Dead Man Walking (52 page)

‘We can’t
not
act on what he’s told us,’ Grinton said.

‘I agree, sir. But while you’re off to Matlock, I’m going to chase a few leads of my own. If that’s okay?’

‘No problem … just make sure you log them all.’

While Grinton arranged for a couple of his plain-clothes officers to maintain covert obs on Lakeside View, the rest of them returned to their vehicles and mounted up for a rapid ride over to the next county. Strickland was back on the blower again, putting Derbyshire Comms in the picture as he jumped into his car. Heck remained on the pavement while he too made a quick call – in his case it was to the DIU at St Ann’s Central. As intelligence offices went, this one was pretty efficient. It was regularly utilised by the East Midlands Special Operations Unit, so its functionaries tended to know what they were doing.

‘Heck?’ came the hearty voice of PC Marge Propper, a chunky uniformed lass, whose fast, accurate research capabilities had already proved invaluable to the Lady Killer Taskforce.

‘Marge … am I right in thinking that, apart from Alan Devlin, Jimmy Hood has no other known associates in the inner Nottingham area?’

‘Correct.’

‘Okay … I want to try something different. Can you contact Roundhall Prison in Coventry? Find out who’s been visiting Hood this last year and a half. Any regular names that haven’t already cropped up in this enquiry, I’d like to know about them.’

‘Wilco, Heck … might take a few minutes to get a response at this hour.’

‘No worries. Call me back when you can.’

He paused before climbing into his Peugeot. The other mobile units had driven away, leaving a dull, dead silence in their wake. The surrounding buildings were little more than blurred, angular outlines, broken by the odd faint square of window-light, most of which leached into the gloom without making any impression. The passage leading towards Lakeside View was a black rectangle, which bade no one re-enter it.

Heck climbed into his car and switched the engine on.

It was impossible to say whether or not they were on the right track, but it
felt
right. He still didn’t trust Alan Devlin, but the guy’s partial admissions had revealed that Jimmy Hood had been in this district as well as Hucknall – which put Hood close to all the identified murder scenes and in roughly the right time-frame. Of course, with the knowledge of hindsight, it was all so predictable and sordid. As Heck drove out of the cul-de-sac, it struck him that this decayed environment, with its broken glass and graffiti-covered maze of soulless brick alleys, seemed painfully familiar. So many of his cases had brought him to blighted places like this.

His phone rang and he slammed it to his ear. ‘Talk to me.’

‘We could have something here, Heck,’ Marge Propper said. ‘In his last three years at Roundhall, Jimmy Hood was visited nine times by a certain Sian Collier.’

‘That name doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘No … she hasn’t been on our radar up to now, though she’s got minor form for possession and shoplifting. She’s white, thirty-two years old and a local by birth. Her last conviction was over five years ago, so she may have cleaned up her act.’

‘Apart from the bit where she gets mixed up with sex killers?’

‘Yeah …’

Heck fiddled with his sat-nav. ‘Where does she live?’

‘Mountjoy Height, number eighteen … that’s in Bulwell.’

‘I know it.’

‘Heck … if you’re going over there, you might want to speak to Division first. It’s a lively place.’

‘Thanks for the warning, Marge. But I’m only spying out the land. Anyway, I’ve got my radio.’

The murkiness of the winter night was now to aid Heck – mainly because it meant the roads were empty of traffic, but also because, once he arrived in Bulwell, he was able to cruise its foggy, rundown streets without attracting attention.

When he finally located Mountjoy Height, it was a row of pebble-dashed two-storey maisonettes on raised ground overlooking yet another labyrinthine housing estate. First, he made a drive-by at the front, seeing patches of muddy grass serving as communal front gardens, with wheelie-bins dotted across them and litter strewn haphazardly. There were only a couple of other vehicles present, but lights were on in most of the maisonette windows. After that, he explored at the rear, working his way down into a lower, winding alley, which ran past several garages. Some of these stood open, some closed. The garage to number eighteen didn’t have a door attached, but was of particular interest because a large, good-looking motorcycle was parked inside it.

Heck glided to a halt and turned his engine off.

He climbed out, listening carefully; somewhere close by voices bickered. They were muffled and indistinct, but it sounded like a couple of adults; he wasn’t initially sure where it was coming from – possibly number eighteen itself, which towered behind the garage in the gloom and was accessible by a narrow flight of steps running upward.

He assessed the motorbike through the entrance, and despite the darkness was able to identify it as a new model Suzuki GSX, an expensive make for this neck of the woods.

‘DS Heckenburg to Charlie Six,’ he said into his radio. ‘PNC check, please?’

‘DS Heckenburg?’
came the crackly response.

‘Anything on a black Suzuki GSX motorcycle, index Juliet-Zulu-seven-three-Bravo-Foxtrot-Alpha, over?’

‘Stand by.’

Heck moved to the side of the garage and glanced up the steps. The monolithic structure overhead was wreathed in vapour, but lights still burned inside it, and the argument raged on; in fact it sounded as if it had intensified. Glass shattered, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing – it might grant him the right to force entry.

‘DS Heckenburg from PNC?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Black Suzuki GSX motorcycle, index Juliet-Zulu-seven-three-Bravo-Foxtrot-Alpha, reported stolen from Hucknall late last night, over.’

‘Received, thanks for that. What were the circumstances of the theft, over?’

‘Fairly serious, sarge. It’s being treated as robbery. A motorcycle courier got a bottle broken over his head outside a fish and chip shop, and then had his helmet stolen as well as his ride. He’s currently in IC. No description of the offender as yet.’

Heck pondered. This sounded more like Jimmy Hood by the minute. On the basis that he was now looking to make an arrest for a serious offence, Heck had the power to enter the garage – which he duly did, finding masses of junk littered in its oily shadows: boxes crammed with bric-a-brac; broken, dirty household appliances; even a pile of chains, several of which were wrapped around an upright steel girder supporting the garage roof.

‘DS Heckenburg … are you saying you’ve found this vehicle, over?’

‘That’s affirmative,’ Heck replied, pulling his gloves on as he mooched around. ‘In an open garage at the rear of eighteen, Mountjoy Height, Bulwell. The suspect, who I believe to be inside the address, is Jimmy Hood. White male, early thirties, six foot three inches and built like a brick shithouse. Hood, who has form for extreme violence, is also a suspect in the Lady Killer murders. So I need back-up ASAP. Silent approach, over.’

‘Received sarge … support units en route. ETA five.’

Heck shoved his radio back into his jacket and worked his way through the garage to a rear door, which swung open at his touch. He followed a paved side-path along the base of a steep, muddy slope, eventually joining with the flight of steps leading up to the maisonette. When he ascended, he did so warily. Realistically, all he needed to do now was wait until the cavalry arrived – but then something else happened.

And it was a game-changer.

The shouting and screaming indoors had risen towards a crescendo. Household items exploded as they were flung around. This was just about tolerable, given that it probably wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in this neighbourhood. Heck reasoned that he could still wait it out – until he got close to the rear of the building, and heard a baby crying.

Not just crying.

Howling.

Hysterical with pain or fear.

‘DS Heckenburg to Charlie Six, urgent message!’ He dashed up the remaining steps, and took an entry around to the front of the maisonette. ‘Please expedite that support … I can hear violence inside the property and a child in distress, over!’

He halted under the stoop. Light shafted through the frosted panel in the front door, yet little was visible on the other side – except for brief flurries of indistinct movement. Angry shouts still echoed from within.

Heck zipped his jacket and knocked loudly. ‘Police officer! Can you open up please?’

There was instantaneous silence – apart from the baby, whose sobbing had diminished to a low and feeble keening.

Heck knocked again. ‘This is the police … I need you to open up!’ He glimpsed further hurried motion behind the distorted glass.

When he next struck the door, he led with his shoulder.

It required three heavy buffets to crash the woodwork inward, splinters flying, bolts and hinges catapulting loose. As the door fell in front of him, Heck saw a narrow, wreckage-strewn corridor leading into a small kitchen, where a tall male in a duffle-coat was in the process of exiting the property via a back door. Heck charged down the corridor. As he did, a woman emerged from a side-room, bruised and tear-stained, hair disorderly, mascara streaking her cheeks. She wore a ragged orange dressing-gown and clutched a baby to her breast, its face a livid, blotchy red.

‘What do you want?’ she screeched, blocking Heck’s passage. ‘You can’t barge in here!’

Heck stepped around her. ‘Out the way please, miss!’

‘But he’s not done nothing!’ She grabbed Heck’s collar, her sharp fingernails raking the skin on his neck.
‘Can’t you bastards stop harassing him!’

Heck had to pull hard to extricate himself. ‘Hasn’t he just beaten you up?’

‘That’s coz I didn’t want him to leave …’

‘He’s a bloody nutter, love!’

‘It’s nothing … I don’t mind it.’

‘Others do!’ Heck yanked himself free – to renewed wailing from the woman and child – and continued into the kitchen and then out through the back door, emerging onto a toy-strewn patio just as a burly outline loped down the steps towards the garage. The guy had something in his hand, which Heck at first took for a bag; then he realised that it was a motorbike helmet. ‘Jimmy Hood!’ he shouted, scrambling down. ‘Police officer … stay where you are!’

Hood’s response was to leap the remaining three or four steps, pulling the helmet on and battering his way through the garage’s rear door. Heck jumped as well, sliding and tumbling on the earthen slope, but reaching the doorway only seconds behind his quarry. He shouldered it open, to find Hood seated on the Suzuki, kicking it to life. Its glaring headlight sprang across the alley. The roars of its engine filled the gutted structure.

‘Don’t be a bloody fool!’ Heck cried.

Hood glanced around – just long enough to flip Heck the finger. And then hit the gas, the Suzuki bucking forward, almost pulling a wheelie it accelerated with such speed.

But the fugitive only made it ten yards, at which point, with a terrific
BANG!
, the bike’s rear wheel was jerked backwards beneath him. He somersaulted over the handlebars, slamming upside down against another garage door, before flopping onto the cobblestones, where he lay twisted and groaning. The bike came to rest a few yards away, chugging loudly, smoke pouring from its shattered exhaust.

‘Bit remiss of you, Jimmy,’ Heck said, emerging into the alley, toeing at the length of chain still pulled taut between the buckled rear wheel and the upright girder inside. ‘Not checking that something hadn’t got mysteriously wrapped around your rear axle.’

Flickering blue lights now appeared as local patrol cars turned into view at either end of the alley, slowly wending their way forward. Hood managed to roll over onto his back, but could do nothing except lie there, glaring with glassy, soulless eyes through the aperture where his visor had been smashed away.

Heck dug handcuffs from his back pocket and suspended them in full view. ‘Either way, pal, you don’t have to say anything. But it may harm your defence …’

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“All he had to do was name the woman he wanted. It was that easy. They would do all the hard work.”