goodbyes to the bar staff. The muggy atmosphere outside did little to help with his semi-inebriated state, and he tottered across the pub car park to his Fiat. Even leaning against it, he had trouble inserting his key into the lock.
‘You’re not seriously thinking of driving in that state?’ someone asked.
Heck turned around. At first he didn’t recognise Gemma Piper. Her white Coupe was parked about twenty yards away. She’d got out and approached without him noticing. She was wearing jeans, trainers and a lilac running top.
‘I, er … no, my jacket’s in the back,’ he said.
‘Really?’
He opened the door and, with a flourish, pulled a lightweight leather jacket from the rear seat, where it had been dumped earlier. She eyed him sceptically, unconvinced.
‘What’s the matter anyway?’ he asked. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Yeah? Well tough. I’m off duty.’
He turned, stumbled across the car park and onto the pavement, though he hadn’t walked more than thirty yards before he realised that he’d be lucky to make it home. He’d drunk far more that evening than he had in quite some time. The white Coupe pulled up alongside him, and Gemma powered down her window.
‘Stop acting like a kid, Heck, and get in. At the very least, I can give you a ride home.’
Heck fumbled his way around the vehicle, and all but collapsed into the front passenger seat. Gemma leaned across him to check that his seatbelt was secure. As she did, he tried to nuzzle her neck. She pulled back sharply, glaring at him.
‘Don’t even go there. That’s not what this is about, and you know it.’
He shrugged as she put the car in gear and drove them away from the kerb.
‘What is it about?’ he asked sulkily.
‘I wanted to talk some business, but by the looks of it you’re in no fit state.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.’
‘Will you, indeed.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s difficult enough getting you to exercise good judgment when you’re stone-cold sober. It’d be a laugh a minute watching you try to do it tonight.’
Chapter 9 (#ulink_e9961f61-95ab-5ddf-a2a8-5ab531409a89)
Cherrybrook Drive was a cul-de-sac, with Heck’s place situated at its far end, where a ten-foot-high wall of soot-black bricks separated the residential neighbourhood from a stretch of tube running overland. The houses, which faced each other in two sombre rows, were tall and narrow, and fronted straight onto the pavement. Heck occupied an upstairs flat in the last one, accessible via a steep, dingy stairway. When he’d swayed up to the top, he flicked a light on, revealing a threadbare carpet and walls stripped to the plaster.
‘Nothing like living in style,’ Gemma observed.
‘I forgot … you haven’t been to this pad, have you?’ he replied. ‘Well … doesn’t matter, does it? I’m hardly ever here.’
The apartment itself was warm and not quite as gloomy as its entrance suggested. The kitchen was small but modern, and very clean – every worktop sparkled (though this might have been because food was rarely prepared here, as a bin crammed with kebab wrappers and pizza boxes seemed to suggest). There was a basic but surprisingly spacious lounge-diner, which would have been fairly pleasant had it not been for its window gazing down on the trash-filled cutting where the trains passed, a bathroom and a bedroom. The final room, separated from the hall by a sliding screen door, was box-sized and windowless. Its dim interior appeared to be scattered with disordered paperwork, but Heck closed the door on that before Gemma had a chance to check it out properly. It was his office, he said, though at present it was more like a junk room.
‘Coffee?’ he asked. ‘Tea? Something stronger?’
‘Coffee’s fine,’ she said.
He went into the kitchen, filled the kettle and prepared a single mug. As the water boiled, he took a tumbler and a bottle of whisky from a cupboard and poured himself three fingers. Walking back into the lounge, he threw his jacket across the armchair and hit the button on the phone-messaging system. There was only one message. It was from his older sister, Dana: ‘Mark, when am I going to see you? It’s been ages. I mean, if you’re not coming up, you can at least call.’
He pressed ‘delete’.
‘You and Dana still not getting on?’ Gemma asked.
‘Everything’s fine. I just can’t be bothered.’
‘Charming.’
Gemma glanced around at the lounge. It was neat enough, but very functional. The word ‘minimalist’ wouldn’t cover it – ‘Spartan’ would be more accurate. The walls were bare of paintings, the sideboard and shelves empty of flowers or photographs. The red and orange flowered curtains, blue vinyl sofa, and mauve carpet were a tasteless mish-mash.
‘Still no sign of a woman’s touch,’ she said.
‘Surely that doesn’t surprise you?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
He swilled his whisky, and went back into the kitchen.
She took in the room again. A few books sat on a sideboard, all recent titles from the bestseller list, covering various genres, which again was no surprise – it suggested Heck had neither the time nor inclination for a more specialised interest. DVDs occupied a wooden tower alongside the television, their cases thick with dust. It was clearly a while since he’d sat down and watched one of them. Next to the sofa there was a newspaper rack, but it contained only one item – yesterday’s edition of the Standard. Periodicals and style magazines of the sort that cluttered most people’s lounges were noticeably absent. Heck returned, carrying her coffee. She noticed that he’d poured himself another two fingers.
‘Have you got a drink problem that I don’t know about?’ she asked.
He dropped into the armchair. ‘The only problem I have is that I don’t get enough time to drink. Until now of course. Cheers!’
She placed her coffee down. ‘You know, there are times when a little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘Okay … you’re right. Thanks for the lift home.’
‘You’re as impossible now as you were …’
‘As I was then?’
She bit her lip and shook her head, as if suppressing a response that she’d regret.
For some reason, this half-conciliatory act warmed Heck inside. He added to it by swilling more whisky. ‘Well … I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.’
Gemma sighed. ‘Heck, I’ve defended your corner for a long time. But there’s only so much even I can do if you insist on winding up Jim Laycock every time you meet him.’
‘Oh, so that’s what this is about …’
‘No, it isn’t. And don’t start giving me attitude, Heck . . . because I’m not going to put up with it either.’ She paused, picked her coffee up and took a sip. ‘My God, that’s foul. You know they call me “the Lioness”?’
‘I’d noticed.’
‘Yeah, well that’s except where you’re concerned. Where you’re concerned, they call me “the Pussy Cat”. Now what do you think that’s doing to my self-esteem, eh?’
‘Alright, I’m sorry.’ He grabbed at his tie to loosen it, only to find that he wasn’t wearing one. ‘But he’s got to get off my back …’
‘For Christ’s sake, Heck! He’s a commander, you’re a sergeant!’
‘Yeah, and I close cases he wouldn’t have the first idea how to approach.’
‘That’s not the point. History’s written by the top brass, not the cannon fodder. So would you mind, now and then, just trying to make my job a little bit easier?’
‘I said I’m sorry.’ The thread of conversation was beginning to elude Heck. No doubt it was the booze. On the subject of which – he drained his glass, and lurched back into the kitchen for a refill.
‘That’s really going to help,’ Gemma said, following him.
‘It helps me,’ he retorted, though the corners of his vision were fogging badly.
‘Good Lord,’ she said, as he filled his glass almost to the brim.
‘It’s not like I’ve got something to get up for in the morning, is it?’
‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion.’
Even in Heck’s state, he detected meaning in those words. He swung round to face her. She was watching him carefully, suspiciously.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.
‘You accepted this enforced leave way too easily in my opinion.’
‘Naw … the idea just grew on me, that’s all.’
‘Heck, this is me you’re talking to. Give me some credit, eh!’
Her gaze was suddenly intense. Heck tried to return it, but doubted it would have much effect. He wasn’t just tipsy anymore, he was properly drunk. Which might explain why he suddenly wanted to spill the whole thing, tell her everything about his plans. Not that it was purely because his inhibitions had fled. Partly it was because confiding in someone – anyone – about the worry and uncertainty accrued over so many months of tireless effort and soul-destroying frustration, not to mention the bitterness at the way his gaffers had treated him, would be a kind of release, a burden shared.
Gemma was still talking. ‘You’re planning to continue investigating while you’re on leave, aren’t you?’
‘That would be against every rule in the book and completely unethical.’
‘And you expect me to believe that would make a difference to you?’
‘Do you want a drink yet?’ he asked, reaching for the bottle.
‘No.’ She snatched it away. ‘And you don’t either.’
They stared at each other, Heck having to lean on the kitchen units to stay upright. He rubbed at his face. It was numb, damp with sweat.
‘What’s in that room?’ she asked.
‘Which room?’
‘The room you didn’t want me to look in when we first got here.’
‘Have you come as a friend or a boss, Gemma?’
She looked surprisingly torn by the question. ‘Heck, I can’t be one or the other. Not when the stakes are as high as this.’
He nodded gravely, as if there was no point denying reality any longer, and levered himself upright, beckoning her to follow him out of the kitchen. In the hall, he yanked open the screen door he’d hurried to close on arriving. Again, a mess of heaped paperwork met their gaze. He switched the light on, bringing it into full clarity.
It was, as he’d said, an office. There was a desk, a swivel chair and a computer terminal. All were swamped with documents – official police documents by the looks of them, covered in typing and handwritten notes – but also maps, wanted posters, newspaper clippings. Two of the walls were occupied by noticeboards hung with further paperwork. A closer glance at this revealed witness statements, progress reports, criminal intelligence print-outs. The facing wall was more neatly arrayed with glossy photographs: the blown-up headshots of various different women. Lines and arrows had been drawn between them with a blue marker pen; captions and notations had been scribbled on the wallpaper.
‘Jesus H. Christ,’ Gemma said with slow disbelief. ‘You’ve set up your own incident room.’
‘Sorry boss, but I couldn’t let this go. I don’t care what anyone says.’
She picked a few documents up – gingerly, almost as if she wanted to check they were real but was hoping they weren’t. ‘You haven’t done all this in one evening. I know you haven’t … not when you were in the bloody pub getting wasted.’
Heck shrugged. ‘I had a feeling this was coming. I’ve been making copies of everything and bringing them here for weeks.’
‘You understand what this means, Heck?’ She turned to look at him with an expression that was more fear than anger. ‘This isn’t just a bit of indiscipline, this is an actual crime. This is all Laycock will need to bounce you right out of the job.’
Heck offered her his wrists. ‘You’d better take me in then, hadn’t you?’
Gemma gazed back into the makeshift incident room, at the thirty-eight lovely, smiling faces on its far wall. Even now, after seeing them so many times, their effect on her was physically sobering. Each one didn’t just represent a human life snatched away in its prime, but a devastated family: sorrowing children, tortured parents, a bereft spouse.
‘You may recall I drew up this profile some time ago,’ Heck said. ‘Women who were never likely to go off under their own steam. Career women, graduates, young mothers. Girls who’ve all got a good family life, good prospects, that sort of thing. You’ll notice there are no hookers or drug addicts here …’
‘Heck, I’m familiar with the facts!’ she snapped, sounding furious but still pale with shock. Her voice dropped to an intense whisper. ‘What I’m not familiar with is a level of disrespect for the chain of command that knocks everything else you’ve ever done into a cocked hat! In God’s name, what did you not understand about me telling you this case was closed?’
‘Every part of it,’ he replied brazenly. ‘Every single word.’ He wheeled around and tottered back into the lounge, where he slumped into the armchair. When she reappeared in the doorway, he picked up the telephone. ‘Shall I call for prisoner transport, or will you?’
She shook her head. ‘You have put me in some difficult situations, Mark Heckenburg, but this is …’
‘I’m sorry, Gemma,’ he slurred. ‘But we are where we are.’
‘Oh great. The philosophy of the drunk. That’s all I bloody need.’ She paced back and forth, rubbing at her brow with a carefully manicured finger. ‘You know, Heck, when we were hotshot young DCs at Bethnal Green, you were always three or four steps ahead of the game. You ran rings round the scrotes, the guv’nors. You were a risk-taker, but you so knew what you were doing. That’s what made it exciting to work with you. The angles and tangents we went off at – we never knew where we were going to finish up. It was like living in a high-octane cop movie. And then one day, DCI Jewson – remember him, fat belly, shaggy beard – we used to call him Grizzly Adams? A real old-stager, he was. He took me to one side and said: “Darling, you’ve got a great future. But you’re too close to young Heckenburg for your own good. That lad’s running before he can walk and he’s got way too many tricks up his sleeve. Mark my words, when he goes down – and he will – he’s going to take a chunk of the service with him.” Those were his exact words, Heck. I’ve never forgotten them. How could I? Because that’s when I decided that enough was as good as a feast, and that maybe me and you should cool things a little …’
A gentle snore from the other side of the room interrupted her.
She turned, to find Heck asleep in the armchair. She regarded him for several anguished moments, before shaking her head, taking him by the armpits and lugging him out of his seat, across his lounge and down the hall. Finally, with no little grunting and struggling, she deposited him on his bed, where she stared at him again for several long seconds. ‘Damn it, Heck, why do you always do this to me?’
He didn’t respond. So she switched the light out, before leaving the room.
Chapter 10 (#ulink_baaca634-a63a-56c0-a6f1-2952053b7cae)
Ian Blenkinsop sat in silence as he was driven down what he presumed were dark and empty roads. He presumed, because he couldn’t actually see. He was wearing a blindfold, a leather strap pulled tightly around his head, but with a cotton wool pad fitted over each of his eyes to prevent any possible chink of vision. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was unnerving, as was the presence of the two men who sat one on either side of him.
They never spoke, except to make the odd laconic comment about other road users, or the state of the towns and villages they passed through. Noticeably, they never once put a name to any of these places. Neither did they name each other. They were clearly aware that Blenkinsop was listening.
Not that he had much interest in their conversation at present.
He was physically weak, drained of energy and emotion. He was also nauseous; his gut tightened progressively until soon the muscles in his back and sides were tense and aching. His mouth had gone dry; his throat was constricted, and chill sweat bathed his cheeks. The motion of the car wasn’t responsible: it glided smoothly, without as much as a jolt. It was also air-conditioned, its interior fragrant of leather and felt.
‘Excuse me, I’m sick,’ he finally said. ‘Can we stop the car?’
‘Funny how so many of them want to be sick on the way back,’ one of the men remarked.
‘I’m serious. I’m going to throw up.’
‘Wait a minute.’
Slowly, the vehicle eased to a halt. There was a click as the handbrake was applied but the engine was allowed to continue running. Blenkinsop felt cool air as the door on his left-hand side was opened. Feet clumped on tarmac as one of the men climbed out.
‘Lean over this way, Mr Blenkinsop. And don’t even think about taking that blindfold off.’
Blenkinsop wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone, but now he did exactly as instructed. The man on the right-hand side took hold of him by the collar of his coat, so that he wouldn’t fall out of the car completely.
‘Okay, let it go,’ the first man said.
Blenkinsop felt a surge in his belly, as though everything inside him was about to explode out of his mouth in a torrent. But to his surprise, it was only a trickle, and it felt frothy, light. It didn’t even taste of vomit. Rather disgustingly, he realised, it was the champagne he’d drunk earlier; that was all he’d taken into his system in the last few hours. He retched again – another trickle, this one even thinner than the first. The next one was a dry-heave.
‘That it?’ the man asked. ‘Okay, back in with you.’
Blenkinsop was pulled back into the vehicle. The man climbed in alongside him. The door was closed, and the car moved on.
The journey seemed endless. It had been lengthy when he’d been coming the other way – somewhere between two and three hours by his reckoning; and on that occasion he’d been in a state of eager anticipation. Now that he was riddled with horror and fear, it seemed infinitely longer. They’d first picked him up in a rural lay-by near Tring. In the amount of time it had taken to reach their destination, they could have visited almost any part of southern or central England. Of course, by the same token, they may have taken him no more than a few miles, but had driven round and round in deliberate circles to throw him off the trail.
He tried to put these thoughts from his mind. What did he think he was doing, for Christ’s sake: collating evidence? The best thing now was to keep his mouth shut. As soon as they released him, he’d head for home and not look back once. But that would be easier said than done. That horrendous thing . . .
Blenkinsop was still shaking with disbelief at what he’d just participated in. At what – for Christ’s sake – he’d actually purchased. Oh, he was under no illusions about himself: he liked to think that he was a family man, but when it came to sex there were some real quirks in his character. He’d discovered that on umpteen trips overseas on behalf of the bank – to the Gulf and North Africa, to developing countries with unstable governments, where just about anything was available if you were prepared to pay for it. He’d often tried to reconcile these dark inner traits with the knowledge that this was the anything-goes twenty-first century, and that sexual experimentation was no longer frowned upon the way it once had been. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel dirty and wretched whenever his lust had been sated – not that any previous experience, no matter how extreme, compared with this one.
He wondered if he was going to be sick again, and struggled to fight it down. It seemed unlikely that the men in the car would tolerate another unscheduled stoppage.
He had to put it all from his mind. That was the only solution. Time healed everything. Even the most dreadful things faded from importance eventually. Another few weeks and it wouldn’t matter to him a jot, he was sure. He could relax again, get on with his life. It was all behind him. But still he had to wrestle with himself, to silence the voice of his conscience that was calling shame upon him, to shut the image of Louise’s frightened, child-like face from his mind’s eye.
If only they hadn’t made him stay behind afterwards.
‘Just a bit of extra insurance, Mr Blenkinsop,’ the one in the orange mask had said, as the one in purple had laid a body-length PVC bin-bag on the bed alongside Louise’s unconscious, naked form, and then produced a coil of what looked like piano wire. Blenkinsop knew he’d never forget the heart-stopping shock of that moment. As Purple unravelled the wire, he’d noticed that it was fitted with wooden grip-handles, one at either end.
Orange had chuckled. ‘You being here – involved, if you like – means you’re even less likely to go telling tales, doesn’t it?’
Blenkinsop had been half-dressed at the time and still coming down from the rapture of thoroughly enjoying the woman who had taunted him for so long. But he’d never expected to be made to witness the winding of that gleaming wire around her soft, white neck. He’d never imagined having to listen to the grunting efforts of the man in purple as he used the wooden handles to twist and twist and twist, exerting incredible pressure. Most of all, he’d never expected the inert body to start moving slightly, the leaden limbs jerking and twitching.
‘Amazing how they do that, isn’t it?’ Orange had remarked. ‘Out for the count, but there’s still something inside that’s aware she’s about to snuff it. Still, kinder than if she was fully conscious, eh?’
The contents of Blenkinsop’s gut lurched into his mouth again, but again – thankfully – there was nothing there of note, and he was able to gulp it back.
When she’d finally gone limp – had just flopped down lifeless – that was probably the most horrible part of it. Of course, he’d seen that a dozen times in the movies: a body fighting to survive for torturously long moments and then abruptly giving up the ghost; but in real life it was the most numbing, hair-raising thing he’d ever seen. Even then it had felt unreal – probably because at some subconscious level he couldn’t bring himself to accept what he was seeing – though now, in retrospect, it seemed naive to have expected the situation with Louise to be resolved any other way. They always undertook to ensure the crime would go unreported. That was their firm guarantee; they had dozens and dozens of satisfied customers who were still free men, who were at no risk of losing their liberty, and if he asked no questions about how this was brought about, he’d be told no lies – so he hadn’t asked. Of course he hadn’t. And even now, appalled again by the memory of Louise’s final, futile death struggles, he didn’t think he’d necessarily have wanted them to take a different course of action. He hadn’t known the girl well enough to like her, much less care about her, but he wouldn’t have wished such a fate upon her – that was never his intention, and he needed to keep reassuring himself of that; it had never been his plan to … murder (yes, like it or not, that was the word). And yet, loath to admit it though he was, it suited his purpose. Now there was absolutely no danger she would talk – you could never say that about someone you’d paid off or simply threatened.
Oh, it was hideous; there was no denying it – her eyes frozen in a lovely face turned purple and disfigured; her body, once young and supple, now cold, broken, stiffening, being wrapped in soulless plastic, bound with fishing twine like some demonic Christmas package – but it was for the best. Louise Jennings was now gone. It was over for her. But for him, life must go on.
Somewhere inside a distant voice berated him for attempting to rationalise it in this way, but he wanted to shout the voice down as if it wasn’t his own (good Christ, was he going mad?). He hadn’t sought this outcome, he reiterated to himself, but in all honesty how else could his freedom be guaranteed? Alright, there was no doubt it hadn’t been too clever getting himself into this mess in the first place, but you couldn’t roll back time … and Jesus you didn’t want to do or say anything that might antagonise men like this. No Sir, not in any shape or form. You had to approve of men like this. He almost cackled, he was so frightened, and again he wondered if shock had driven him mad.
The car now slowed to another halt, disrupting his thoughts.
A door opened and one of the men – by the sounds of it, the driver – climbed out. Blenkinsop knew what this meant, and at that moment it seemed like the greatest relief in his life. When they’d picked him up previously, black tape had been used to mask the vehicle’s registration mark. No doubt, once they’d blindfolded him and put him in the car, they’d stripped it away again. Now they were probably re-applying it. When the driver returned, Blenkinsop was told to climb out.
The two other men went first, one of them lending him a hand.
Initially, his legs were shaking so much that he could hardly stand up – but he’d manage it, because nothing was going to keep him here. It was over and he was out of this, and at last he could get away from these people and the terrible thing he’d done. Slowly, they removed his blindfold. It was now dark, there wasn’t even a streetlamp nearby, but he still had to blink until his eyes adjusted.
To one side, he spotted the vehicle he’d just driven in; it was the same white Range Rover with tinted windows that they’d collected him with earlier. But he pointedly didn’t look at it – that was the last thing he wanted; to know any more about these guys than he knew already. In any case, his own car, a new model Audi, was sitting alone in the lay-by. It was in a slightly different position from where he’d left it earlier, but that didn’t surprise him. He’d had to surrender his keys so that they could move it; a car like that left for half the day in a place like this would attract attention. Beyond the Audi, the fields were hidden by the night. The narrow country lane curved off into opaque shadow.
Two of the men now faced him. Despite everything he knew and had already seen, he drew a sharp breath. The hair on his scalp prickled like wildfire.
They were masked again. He hadn’t seen their faces once, which was exactly how he wanted it, but those masks themselves had become a thing of horror – made from orange and purple wool respectively – yet fearfully implicit of violent crime. It wasn’t just the masks: their bodies were solid, bulky, powerfully built, and clad in overalls. Their hands were gloved, their feet no doubt booted, perhaps with steel toecaps; the final perfect touch for the modern-day hoodlum’s killing outfit. How often he’d seen figures like these on television or in the newspapers: serial murderers, gangsters, terrorists – and, of course, rapists, a heinous club of which he was now a paid-up member.
At least, he assumed he was paid up.
When the man in the orange mask next spoke, he confirmed that this was the case.
‘Apparently we’re in full receipt of the cash, Mr Blenkinsop,’ he said, slipping a mobile phone back into his overalls pocket. ‘It’s all cleared. So as far as we’re concerned, our transaction is complete. You’ll never hear from us again, except in the occasional discreet mail drop, which is the only way you’ll be able to request our services a second time.’
Blenkinsop nodded. The mere thought of getting involved with these characters again was enough to make him faint. Just having them in such close proximity to him, and knowing what they were capable of, made him want to turn and run for his life.
‘You can drive home from here, yeah?’
Again, Blenkinsop nodded. ‘Yes …’ he whispered. ‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’
‘And your wife won’t ask any questions?’
Good Lord, Yvonne! Blenkinsop hadn’t thought about her once during today’s activities. Even now that it was all over, it was agony to do so.
‘She’s … er, she’s abroad with my daughter,’ he said.
‘Course, it doesn’t really matter whether she does or doesn’t,’ the one in the purple mask added. ‘It doesn’t matter if anyone asks you any questions. You know the answers you need to give.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a client of ours, Mr Blenkinsop,’ Orange added. ‘And we respect you for that. Not many men would have the bottle to do what you’ve done. But we’re not in the liking or trusting business. Bear this in mind – you don’t know anything about us, but we know an awful lot about you. Where you live, where you work, where you socialise. And it’s going to stay that way. From now on, we’ll be keeping you under covert surveillance. Not all the time obviously, but you’ll never know when we’re there and when we’re not. This is another of those insurance things, I’m sure you understand.’
Blenkinsop couldn’t speak; he simply nodded again.
‘If there’s any indication that you … shall we say, even feel tempted to discuss things that you shouldn’t be discussing – with anyone at all – then be prepared to suffer a very severe repercussion.’
Blenkinsop would have swallowed, but he had no spittle left in his mouth.
‘That’s not a threat, by the way. It’s just the way things are. So don’t go off disliking us. After all, you’re a man after our own heart.’
Blenkinsop smiled weakly, then lurched around and marched to his Audi. Climbing in, he found the keys in the ignition, switched the engine on and drove away. It was only ten miles from here to London. At this late hour, it should be plain sailing. Yet he already knew it would be the darkest, loneliest road he’d ever taken.
Chapter 11 (#ulink_2c16ca07-a367-5cd6-a4be-7291ca927d3b)
When Heck woke that morning, the first thing he thought was that he was being hit over the head with a plank. The next thing, he was bewildered to hear the sound of someone clattering around in his kitchen. He squinted with pain-fuzzed vision at the bedside clock; it wasn’t yet eight, but there was no doubt there was somebody else here. He got up shakily – slightly nauseous, his mouth lined with fur – and stumbled down the hall, which was filled with the scent of grilled bacon.
‘Morning,’ Gemma said from in front of the range, where she was juggling pots and pans.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘I, er …’ Slowly and sluggishly, his memories of the previous night began to return. ‘Oh, yeah … ouch.’ He touched his forehead delicately.
‘How’s your head?’ she asked, opening and closing the cutlery drawer seemingly as loudly as she could.
‘This is one of those occasions when I think I could live without it.’
‘You smell like a camel.’
He glanced down and saw that he was still wearing his jeans, t-shirt and socks from the night before, all rumpled and sweat soaked. ‘You put me to bed?’
‘Who else?’
‘Didn’t bother getting me undressed then, eh?’
‘Making you comfortable wasn’t a priority. If I was going to sleep on your sofa, I had to get you out of the lounge.’
‘You slept on the sofa?’ Heck could scarcely believe it.
‘How do you like your eggs?’
‘Erm … poached.’
‘Okay, coming up. Bacon, beans, sausage?’
Only now did he notice the food items arrayed along the worktop. Some were still in packages. ‘Where’s this stuff come from? I haven’t got any of this in.’
‘I’ve been round the corner to the supermarket.’
‘So this is the condemned man’s last breakfast, is it?’
‘Just get a shower, Heck, get dressed, and present yourself in a fit state for duty.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m actually at home here … on holiday?’
She glared at him. ‘You’ve stolen a mountain of police evidence. You’re lucky you’re not enjoying an extended holiday at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Now do as I say.’
Heck did, taking a long shower and climbing into a clean pair of shorts and a vest. When he wandered back, their two breakfasts were on the table, along with a round of toast, a jug of orange juice and a pot of coffee.
‘Just like the old days,’ he said, sitting opposite her.
‘Nothing like the old days,’ she corrected him. ‘Eat, while it’s hot.’
‘Only you could make an invitation to breakfast sound like an order from a concentration camp guard.’ But feeling refreshed and suddenly hungry, he tucked in.
She watched him as he ate, barely picking at her own food. ‘First of all, let’s hear what you’ve got,’ she finally said.
He regarded her over the rim of his coffee cup. ‘What do you mean?’
‘After all these months and months of backbreaking work, with no tangible results, what reason is there to persist with this enquiry? You must have a reason.’
‘I’ve got thirty-eight reasons.’
‘Thirty-eight possible reasons.’ She sighed. ‘Heck … we have to face the truth. There’s no guarantee these women haven’t gone off on purpose. There are all sorts of explanations why someone might want to disappear. We don’t know what goes on in people’s lives. Look … remember back in the 1980s, there was the case of the Oxford don? He was about to be awarded a professorship and made head of his department. The kids from his first marriage were all grown-up and successful in their own right. He had another kid on the way courtesy of his second wife, who was a lot younger than him and hot as hell. I mean, this guy had everything to live for. Yet, the morning after the award ceremony he vanished. They found his car in a lane off the M40. The keys were still in it. His wallet was still in it. There was even a solid gold watch, engraved, that his family had bought him in honour of the award – it had been left on the dashboard. Aside from that there was no trace. Then, about six years later, he was found – working under a false name on a sheep farm in the Outer Hebrides. And living rough. I mean, this guy slept in a croft with a peat sod roof.’
‘Remind me why he did that.’
‘I don’t know why. Some kind of breakdown. The point is it happens.’
‘Gemma, that was a one-off. We’re talking nearly forty people … ’
‘None of whom you’d class as vulnerable.’
‘Exactly.’ He took another swig of coffee. ‘There are no children on our list, no OAPs, no mental patients. The youngest was eighteen, the eldest forty-nine. More to the point, they’re mostly professional types, organised, able to look after themselves. Like it or not, that’s a pattern. I mean, it’s an unlikely one, but it’s still a pattern. Not only that, all our women vanished during routine activities … while they were doing something they did every day. None were taken while on holiday for example, or on day trips to other parts of the country …’
‘Heck …’
‘If you’re going to abduct someone, and not make a complete bollocks of it, you’ve got to watch them, memorise their patterns of behaviour. I hate using this analogy but, in nature, predators hunt along game trails. Because then they know exactly when the prey animals are coming, and exactly how many or how few of them there’ll be. After that, all they have to do is pick their moment and intercept …’
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Paul Finch
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 18.04.2024
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О книге: Get #HookedonHeck with the first book in the #1 bestselling DS Mark Heckenburg series."All he had to do was name the woman he wanted. It was that easy. They would do all the hard work."Detective Sergeant Mark ′Heck′ Heckenburg is investigating the disappearance of 38 different women. Each one was happy and successful until they vanished without a trace.Desperate to find her missing sister, Lauren Wraxford seeks out Heck’s help. Together they enter a seedy underworld of gangsters and organised crime.But when they hear rumours about the so-called ′Nice Guys Club′ they hit a brick wall. They′re the gang that no one will talk about. Because the Nice Guys can arrange anything you want. Provided you pay the price…Dark, terrifying and unforgettable. Stalkers will keep fans of Stuart MacBride and Katia Lief looking over their shoulder.