The Killing Club (37 page)

‘Listen, please … I’ve found the Nice Guys.’

There was a short, breathless silence. By the background noise, it sounded as though Kane was in his car. ‘What’re you … Heck, what’re you jabbering about?’

‘They’ve rented a farmhouse in the countryside.’

‘Are you pissed or something?’

‘I’m sitting on them right now. The whole shebang. All their ops are probably carried out from here. I bet all their kit’s here, the vehicles they’ve been using … everything.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘No, I always make up really amusing lies like this. Of course I’m bloody serious! I’ve followed them all the way to Northumberland.’

‘Whereabouts specifically?’

‘Not far off the A1, somewhere south of Berwick. You’ll have to put a trace on this call to get the exact location. I’m in a payphone at a crossroads between three villages I’ve never heard of … Christon Bank, Stamford and Dunstan.’

‘It shouldn’t be hard pinning that down. Heck … how’ve you managed this?’

‘With no little difficulty.’

‘You’re absolutely sure it’s them?’

‘Bloody right, I am. The Aussie bastard who tried to nail me at Shacklewell Street’s here. So’s the Yank who half-did Gary. I’m telling you, sir, this is them … one hundred per cent.’

‘Okay … how secure is your position?’

‘They haven’t spotted me yet, I don’t think. The farm’s about a mile and a half away, through rough woodland. I’m going back in a sec, to keep an eye on it.’

‘Negative, Heck … do not do that!’

‘They don’t know I’m here …’

‘And what if they’ve posted sentries?’

‘That’s occurred to me, sir. I’ll be careful.’

‘Heck, no! And that’s an order.’

‘Copy that,’ Heck said after some hesitation. ‘There’s something else … I’ve been trying to get hold of Silver Command, with no joy.’

‘They’re on their way back from Scotland, as I understand,’ Kane said. ‘But Gemma diverted to the North Yorks moors to have a look at another body. They should be back in range soon.’

‘Soon’s no use. We have to take these bastards down now!’

‘Heck, the soonest I can get the team up to Northumberland is four hours.’

‘We need to move well before then … look, I think SOCAR have a mole in their ranks.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Even if they do, I can hardly keep this thing under my hat.’

‘I know … so speed is of the essence.’

Kane pondered. ‘Listen … stay put while I make some phone calls. I’ll try and mobilise armed response units from Northumbria. They can hook up with you pretty quick. If nothing else we can throw a ring around them till everyone else arrives.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

‘In the meantime, we’ll be on our way up. But you stay exactly where you are, okay … so the shots aren’t running round the woods like blue-arsed flies. What time have you got?’

Heck checked his watch. ‘One-forty.’

‘Same here. I’ll try and get them with you for three-thirty at the latest.’

‘Sir … that’s two hours.’

‘Heck, be realistic … you’re in the fucking boondocks. First I’ve got to persuade them I know what I’m talking about, and in case you’d forgotten, I’m a DCI, not God. Then they’ve got to gear up and mobilise. Then they’ve got to find you.’

‘Okay … look sir, just remind them it’s a silent approach priority. That farm doesn’t look particularly defensible, but if it’s old it’ll be solidly built … thick-walled, small-windowed. And we already know what a bad attitude the Nice Guys have got.’

‘You just stay put. You hear me, Heck … stay put!’

‘I hear you, sir.’ Heck hung up, stowed his leather coat to the rear of the booth, shoved the Glock into the waistband of his jeans, covering it with his sweater, and set off back to the farmhouse.

He understood the DCI’s concerns, but Kane wasn’t just Mr By-The-Book, he was also Mr Over-Cautious. Anyway, it didn’t matter. Heck would ensure he’d be back at the crossroads for three-thirty, when the RV was due. But there was no way in hell he intended to kick his heels alongside an empty phone box for the next two hours. Besides, he needed to scope the farmhouse out properly so they knew what they’d be facing. He’d go carefully and quietly, and would take the same route back that he’d taken coming out. Again, it was slow progress, and took him almost forty minutes to reach the farmhouse perimeter, where he crouched below the dry-stone wall’s parapet, listening to a faint gabble of voices from the other side.

By Heck’s own reckoning, he was about fifty or sixty yards west of the main gate, which ought to be distance enough from the Aussie sentry. Slowly, holding his breath, he raised his eyes above the top of the lichen-covered stonework.

Initially, he thought the Nice Guys were leaving.

He was sufficiently west of the tree belt to see that various cars were being readied at the front of the building, though there was so little urgency on view that it soon became apparent this was not an evacuation.

A sizeable group of the Nice Guys, maybe eleven or twelve, was standing outside the farmhouse’s front door, conversing. All were clad for the hunt in khaki, canvas and waterproofs, and all of them were gloved. It was cool for late September, but it wasn’t really autumn yet – such packaging looked like overkill, even for men used to the balmy climes of North Africa and the Middle East. Of course, its main purpose was to prevent them leaving traces of themselves in the cottage.

Some loaded kit bags into car boots, but others loaded weapons as well. Even from this distance, Heck could identify assault rifles, submachine guns, and pistols tucked into the waistbands of trousers.

It was an ugly thought that he was kneeling here, safely concealed, while the Nice Guys were systematically dispatched on hit-missions. How many more people were going to die while he lurked behind this wall? And there was another worry. It increasingly nagged at him that whatever evidence this farmhouse contained relating to the murders and to the wider activities of Nice Guys networks overseas, it could all be destroyed very quickly during the course of a protracted siege. It was a particular concern that the list of Nice Guys’ clients in the UK might get flushed. That was the piece of vital evidence they’d lost last time, thanks to Jim Laycock. Okay, it might be a contradiction. The Nice Guys were in the UK to kill off their former clients, but Heck didn’t want them killed – he wanted them put in front of a court, convicted, exposed to the whole world as the rape-murderers they were, and then subjected to some exemplary sentencing.

One by one, the cars reversed from the front of the building, swinging around and rumbling towards the main gate, which the Aussie sentry held open for them. Each one held a complement of three or four Nice Guys.

Heck switched his attention back to the crowd at the farmhouse front door. There were only a handful left now, along with a couple of cars. A tall, fair-haired man seemed to occupy centre stage. It was difficult to make out his distinguishing features from this distance, but he seemed to be issuing orders. He was about six-two, wearing green army surplus trousers and a zip-up brown bomber jacket.

The last of the others climbed into the first of two remaining vehicles, a Renault Mégane, leaving the blond leader and one other – the American
.
The Mégane reversed away, pivoted around and swerved along the farm track after the others. The Aussie stood aside as it growled past, sipping a soft drink through a straw.

The two remaining Nice Guys reached some agreement. The tall blond man closed the farmhouse door, before they climbed into the last vehicle, a tan Ford Mondeo estate. As that too pulled a three-point turn and headed to the main gate, Heck sank behind the wall, toying with various options. He glanced at his watch. It was still an hour before his RV with the Northumbria shooters. So what did he do – leg it back to the payphone, call Ben Kane again, and tell him the birds had temporarily flown? Maybe put an all-points on the vehicles? Not that he’d had a chance to memorise any of their registration numbers. He perhaps ought to warn Northumbria that at least a few of the Nice Guys were currently not here. That meant they’d have to make a very covert approach, and find a lying-up point somewhere close by. Of course, he was due to meet them himself in an hour’s time. He could give them that message personally.

He surveyed the house again, wondering how many targets were still on the premises. Their skipper had closed the front door firmly, ensuring it was locked.

Crazy thoughts played through Heck’s mind. The house itself was pretty standard for these parts: gabled and built from plain grey stone. It consisted of a central block, but like so many old farmhouses that had been added to over countless ages, various wings and annexes jutted out, each with a different levelled roof. As a sop to the holidaymakers who’d normally rent this place, there was a lawn on the right side, while the drive and the forecourt were covered with fine gravel. Now the present occupants had left, there wasn’t a hint of life there; not a flicker of movement beyond its small windows. But Heck’s concerns still carried weight. There’d likely be a treasure trove of evidence behind that closed door, which he could expect to go up in smoke if Northumbria Firearms – how had Ben Kane phrased it? – threw a ring around the place. Warnings would go out to other Nice Guys units not on site.

Quite simply, the investigators stood to lose too much if Heck just remained on the perimeter, watching. He glanced at the Aussie sentry. The guy’s back was turned. He’d closed the gate and was taking a long leak against its left-hand post.

Though every molecule in Heck’s body told him this was a bad idea, he stood upright and swung his legs over the wall. Scalp tingling, he walked quickly towards the house. It was tempting to break into a run, but he maintained a leisurely pace. When you ran you made ridiculous mistakes – like kicking over unseen bottles, or tripping and falling. The front door was directly ahead by about twenty yards. It was made of solid oak, with a narrow frosted glass panel in the centre – and of course it was locked. He risked another glance towards the sentry, whose back was still turned. Thanking God for cans of takeaway Cola, Heck veered left towards the northwest corner, sliding thankfully around it so that he was out of sight of the main gate.

He pressed on down the side of the house, a clutch of stone and timber outbuildings coming up on his left. Most looked closed and locked, but it meant there were plenty of places for Nice Guys to be lurking. He also had to pass several ground-floor windows, through any one of which he’d be visible from the inside, though in all cases he saw only empty, wood-panelled rooms, one containing a table heaped with rubbish. Away from the front of the house, the windows were more functional than ornate – sheets of glass in basic PVC frames. He tried each one, but found them locked. He was fully prepared to break and enter if necessary – whatever the legal consequences might be, they were far outweighed by the larger gain of taking the Nice Guys off the street. He’d find some way around the irregularity – he always did; though it would help if he didn’t have to smash something.

Heck rounded another corner. A potting shed stood to the left, alongside a disused garage. Beyond those, the encircling trees encroached closely – he’d be able to nip to cover quickly in the event he heard someone coming. But this didn’t resolve his problem of how to gain entry.

He rounded another corner, entering the farmyard proper. This was a paved open space, rectangular in shape and partially covered with straw. It extended about sixty yards by forty to a wire fence, beyond which lay empty paddocks. More farm outbuildings stood down either side of it. Several hung open, exposing rank darkness inside. Heck halted and listened. Only after several seconds did he venture forward, proceeding along the back of the house – where he halted again.

The rear door stood ajar.

This gave him real pause for thought.

An open door likely meant someone was on the premises. In fact, as Heck’s ears strained, he fancied he could hear something beyond the farm buildings. Music, very faint and tinny. Someone was working over there but wearing earphones. He stood rigid by the wall as he processed this information. A guard at the front, and someone out here at the back. It felt like madness to continue. But an open door was a big invitation. It also offered the advantage of a silent entry.

He’d come this far, he decided, proceeding. He peeked through another window before passing it, scanning a traditional farmhouse kitchen: stone worktops, a cast-iron range, a brick floor, crockery and ironmongery on walls and shelves. It looked improbably neat. They clearly hadn’t been preparing their own food; another measure against the risk of leaving DNA. No doubt their heap of takeaway refuse would be incinerated before they departed. In fact, giant-size plastic bottles of bleach and white spirit were visible in one corner, suggesting the entire place would be cleansed after use. An enclave of professional killers, he reminded himself – who had come here unnoticed, wreaking indescribable carnage, and then would simply vanish again. An amazing notion. Even more so, given that he was about to walk into their centre of operations and sign their communal death warrant.

Steeling himself with that thought, he slipped past the window and pushed at the kitchen door, which eased open. The Glock was still tucked into his waistband, but he kept his right hand on its grip. He wasn’t even authorised to be carrying it at present; he didn’t want to use it if he didn’t have to – but he wasn’t going to become the centrepiece of the Nice Guys’ next bonfire.

Again, he listened long and hard. The only sound from the interior was the steady tick of a grandfather clock. Heck glanced again over his shoulder – no one was in sight – then wiped his feet on the mat and stepped across the threshold.

The interior of the farmhouse was rougher and readier than the safehouse in the Cotswolds. It hadn’t been modernised, but it was handsomely finished in the Jacobean style, with plenty of beams and panelling, original stone features, and numerous rural ornaments on show, from horse brasses to hunting bugles. Aside from the kitchen and hall, there were four spacious reception rooms, though none seemed to have any specific or individual purpose. The grandfather clock stood by the front door, at the foot of an awkwardly twisting staircase. Thanks to the small windows, the place was dim, almost gloomy, and as Heck prowled from one chamber to the next, this heightened his awareness that he was on dangerous ground. But still he heard nothing: no creak from overhead; no sounds of movement aside from his own.