The Killing Club (33 page)

‘Can I come inside?’ Heck asked. ‘I’m knackered …’

Bewildered, Farthing indicated the open back door. Heck lumbered through it. He halted briefly in the kitchen, nostrils twitching, before moving through to the lounge, where the
Match of the Day
summarisers were giving their round-up. Without invitation, he collapsed into the armchair.

Farthing followed him in, switching on a sideboard lamp. The arrival of Mark Heckenburg at his home address would have been remarkable under almost any circumstances. They’d got to know each other reasonably well in the days following Ernest Cooper’s arrest, but it had been cool and professional. They’d hardly become what he’d call friends. They hadn’t even gone for drinks together after work.

‘So …’ Farthing finally stuttered, ‘exactly what the fuck is going on?’

‘I’ve come a long way to speak to you, Jerry.’

‘You’ve … eh?’

‘I’ll explain everything in a minute … look, sorry about this, mate.’ Heck sat up. ‘I’ve got to have something to eat. I’m famished.’

Farthing eyeballed him, still with disbelief, before pivoting round on his heel and heading into the kitchen. He reappeared a minute later with a plate of cheese and crackers, and a cup of tea – only to find Heck by the sideboard, gulping from a bottle of Black Grouse.

‘Hey … come on, that was a birthday present!’

‘Sorry.’ Heck put the bottle down. ‘Been flying on empty for hours.’

Farthing pushed the plate into his hands. ‘Best get these down.’

‘Cheers.’ Heck sat again. The cheese and biscuits weren’t up to much – stale and vaguely tasteless, thrown together at speed – but Heck wolfed them anyway, and then swilled down the mug of tea. When he’d finished, he glanced up at his host, who stood there with hands on hips, like a disapproving housewife.

‘How’d you get my address?’ Farthing asked.

‘There’re only three J. Farthings in the Sunderland phonebook. The first two were wrong numbers. I didn’t bother calling the third. Anyway, never mind that. I take it no one’s said anything? At your nick, I mean. You haven’t heard anything on the grapevine?’

‘About what?’

‘Me.’

Farthing shrugged. ‘I’ve been out of circulation for a few days.’

‘Oh … how come?’

‘My nerves are shot … I’m on the sick.’

‘Cooper?’

‘What else?’

‘Put the shits up anyone, that.’ Heck’s tone was conversational, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. ‘And there’s not been anything on the telly?’

‘Telly?’ Farthing looked alarmed. ‘Have you got yourself into some kind of trouble?’

‘No … well, not really.’

‘Not
really
?’

‘SOCAR’ll be looking for me.’

‘Yeah, and what’s SOCAR?’

‘They’re sort of halfway between us and MI5.’

‘Great.’ Farthing paled. ‘So they kick arse and don’t even have to answer for it.’

‘Hear me out,’ Heck said. ‘SOCAR are cops. The Serious Offenders Control and Retrieval unit. They’re not officially part of NCG, but they have a multi police force remit. They’re like the judiciary’s strong right arm. They protect the courts, juries, witnesses, investigate jail breaks, chase fugitives … transport high-risk prisoners.’ He winced as he peeled off his leather coat. ‘
Sometimes
they transport high-riskers
.
Sometimes they even get them to their intended destinations. Must admit I’ve never known them have this much clout before. They even overruled SECU, the most empowered firm in British law-enforcement since Henry VIII’s mob went crown green bowling with a bunch of severed heads …’

‘What the fuck?’
Farthing shouted.

Heck glanced down. He’d assumed the object that had just thudded to the floor was his wallet – but it wasn’t, it was the Glock.

‘Don’t panic,’ he said. ‘The safety’s on.’

Farthing’s gaze jumped from the weapon to his visitor. ‘So … hang on. Let me get this straight. You’re currently an armed fugitive. Is that what you’re trying to tell us?’

Heck placed the gun on the sideboard. ‘It’s not that simple.’

‘This SOCAR mob … are they bent?’

‘One of them is. I think. The point is … you’ve heard about the Nice Guys Club?’

‘That mob who whacked those lads escorting the prison caravan five days ago?’

‘Correct. And they’ve whacked a few more since then.’

‘It was all over the news till this morning.’

‘The latest is they’ve green-lit my boss. And if that doesn’t work out for them, they’re gonna leg it … either one of which will leave us with a mountain of scrambled egg on our faces, but knowing how efficient these bastards are, they may actually manage both.’

‘Okay.’ Farthing shrugged. ‘But I guess I’ve missed the bit where this involves me.’

‘If I’m going to take the fight to them, Jerry … you’re all I’ve got.’

‘You want to run that by us again?’

‘I’m onto them,’ Heck said. ‘And I’m gonna get them before they do any more damage. But I can’t do that on the run. I need somewhere to lie low.’

Farthing’s expression of disbelief slowly lengthened.
‘Here?’

‘You owe me, remember?’

‘Are you kidding?’
Farthing shook his head energetically. ‘I owe you a pint. Or a lift when you decide to go and turn yourself in. I’m not getting involved in this …’

‘Hey …’ Heck’s tired mask hardened; he glowered at his host. ‘I put my life on the line for you!’

‘For Christ’s sake, Heck, think what you’re asking! You want to use my house – my home address – as a base of operations from which to attack this bunch of professional psychos!’

Farthing’s outrage was perhaps justified. It had long been police tradition that home didn’t enter the equation; that you fought the enemy on their own patch. Bizarrely, it was often the case that even criminals respected this. But Heck was weary and irate, and for a moment all he could see was the same lump of sweating, wobbling jelly he’d been lumbered with in the abandoned factory at Hendon. He levered himself to his feet with such force that Farthing backed away.

‘All I need is a roof,’ Heck said harshly. ‘You can provide that much, can’t you? Look what I provided for your non-existent family. You! Still fucking alive!’

‘Alright, alright …’ Farthing wheeled away from him.

‘And I need something else,’ Heck said. ‘Your local knowledge.’

‘Eh?’

‘When me and you first met in the canteen at Gillbridge Avenue …’ Heck knuckled at his brow. ‘There was a phrase you used. “Mind me whips and stottie”. Something like that.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘“Whips n stot”,’ Heck said. ‘Does it mean something? I hope it does, because it’s the only lead I’ve got.’

Farthing looked baffled. ‘You’re from Lancashire, aren’t you?’

‘By origin, yeah.’

‘You’d call it “a chip barm”. Whips means Jockey’s whips … chips. Stottie is a kind of loaf made in the Northeast. So … chips and buttered bread.’

Heck regarded him dully. At first he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Something that simple, and yet … it had appeared in print, like a letterhead. ‘Is there a local business with that name … a fish and chip shop maybe?’

‘There’s a café.’ Farthing spoke matter-of-factly, as if this could surely be of no importance. ‘It’s fairly well-known up here. Whips n Stottie.’

Heck felt that old tremor of excitement. ‘Where is it?’

‘Just off the A1, on the stretch between Newcastle and Berwick.’

‘How far from here?’

‘Forty miles.’

Heck groaned. ‘Might as well be a thousand for a bloke on foot.’

Farthing looked startled. ‘You’re on foot?’

‘Want to see the blisters?’

‘How did you get here?’

‘Walked.’

‘Where from?’

‘Durham.’

Farthing’s mouth dropped open. ‘All the way from Durham?’

‘Managed to get a taxi part of the way … about a third of the distance.’

‘No wonder you’re
… hang on
!’ Farthing moved to the kitchen door, staring into the darkness beyond the rear windows. ‘You sure no one followed you here?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I’m not talking SOCAR. I’m talking these Nice Guys fuckers.’

‘Jerry, I’ve just dragged my arse along every kind of road you can think of. High streets, suburban avenues, country lanes covered in horseshit, and most of that time I was alone. If they wanted to jump me, they’ve had half a dozen chances.’

Farthing still opened his back door a crack and peeked out. It was several seconds before he closed it, locked it and returned to the lounge.

‘Can I make a call?’ Heck said, indicating the telephone.

‘Who to?’

‘My boss.’

‘The one they’re after?’

‘They
may
be after her. They may also decide she’s too hard a target. Truth is, I don’t know.’

‘Won’t she trace it back here?’

‘I’m trusting that she won’t.’

‘Come on, Heck, this is my home address …’

‘Yeah, and why is that a problem?’ Heck tried to keep the exasperation from his voice. ‘Christ’s sake, Jerry … there’s nothing weird about me showing up here. We’re in court together soon, giving evidence against Ernie Cooper. We have to talk, compare notes. How the hell were
you
to know I was on the run?’

Despite this logical argument, Farthing looked increasingly alarmed. For a second Heck almost felt sorry for him, but he truly was in the last-chance saloon here.

Eventually, Farthing shrugged and gestured at the phone.

Heck picked it up and made the call. As before, it went straight to voicemail. He was tempted to leave a message, but that would be a risk. He hung up.

‘No reply?’ Farthing asked, unashamedly relieved.

‘Didn’t think I’d get one. At present, she’s in the Highlands of Scotland, probably in a chopper.’

‘No signal then.’

Heck stood silent, not seeing the TV weatherman running his hands across a meteorological map of England’s Northeast coast.

Farthing loafed around the room. ‘Look … you’re clearly shagged. I’m not going to turf you out now. Why don’t you get your head down, and we’ll talk about this in the morning?’

Heck nodded. This was probably the best he could have hoped for.

‘You’ll have to use the armchair,’ Farthing said. ‘There’s only one bed here. Don’t worry about me. I’m not going to dob you in or anything.’

Heck eyed him curiously. It had never occurred to him that Farthing might ‘dob him in’. But then – here was a guy who seemed to have broken off from the police family in more ways than one. Farthing’s expression was suddenly inscrutable; it betrayed no obvious emotion, which Heck thought strange given that two minutes ago he’d had the weight of the world on his shoulders. In fact, Farthing was now the considerate host. He made Heck another mug of tea, and brought a pillow and some blankets down from upstairs, along with a hot-water bottle.

‘I know you’re tired and all, so it might be tough getting a proper handle on things,’ Farthing said, after checking the downstairs doors and windows were locked. ‘But you need to think about this. Can you really go after these killers on your own?’

‘Hopefully I won’t have to,’ Heck yawned. ‘If I can get through to my gaffer, we should be sorted.’

‘When’s she due back from Scotland?’

‘Dunno.’ Heck adjusted the pillow behind his head. ‘All we can do is wait.’

Farthing nodded, said goodnight and traipsed up the stairs. Heck remained where he was, slumped in the armchair. He picked up the remote control for the TV, turned the volume down and channel-hopped, scanning various late-night news programmes. Nowhere could he find references to the shootings and bombings, which suggested the press embargo was holding. At least that meant the Nice Guys couldn’t learn their handiwork in Yorkshire had been discovered by simply watching television.

He turned the television off and pushed his head back into the pillow. The lamp was still on, but he was too tired to get up and switch it off. And yet, despite this deep bone-weariness, sleep proved elusive. It had been an incredibly long, arduous day.

Tomorrow had to be easier. It had to.

Chapter 27

The northwest coast of Scotland didn’t always equate to wild winds and raging sea, but on this occasion Gemma had a definite feeling she’d arrived on the extreme fringes of Britain.

The last hour of the flight had been dramatic to say the least, a tableau of barren, rocky summits unfolding below them, the deep glens in between filled with pine trees or the mirror-flat surfaces of lochs burnished red by a sun setting in embers on the western horizon. Like all seas when viewed from height and distance, the North Atlantic, on their left, seemed almost benign: a vast expanse of misted blue, shot salmon-pink by the sunset, its myriad waves little more than ripples. Needless to say, once they got down to it things were different. It was dusk when they left the Eurocopter on the car park at Clashnessie police office, a squat, pebble-dashed building located just inland from Clashnessie village, and then had to travel another couple of hours to the coast in a Police Scotland Range Rover.

It was nearly midnight when they arrived there, and dark in a way that only Britain’s most remote hinterlands can be dark. In single file, they descended a teetering flight of steps cut through the granite of the shoreline cliffs, lit every dozen yards by fluorescent lights sealed in waterproof cases. Below them, breakers boomed with increasing volume. To avoid going dizzy, Gemma focused intently on the broad back of their chaperone, PC Kevin McKenzie, who, aside from his flat hat, was shrouded in a luminous, ankle-length slicker. When an ice-cold spray began spattering them, she wasn’t sure if this was rain or the ocean itself.

At the foot of the stair, they crossed a narrow steel bridge, still in single file. There was much turmoil beneath their feet, massive waves exploding on blade-edged rocks. The sea wind felt strong enough to hurl them into the abyss were they not clinging to tubular handrails fixed on either side. Ahead, on an island composed almost entirely of offshore crags, stood Clachtoll coastguard station. Though it was brightly lit, it wasn’t possible to gain an impression of the entire structure. Gemma glimpsed high mesh fencing surrounding a square, whitewashed building. A cluster of radio antennae and receptor dishes were visible on its roof; there was also apparently a helipad up there, but the weather conditions being what they were, their pilot had opted to put down in a sheltered location inland.