The Killing Club (13 page)

She scowled. ‘You think you’re so fucking clever!’

‘You know, all that effing and blinding doesn’t suit you.’

‘I lost a lot of friends at Gull Rock, Heckenburg … forgive me if keeping it clean isn’t one of my priorities.’

‘It’s more a pity that using your noggin isn’t one of them. Seriously, Fowler … if I’d murdered Laycock because of some vendetta from the past … why were
you
sent to arrest me when you’re investigating the murders of your mates? You think I murdered them too?’ Her expression remained taut, but it was clear she was listening. ‘Your boss is playing games.’ He stepped out into the corridor.

‘Why the hell would he do that?’ she shouted after him.

‘Try asking him,’ he called back. ‘And when you find out, let me know.’

It took Gemma just under thirty minutes to get from Hammersmith to New Scotland Yard, and when she did, she found Commander Tasker in the old media management suite, which was about four doors down from the Serial Crimes Unit’s DO.

It was a scene of semi-organised chaos; SOCAR officers, techies and civvie staff bustling back and forth as they brought in tables, chairs, boxes of files, phones and computer terminals, gradually transforming the once large, dusty space into Operation Thunderclap’s main incident room, or MIR. Meanwhile, some of the SOCAR Special Investigations team were already hard at work, bashing keyboards, studying images on display systems.

Gemma zeroed in on Tasker as soon as she came through the double doors. ‘What the devil are you playing at, Frank? You dare put one of my detectives under arrest without consulting me first!’ Her voice was loud, harsh. It stopped most of the others in their tracks, especially when they realised it was directed at their boss.

‘Now wait a minute,’ Tasker said, face reddening. ‘Detective Superintendent Piper, I think we need to calm …’

‘You dare confiscate his clothing! Swab his hands! Stick him in a paper suit!’

Tasker’s voice hardened. ‘He’s suspected of murder, for Christ’s sake!’

‘He’s suspected of nothing … except knowing your job better than you do!’

Tasker’s snowy eyebrows arched. ‘You want to run that by me again?’

‘Heck has been saying for months that we ought to keep Jim Laycock under observation. And surprise-surprise, it looks like he was right … and how the bloody hell do you respond?
By locking him up, for Christ’s sake!
’

Tasker jabbed his finger at a nearby door, which connected with the smaller half-furnished sub-chamber he was planning to use as his private office. ‘We’ll talk in here …
now!
’

Gemma followed him in. He closed the door behind her. Through the glazed partition there was still much interest among the rank and file, so Tasker yanked a chain, closing a blind. ‘Heck forecast that Laycock was gonna get the chop,’ he said. ‘And he did. The very next day. What am I supposed to conclude – except that Heck knew it was going to happen?’

Gemma couldn’t keep the scorn from her voice. ‘You think he’d broadcast that if he was part of it? You think he’d tip us off?’

‘You are too close to this fella, Gemma. You are way too close …’

‘With all respect, sir, don’t piss down my back and tell me it’s raining. We’re up to our nostrils in a very serious incident here … and taking sideswipes at lesser ranks just because you suspect they’re more on the ball than you are is not going to help.’

Tasker almost reeled from that comment. He liked to think he was an easy, even-handed boss; never arrogant, never malicious. Sure, he could and would make cruel decisions, but only ever for a reason. He preferred to believe this was why he was rarely challenged by subordinates – because they respected him rather than feared him; because his managers trusted his judgement and were loyal. Of course, it had also been common if unspoken knowledge that an officer in his position could crush anyone who really gave him a hard time. And this was all the more reason why he was so taken aback now by the ferocity with which Gemma came at him.

He’d known Gemma reasonably well before all this. There were few police officers of any rank in the London area who didn’t know Gemma Piper, and who weren’t aware what a firecracker she could be: tireless and efficient; a smart problem solver; a fearless decision taker – rare traits in the modern police – but uncompromisingly adversarial if there was something she didn’t like. Even trying to stare her down now – and he was head and shoulders taller than she was – felt like a fool’s errand.

‘Let me get this straight, Gemma,’ he said, using a calmer tone. ‘You won’t even consider the possibility that Heck let his animosity towards Laycock boil over? That when Rochester escaped from jail, he lost it – went round to see Laycock and, when he got no change, beat the crap out of him?’

‘And what about that word …
BDEL
, left at the site where Laycock’s body was dumped?’ she wondered. ‘Did Heck leave that? Did he leave the one on the command car at Gull Rock as well, Frank? Was Heck involved in that too?’

‘The appearance of that cryptic word at Laycock’s murder scene hardly clears Heck,’ Tasker retorted. ‘He knew about its use the first time. He could have copied it.’

‘That’s not the way Heck operates!’

‘Really …’ Tasker almost laughed. ‘You ever wondered if Heckenburg’s so good at catching psychopaths because he isn’t far off being one himself?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake …’

‘No, listen. I actually pulled his file before all this started. He displays plenty of narcissistic traits. Introverted, self-contained, self-reliant …
alarmingly
self-reliant in fact. Doesn’t trust others. Doesn’t work easily with others. Only transmits intel up the command chain on a need-to-know basis. Resists authority almost on principle …’

‘He’s controllable.’

‘You sure about that, Gemma? You know how many kills he has to his name?’

‘Like you said, sir … we deal with the worst of the worst.’

‘He’s supposed to be a copper. Not a 00 agent.’

‘Each fatality was fully examined by the IPCC, as per the manual. And in every case Heck was cleared.’

‘The guy thinks he’s at war with the entire British underworld.’

‘So?’

‘It’s hardly rational behaviour.’

‘Oh, I agree with that,’ she said. ‘Heck puts every ounce of strength and energy he’s got into this job. There’s nothing else in his life, which is more than a little bit sad. But how the bloody hell does that make him a criminal?’

‘Look, Gemma … you want Heck out of the way of this enquiry as much as I do … so stop pretending you’re so pissed off!’

‘Yes sir, I do want him out of the way. For exactly the same reason as you. But you think that means I’d let you throw his arse in prison?’

Tasker dropped into his swivel chair. ‘If he wasn’t involved in Laycock’s death, the forensics will clear him.’ His tone was exasperated but dismissive. ‘It was a warning shot across his bows, that’s all.’

‘A warning shot?’

‘It’s time he learned that opening his big yap can have consequences.’

‘You really don’t know Heck, do you?’

‘I know him well enough to recognise trouble. I said this from the start, and you assured me you’d take care of it.’

‘I will!’ She moved to the door. ‘But it’ll be a whole lot harder after today.’

‘Gemma, we
are
going to be able to work together on this, aren’t we?’ Tasker said sternly. ‘We’ve got no choice … but I’m a commander and you’re a superintendent. I hope I can trust you to remember that. I also hope I can trust you to understand that I’ll find it very inconvenient, not to say completely fucking infuriating, if any more of my orders are countermanded.’

She gave that some thought. ‘Sir … if the other stuff Heck’s been saying turns out to be true, namely that Mike Silver and the Nice Guys, after getting rid of Jim Laycock, are about to start working their way through the client list as well, I don’t think we can waste any further time on silly distractions like this. So what you can
really
trust me to do is take any action I deem fit to ensure we stay focused on what might be the most nightmarish murder case in British history.’

And she left, leaving Tasker fuming but helpless in his half-furnished office.

Chapter 11

When Peter Rochester, aka Mad Mike Silver’s eyes flickered open, the first thing they registered was the pain of glaring sunlight. But after several seconds of grogginess and stupor, his vision slowly adjusted, and the ‘glare’ revealed itself to be the milk-pale radiance of a cloudy morning as filtered through a single window, the cracked pane of which was smudged with grime.

For the next few moments, confusion reigned. Silver was numb from the neck down, and felt as though his head had been stuffed with cotton wool. He was also aware he was lying flat on some yielding surface – he even fancied a blanket had been laid over him – but could barely move his limbs, which felt heavy as lead. And then Silver’s eyes attuned again, this time sufficiently to focus on the face of a person sitting alongside him.

It was a young, good-looking face, but also angular, strong and very distinctive – not just for its piercing green eyes and the mop of sandy blond hair over the top, but for the tight set-square of scar tissue on its left cheek.

‘You seem surprised, Mike,’ the face’s owner said with that familiar plastic grin of his. Even after all these years in exile, his accent was recognisably Danish.

‘I’m more …’ Silver tried to speak, but his mouth might as well have been crammed with feathers. The Dane offered him a paper beaker. Ice-cold water spilled over Silver’s lips, and then through into his mouth. He managed to swallow a couple of sips before coughing and choking – he was lying flat after all. He tried to move again; only now was sensation returning to his body, but slowly and dully. ‘I’m … I’m more surprised I’m not in hospital, Kurt,’ he stammered.

‘We’ve had you looked over. You’ll be okay.’

‘Where am I?’

‘Apparently you need a couple of days’ bed rest. So we fixed this billet up for you.’

Silver glanced around, noticing the cluttered interior of a shed or lock-up. Overhead, its sloped roof was of corrugated metal with occasional wooden lathes laying across it, these latter rotted and hung with ropes of dust-thick cobweb. Its walls were bare, mildewed brick. Aged tools dangled from rusted iron hooks.

‘Doesn’t look like much,’ the Dane said. ‘But at least you’ll be comfortable. Personally, I’d have liked to keep you on the move, but it seems that’s a no-no.’

Silver continued to glance around. Of newer manufacture was the metal pole standing next to him, from which a saline drip was suspended. Alongside that was propped the Malacca cane they’d given him in the prison.

‘Hey … Mike.’ The Dane’s mouth curved downward in a fake frown. ‘You don’t look very happy to see me.’

As his grogginess cleared, Silver felt sick to the pit of his stomach. On top of that, he had a pounding headache. ‘Kurt, the way I feel … you’re lucky I’m even acknowledging you.’

‘Now that wouldn’t be kind.’

‘In case you’ve forgotten, Kurt … I’m
not
.’

The Dane called Kurt chuckled. ‘You know some of these guys?’

Silver realised that other men were present. They weren’t exactly standing back in the shadows; it was simply that his vision was still adjusting to the half-light. They wore scarves, gloves, dark khaki clothing and waterproof coveralls. They also carried weapons: semi-automatics and submachine guns. But that was no more than he’d expect, and now he looked at them properly, he recognised several of their cold, hard faces.

He nodded at a squat, bullet-headed guy, with black scorpion tattoos visible on the insides of his wrists. ‘Alex.’

The man he’d addressed nodded back. ‘Mike.’

‘Bruno,’ Silver said, turning to a handsome, powerfully built black guy.

Bruno didn’t reply, merely inclined his head.

‘You know Shaun Cullen?’ Kurt wondered.

A third guy stepped into view. He was freckle-faced, with a red beard and moustache. Silver suspected that long, greasy, red locks were tucked under his pulled-down woolly cap. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Horribly killed anyone recently, Shaun?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have, Mike,’ the man called Cullen replied in an American accent. His eyes glittered, but no smile creased his lips.

‘What happened? He look at you in a way you didn’t like?’

‘Nah … this one was strictly business.’

‘So’s
this
… I’m guessing?’ Silver glanced questioningly from face to face.

Kurt chuckled again. ‘You think we’d come all the way over here for any other reason?’

‘I’m still in the UK then?’ Sick though he still was, Silver felt more than a little deflated by that revelation.

‘We’d like to take you home, Mike,’ Kurt said. ‘We want to go home ourselves, but we’ve got a long list of jobs we need to do first.’

Silver knew immediately what he was talking about, and it put a pang of unease through him. ‘That’s taking a big risk, Kurt.’

‘Haven’t got much choice, have we?’ Cullen replied.

‘Shaun’s right, Mike,’ Kurt said. ‘The UK’s like a wide-open back door at present. We have to close it somehow.’

‘The problem is …’ Silver tried to sit up in his bed. ‘The problem is they’re wise to us. They know who we are. They’ll be watching, waiting …’

Kurt indicated the man called Alex. ‘Corporal Mulroony here doesn’t rate your modern Brit police services much. Reckons they’re one half careerists, the other half barrack-room politicians.’

Corporal Mulroony remained stone-faced and silent, but Silver shook his head. ‘It would be an error to apply that judgement across the board. This guy Heckenburg … it took him a few months, but he ended up pulling my entire operation apart. And that was on his own, with no back-up.’

‘Yes, but Mike …’ Kurt mused. ‘The question is … was that about Heckenburg, or about you?’

‘Gimme a break, Kurt. You know I always ran a tight ship.’

‘Okay, so who is this guy … Superman?’

‘Not exactly. He has weak spots. He can be hurt and he makes mistakes. But he knows his job and he doesn’t give up. He’s also a chancer …’ Silver indicated the beaker in Kurt’s hand, and took another thankful sip; his strength was now returning, his head clearing properly. ‘He’s unpredictable too, and that’s something you’ll need to watch him for very carefully.’