The Killing Club (31 page)

Tasker grunted. ‘First time round it’s Scorpion Company rejects. Now it’s guardsmen turned blaggers. This Nice Guys Club’s a regular Legion of the Damned, isn’t it?’

She closed her book. ‘It’s the old story. We train these guys to fight. Afterwards, we don’t know what to do with them. They don’t know what to do with themselves.’

‘My heart bleeds for them.’ Tasker finished his coffee. ‘Speaking of damned rankers, I take it Heckenburg hasn’t been accounted for yet?’

Gemma shrugged, as worn out by the Heck business as Tasker was. They’d been hit by this particular bit of bad news via text the very second they’d disembarked from the aeroplane outside.

‘They’re trying to trace his route as we speak,’ Gemma said. ‘He borrowed a set of SOCAR wheels to make his initial getaway.’

‘Borrowed?’ Tasker snorted. ‘That’s one way of putting it. And how long is he likely to hang on to those?’

‘No longer than he needs to.’

‘Which knowing him, won’t be long.’ Tasker gave another sigh. ‘The only reason I’m not bawling you out again, Gemma, is because it was my two monkeys who let him go. Are they badly hurt?’

‘Gribbins is hurt … not
too
badly. Fowler was incapacitated.’

‘She’s supposed to be a sodding black belt! This bloody guy, I’m telling you …’

‘You know, Frank … Heck’s on our side.’

‘For the present, yeah.’ His brow knotted. ‘But what about when the shit hits the fan? Who’ll he be batting for then? I told you, Gemma … you should’ve pulled him back into bed at the first opportunity. Give him something else to think about, break his little heart … anything, so long as it took his mind off this.’

‘The Nice Guys tried to frame him for a crime he didn’t commit,’ she said. ‘They beat him and chained him up. They murdered his friend, and drugged and kidnapped his sister. And that’s before we even consider the thirty-eight women whose rape and strangulation he was investigating. I think even I would have trouble providing a big enough distraction from all that. And now there’s something else … while we were off the air, another body’s shown up in North Yorkshire.’

‘One of ours?’

‘There’s no signature on this one, plus it was ninety feet down a pothole. But it’s got some of the hallmarks. Middle-aged white guy. Tortured to death for no known reason. That’s all I’ve really got.’

‘Have you assigned someone to check it out?’

‘Of course.’

‘Let’s see what they say. If it’s one of ours, we open another incident room.’

A Scottish officer appeared in the doorway and gave them a nod.

Outside, the streamlined shape of the Eurocopter EC135 T2 waited on the police helipad, resplendent in its bright red and yellow markings. Gemma had flown in choppers many times before, but mainly over southern England. By contrast, this would be a truly spectacular ride. Not that it wouldn’t be in keeping with an investigation that was assuming unreal dimensions. At no stage in their careers had either she or Tasker ever envisaged they’d someday be investigating the murder of a one-time bishop.

Apparently this death had initially been thought a suicide, but the first medical officer to assess the body had noted some kind of inscription carved into the victim’s chest. It hadn’t been entirely legible – apparently the fierce northern seas could do that to a body pretty quickly, but it had read something like: ‘BDE’.

That had been good enough for Tasker, and for Gemma.

But even so – a bishop!

Gemma was numbed by the mere thought of the scandals that could be exposed when this case was finally blown open. Presuming it ever would be.

Chapter 25

The train journey from Northampton to Sunderland was scheduled to take five hours and thirty minutes. Not an inordinately long time, but it included two changes of train – one at Birmingham and one near the end, at Newcastle – which Heck always found exasperating.

Things were further complicated half an hour into the first leg of the journey. The London Midland train was clean and comfortable enough, and it was only half full, so Heck was able to stretch out and relax. Now he was really feeling the pummelling his body had taken in the last few days. Muscles were aching, joints stiff, none of which was helped by the jarring and jolting of the train – but he was only seriously discomforted when another passenger entered the compartment, and for no apparent reason, sat in the seat directly facing him.

There were three things about this that seemed odd.

Firstly, there were several empty seating bays along the aisle, and most passengers would opt for a bit of privacy, choosing not to cram themselves in alongside or facing someone else if the alternative was available. Secondly, what had this passenger been doing for the last half-hour? He certainly hadn’t been wandering up and down the train looking for a seat, because Heck would have spotted him before now. And in any case, he would have found one. This meant he must have sat somewhere else, and then for some reason changed his mind about it. Thirdly, this passenger didn’t look like an ordinary Joe. He wore a suit, a shirt and a tie, and he immediately took a laptop from a briefcase, opened it and began to work; but before he did any of this, he removed his jacket, revealing a bullish physique – broad shoulders, a tree-trunk for a neck. He was also shaven-headed, and had a face both brutal and sly: a small slit for a mouth; pitted cheeks; apelike brows overarching tiny eyes.

Heck watched furtively as the guy rolled his shirt sleeves back, exposing thick, powerful wrists. His hands were heavy-knuckled and bore old scars. A mauler’s hands, if Heck had ever seen them.

Stations came and went as they proceeded north: Rugby, Coventry. The passenger continued tapping at his keyboard. At one point, Heck got up and walked past him, ostensibly to use the lavatory but in reality to glance at his screen. He had a better look on his way back. The guy was writing some kind of report. It was difficult to see what it was about but Heck caught the words ‘mortgage’ and ‘insurance’.

Did this mean he was legit? Heck wasn’t sure, but they’d know soon enough.

The next station, Birmingham New Street, was where he changed. It was three o’clock when they reached it. Rush hour hadn’t yet commenced, but New Street was a major crossroads on the rail network, and the platforms were bustling with commuters. Heck sidled through them, refusing to look back, either at the train he’d just vacated or those who’d disembarked with him – at least not until he had a bona fide reason to do so. That came on the main concourse, where he turned and glanced up at the departures board, and at the same time checked the passengers streaming down the corridor from the platform. There was no sign of a shaven head among them, or a brutish ape-face.

Heck relaxed, but only a little.

His connection to Newcastle was on time. He pivoted before climbing aboard, just to ensure the coast was still clear. But now his mind strayed back to that bag-lady in the Northampton Railway Station car park. Why hadn’t he noticed her standing there when he’d first driven in? It seemed increasingly strange. Where had she suddenly appeared from? Was it possible the Nice Guys could have tracked him all the way from Scotland Yard to the Cotswolds, and from there to here?

The next train was more crowded than the previous one. Initially, Heck had to stand, but made sure to position himself at the end of the rearmost compartment so that he could see everyone in front of him. There was still no sign of that shaven head. Again it was a minor relief – but were a team like the Nice Guys going to put a
single
tail on one of their targets?

Owing to the extra bodies, this was a hotter, stuffier ride than the previous one. The train rocked and tilted as it wound across the East Midlands and into South Yorkshire. The stations rolled by, more passengers coming aboard, more disembarking. Now there were short-haul travellers among them: gangs of kids in school uniform, office workers. However, by late afternoon considerable numbers were leaving the train, especially at Sheffield and Doncaster. Soon there was room to sit, and Heck chose a seat close to where he’d been standing. Outside, the sun slipped down in the west, and another of those long, blue dusks drew its mantle over the woods and hills. Even so, it took another hour, during which they passed York, Thirsk, Northallerton and Darlington, before Heck begin to properly unwind.

He even felt torpor creeping up on him, and tried to fight it off, lurching to his feet and swaying down the aisle. The mere act of walking woke him a little, but just to be sure, he made his way to the buffet and bought a large coffee. He removed its lid on his way back, and sipped – only to halt in the middle of the next compartment.

The shaven-headed man was there.

He was no longer working on his laptop, but slouched down, buried in an evening paper. It was neither a disguise nor an attempt to hide, but it had been sufficient to conceal him from Heck on the outward journey to the buffet. The question was how had the guy got on the train without Heck noticing? He had to have done it covertly. Heck eyed him sidelong as he walked past. If the guy was aware of Heck, he didn’t show it.

Heck took his seat in the next compartment, thinking furiously. When a flickering red light caught his eye, he glanced up: neon text scrolled across a glass panel.

The next stop is Durham, 12 mins
.

How far was Durham from Sunderland? Heck had been up in the Northeast for several weeks, working the neo-Nazi murders, but he hadn’t used that time to memorise the geography. He guessed ten or fifteen miles, but it might be more. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a problem – except that he didn’t have much money left.

‘Christ’s sake!’ he said under his breath, but loud enough for the elderly lady two seats ahead to glance around disapprovingly.

He had his credit cards of course, but he couldn’t use those to pay for a taxi. All it would take was SOCAR to put a trace on his financial transactions and it would lead them straight to the door of his destination.

But one thing was absolutely clear. He couldn’t stay on this train.

The shaven-headed guy was clearly tailing him. But the bastard might not be as clever as he thought. In his efforts to avoid being spotted, he’d positioned himself far up the train. From way up there, he wouldn’t necessarily see if Heck climbed off near the back – not until it was too late.

Heck glanced at his watch. They were now ten minutes out of Durham. He gazed back along the compartment. The few people remaining were facing away from him. Even if there was more than one of them on his case – the second one in here – they weren’t observing him at present.

He glanced at his watch again. Nine minutes.

He stood up, stepped into the aisle and backtracked the two or three yards to the slide door connecting with the rearmost boarding area. No head turned to look at him.

He retreated into the boarding area itself, and stepped out of sight, jamming himself against the exit door. Six minutes remained.

Funnily enough, of all the people he’d tangled with during this investigation, including those madmen in the Underground, none had looked as tasty as this shaven-headed character. That didn’t necessarily mean anything, though in Heck’s long experience it sometimes paid to judge a book by its cover. He adjusted the Glock in his inside pocket, pushing one of its magazines further down, so the weapon was raised, its grip more easily reached.

With laborious slowness, they pulled into Durham station.

Still no one else entered this particular boarding area. The train came to a shuddering standstill. There was a tannoy announcement from the train manager, and the exit door slid open. Heck stepped out, immediately glancing left. Significant numbers of passengers were disembarking, while at least an equal number were waiting to climb aboard. The station’s canopy lights counteracted the dimness of the evening, but all he could see for several hundred yards was a chaotic scrum of figures.

Heck backed away along the platform until he was level with the rear of the train. The end of the platform lay thirty yards behind that; it terminated at a horizontal chain with a
No Passengers Beyond This Point
sign in the middle. Beyond the chain, the concrete ramped down to trackside gravel, where a deck of sleepers had been laid to form a footway across the lines, no doubt for station staff.

Glancing up, he saw a red light suspended between the two railways, indicating that no train was about to come hurtling through. It was a risk, but hell, this whole thing was a risk. He stepped quickly over the chain, descended the ramp, and crossed the lines via the footway. No one shouted, no emergency lights were activated. On the other side, he ascended to the next platform and stepped over another chain – still no one seemed to notice, let alone object.

This next platform was also busy, and Heck purposely lost himself in the crowd as they awaited their connection. The Newcastle train drew slowly out again. Heck watched warily. By the time its last carriage had passed, only a few of the passengers who’d disembarked from it remained on the opposite platform. The shaven-headed man was among them.

He stood rigid, his briefcase clutched under one brawny arm as he looked left and right. Heck backed away, almost knocking a woman over. He apologised profusely before stepping behind a stanchion. When he risked another peek, the shaven-headed guy’s back was turned. He’d spun on his heel, as though to shield whatever he was doing – but it was quite clear that he was talking into a mobile phone.

Heck made a beeline for an exit stair, his eyes riveted on his opponent, who was so engrossed in his call that he only glanced once over his shoulder, and by then Heck was out of his eye-line, already descending.

He reached the bottom of the stair quickly, finding himself in a white-tiled corridor, which led only to the right, crossing underneath the two railway lines and passing the bottom of the stair from the other platform. Heck ventured towards this, but before he got there he heard trudging footfalls coming down.

He froze. Two options remained: the stair leading back to the platform he’d just left – though in truth there probably wasn’t enough time to reach it; or, much closer, the door to the Gents. He took the second, as there might be a staff door connecting from that to another section of the station.