Stalkers (39 page)

‘Human trafficking,’ Heck added. ‘Or was that just the firm you were using?’ Blenkinsop hung his head again. ‘Tell me about them, Ian. Everything.’

‘I don’t know too much. I first met them while I was over there …’

‘Friends of friends, eh?’

‘Hardly friends.’

‘What a pity you’ve only realised that now.’ Heck laced his fingers tightly; despite his playing the heavy, he finally felt they were getting somewhere. ‘When did they first introduce you to this … other business of theirs?’

‘About four years ago. At the end of a night out. We were all drunk. I asked them to take me to a brothel. They laughed and asked what kind of brothel? We took it from there.’

‘And you trusted them? Just like that?’

‘Sure. They were British.’

‘British.’

‘Well, some of them. The ones I spoke to. But there were others who sounded foreign, I suppose: American, French, Russian …’

‘What else do you remember about them?’

‘Like I say … gave the impression they were ex-military. They’d
have
to be, working over there in security. Probably ex-special forces. Real tough bastards.’

‘Any names?’

‘Only the boss. Mike Silver. “Mad Mike Silver”, they used to call him. I thought it was a joke, Jesus.’

‘Most likely that name’s bogus,’ Heck said. ‘Description?’

Blenkinsop fingered his damp collar as he tried to cast his mind back. ‘Again, British. War veteran almost certainly – that steely demeanour, you know. Mid-thirties, I’d say. Average height. Well built. Well-spoken too. Possibly a former officer. Dark hair, but prematurely greying. Walked with a cane. Said he’d been wounded in action.’

‘What’s the total strength of this outfit?’

‘I don’t know.’ Blenkinsop was now looking tired as well as drunk. ‘I only usually saw a couple of them at any time, and it was always too dark to memorise faces. Look, what’s the point in this? They’re over in the Gulf. If you’re going to trace these fellas, surely you’ll have to go through foreign agencies?’

‘That can come later. At present, our priority is the cell that’s operating here.’

‘But it can’t be the same people. Why would it be? Over there they’re safe. They can do what they want. Look … at worst, all they’ll have done is sell my name and details to someone else.’

‘At worst?’ Heck’s disbelieving eyes bored into him. ‘At worst, Ian, they could have come home. At worst, they could
now be running their very lucrative operation in the UK . .
. except that over here they can’t just buy the victims off, with peanuts or anything else. And they’ve got another problem … over here they’ve found this rather big fly in their ointment. A fly who works in structured commodity finance at a City investment bank. A fly they’re going to have to squish rather quickly.’

Blenkinsop looked faint with fear, but still shook his head. ‘This is pure supposition. You’ve got no evidence that Silver and his team are behind the Nice Guys.’

Heck thought hard. It was true – there was no firm evidence. But Deke, with his Scorpion Company background, was surely more than just a coincidence. It would also explain how such a firm could operate in London and yet evade the radar of a local gangster like Bobby Ballamara. It would explain the commando-like precision with which the abductions had been executed, the Swiss bank account Blenkinsop had mentioned – that was always a sign you were dealing with someone a little more sophisticated than the average British hoodlum.

Of course, the thought that he was dealing with mercenaries here – ruthless and experienced killers with a vested interest in snuffing out the opposition – was more than a little bit scary. Knowing there was a whole bunch on their tail, the danger level felt as if it had risen exponentially. And he hardly dared think what was happening to Lauren at this moment.

‘You were once their customer,’ Heck said. ‘There must be some way for you to make contact with them.’

‘I tried,’ Blenkinsop sighed. ‘But their website no longer exists. At least, I couldn’t find it again.’

Heck sat upright, struck by a sudden thought. ‘Which computer did you use?’

‘My PC at home.’

‘Have you still got it?’

Blenkinsop nodded.

Heck finished his drink. ‘That’s the way we get them.’

‘I told you, the website’s gone.’

‘It won’t be gone. They’ve just concealed it.’

‘It could be being operated from anywhere.’

‘They sent you a couple of emails as well, didn’t they?’

‘Those addresses are defunct too. Anyway, I
deleted everything.’

‘There’ll still be electronic traces left on your hard drive somewhere.’ Heck stood up. ‘We’ve got people who can retrieve them. Come on, we’re going to your house.’

Blenkinsop seemed reluctant to move. ‘Shouldn’t we get some back-up first?’

‘I’m afraid that’s impossible.’

‘For Christ’s sake, why?’

‘Believe it or not, the Nice Guys have someone inside my
department. I don’t know who, but as soon as he learns
we’re onto them, they’ll disappear for good.’

‘So all I’ve got is
you
?’ Blenkinsop sounded incredulous. ‘I mean … you alone?’

‘Thank your lucky stars. It’s more than you had two hours ago.’

Blenkinsop shook his head. ‘I’m going nowhere. I’m staying here.’

‘Really?’

‘You want to go to my house, which, if they’re as motivated as you say, they’ll probably be watching …?’ Blenkinsop dropped a front door key onto the table. ‘You’re welcome to it. But I’m not. I’m staying here and having another drink. No one’s going to try anything with me in here.’

There was a taut silence, before Heck swept down across the table, yanking him up by his lapels so hard that glasses flew everywhere. Blenkinsop gasped as Heck forced him back against the wall, constricting his throat.

‘Maybe
I’ll
try something with you!’ Heck hissed. ‘You self-obsessed wanker! My friend has been kidnapped by these people. God knows what they’re doing to her. And you think you’re going to sit here and get wasted? As far as I’m concerned, Blenkinsop, you are rapist scum, no better than the criminal psychopaths who set this operation up. And you can be damn sure that when these killers go down, you’ll be going down with them – maybe to the same prison, maybe to the same cell!’

‘Please …’ Blenkinsop was pouring with sweat.

‘The only chance you’ve got of avoiding that fate is by cooperating with this investigation as fully as possible!’ Heck snarled. ‘Starting now!’

Blenkinsop’s home was a detached, double-fronted Edwardian situated amid extensive landscaped gardens. This area of Belsize Park was almost exclusively residential, its quiet roads and avenues hedged and tree-lined, so now that night had fallen there were many dark niches and shadowed corners from where an ambush might be launched.

It was close to nine o’clock in the evening when a black cab came cruising along.

‘Sixteen, Templeton Drive, did you say?’ the cabbie asked the two men, on whom he’d smelled booze the moment they got into his vehicle, though they’d seemed a well-dressed pair, so he hadn’t anticipated any trouble.

‘That’s right,’ Heck replied.

‘Been to a party, have you?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Finished a bit early then?’

‘Been a long day.’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ the cabbie said. ‘Sixteen’s coming up, by the way.’

‘Any chance you can pull onto the drive? Get right up to the front door?’ Heck asked. ‘My friend has a bad leg.’

‘Suppose so.’

Blenkinsop, who was as white and rigid as a waxwork, took the door key from his overcoat pocket and leaned forward to point its fob through the windscreen at the gated entrance they were now approaching. The wrought-iron gates swung open, and the cab was able to pull right up its gravel drive and park alongside the front of the house. The porch had been built portico style, two white Doric columns supporting an ornate wooden canopy. Heck indicated that Blenkinsop should move quickly. He did, leaping out of the cab and dashing up the marble steps to the front door.

‘Doesn’t look like much of a leg problem to me,’ the cabbie said as Heck paid him.

‘Between you and me, he’s a bit of a whiner.’

‘Oh, one of them, eh?’ The cabbie touched his nose. ‘I get you.’

The cab pulled away and Heck hurried inside, slamming the front door behind them. The hall light had now been switched on and Blenkinsop was in the process of deactivating the alarm.

‘System been tripped?’ Heck asked.

Blenkinsop shook his head.

‘What parts of the building does it cover?’

‘Upstairs and downstairs.’

‘Motion sensors?’

‘Yeah, but we used to have a dog and we got out of the habit of switching them on. All the doors and windows are covered, though. No one’s been in.’

Heck was surprised. ‘That’s better news than I hoped for.’

‘I still don’t see the point in this,’ Blenkinsop said. ‘If they’d left a … what did you call him?’

‘A spotter.’

‘If they’d left a spotter, he’ll have seen us arriving. Even if he didn’t want to take a shot at us because that cabbie was there, what’s to stop him calling his mates now?’

‘Nothing, but we’ve no choice. We have to take possession of your hard drive. It’s the only evidence we’ve got.’

Heck surveyed the downstairs hall. It was expansive and tastefully decorated: the floor was of polished black and white tiles; the furniture resembled a collection of antiques. A chandelier hung from the ceiling. Handsome oil paintings adorned every wall.

‘The PC’s upstairs, you say?’ Heck said.

‘I’ll show you.’ Blenkinsop moved to the foot of the staircase.

‘Wait. Show me the kitchen first.’

Blenkinsop shrugged and led him through. The kitchen boasted a real brick floor and an immense cast-iron cooking range. Next to the sink, there was a block of kitchen knives. Heck took one. He examined its glinting blade ruefully, as though horrified his job had finally brought him to using a weapon like this, before concealing it under his jacket. They went upstairs. The landing was a long corridor running east to west. Six bedrooms opened off it. All were deep in shadow, which seemed to deepen even more when Blenkinsop switched on a central light.

‘It’s down this way.’ He headed towards the far end of the passage.

Heck blocked his path. ‘Let me go in front.’

‘But there’s nobody here.’

‘I’m beginning to find that a problem.’ Heck went first, padding stealthily on the thick pile carpet.

‘Coming here was your idea,’ Blenkinsop said accusingly.

‘It was needs must. Doesn’t mean I like it.’

They glanced into each room as they passed, seeing only beds outlined in the gloom. There was one minor shock when Heck kicked open a door standing ajar on one of the house’s two bathrooms, only to see a body lying in the sunken tub – it took nearly a full second to identify this as a bundle of dirty towels.

‘My wife’s away,’ Blenkinsop explained sheepishly.

They proceeded, now with only two doors remaining; one on the left, which Blenkinsop said was his bedroom, and one directly ahead, which he said was his study. But now Heck saw something that stopped him briefly. The cream carpet on this part of the landing was marked by a thin patina of grey dust lying across it in a near-straight line. He paused to examine it. Blenkinsop went past him to the study, opened the door and flicked the light on.

‘It’s all here,’ he said.

Heck glanced up.

On the other side of the study, a state-of-the-art computer rig was visible on top of a large desk.

‘We’ve beaten them to it,’ Blenkinsop added.

Heck glanced down at the dust again. ‘Just wait!’

But Blenkinsop had already gone in. The study had once been an extra bedroom, but had now been fully adapted for its current use, its shelves packed with folders. The study floor was of varnished wood, a thin patterned rug occupying its central section.

‘
Wait!
’
Heck said again.

Blenkinsop looked back, but had now stepped onto the rug – and was most surprised to feel it drop away beneath him.

Heck darted forward, but though Blenkinsop seemed to be falling through the hole cut in the floorboards in slow motion, he was still too late. Both Blenkinsop and the rug were sucked down through the square aperture like waste food going into a disposal chute. At first he gibbered with shock – almost comically, but once below, those gibbers turned to squeals and then to weird, guttural gurgles.

Heck tested the floorboards with his foot before coming to the edge of the hole.

Blenkinsop had dropped into his own garage. But a four-foot steel spike with a heavy concrete base had been placed directly below, and, having landed on it backward, he’d now been impaled through the midriff. At least a foot of shining steel protruded from his belly. He scrabbled at it with weakening hands, his crimson mouth horribly agape, the eyes bugging from a face turning yellow with shock. Blood spattered like tap water onto the concrete beneath him.

Heck didn’t get a chance to move or even speak before he heard a
creak
and
clunk
of woodwork. He spun around, but the trapdoor in the landing ceiling had already opened and someone had leapt lithely down – as he no doubt had done once before, which explained the line of dust on the carpet. Heck pulled out the kitchen knife, but the figure, which was dressed all in black, including a black hoodie top, sprang up from its haunches brandishing a more effective weapon – a Colt Cobra .44 revolver complete with silencer.

‘Don’t you just love these houses where the only security’s on the doors and windows,’ the hoodie said in a strong Brummie accent. ‘I guess these mollycoddled middle-class types never stop to think the roof might also be accessible.’

Beneath the hood was the bland face, wispy moustache and overly prominent forehead of ‘the Kid’, the young guy caught on the photos taken at the scenes of the Miranda Yates and Julie-Ann Netherby abductions.

‘Nasty way to go,’ the Kid added, standing on tip-toes to glance past Heck at the hole in the computer room floor. ‘Not our normal style. We’re usually a lot more discreet. But sometimes examples have to be made.’ He chuckled. ‘Make a nice piccie to send out with our next mail-shot … remind our client-base that it never pays to fuck us around. Glad
you
didn’t go in there first, by the way, detective. We’ve got something much more tasty planned for you.’