‘Christ, you seen this? “Believed active as a syndicate enforcer.” What the hell is he doing walking the streets?’
Heck drove out onto the road. ‘That suspicion’s probably based on intel supplied by an informant. If he’s not wanted for anything in particular, there’s nothing we can lift him for.’
‘Whatever he’s doing, it must pay. “Last known address – six, Redbrook Close, Kingston upon Thames”.’
‘You don’t get that kind of bread standing on pub doors in a monkey suit.’
‘I wonder what he’s been doing up in Manchester?’
‘I aim to ask him.’
She glanced around.
‘Solves a problem, actually,’ Heck said. ‘I wasn’t sure whereabouts in London we were going to crash tonight. I am now – Kingston.’
It was late afternoon, and another balmy August evening was in the offing.
Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper was seated in a corner of The Barrow Boy, a narrow brick building tucked away in a nook just off Tothill Street, yet famous the city over for its cosy, wood-panelled interior and diverse range of real ales. She sipped at a glass of wine and, for the sixth or seventh time since leaving the office, tried to place a call to Heck – only to get no response. Frustrated, she laid her phone back on the table. She’d ordered a ham salad sandwich for her tea, but it hadn’t yet been delivered. When a shadow fell across her, she glanced up, thinking it was the waiter.
It wasn’t. It was DI Des Palliser. He threw his coat over the back of a chair, but remained standing, giving her an unconvincing smile.
‘Greater Manchester CID have been in touch,’ he said. ‘They’re a bit confused – as am I, I must admit. They want to know if Mark Heckenburg’s apparent involvement in a mutilation-murder on their patch this morning should be registered as a blue-on-blue, or whether they ought to consider him a suspect?’
Gemma was vaguely aware of her jaw dropping. ‘
What?
’
‘Just that. Mind if I go and get a drink?’
When Palliser returned, pint of beer in hand, his boss was still in a state of acute shock. He sat across the table from her, lips pursed as he awaited a coherent response.
‘Who’s he supposed to have murdered?’ she finally asked.
‘A local burglar.’ Palliser filched some notes from his inside pocket. ‘Seems he hung the bastard upside down, slit his belly open and left him to bleed out.’
‘And what’ve they got on him?’
‘Well … a lot.’ Palliser re-read his notes. ‘Thanks to Heck’s VRM being caught on numerous security cameras and his prints getting left on a broken bottle, he’s now been positively identified as someone who went yesterday to the victim’s home address, asked questions about his where-abouts, and finally tracked him to a nearby squat, where the aggrieved party was later found hanged and gutted in what might be, quote, “a ritual homicide”.’
‘The AP … he wasn’t by any chance a certain Ron O’Hoorigan?’
Palliser arched a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘You know about this?’
Gemma shook her head with slow-building fury. ‘I’m going to kill him. I’m going to bloody well kill him.’
‘Well it can’t be Heck, can it? I mean Heck’s a pro. If he’d gone to Manchester to top someone, would you expect him to leave a trail of clues as obvious as this?’
‘I wouldn’t expect him to top someone in the first place!’ she hissed.
‘Also …’ Palliser checked his notes again. ‘Do we know a girl called Lauren Wraxford?’
‘Not as I’m aware. Why?’
‘Because a vehicle she rented in Leeds, which is now overdue to be returned, is currently lying wrecked on some wasteland just outside Manchester.’
‘And what’s that got to do with this?’
‘Good question. Seems she’s an ex-squaddie. She’s got minor form as a juvenile, but she’s been clean for a while. However, she was with Heck yesterday when they got involved in a bar room brawl that left four men seriously injured.’
Gemma closed her eyes and squeezed the bridge of her nose, before taking a long sip of wine. ‘What the bleeding hell is he playing at?’
‘By the looks of it, he’s still following his last case.’
‘What’ve you told Manchester?’
‘What else? I’ve told them he’s involved in undercover work for us.’ Palliser stared at Gemma accusingly, clearly piqued that she hadn’t trusted him enough to keep him in the loop. ‘I’m guessing that’s the truth. I’ve also said that we’ll bring him in as soon as possible so that we can hear his side of the story.’
‘Are they alright with that?’
‘Not really. And I don’t suppose we can blame them. I mean, they’ve got a bloke on a slab who spent his last few minutes watching his breakfast drain through his own gizzards.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Gemma shoved a hand through her blonde curls, which suddenly looked wilder and more unruly than usual.
‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’ Palliser said.
She sighed long and hard, before admitting: ‘Heck had a couple of new leads, which he desperately wanted to follow.’
‘Good ones?’
‘Circumstantial mainly.’
‘So why’d you give him the nod?’
‘Because I’m weak.’ She banged the table. ‘And bloody stupid.’
‘Laycock’s going to love you for this.’
‘He doesn’t need to know.’
‘He’ll find out at some point.’
‘Let him.’
‘He specifically wanted this investigation shutting down.’
‘I’ve run this department successfully for four years, Des. I don’t need Laycock’s approval for everything.’
‘Yes, but if he didn’t have much ammunition before …’ and Palliser laid his notes on the table, ‘he does now.’
‘Why don’t you just drink your beer, and let me think this through?’ She drained her wineglass. When her sandwich was placed in front of her, she barely acknowledged it.
Palliser rubbed his beard. ‘Possibly a silly question, but have you been in touch with Heck by mobile … just to keep a check on what he’s up to?’
‘I’ve tried half a dozen times, but it’s been switched off. That said, he’s only been gone two days. I didn’t expect World War Three to have broken out.’
‘Whatever’s going on, he must realise his job’s on the line.’
‘His
job
?’ Gemma looked amazed. ‘Des, the only reason I’m not putting an all-points on Heck right now is because I don’t
want
to believe he’s responsible for this. Laycock will have no such qualms. I’m not worried he’ll sack the bloody fool, I’m worried he’ll charge him with murder.’
They abandoned Heck’s Fiat in a multistorey car park in Cockfosters. It was on one of the upper floors, but there was a dank, cavern-like atmosphere, water dripping from the huge arches. At this time of day there were few other vehicles. The dimness of early evening spread between the concrete stanchions.
Before leaving, they again checked the address they had on the print-out.
‘Kingston’s a good hour from here,’ Lauren commented. ‘Even by tube.’
‘Well we’re not going to force entry by daylight, are we?’ Heck said.
‘We’re going to force entry?’
‘Unless you want to knock on the front door?’
‘Suppose there’s someone in?’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll play it by ear.’
They set off down the ramp to the main road.
‘What happened to the scrupulous copper I first joined forces with?’ Lauren asked. ‘The one who didn’t even want me with him because it was against the rules.’
‘He doesn’t want to get hung up by his feet and have his belly ripped open.’ Heck shrugged as if this was all in a day’s work, though he didn’t look happy. ‘It’s needs must, okay? I don’t like it any more than you, but at present we’re flying blind.’
From Cockfosters, they caught a train to Finsbury Park, changed to the Victoria Line, and alighted again at Warren Street, from where they crossed the West End on foot. Heck had decided that, if they went the whole distance by train, it would be easier for their progress to be tracked by station security footage. At Sloane Square, they boarded a westbound Circle Line train, changed to the District Line at Gloucester Road, got off again at Putney Bridge, and proceeded on foot, stopping once at a DIY store to purchase a roll of silver duct-tape.
It was close on eight o’clock when they finally reached Kingston upon Thames.
From Lauren’s perspective, this was the first salubrious neighbourhood the enquiry had brought them to. It was a mix of the old and new, handsome Tudor buildings fronting onto the river, alongside restaurants, chic bars and luxury apartment blocks – which was pretty ironic given that both she and Heck were extremely nervous about what they had to do here. They knew from personal experience that Eric Ezekial would be no pushover. Okay, there was no guarantee he’d be here – it seemed unlikely he could have got down to London ahead of them in this short time. But suppose he didn’t live alone; what if he had a family, what if there were business associates on his premises?
When they found six, Redbrook Close, it was a whitewashed terrace cottage, located in a small, quiet mews. There were no lights inside, but there were in the neighbouring cottages and in the cottages opposite, which meant that a frontal approach was out of the question. As they ventured around to the back, Lauren felt increasingly uneasy about Heck’s scheme.
‘You sure this is a good idea?’
‘When someone’s after me, Lauren, I like to turn the tables at the first opportunity.’
‘But suppose we’ve got it wrong?’
He shook his head. ‘If we’ve got it wrong about this being connected to the case, we’ve not got it wrong about Ezekial.’
‘Yeah, but even though we’re wanted for murder, your colleagues won’t just ignore what you tell them. You can give them enough for them to get a warrant and turn this guy’s place over legally. It could blow this thing wide open.’
For the hundredth time, Heck wondered about this. The problem was that he had nothing concrete or conclusive. Even though it was only a hunch that Shane Klim was the scar-faced man who’d stalked some of the women who were later abducted, it was hard fact that beforehand he’d been banged up for two years with Ron O’Hoorigan – ample time for him to discuss any future plans he might have. In fact, it would have been unusual if he hadn’t. But taken as a whole, it still looked a little weak. The fact that O’Hoorigan had since been murdered did not prove anything either – it could be completely unrelated to Heck’s investigation. And Commander Laycock would not be understanding about that; quite the opposite.
‘Perhaps too wide open,’ Heck said. ‘Let’s see what
we
can find first.’
At the rear of the cottage, a long narrow alley meandered away between hedged gardens. Night had now fallen properly, and a single lamppost was visible at the far end.
‘I’m just bothered that this business might be distracting us from finding Genene,’ Lauren said.
‘Has it occurred to you that Ezekial might be the guy who abducted her?’
She looked startled. ‘But you said Shane Klim …?’
‘Maybe they’re in it together. It would certainly explain why Ezekial did what he did to O’Hoorigan – to shut him up perhaps? Klim may be inside this building right now.’
She glanced over the hedge at the cottage’s darkened rear. ‘That’s a lot of maybes.’
‘For the time being, maybes are all we’ve got.’
They overcame the hedge easily enough. Heck gave Lauren a leg up and she was nimble enough to do the rest herself, jumping down the other side and opening the gate quietly. He slipped in and they closed it again. As their eyes attuned, they found themselves at the bottom end of a long lawn with immaculate flower beds down either side. They stole forward, passing en route a sun lounger next to a low, wrought-iron table on which there was a pile of newspapers and an empty cocktail beaker with a paper umbrella hanging out of it.
‘He’s been enjoying the summer,’ Lauren murmured.
‘Good. He’ll have a long, cold winter in Parkhurst to look forward to soon.’
The cottage was about twenty yards in front, and still there were no lights inside. They halted. ‘I’d be expecting motion-sensitive bulbs to come on any time now,’ Lauren said.
Heck glanced up at the cottage eaves, and at the eaves of the cottage next door. The diminutive shapes of pipistrelles flitted back and forth.
‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘There’s a bat colony there, look. The lights would be coming on and off all night.’
Reassured, they moved forward onto a crazy-paved patio. A French window stood directly in front of them, with the curtain behind it drawn. Alongside there was a recess, and inside that a rural-style door: oak planks painted white with bands of black ironwork.
‘I can’t see any alarm?’ Lauren said.
‘There may not be one.’
‘Oh, come on …’
‘Just think about it. If this place gets broken into while he’s away, does he really want police activity here? There could be all sorts of incriminating stuff.’
‘You’re telling me a property like this isn’t alarmed?’
‘Not in the conventional sense, as in an alarm that makes a loud noise. More likely, it’ll have one of those high-tech systems that sends him a text, so that
he’s
alerted but no one else is.’
‘That still isn’t good news for us.’
‘Not if he’s nearby and can get back quick. But if he isn’t, we’ve nothing to worry about.’
Lauren shook her head; she still wasn’t convinced. ‘Suppose there’s someone living here? A girlfriend?’
Heck glanced at his watch. ‘It isn’t nine o’clock yet and all the lights are off. It’s a fair guess there’s no one at home.’
‘It’s risky.’
‘Risks are sometimes necessary.’
They crept past the door recess to a small wash-house window. It was double-glazed, its frame made of PVC.
‘Breaking one of these will disturb the entire neighbourhood,’ Lauren said.
‘Yeah, but
that
won’t.’ Heck pointed to the floor above, where there was a smaller window with a panel of frosted glass. ‘That’s a bathroom or toilet. It’s our best bet.’
It was far out of reach, though a horizontal stretch of iron guttering was located about three feet underneath it. They might conceivably be able to reach that. ‘Okay.’ She still sounded unhappy. ‘How do we do it?’