Stalkers (35 page)

She shrugged, closed her boot. ‘What can I say? Heck’s a maverick. This incident could be connected to any one of a number of cases that he’s investigated over the years.’

‘He’s been fitted up, you mean?’

‘Or it’s some kind of misunderstanding.’ She moved round to the driver’s door, but Laycock followed and put a hand on it, stopping her from climbing in.

‘Gemma, I’d really hate to think Heck was still working on this missing women case.’ They regarded each other steadily. ‘He is, isn’t he?’

‘He had some new information. I authorised him to check it out.’

‘Why wasn’t I informed?’

‘I didn’t want to bother you with it. Truth is, it was next to nothing.’

‘Next to nothing? Look where it’s led him to.’

‘Sir, I don’t believe for one minute that Heck is a murderer. Particularly not a sadistic murderer, which is what GMP seem to be dealing with.’

‘Either way, he needs to come in and explain himself. The fact that he hasn’t is something of an indictment.’

She reached into the vehicle and placed her briefcase in the footwell of the front passenger seat. ‘I’m not reading anything into it until I speak to him myself, and get the full facts.’

‘Very honourable of you,’ Laycock sneered. ‘In the meantime, a police officer suspected of murder is on the run, and the department he works for is doing the minimum it can to apprehend him. According to GMP it’s actually worse than that. According to GMP, you’ve not only been unhelpful, you’ve been downright obstructive.’

‘Their failure to close a case is not our responsibility.’

‘Damn it, Gemma!’ Laycock’s voice echoed through the vast reaches of the car park. There was a hint of scarlet in his cheeks. He wasn’t acting anymore – he was furious. ‘Have you any idea how this will look when it hits the headlines?’

She remained calm. ‘Heck’s wanted for questioning – nothing more. There’s no reason why it should hit the headlines.’

‘You and him used to have a thing going, didn’t you?’

He leaned uncomfortably close, so close that she could smell his cologne. He’d moved the hand that had been resting on the open door so that it was now resting on her arm. His grip was tight.

‘That was over ten years ago,’ she said. ‘We were both junior detectives at the time. In any case, I don’t see how it’s relevant.’

‘You want to know what I think, Gemma? I think you still harbour feelings for Heck.’ She laughed, but he wasn’t put off. ‘I can’t think of any other reason why you’d tolerate his ridiculous antics.’

‘He’s a highly productive officer.’

‘He’s a headcase, and you know it. Or maybe you don’t know it. Maybe your feelings for him have clouded your judgment.’

‘Will that be all, Sir?’ She yanked her arm free.

‘No it won’t.’ Still he wouldn’t release the door. ‘I can read you, Gemma. Too well. You’ve done great things during your service, you’ve got commendations coming out of your ears, you
look
fantastic. You’re PR gold for the modern police. But there’s a downside to that. It means you’ve never had to bite and scratch for things, you’ve never developed the fighting skills or the political know-how. This rough, tough relationship you have with Heck – it may amaze and amuse those who don’t know you. But I haven’t bought it once. Not once.’

She appraised him coolly. ‘It’s what I suspected, Sir … you definitely
do
have too much time on your hands up there in that palatial office of yours.’

‘Ahhh, the cat shows her claws. Hit a nerve, have I?’

‘This is such crap.’

She made to climb into the car, but he grabbed her by the shoulder.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s a mountain of crap, and it’s getting worse by the minute. But I’m not going to let it bury the National Crime Group. Too many men and women in this organisation have worked too hard to let some fucking wayward lunatic sink us all now. Heck’s gone. That’s it, it’s over for him. And I can’t say I’m sorry. But I have to tell you, Gemma, it might be over for some others as well. If you know where he’s hiding, or if he’s passed any information to you about this murder GMP are investigating, and you’ve withheld it, you are seriously in for the high jump.’

Carefully, with exaggerated distaste, she extricated his fingers from the material of her coat. ‘Sir, your cool dude theatrics may intimidate the sort of craven yes-men you normally like to have around you. But don’t make the mistake of thinking they frighten me. If you’ve an accusation to make, or if you want to launch a disciplinary procedure against me, by all means go ahead. But until then don’t bore me with your schoolyard threats.’ Now she leaned towards
him
. ‘And don’t even think about putting your hand on me again, under any circumstances whatever. Because if you do, I’ll have you up in front of a tribunal so fast it’ll make you faint. This is the positively discriminating twenty-first century, remember. Fast-track promotion for women is a hot ticket in the service these days. That means that, sooner or later, I’ll outrank you – and then, whether you’ve done anything wrong or not, it’ll be
your
turn for the high jump.’

Two minutes later, as she drove out of the car park, leaving Laycock fuming behind her, she grabbed a phone from her handbag and stabbed in a number.

‘Yeah, Des … anything regarding Heck? Anything at all? Damn it! I don’t care what it takes, Des, find him! And when you do, tell him I’m going to carpet my office with his bloody hide!’

It was a long haul across the estuary, two hours at least, during which time the motor threatened to give out on three occasions. At length the boat beached itself in silt and mud, and Heck and Lauren had to plough knee-deep for another hundred yards before they found firmer ground. The massive petrochemical complex lowered over them, a futuristic city of pipes and tanks, its numerous flame-jets turning the night sky a vivid molten-red. They clambered through piles of rocks and rubble, and scaled a wire-mesh fence before entering its outer compound.

There were numerous car parks here, but Heck had come inshore in the straightest line possible from Blacksand Tower, hoping that Deke had done the same thing on his way out. It proved a sensible ploy – the only vehicle on this first lot was a black Volvo XC60. They ventured towards it, glancing around. There was no sign of any staff.

‘If the alarm goes, leg it,’ Heck said, producing Deke’s car key.

He pressed the fob button. No alarm went. The XC60’s headlights flashed once and its door locks thudded open.

Relieved, they climbed inside. The car was brand new and state of the art, its lush, walnut-panelled interior fragrant of leather and crushed velvet.

‘The murder business pays well,’ Heck said, thinking about his old Fiat with its dented bodywork and broken air-conditioning.

He switched the engine on and put the car in gear. The radio hummed to life: the station was tuned to low-key jazz. They headed cautiously up the exit road.

‘Think there’ll be a checkpoint?’ Lauren asked.

‘Wouldn’t have thought so. Otherwise, how did he get in here in the first place? This is probably just a visitors’ car park.’

He was correct. The barrier lifted automatically as they approached it, and soon they were on the A13, driving fast towards the capital. It was another hour and a half’s worth of journey, and midnight had been and gone when they entered the main conurbation. They crossed under the river through the Blackwall Tunnel, and worked their way across South London, finally entering Kingston upon Thames at one-thirty in the morning. Heck pulled up at the front of Deke’s house. Lauren, who’d been half asleep, opened her eyes, yawned – and then jerked upright.

‘This is a bit risky, isn’t it?’

‘We’ve got to try and keep things normal,’ he said. ‘We dump his motor somewhere else, sooner or later it’ll be made for a knocker and an investigation will start. We leave it outside his house, it could be sitting here for months before anyone gets suspicious.’

He switched the engine off and brandished the house keys. ‘For the same reason, there’ll be no more breaking and entering. This time we go through the front door.’

She nodded. It made sense, but it was nerve-racking.

Once inside the house, they closed the door firmly and switched a few lamps on. As before, the security camera tracked their progress. Heck took out Deke’s mobile and switched it on. As he’d suspected, an alert text had already arrived.

‘What do we do about that camera?’ Lauren asked.

‘It doesn’t matter now. We’ve entered these premises because we’re concerned for the safety of the missing women. I’ve got full power under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. That said, I don’t want to get filmed making free with the owner’s food and drink.’ He took a cover from one of the cushions and tossed it over the camera lens.

‘We’re going to help ourselves?’ she said.

‘Only to the essentials. I reckon it’s the least he owes us, don’t you? That, and a bath.’

Lauren glanced in a mirror. They looked like two corpses dug from a graveyard: damp, ragged, their clothes filthy with mud and oil, their faces battered and streaked with blood.

‘We’ll get some kip too,’ Heck added. ‘We need it.’ He set the alarm on his watch for five o’clock. ‘Should still give us time to search this place top to bottom.’

While Lauren went upstairs to the bathroom, he entered the kitchen, checking in the fridge and bread bin. There was sufficient in there to make some sandwiches, which he duly did. There were also several cans of chilled beer. He took it all upstairs to the sleeping area. The door to the bathroom was open. Beyond it, Lauren stood under the shower. Heck placed the tray on a sideboard, and opened a wardrobe. Inside, in addition to an array of designer sports gear and army-surplus wear, there was a wealth of expensive clothing. He selected a few items that he thought might fit him. When Lauren appeared, wrapped in a towel, Heck took his own shower, luxuriating in the hot spray, flexing every aching joint, every strained muscle. When he came out, Lauren had put on one of the tracksuits from the wardrobe; it was black with a white trim, and elasticated at the cuffs and waist so, although it was too big for her, she was able to wear it in reasonable comfort.

‘Another four stone and it’d fit you like a glove,’ he said.

She nodded and smiled, and tried to slide something out of sight – but she missed her sagging pocket and it fell onto the floor. It was Deke’s Glock 9mm. Red-faced, she scooped it up.

Heck towelled himself dry and put on a pair of clean shorts. ‘I thought we agreed to leave all the weapons behind?’

She shrugged. ‘I heard everything you said, Heck. But sorry, it doesn’t make sense that we should keep going into situations where we can’t defend ourselves.’

‘That gun was used to murder someone, Lauren. And you’re still in possession of it. Do you understand what that means?’

‘It’s just for insurance.’

‘Insurance against what … us dying or the Nice Guys living?’

‘Why don’t we face facts?’ Her voice rose. ‘You’re not going to arrest them. You
can’t
! You’re not a copper any-more, Heck, you’re just a bloke on the run.’

‘So they have to be punished in other ways, is that it?’

‘You heard what that bastard said they did to Genene.’

‘I didn’t join law enforcement to be judge, jury and executioner. All we can do is make cases for prosecution.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’

He held out a hand. ‘Gimme.’

‘Forget it.’

‘I know you’re stressed, Lauren. I know you’re upset. But you think I haven’t felt the same way over the years? You think my heart hasn’t bled for the countless victims of crime I’ve had to deal with – innocent bystanders shot during bank robberies, timid householders beaten up in their own homes, children violated …’

‘None of that matters, Heck, because they weren’t your own!’ She glared at him, not just angry now but raging. ‘You talk as if you know these women who’ve been abducted and killed. But you don’t! You’ve never even met them. The day it happens to someone you really care about, to one of
yours
– you’ll see things differently.’

‘And how do you know it hasn’t?’ There was a taut silence, before he added: ‘You know your trouble, Lauren? You’re so wrapped up in how this tragedy has affected
you
that you’ve not even considered how others are having to deal with it.’

‘You’ve not lost anyone in this case.’

‘Not in this case, no. But as good as.’ He paused briefly, as if unsure whether to say more. ‘You
think
your sister has been raped, tortured and killed. Understandably you’re worried, you’re distraught. But I know for a
fact
that my brother was raped, tortured and killed. So how do you think that makes me feel?’

‘Your …?’ She was astonished; the anger drained out of her like water from a sieve. ‘You never told me.’

‘Yeah, well maybe it was none of your business. But seeing as you’ve more or less demanded to know about it …’

He continued to get dressed, pulling on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a fresh t-shirt.

‘Tom was three years older than me, and a bit of a rebel – I mean an intellectual rebel, not a troublemaker. He was doing his A-levels at Bradburn Tech when he first got into drugs. My mum and dad were creatures from another era. They didn’t understand any of that. When he got arrested for smoking a joint at a party, they were beside themselves. My dad’s response was to severely punish him rather than guide him. There was a complete breakdown in communications, and the next thing Tom’s dropped out of college and gone on the dole. Now he was on stronger stuff – pills and heroin. Instead of getting him help, my dad just bollocked the shit out of him, took every penny he got from the social, which of course only made things worse. Eventually, Tom and some junkie friend of his got caught burglarising the park café. It was a nothing crime. It wasn’t a residential property, there was no one in there, nothing worth taking. But unfortunately it was just around this time that some nutjob who the newspapers had nicknamed
the “Bradburn Granny Basher” was doing the rounds of
the town’s sheltered accommodation. He’d smash his way in, beat seven colours out of the OAPs living there, and make off with all their savings – usually about two or three quid. The team who’d been put together to bring him down were having no luck. One particularly lazy bastard DI, who was feeling pressured to get a result, decided that by some stretch of the imagination – and I mean a
considerable
stretch – the photo-fit they’d got of the Granny Basher matched the look of this young drug addict currently in custody for burglary.’