‘What about paperwork?’
‘We’ve found no personal documentation.’
‘Come on, Des … the bastard had access to different vehicles, different properties!’
‘All in the names of his men. Same goes for the boat hire.’
‘At least tell me Interpol and Europol are looking into the foreign angle.’
‘As much as they can, but there isn’t much to go on.’
‘How much do they need? Blenkinsop mentioned American colleagues, French, Russian …’
‘But he made no statement to that effect, and now he’s dead.’
‘Shit!’ Heck swore. ‘Silver
knows
! He didn’t just hint at it, he fucking boasted – said there were other Nice Guys operating overseas. Damn it, we should
make
him talk!’
‘And then you’d be just like him,’ Gemma said primly. ‘A sadistic criminal, a torturer, a psychopath. Look Heck, the main thing is he’s going down. If absolutely everything else fails, at least he’s bang to rights for the murder of Lauren Wraxford – we got her blood from under his fingernails and from his clothes. His dabs are all over the murder weapon.’
‘On the subject of Lauren, has anyone been to visit her mother?’ Heck asked.
Gemma nodded. ‘I did.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, subdued. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘So did she, I think. She sent you this letter.’ Gemma handed him a sealed envelope. ‘She wanted to express her gratitude personally.’
‘Her
gratitude
?’
‘For finding out what happened to Genene. And for providing Lauren with a friend when she needed one.’
Heck took the envelope almost gingerly. He didn’t think he could face opening it now. ‘Never been thanked before for getting someone killed.’
‘You didn’t strike the blow, Heck,’ Palliser said.
‘Why do I feel like this then … survivor guilt?’
Palliser was about to respond when a detective constable beckoned him through the glass partition. He excused himself and slipped out, leaving the other two alone.
‘I’m still waiting for my apology, by the way,’ Gemma said, folding her arms. ‘Just in case you were wondering.’
‘I know,’ Heck replied. ‘And I’m sorry.’
‘Heck … I don’t actually mind that you broke almost every law you joined the police to uphold while pursuing these people. But what I do mind – what I absolutely revile – is that you lied to me.’
‘I didn’t lie to you.’
‘You promised to keep me in the loop, and you cut me out at the first opportunity.’
‘I only left you out when I learned they had someone on the inside.’
‘You could at least have told me
that
much.’
‘Would you have believed me?’
‘You want the truth, I’m not sure I believe you now.’
‘Really?’ He laughed. ‘You mean we coppers are too good to become clients of the Nice Guys? How else did they get to McCulkin, our
confidential
informant?’
‘Look, if this guy Eric Ezekial had been shadowing your investigation, he might have seen you setting up meetings with McCulkin about other things.’
‘All respect, ma’am, he still must have been getting inside info. Once the Nice Guys learned I was looking hard at Klim – courtesy of their insider – they sent Deke to sit on O’Hoorigan. Obviously they had O’Hoorigan fingered as a weak link. Klim had told him all about this outfit while they were in Rotherwood together, and they couldn’t trust him not to tell us if he ever got lifted for something. Deke was shadowing O’Hoorigan rather than me, but when I turned up in Salford he had to act quickly. O’Hoorigan had to go and so did I.’
‘Well, as both Deke and O’Hoorigan are dead, we can hardly prove that.’
‘And what about Dana, how did they find out about her unless some bent bastard in our department told them?’
‘Heck, are you seriously saying that one of our lot can afford to lay out seventy-five grand every time he wants a sex-service?’
In a low, wary voice, he replied: ‘Someone at the very top could.’
At first she was baffled as to who he could mean. And then it clicked. ‘Oh no … no, no, no, Heck. No, we’re not even going
there
.’
‘Someone who did everything in his power to close this enquiry down.’
‘Don’t you say it!’
‘Someone who was once in the military himself. Perhaps that’s how he got to know them in the first place?’
‘Heck, I’m warning you …’
‘They used his exact terminology when referring to me!’
‘I’m not listening to this …’
But Heck was now in full flow. ‘Ma’am, you told me that Commander Laycock found out I was still investigating when that detective super from Manchester contacted him the morning after those GMP officers got hurt at the Salford hospital … but that it was a full day before Laycock came to see you about it. Why a full day? So he could pass on everything new to the Nice Guys first? So he could tell them who Lauren was – I don’t see how else Deke could have known she was Genene Wraxford’s sister. How about so that Deke could get to us before you did? … that was the same day we got lured out to Blacksand Tower, remember.’
Gemma regarded him incredulously, as if for a moment his crazy assertions were making a kind of sense to her. Then Palliser came back in, and the spell was broken. ‘Forget it!’ She waved the whole notion away. ‘I’m not listening to any of
that
.’
Heck shrugged. ‘You don’t have to listen to me. Whoever their insider was, his details will be in that filing cabinet in Eric Ezekial’s attic.’
Gemma glanced uncomfortably at Palliser.
Heck noticed this. ‘What?’
‘You haven’t heard about that then?’ Palliser said.
‘Obviously not.’
‘Well …’ Palliser cleared his throat. ‘Owing to the … shall we say
confused
issue of what exactly happened to Mr Ezekial …’
‘I fully explained that,’ Heck said.
‘Yes well, it wasn’t as easy explaining it to a magistrate. However, we finally managed it, and the search-warrant for Ezekial’s premises was issued this morning.’
‘And?’
‘The filing cabinet in the attic is empty.’
Heck rose slowly to his feet. ‘You are joking?’
‘Sit down, Heck,’ Gemma said, ‘before you fall down.’
‘What do you mean it’s empty?’
‘All these files you described, with the names and coded reference numbers. They’ve gone.’
Heck slumped back into his chair. ‘That
proves
there’s some bastard on the inside.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Gemma argued. ‘If there are any more of these Nice Guys knocking around …’
‘Why would they take the risk of going there?’ Heck said. ‘They’re going to prison for life, whatever happens. The only people those files would have implicated are the dozens and dozens of men who used their services. If we wanted to know who their grass was inside this department, his details would’ve been right there. So naturally he’s got there ahead of us, and pinched them.’
Palliser’s doleful expression suggested that he didn’t disagree.
Gemma pondered. ‘Wasn’t there a security camera inside the house?’
‘Yes,’ Palliser said, ‘but Ezekial’s hard drive has also been removed. If the camera was still recording at the time of the burglary, it was uploading onto nothing.’
‘So let’s get this straight,’ Heck put in. ‘Just so we’re absolutely clear on the matter. You’re telling me that the details of maybe a hundred men guilty of rape and murder, currently living in Britain – have disappeared? Right from under our noses?’
Palliser made a helpless gesture.
Heck banged his one good hand down on the desk, though it wasn’t quite that good, and he grimaced in pain.
‘Chill out, Heck,’ Gemma said. ‘This is still a major result.’
‘You know something, you’re right.’ Heck got to his feet and lurched towards the door. ‘I
should
have kept you fully informed … all the way, about every single thing. Then you could have pulled me off the job the first time you got nervous, and we’d have got nowhere near the Nice Guys. So at least now we wouldn’t know what we’d lost.’
‘Heck, wait a minute!’ she said. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, ma’am, but I’m on sick leave until next year.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘You’ve seen my doctor’s note? I’m not skiving, I’m not malingering – I am completely unfit for duty.’
‘So?’
‘So, if you want to talk to me, book your appointment for next January.’
‘Heck, don’t you dare …’
But he’d already left the department and was now out in the corridor, which was where he met Commander Laycock. The commander, looking cool and preened as ever, was clearly surprised to see him.
‘Afternoon, Sir,’ Heck said.
Laycock eyed him up and down. ‘Looks like there wasn’t a beating you didn’t take.’
‘All in a day’s work.’
‘And how’s your sister?’
‘She’s recovering. It’s mainly shock. Could’ve been a lot worse than it was. She wasn’t physically harmed.’
‘That’s a relief.’ Laycock sounded sincere. ‘Look Heck, I’m sorry you ended up going it alone on this.’
‘Shit happens.’
‘You heard that we’ve lost all the evidence from the assassin’s house?’
‘Yeah, well don’t worry. I’ll find something else.’
‘I think you’ve done enough for the time being. You can leave the rest to us.’
‘If only I could, Sir. The problem is there are a lot of men scattered around the UK who are probably thinking that, thanks to the secret dirtball we coppers currently have hiding in our midst, they’re home and dry. Well … they aren’t. And he isn’t either. And I already have strong suspicions about who he is. All I need to do now is prove it.’
‘Well done anyway,’ Laycock said with a bland smile, offering his hand.
Heck took it, and held on to it just a fraction of a second longer than was absolutely necessary. ‘You can trust me on that, Sir,’ he said intently. ‘As long as I’m in this job, someone else in this job is going to need to be looking over his shoulder. Every minute of every day, for the rest of his life.’
Laycock nodded, smiled again and walked away.
He didn’t look back.
Paul Finch is a former cop and journalist, now turned full-time writer. He cut his literary teeth penning episodes of the British TV crime drama,
The Bill
, and has written extensively in the field of children’s animation. However, he is probably best known for his work in thrillers, dark fantasy and horror.
Paul lives in Lancashire, UK, with his wife Cathy and his children, Eleanor and Harry. His website can be found at: www.
paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com
.
The whole of Holbeck should be bombed.
That was Alan Ernshaw’s view. Okay, he was a relatively new police officer – just ten months in the job – so if anyone overheard him make such a politically incorrect statement and complained, he’d have an excuse. But the gaffers still wouldn’t be impressed. Holbeck, the old warehouse district located just south of Leeds city centre, might well consist mainly of buildings that were now empty shells, its Victorian terraced housing might now mostly be derelict, its pubs and shops boarded up, the few parts of it that were inhabited reduced to grotty concrete cul-de-sacs strewn with litter and covered in graffiti, but policemen didn’t take these sorts of things personally anymore. Or at least they weren’t supposed to.
Holbeck should
not
be bombed. That was quite out of
the question. Holbeck should be refurbished, remodelled . .
.
rejuvenated
. Yes, that was it. That was one of the nicey-nicey buzzwords they used these days.
Ernshaw yawned and scratched the dried razor-cut on his otherwise smoothly shaven jaw. He supposed ‘rejuvenation’ sounded okay, even if it was only a euphemism for flattening shithole areas like this and trying to build something better.
Radio static crackled.
‘1762 from Three?’
Ernshaw yawned again. ‘Go ahead.’
‘What are you and Keith doing, over?’
‘Well we’re not sitting down for a turkey dinner, put it that way.’
‘Join the club. Listen, if you’ve nothing else on, can you get over to Kemp’s Mill on Franklyn Road?’
Ernshaw, who was from Harrogate, some fifteen miles to the north, and still didn’t know his way street-for-street around West Yorkshire’s sprawling capital city, glanced to his right where PC Keith Rodwell slouched behind the steering wheel.
Rodwell, a heavy-jowled veteran of twenty years, nodded. ‘ETA … three.’
‘Yeah, three minutes, over,’ Ernshaw said into his radio.
‘Thanks for that.’
‘What’s the job?’
‘It’s a bit of an odd one actually. Anonymous phone call says we’ll find something interesting there.’
Rodwell didn’t comment, just swung the van into a three-point turn.
‘Nothing more?’ Ernshaw asked, puzzled.
‘Like I say, it’s an odd one. Came from a call-box in the city centre. No names, no further details.’
‘Sounds like a ball-acher, but hey, we’ve nothing else to do this Christmas morning.’
‘Much appreciated, over.’
It wasn’t just Christmas morning; it was a snowy Christmas morning. Even Holbeck looked picture-postcard perfect as they cruised along its narrow, silent streets. The rotted facades and rusted hulks of abandoned vehicles lay half-buried under deep, creamy pillows. Spears of ice hung glinting over gaping windows and bashed-in doors. The fresh layer muffling the roads and pavements was pristine, only occasionally marked by the grooves of tyres. There was almost no traffic and even fewer pedestrians, though it wasn’t eight o’clock yet, and at that time on December 25th only fools like Ernshaw and Rodwell were likely to be up and about.
Or so they’d assumed.
‘Something interesting …’ Ernshaw mused. ‘What do you think?’
Rodwell shrugged. He spoke in monosyllables at the best of times, and as he was now deep in thought there wasn’t much chance even of that.