by Paul Finch
Gemma pondered this. There was no doubt she was torn. If Heck’s actions leading to the fatal accident were reckless, he’d also showed exceptional bravery, which was something she valued in her officers.
‘Even if the suspects had got away, ma’am, I couldn’t afford to lose that van,’ he added. ‘It was chock full of physical evidence.’
‘Celebrating its capture hardly seemed appropriate, given that two men had died.’
‘I know that.’
She sat back. ‘It won’t surprise you to learn that Max Humphreys has distanced himself – by some margin – from the comments Bob Hunter made on the hospital steps.’
‘No, that doesn’t surprise me.’
Detective Chief Superintendent Max Humphreys of the Thames Valley Police, nominal SIO in the M1 Maniac enquiry, had struck Heck from the outset as an uninspiring leader; too old and tired, too disorganised, and alarmingly prone to avoiding responsibility. For all that, Bob Hunter’s triumphalist attitude in front of the press had been very ill-advised, given the errors that would later emerge.
‘Now in actual fact,’ Gemma said, ‘I’m not too concerned that you were involved in that extremely injudicious press conference. I know you were acting under Hunter’s orders, and I’ve already had it verbatim from DCs Quinnell and McCluskey that you were against the idea. But I’m very concerned at the way this investigation ended overall. What should have been a feather in our cap has brought ridicule on us. The press are ripping us a new one.’
Heck snorted. ‘To be fair, ma’am, the press did their own bit to turn the M1 Maniac into a monster. They created the name, they caused the anti-gay panic. In fact, the whole thing’s ended too quickly for them. They wanted more and more – a show-trial, exemplary sentences, maybe a protracted appeals process. And now they can’t have it, and they’re looking for scapegoats …’
‘Have you finished?’ she asked, eyebrows arched. ‘Because anyone would think you believe the investigation was handled well!’
He shook his head. ‘Ma’am, Chief Superintendent Humphreys …’
‘I’m well aware of Max Humphreys’ shortcomings. He’ll be getting exactly the same bollocking up at Thames Valley that you lot are getting now. But Max Humphreys is a carrot cruncher, whereas we’re supposed to be experts. We were advising him, leading the enquiry, and by the looks of it, missing stuff that was right under our noses.’
Heck nodded, unable to disagree. ‘That’s why I spent three days going back through the files. I’d never known any case before where we just weren’t getting anywhere.’
‘And it was good initiative. So congratulations. And I mean that, Heck.’ She sighed, the annoyance finally sapped out of her. ‘If you hadn’t done what you did, God alone knows how this thing would have ended. But … and I appreciate it may not seem very important after how close you came to getting killed, this is not the way the brass want the Serial Crimes Unit portrayed. Like some redneck posse charging around. Especially not after the investigation was botched. Needless to say, the Savage family is pushing for a public enquiry. The coroner exonerated us of any wrongdoing, the case is officially closed and it’s in no one’s interest to rake over it again, so I’m sure we’ll be spared that … thank God. But at the end of the day it’s about professionalism. We need to keep the mayhem to a minimum.’
‘Has anyone told the criminals that?’
She arched an eyebrow again. ‘Are you trying to be clever?’
‘No, ma’am … but, it’s not an irrelevant point.’
‘One way or another, the criminals will go down. My concern is that SCU may go down with them.’
‘How so? We stopped the M1 killers …’
‘We also stopped the Nice Guys Club, and look at the bad publicity that caused.’
‘That was Laycock.’
‘And he paid the price,’ she said. ‘Which should be a salutary lesson to all of us.’
Heck pursed his lips, nodding. There was no question that she was right on that score. The Nice Guys enquiry, in which he had played an integral role, had led to several deaths on both sides of the law, and an embarrassing internal investigation, which eventually saw National Crime Group Commander Jim Laycock demoted in rank and removed from his post for gross negligence. If Heck had got his own way, Laycock would have been investigated for criminal activity, but there hadn’t been sufficient evidence of that.
‘The point is that attention is now focused on us,’ Gemma said. ‘On SCU. We’re a key facet of the National Crime Group. We’re part of the bright new future for British law enforcement. Or at least we were, until we started initiating cock-ups on a regular basis.’
‘I wouldn’t call it regular …’
‘One is too many, Heck! Two is a total clusterfuck.’
That was a sure proof of how upset she was: Gemma almost never swore. She took another moment to compose herself. ‘So the first thing I’m going to do is appoint a full-time Media Liaison Officer.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Just for us,’ she added. ‘A civvie … a real pro. Someone who can give us a far more professional face.’
‘Does the budget extend to that?’
‘It wouldn’t do normally, but as you know, Des Palliser’s retiring at the end of next month. If I don’t replace him we can manage it.’
‘You’re going to replace an operational DI with a civvie?’
‘He’s hardly operational. He’s been acting duty-officer for the last eighteen months, which means filing paperwork and manning phones. I’m sure we can live without him.’
‘Someone’ll have to do that job.’
She eyed him carefully. ‘Bob Hunter.’
Heck thought he’d misheard. ‘You’re taking Hunter off the streets?’
Gemma shuffled the paperwork on her desk. ‘Bob’s better days are behind him. Milton Keynes wasn’t the first time he’s shown a lack of judgment recently.’
‘But we’re already under-strength, ma’am.’
‘Bob Hunter’s grounded for the foreseeable, and that’s all there is to it. We are under-strength, I agree … but the last thing I need at present is a loose cannon out in the field. Now let’s get back to work. We’re all busy.’ Heck stood up. Gemma was already engrossed in checking another report. He headed for the door. ‘Well done on the case,’ she said to his back. He glanced around, but she didn’t look up. ‘I said I meant that, and I do. But none of us smell of roses right now. And I have to take any action necessary to put that right.’
Heck nodded and left.
Chapter 6
If nothing else, Kate was glad it was spring.
Okay, some parts of Liverpool didn’t look great at any time of year, and Toxteth was undoubtedly one of them, especially when rainy as today. But just standing outside the front of the shop this evening and not having to wrap up like an Eskimo was a boon.
To call the winter that had just passed ‘bitter’ would have been a big understatement. An arctic air-stream had caused record lows and persistent whiteouts across the whole of the UK from mid-December until well into February. Great fun, of course, for the kiddies, whose schools were repeatedly closed. But there were an awful lot of people for whom those conditions were a living hell. The flotsam of the city – the lonely, the homeless, the sick, the drug-addled – did well to get through their average day and keep warm, dry and fed, but rotting cardboard boxes, piss-stained sleeping bags and windy concrete underpasses offered scant protection when the ice and snow bit with that much savagery.
Kate chuffed on her cig, and considered it a miracle that any of her charges had survived this last winter at all – and they weren’t totally out of the woods yet. It was seven o’clock now and today’s inclement weather appeared to be clearing at last, though it still felt dank and chilly.
She was in the process of closing up, loading bundles of plastic-wrapped second-hand clothing, all cleaned and pressed, into the boot of her battered old Ford Fiesta. The backstreet on which the charity shop was located, whic
h was unused by any other businesses, became a deep, dark canyon once night fell. Only a single yellow lamp glowed at the far end, and as the street was narrow and the industrial buildings running down either side of it were tall, gloomy and mostly windowless, no more than a thin slice of sky was visible overhead. Kate shivered as she loaded the last bundle into the boot. She would get all this lot down to the Whitechapel Centre on Langsdale Street and then hang around to see if they needed a spare volunteer for the evening. She’d put in a lot of hours recently, but she didn’t care. She wouldn’t sleep easily tonight knowing there were people out of doors who’d be neither warm nor dry.
She stubbed her cigarette out, pulled her Afghan coat on, wove a scarf around her neck and was about to switch the lights off inside, when she heard a loud, metallic clank from somewhere to the rear of the shop. She stopped what she was doing to listen. No additional sound followed. Assuming something in the kitchen had fallen over, she wandered into the shop to check, remembering that she needed to empty the bin while she was at it – but nothing looked to have been disturbed. Her knife, fork and dinner plate were stacked on the draining board, where she’d left them that lunchtime. Her coffee cup was in its usual place alongside the kettle, which was safely unplugged, its cable wound around it. The doors to the fridge and microwave were both closed; the dishcloth and sponge were in the washing-up bowl, the Fairy Liquid on the windowsill.
Shrugging, Kate lugged the bulging plastic sack from out of the bin, tying its neck in a knot, and opened the back door – and only then did it occur to her that perhaps the sound she’d heard had come from outside. That wouldn’t be unusual, even though she worked here alone; this was a city, people did things at all hours, there were loud noises. And yet, fleetingly, she was hesitant to go and investigate the murky yard. The only light out there came from the interior of the shop via its grimy window and narrow back door. There was a faint ambient glow in the sky – the residue of surrounding street lighting, though no lamps shone directly down on the yard.
Kate hovered on the step. From what she could see, everything looked to be in place: the wheelie-bin, the bucket and mop, the row of empty plant-pots. There was nothing suspicious here.
Except that the back gate was open.
That wasn’t a big thing in itself, though Kate was sure she’d closed it earlier. Was that the sound she’d heard? Had someone climbed over the gate to case the place, and had they then opened it to get away again?
Good luck to them, she thought; it wasn’t like there was much here worth stealing.
Her eyes had now adapted to the dimness, and she could see that she was alone. There was no dilapidated shed for someone to hide behind, no concealed corner where they might crouch unseen. Deciding she was being daft, she went boldly forward, throwing the rubbish sack into the bin and walking over to the gate. She even stepped outside it. The cobbled alley beyond wasn’t too salubrious, but they never were in this part of town. There were no other vehicles of course; no one was packing or unpacking goods. But at least that meant she could see clear down to either end of the alley. On the left it ran forty litter-strewn yards before halting at a wall of sheer bricks. On the right it ran further, eighty yards or more, and then opened into an adjacent road. Even down there, the street lighting was restricted to a narrow gap, where a caul of mist was slowly twisting.
That was spooky for sure, but it wasn’t unusual either – even if Kate did stare at it for several seconds, as though mesmerised. They were very near the river. And it was only April, as she kept reminding herself. The main thing was that there was no one skulking about. She went back into the yard, this time ensuring to close and bolt the gate, then re-entered the building, locking the back door behind her, before turning the lights off and leaving the shop.
Her car was years old, so it would take an age for the radiator to warm up. Kate pulled her mittens on, twisted the key in the ignition and steered the chugging old motor along the street. That sound she’d heard would have been nothing, but it was strange how even though you’d worked in the heart of the city for so many years, its dreary facades and bleak, empty passages could occasionally menace you. Perhaps it was the way the light leached into its stones, the way shadows seemed to clot at its every nook and corner. You were surrounded by people in the inner city, yet it was the easiest place in the world to feel isolated and threatened. How much worse it must be, of course, for those who roamed it endlessly with no place to call their own.
In perfect sync with these thoughts, and before Kate had even reached the next junction, her headlights swept over another pathetic specimen of humanity huddled in a trash-filled doorway. All she saw at first was a dingy quilted blanket, frayed around its edges and odiously stained. The shape curled up beneath was visibly shuddering.
She pulled up at the kerb and applied the handbrake, but left the engine running to try and warm the vehicle’s interior. She climbed out amid clouds of exhaust made thick and pungent by the dampness. The poor sod must have known she was there, but made no effort to look up.
‘Hi,’ Kate said, approaching cautiously. Even someone with experience had to be a little bit careful – some of these cases were so damaged that they were almost animalistic in their reaction when frightened or disturbed. ‘Can I help?’
There was no response. The shrouded form continued to shudder. God alone knew how long the miserable creature had been out here.
‘My name’s Kate. I run the outreach shop at the end of the road there. Look … there’s nothing to be scared of. I’m sure I can assist.’ Kate hunkered down. ‘I’m on my way to one of the shelters in the centre of town right now. Why don’t you hop in and I’ll give you a lift? In half an hour you’ll be drinking hot soup and have a proper bed to sleep in. You can have a wash, a change of clothes …’ Whoever was under there stopped shuddering, as if they were suddenly listening. ‘Here,’ Kate said, encouraged. She reached forward to peel the ragged blanket away. ‘Let me help you …’
The figure sprang.
Kate never saw this – before she knew it, she was the one swathed in filthy material. The pavement hit her in the back. She gasped with shock, but could barely draw a breath as the blanket was wrapped tightly around her – as if she was being quickly and efficiently packaged. Something cinched her waist – a rope or belt – binding her arms tightly to her sides. Effortlessly, she was scooped into someone’s arms.
Kate made muffled screams, even though she knew no one could hear her. She was flung into the back seat of her own vehicle, where what felt like further straps were fixed in place and another blanket was tossed over her. A split second later someone climbed into the driving seat, closed the door and put the car in gear.
She screamed again, futilely. The traitorous vehicle rumbled on along the narrow street as though the brief, terrifying interlude had never occurred.
Chapter 7
‘Get stuffed, Heck!’ Shawna McCluskey said. ‘That wasn’t me.’
‘It was,’ Heck assured the bunch of detectives crammed around them in the pub vault. ‘I drive round the back to try and cut these idiots off. I look up, and there’s two uniforms coming down the other side of the pub. One of them’s Shawna. These two lads they’re chasing see me in the panda car, and cut across this patch of grass. Shawna veers over it to intercept. Best rugby tackle you’ve ever seen. She took this big bastard right out, almost killed him.’
There was laughter.
‘That wasn’t me,’ Shawna informed everyone for the umpteenth time.
‘And what had he done again?’ Des Palliser asked.
‘He’d only bitten some bugger’s nose and ear off in a fight in the pub,’ Heck said. ‘The other one had kicked the shit out of the landlord when he objected. Anyway, she takes out Jaws, and then wallops the other one as well. Puts him down with one punch.’
There was more laughter.
‘That wasn’t me either,’ Shawna said tartly. ‘It was Ian Kershaw. “Dreadnought”, we used to call him. He d
idn’t want the lock-up because it was ten minutes to finishing time and it was his sister’s wedding the next day. I took the prisoners for him.’
‘What did the two scrotes say?’ Gary Quinnell asked.
‘Nothing,’ Heck replied. ‘They were out cold. They didn’t know who’d hit them.’
There were further roars of laughter.
The Chop House was located under the arches on the edge of Borough Market, and was redolent with Victoriana: leaded windows, etched mirrors, elegant hardwood décor, and an open fire. Its various rooms were packed with off-duty police and police civilian staff, the booze was flowing and there was an atmosphere of bonhomie.
Shawna shook her head as though tolerating the boyishness around her, and handed Heck her empty glass. ‘For that, it’s your round.’
Heck nodded and threaded his way through to the bar, taking a rash of orders en route. Bob Hunter was leaning there, a treble scotch in his hand. He looked rumpled and sour-faced; his tie hung in a limp knot.
‘Everyone’s having a good time, I see,’ he said as Heck put the order in.
‘Gotta give Des a send-off, haven’t we?’ Heck replied.
‘No sign of the Lioness yet?’
Heck looked around. ‘Thought she’d be in by now.’
It was possible that Gemma was in one of the other rooms – she always had a lot of flesh to press at police functions – but the bulk of SCU were squashed into this one, so he’d have expected her to come in here first, probably to buy Des Palliser a drink.
‘Second round of interviews this afternoon for the Media Liaison job, wasn’t it?’ Hunter said.
‘Oh yeah, that.’
‘Yeah … that. What a fucking joke, eh? This is the way they repay us for taking nutjobs off the street.’
