He handed Gemma a glossy, which depicted a mass of bystanders held back by police tape. She assessed it. It was common practice to take covert photographs of crime scene onlookers. Astonishing as it seemed to police officers, some perpetrators actually
did
return to see if anyone was appreciating their handiwork.
‘Which face are we looking at?’ she asked.
Heck pointed out a young man in the front row. He was in his early twenties, with neatly combed dark hair. His vacant expression was not wholly visible because he was turning slightly, plus he was wearing a pair of sunglasses. Aside from that, the only noticeable thing about him was his slightly overlarge forehead.
‘I’ve sent copies of this to every local intelligence officer in England and Wales, and it’s a non-starter,’ Heck said. ‘As his features are partly obscured, no facial recognition has been possible thus far. But have a good look at him, and now check this other photo.’ He produced a second glossy, also depicting a crowd, though on this occasion gathered against a row of skeletal trees. ‘This was taken in Aberystwyth last March. Julie-Ann Netherby, a student at the university, was last seen in the basement of her hall of residence, doing her laundry. This picture was taken outside the hall, the following day.’
Gemma scanned the picture and almost immediately spotted someone who might have been the same man. Even less of this second chap’s face was visible – he was standing behind someone else, but aside from having shorter hair and a thin, wispy moustache, he was undoubtedly similar. He even had the same prominent forehead.
‘I suppose it looks like him,’ she said.
‘Agreed, but I know what you’re going to say. It isn’t
definitely
him.’ Heck took the photos back and filed them. ‘I admit this one’s a long shot. At present I’m referring to him as “the Kid”. He’s a suspect, but until we find out who he is – and all enquiries at the uni drew a blank – there isn’t much more we can do on that.’
‘So what’s the other lead?’
Heck dug out three more photographs. ‘Do you remember in one of my previous reports when I mentioned a suspect called Shane Klim?’
Gemma nodded. ‘The sex offender from Birmingham?’
‘Correct. Let me refresh your memory. Last January, a Newcastle estate agent called Kelly Morgan failed to report for work and subsequently wasn’t seen again. What really bothered the other girls in her office was that a couple of times over the previous weeks, she’d said that she thought someone was stalking her. She’d only seen him in daytime, and initially thought he was a jogger. But when she kept on spotting him, in different parts of the city, she became concerned. She said he was heavily built and that he always wore a hood. That in itself proves nothing of course. However, if you recall, a hooded figure was also captured on CCTV passing the front door of Annette Connor’s house in Liverpool. She disappeared a year last April. Here’s the still.’
Gemma checked it out. It was a black and white image-capture, very grainy, clearly taken at night. It showed a bulky man, wearing a dark leather jacket and, underneath that, a hoodie top with the hood pulled up. He was only photographed side-on as he strolled head down along the pavement.
She shrugged. ‘And I’ll say again what I said last time – that could be anyone.’
Heck nodded. ‘Could be. Probably a million men walk past that house every year. But remember Margaret Price, another one who disappeared doing the shopping? She was one of our South London girls, and she’d also confided in a friend that someone had recently alarmed her. She was coming home from work one misty autumn night, when she saw a man jogging past her house. She thought it was strange because he didn’t seem the jogging type – he had a heavy build and was puffing hard. Apparently, he was wearing a hood. And a horror mask.’
Gemma sighed. ‘Not this again …’
‘It’s important, ma’am,’ Heck said. ‘Margaret Price glimpsed his face as he passed, and he was wearing a horror mask. At least that’s what she thought.’
‘And if I recall correctly,’ Gemma said, ‘your contention was that it wasn’t a horror mask? You wondered if it was his actual face. First of all, Heck, we haven’t got a statement from this Margaret Price – so it’s all hearsay. Secondly, it was almost Halloween, so if it
was
a horror mask, there could be a perfectly innocent explanation. Thirdly, we’ve discussed this already …’
‘Suppose that what Margaret Price actually saw was a mass of scar tissue?’ Heck argued. ‘That might explain why he was hooded all the time. Look, it’s partly a hunch, I admit … but Shane Klim would be an excellent fit.’
He’d brought Shane Klim, a repeat rapist from the Midlands, to his superiors’ attention previously, on the basis that while escaping from Rotherwood high security prison on the Fylde Coast four years ago, Klim had been attacked by guard dogs and had had his face very badly bitten (in fact ‘torn to bits’ was how one witness described it). Though Klim killed two of the dogs and got clean away, it was deemed highly likely that his face would be disfigured afterwards. The problem was that Klim had not been seen since, so no one really knew how badly he’d been scarred.
Gemma pondered what little they knew. ‘And you’re absolutely sure there’s no one else in the system with that extent of facial damage?’
‘No one matches that profile at all,’ Heck said.
She assessed the most recent image they had of Klim; a custodial mugshot taken before his escape from Rotherwood. It portrayed a brutish man with wide cheekbones, heavy brows, a broken nose, piggy eyes, a shaven head and jug-handle ears. ‘Do you have any info on his whereabouts yet?’
‘Not yet, but I soon will.’ Heck handed over the third and final picture. ‘Because this is our next new lead. I only came up with it the other day, but I think it’s a goer. Take a look at Ron O’Hoorigan, a habitual house-breaker. He was in Rotherwood prison at the same time, and I’ve now learned that he shared a cell with Klim for nearly two years.’
O’Hoorigan didn’t look quite as mean as Klim, but Gemma knew how looks could be deceptive. He had a lean hatchet-face, with thick, dark sideburns and longish dark hair which hung to his shoulders in a greasy mop.
‘You think he may know something?’ she asked.
‘Cons talk, especially when they’re banged up together twenty-three hours a day.’
‘Heck, you seriously think Klim told O’Hoorigan he was planning to escape?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time that happened.’
‘Even if he did, he’s hardly likely to have told him where he was going afterwards, or what his plans were for the continuation of his criminal career once he’d got out.’
Heck looked frustrated. ‘We won’t know unless we ask O’Hoorigan, will we?’
‘Is O’Hoorigan still inside?’
‘No. He was released eight months ago. As far as we know, he’s now on his home patch in Salford, Manchester.’
‘That’s your old hunting ground, isn’t it?’
‘That was a long time ago,’ Heck said. ‘But I know the area, yeah.’
She handed the photo back, saying nothing.
‘So what do you think?’ he asked. ‘I know there are a few assumptions here, but have we wound things up prematurely, or what?’
‘Come on, Heck, this is a hundred to one.’
‘Yeah, but if I’d given you this lead a few weeks ago, wouldn’t that have changed things?’
‘Not necessarily. Look … at the end of the day it’s about money. There’s nothing here to justify so much further expense.’
‘Have I ever been wrong about stuff like this before?’
‘On other cases, no, but on this one it’s different.’
‘All respect, ma’am, but we can’t say that yet. Look, this one isn’t finished. Not as far as I’m concerned.’
She got up and walked agitatedly around the room. Finally she rounded on him. ‘If I’m going to play ball with you on this, and write your leave down as a front so that you can continue undercover while you follow this new lead, you’re not going to disappoint me, are you?’ She fixed him with so intense a gaze that at first he barely heard her. ‘I mean, you’re not going to let me down, Heck?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Well you’re not leaving me much choice. The other day I said you looked knackered, and I meant it. You still do. You look shot. But I know you, Heck … you’re not going to let this drop under any circs, you’re going to press on regardless, despite it being the most flagrant breach of procedure I’ve ever known. So if you don’t get killed because you’ve got no back-up, you’ll probably end up losing your job. Either way, I’ll finish up without the services of one of my most experienced detectives. And that’s something I can’t afford right now. Not that I appreciate being blackmailed like this.’
‘What about Laycock? He’ll never sign off on it.’
‘Need-to-know basis.’
‘You’re going to go over his head?’ Heck was astonished.
‘There is no over Laycock’s head. Not in NCG. I’ll have to go behind his back.’
‘Yeah, but that won’t last. How’re you going to justify me being in deep cover? I mean, deep cover from whom? Someone else in the job? That’s how he’ll see it.’
‘Leave me to worry about that.’
‘I’m serious, Gemma.’ Heck got to his feet. ‘He’ll have to know about this at some point, and then what’s he going to think?’
‘Just make sure we’ve got a result to show him. Then he won’t have any gripes.’
Heck mulled it over. The stakes were suddenly drastically high. Much higher than he was close to being comfortable with. ‘And no one else is going to know about this?’
She shrugged. ‘If I have to, I’ll let Des know … but aside from him, no one. You report directly to me, okay?’
He nodded.
‘Promptly and regularly,’ she said.
‘And you’ll do the paperwork?’
‘I’ll do the paperwork.’
‘That’s always music to my ears. But you know … I wouldn’t rush to put anything on paper just yet.’
‘You mean in case this goes belly up?’ She stared at him. ‘Don’t let it.’
‘You’ll lose deniability.’
‘We’re not all rule-bending maniacs, Heck. I can’t live that way.’ She grabbed her car keys. ‘Now look … just this one lead, okay? I’m serious. You run this new lead to ground and you do it low key. And after that, zip, kaput, it’s over.’
He nodded, but said nothing.
At the door, she turned and looked at him again. Briefly the domineering force was absent. She seemed concerned, but also a little disappointed. ‘You realise this is more trust than I’ve ever put in anyone, Heck? And the irony is that you’re one of the least trustworthy people I know.’
Leaving him with that thought, she turned and descended the stairs. Heck watched her from the top, until she’d left the building. Then he went back into his flat, closing the door behind him.
When he went into work that morning, Ian Blenkinsop felt as if he’d just got up after a night of heavy drinking. His stomach was hollow, his head throbbing.
On arrival, he was greeted cheerfully, as always, by his secretary Sally, which made him feel positively nauseous. It wasn’t Sally’s fault. She was forty, but very well kept, with a sizeable bosom, slick, chestnut red hair and handsome, feline looks. Many was the time he’d nursed an erection in the lavatories while thinking about her. He’d once had similar designs on Sally to those he’d had on Louise; in fact he’d told himself a couple of times – usually in his cups – that should the ‘thing’ with Louise go okay, he’d generate a plan for Sally. Now the mere thought of that was unbearable to him.
He closed himself into his office, which was not his custom – normally he’d leave the connecting door open between his and Sally’s work areas. Then he walked to the window, which ran floor to ceiling, and opened the blind, admitting the morning sunshine that was breaking through the thin wash of clouds in ethereal shafts.
From this side of the building, the dome of St Paul’s cathedral dominated the skyline. To Blenkinsop’s mind it was still the most majestic structure in London. Born from the ashes of the Great Fire, it had withstood everything the centuries could throw at it: time, the elements and of course Hitler’s aerial onslaught, which had flattened so much of the surrounding city. He realised that he’d taken its magnificence for granted until now. What a dauntless symbol it was: of man’s fearlessness in the face of tragedy, of his devotion to the might and mystery of God – things that Ian Blenkinsop felt hugely distanced from at this moment.
There was a tap on the door and Sally came in with his coffee. She seemed a little subdued. He wondered why. Was it because he’d been abrupt with her on his arrival, or could it be that now he knew he was a brute on the inside, it was starting to show on the outside? That was nonsense, of course. Even Dr Jekyll, when he’d become Mr Hyde, hadn’t manifested as a physical monster.
Jekyll and Hyde.
There’d been times in the past – poring sweat-soaked over some particularly lurid and illegal pornographic imagery, or being driven back to his hotel in downtown Lagos or Sana’a, or wherever it was, in the early hours of the morning – when Blenkinsop would consider himself in these terms. But it was no solace to think that way now. These things – especially the thing he’d engaged in last night – weren’t nearly as romantic as Robert Louis Stevenson’s famous romp. The popular image of Hyde was a wicked but likeable rogue, who flitted among the ladies of the night in a dapper suit, a topper and a cape, winning them over with his wolfish smile, and then abusing them in masterful ways that might, in some cases, leave them begging for more.
Sexy anti-heroes of that nature were rarely to be found in real life. And they weren’t to be found at all in Ian Blenkinsop.
He stared out at the City, at its towers and temples of commerce. Would this wonderful view ever be the same to him? Would he ever again feel part of this frenetic, good-natured hive that he so loved, knowing what he now knew for certain about himself – that he was a beast, an aberration? He tried to remind himself, as he had tried many times since yesterday, that this wasn’t as wholesome a place as it appeared on the surface; that there were numerous individuals walking these streets right now who had dark and deadly desires. But how many of them actually converted those desires into reality? How many were so driven by lust that they could destroy the lives of others at a whim?