‘He may have no choice. At present, his arse is in a sling.’
They left the station. Whereas Richmond’s sedate streets had been settling down for the night, this part of London – Southwark – was still noisy with traffic, honking horns and belligerent, drunken shouts. They turned left under a brick arch, and followed a narrow side passage.
‘I can’t believe it’ll be that straightforward,’ Lauren said. ‘We’ve hurt him bad, and you know what they say about wounded animals.’
‘Speaking of which …’
The passage now became a tunnel, and led to a tall steel door. A weak bulb illuminated it, showing where blue paint had flaked away, exposing the raw metal beneath. It had the look of a service entrance, as if it had once connected to a warehouse or factory. The bulb over the lintel buzzed and flickered, threatening to plunge them into blackness.
‘What’s this place?’ she asked.
‘A drinking den,’ Heck said. ‘A card school … a knocking shop. Hopefully our lodgings for the night.’
He hammered on the metal with his fist. It reverberated deep inside, as though through vast, empty chambers. There was no immediate response, so he hammered again.
Lauren glanced behind them uneasily: the tunnel dwindled off into shadow; a mouse scurried across it. ‘Who the hell lives in a place like this?’
‘An old acquaintance of mine,’ Heck replied. ‘Someone you thought you were going to have a chat with yourself at one time. His name’s Bobby Ballamara.’
Gemma read carefully through the print-out that Palliser had just pulled off CrimInt.
‘And this is the last thing he asked Paula Clark to do for him?’ she said.
‘Certainly is,’ Palliser replied.
‘Eric Ezekial? Not the sort of name you’d forget easily.’
Palliser’s office was knee-deep in littered paperwork, most of it having been dragged from the various bags that Heck had brought up from Deptford Green. The larger office beyond the open door, where the Serial Crimes Unit’s detectives had their desks, now lay deserted and dark. Gemma and Palliser, both with collars open and sleeves rolled back, were working by the low light of a single desk lamp.
Palliser yawned. A few moments ago he’d had the sudden inspiration to contact Heck’s former secretary and see if he’d confided anything in her before ‘going on leave’. It had paid dividends, though the woman had torn a strip off him in the process.
‘She wasn’t best pleased when I rang her up at this hour,’ he said.
‘She’ll be even less pleased when I ring her up again, in about two hours, to see if there’s anything she can add,’ Gemma replied. Anyone overhearing this casual comment might have assumed she was joking, but Palliser knew ‘the Lioness’ better than that. ‘This number she faxed it to is definitely up in Manchester?’
He nodded.
Once again, Gemma stabbed Heck’s number into her mobile. Once again, there was no response. Sighing, she put the phone away. She laid the print-out on her desk, alongside a similar print-out for Ron O’Hoorigan and a case file photograph of Genene Wraxford; in trying to pinpoint Lauren Wraxford, the girl Heck was in company with, it hadn’t taken them long to spot that one of the missing women shared the same surname. But she wasn’t their main focus at present. ‘This guy Ezekial is obviously the key,’ Gemma said. ‘Lives in Kingston, I see.’
‘Shall we pay him a call?’
‘No.’ She tapped her teeth with a pen. ‘Find out everything you can about him, Des. But don’t approach him. Same goes for the Wraxford family.’
‘May I ask why?’
She paused, before saying: ‘Heck must have a reason for wanting to stay off the radar. Much as it’s infuriating me, I feel I’ve no option but to respect that a little longer.’
By the furrows on his brow, this wasn’t what Palliser had wanted to hear.
‘You disagree?’ she asked.
‘His reason may not be a good one.’
‘You mean it’s because he’s a murderer?’
‘Of course not. More likely he’s continuing the mission AWOL because he doesn’t want any crap to blow back on you.’ Palliser stood up to go out, but loitered in the doorway. ‘That’s hardly encouraging, is it?’
‘More likely it’s because he doesn’t want me to interfere,’ Gemma argued.
‘Probably it’s both … either way, I’m worried he’s out of his depth.’
‘I’m concerned about that too. I still want to find him. But in the meantime …’ and she picked up the Ezekial print-out, ‘we’re sitting on this lead. At least until Paula Clark feels the urge to blab to someone else, at which point we’ll have to come clean.’
‘Laycock will go fucking ballistic.’
She slipped the print-out into her briefcase. ‘Leave me to worry about that.’
‘This is a total fuck-up, ma’am.’ Such comments were a measure of Palliser’s stress. An old-fashioned type, he rarely used foul language in front of female colleagues, especially not his feisty boss. ‘We should have supported Heck in the first place. I don’t mean covertly. I mean openly. If we were going to do this, we should have stood up to Laycock and demanded the case be kept open.’
‘There were no grounds for that.’ Gemma dragged her coat on. ‘So don’t be so bloody ridiculous.’
‘What’s bloody ridiculous is that Heck may be in danger, and we’re just sitting here.’
‘
He’s lucky we’re sitting here, Des!
’
she snapped. ‘I sent him out there with a remit to run down a single lead! And to keep me fully and regularly informed. I also told him to keep things low key. For whatever reason, he has disobeyed those direct and explicit orders. I’ll never trust him again.’
‘You won’t trust him?’ Palliser said, as she pushed past. ‘That’s a good one. Have you stopped to think that if he actually trusted
us
, we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place?’
She whirled around and glared at him. But there was no argument. Palliser was being entirely truthful. If not, he wouldn’t have stood there and boldly returned her gaze.
‘I’ll leave you to turn the lights out,’ she finally said. There was an unusual fluster to her cheek. ‘Remember what I said about Ezekial?’
When the two Greater Manchester Police detectives emerged from the private room attached to the recovery ward, they had a young doctor with them, though it was only the white coat and stethoscope that revealed the doctor’s profession. Aside from that, he wore jeans and an open collar shirt, and thanks to the long hours he’d worked, his jaw was covered in stubble. By contrast, the two detectives were fastidiously neat. The detective superintendent, whose name was Smethurst, was a stone-faced, early middle-aged man with cropped, iron-grey hair and a clipped grey moustache. He wore a shirt and tie under his jacket, none of which were even creased despite the lateness of the hour. His compatriot, Detective Inspector Jarvis, was a woman about ten years his junior. She wore flat shoes, a trouser suit, and carried a shoulder-bag. Her hair, which was mouse-brown, was cut almost as severely as that of her boss.
She beckoned to the two uniformed constables – PCs Hallam and Belshaw – who were waiting on the other side of the passage. They were both young men, not long in the job, still probationers in fact, and they came over smartly; after weeks of checking town centre properties and handing out parking tickets, they were eager to get involved with some ‘real’ policework.
‘So what are the chances of us interviewing him tomorrow?’ Detective Superintendent Smethurst asked, glancing back into the room, where a blanketed shape lay flat on an orthopaedic bed. One of the patient’s arms was attached to a drip, the other to a bank of bleeping monitors.
The doctor shrugged. ‘Give it a try … why not?’
‘So he’ll be fit?’
‘Possibly, but he suffered quite a beating. Apparently he said something to a nurse about one of your lot being responsible …?’
‘That’s one of the things we want to speak to him about. We didn’t manage to get much out of him earlier on. Nothing that made sense, anyway.’
The doctor half-smiled. ‘I’m not sure what you expected, given the state he was in.’
Smethurst remained po-faced. ‘This is a murder enquiry, Doctor. So all I need from you is a straight answer. Will he be fit to be interviewed tomorrow – yes or no?’
The doctor shrugged again. ‘It’s hard to say, but I think it’s worth your while calling around at some point. The sedatives will have worn off by then.’
Apparently pleased to have been as ambiguous as he possibly could without actually obstructing them, the young doctor sauntered away. Smethurst gazed sourly after him, before moving back into the room to look long and hard at the unconscious patient.
DI Jarvis turned to the waiting PCs. ‘What time you two on ’til?’ she asked.
‘Ten officially, boss,’ Belshaw said. ‘But we’ve got overtime ’til three. Nights are taking over then.’
‘No nodding off, eh?’
‘No problem, boss.’
‘I mean it, lads. This bloke may just have come out of surgery, but he played his part in a vicious bar-fight yesterday which was the prelude to one of the nastiest murders I’ve ever seen. So we’re watching him around the clock until he’s fit to be interviewed. We don’t want anyone coming in to have a word with him, and we certainly don’t want him leaving here. You nod off and something happens, you’ll be on the dole this time next week … clear?’
They nodded, still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
‘There’s a coffee machine down there.’ She pointed along the otherwise deserted passage. ‘Sup plenty. I don’t care if you’re pissing for England by morning.’
Again, they nodded.
‘I’ll say it one more time, lads, this bloke could end up being a
crucial
witness. So no one gets in to see him unless it’s one of the nurses or doctors. That’s no visitors, no cleaners … not even any bobbies unless you know for sure who they are. In fact, even if you are sure, you get on the blower and speak to us first. Whatever time it is.’
Detective Superintendent Smethurst reappeared, car keys in hand. He was clearly uncomfortable about leaving the hospital – even more so when he eyed the pair of youngsters who’d be standing on guard in his absence – but he was nearly fifty, and the extra-long shift he’d put in was finally getting the better of him.
‘Sorted?’ he asked Jarvis.
‘Reckon so, Sir.’
He glanced again at the uniforms. ‘If there’s anything suspicious at all …’
‘We’ll call it in, Sir,’ Belshaw said. ‘Guaranteed.’
But once the detectives had left, and despite their genuine enthusiasm, it wasn’t long before the two uniforms were starting to wilt through inactivity. It was now close on twelve, and both constables were surprised at how quickly and effectively the hospital – such a hive of frenetic activity during the day – had closed down on itself. A deep quiet seemed to fill the entire extensive building. Most unnecessary lights had been switched off, and there were minimal signs of life down at the recovery ward admissions desk. Occasionally a member of staff would move back and forth down there, but that was all.
PC Belshaw was the first to start feeling the weight of this tedium. He was seated outside the door to the private room, but was already regretting the measures he’d taken to make himself more comfortable. He’d removed his helmet, and then his anorak, draping the waterproof garment over the back of his chair and slumping against it. As a result, sleep was creeping up on him and he constantly had to shake himself and sit upright again. Hallam was posted inside the room, so there was no possibility of lively conversation – not that there ever was with Hallam anyway.
Eventually, Belshaw got up and tried to walk around. He avoided strolling down to the ward-proper. The night staff would be chatty enough – of the two he’d met, one, a young trainee, Nurse Goldenway, was particularly attractive – but he didn’t want to get too distracted from what he was supposed to be doing here, so he headed in the other direction.
He passed the vending machine, which stood alone with a single light shining down on it, and reached a T-junction. On the right, the passage ran fifty yards to an exit door, which appeared to be firmly closed. On the left, it receded into dimness, and, aside from a single red emergency light, its farthest end lay almost completely invisible. Several darkened doorways opened off this, but there was no sign of movement. Belshaw was about to head back to his post, when he heard a sound – only brief, like a
click
or
snap
. He held his position, listening. He hadn’t been here long enough to apprise himself of the hospital’s layout; he didn’t know whether anyone was supposed to be down that left-hand passage or not, but the absence of working lights suggested that nothing official was going on.
He advanced slowly, still listening, passing a door on his left, which stood open but revealed nothing except a small bathroom with a toilet and washbasin. Then he heard the sound again, another distinct
click
, followed by a further two in rapid succession. After that there was more silence.
The sounds had appeared to emit from the open door now approaching on Belshaw’s right. He moved towards it and glanced through. The room beyond, which was about thirty yards by twenty, stood in deep gloom; most of its corners were hidden in shadow, but its central area was tiger-striped by frosty moonlight filtering through the partly open Venetian blind on a central window. It looked like a treatment area, but was not currently being used: two rows of three empty beds, distinguishable only in vague outline, faced each other from opposing walls.
Belshaw was about to turn and leave, when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He spun around: at the farthest end of the room, another door stood open. This appeared to connect with a small annexe bedroom – his eyes were now attuning to the dimness, and he could just make out the foot of another empty bed in there. As he peered at it, there was more movement: a shadow flickered on the annexe bedroom’s wall.
‘Hello?’ he said, unsure why he was speaking quietly – he was so new to his status as police officer that he hadn’t fully acclimatised to it yet; it still didn’t come naturally to him to emanate authority. Cursing himself as a rookie, he spoke more loudly. ‘Is somebody in there? Because I don’t think you’re supposed to be.’