Sacrifice

by Paul Finch

  ‘Silver Command,’ Gemma added, ‘that’s me and DCI Garrickson, will be based at the MIR and will focus initially on the double murder in Bolton. DCI Garrickson will also action-manage the enquiry overall. We’re all going to have to double-hat on this one, ladies and gents. Bronze Command is comprised as follows: DI Kane – DSIO Leeds; DI Brunwick – DSIO Preston. Most of you haven’t met her yet, but Claire Moody is now our Media Liaison Officer.’

  Claire, who was standing to one side, nodded as everyone focused on her.

  ‘Claire hasn’t had time to assemble her department yet, so for the time being she’ll be working with me to devise a full media strategy,’ Gemma said. ‘The rest of you, primary responsibilities are outlined in the briefing notes, and are as follows …’

  There was a slow bustle in the room as, one by one, the team members were assigned their roles and duties; laptops snapped shut, documents were stuffed into briefcases. When Gemma received a call on her mobile, she stepped through into a side office, and the meeting broke up properly, everyone relaxing and chatting loudly.

  Heck sat at his desk and began to sort his paperwork. Some of it he’d need to take north with him – pending jobs which simply wouldn’t wait. He lifted one more item from his drawer and placed it with the stuff to go. It was a thick, leather-bound ledger, so old and well-thumbed that sticky tape had been used to bind its fraying edges. When he opened it, it was half-filled with photographs of faces – some new, others old and creased. Four more were now added: the headshots of the victims in the Operation Festival brief. He slipped them into the back of the scrapbook rather than gumming them in place. There was no possibility he could classify these as permanent additions yet.

  ‘Hi,’ said a voice.

  Heck glanced up, seeing that Claire had appeared at his shoulder. She peeked curiously at the scrapbook, which he promptly closed.

  ‘So,’ she added. ‘I guess this is the real deal?’ Given the seriousness of the task ahead, she looked amazingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  ‘And you thought you were in at the deep end yesterday,’ he replied. ‘How do you feel now?’

  ‘Well … it’s exciting.’

  Heck was surprised by that, though perhaps he shouldn’t have been. During breakfast the previous day, Claire had cheered up considerably, taking notice when he’d advised her that she would from this point on be an integral part of major criminal investigations, and as such to view herself as a soldier in the war between good and evil. She’d smiled at that, and he’d smiled too, saying that he wasn’t being totally serious with that latter comment, but that it sometimes helped if you regarded these victims of crime as the reason why you did your job, as the impetus behind your work.

  ‘These are the people we go the extra mile for,’ he’d said. ‘And others like them … who may, because of our efforts, avoid the same fate.’

  She’d smiled again at that, liking what she’d heard. Afterwards she’d discussed the murders in Kent with him, keenly, professionally.

  ‘I hope I didn’t seem too wimpish yesterday,’ Claire now said. ‘The way I reacted to those crime scene photos.’

  ‘There’s nothing wimpish about being upset by murder.’

  ‘That egg sarnie you bought me … just what the doctor ordered, as it turned out.’

  ‘It’s not normally an antidote for a queasy stomach, but whatever works. So … you’re happy?’

  ‘Well … I’m clearly on a learning curve. A steep one.’

  He shrugged. ‘Hell, so are the rest of us.’

  ‘Yeah, but I think you guys have a bit of a head start. I mean …’ She flipped through the briefing notes. ‘I’ve got an idea what an Exhibits Officer does, but Disclosure Officer? H-2-H Co-ordinator?’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll pick it all up as you go along.’

  ‘According to this, you are “Minister Without Portfolio”?’ She raised a querying eyebrow.

  Heck smiled. ‘That’s a kind of unofficial title. Means I haven’t got a specified role … more a roving commission. I keep a working knowledge of the enquiry overall and fill in where I’m needed. Not every SIO would go for it, but Gemma seems to think it works.’

  ‘Okay everyone, listen up!’ Gemma shouted as she came back in.

  The room fell silent again.

  ‘As you all know, we’ve lost the Golden Hour advantage. But let’s not regard this as a problem. It may give us the opportunity to create some slow time, allow us to take stock rather than go at this thing like a bull at a gate. For this reason, while I expect you all to make your own way to your designated command posts, the Easter weekend is about to commence, so that gives us a couple of days to get our crap together. But we start officially on Bank Holiday Monday morning, when I want everyone reporting in by seven sharp. Am I clear?’

  There were mumbles in the affirmative.

  ‘Any further questions?’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got one, ma’am,’ Shawna spoke up. ‘Why has this case been assigned exclusively to SCU?’

  The team listened with interest. It was a rare event these days when they were all sent out together.

  Gemma half-smiled, as if she’d anticipated this query and had not been looking forward to it. ‘Owing to the disparate geographic locations, this enquiry can’t fall under any single force’s jurisdiction. Which makes it ideal for the Serial Crimes Unit. But …’ and she sighed, ‘in reality, it’s a case of the fewer officers involved, the better. The brass were quite clear. They want this kept in-house. So far, the public and press aren’t aware that we’ve got another series to deal with. And that’s the way we want it to stay.’

  ‘We’ll obviously be using some local troops when we get out into the sticks,’ Garrickson added. ‘But we’ve got to keep a tight bloody rein on it. We can’t have horror stories running the length of the country. We can’t have panic in the streets and public disorder. Not again. The M1 enquiry was a disaster in that regard. Made SCU look the biggest idiots since Charley Farley and Piggy Malone.’

  Gemma didn’t flinch when Garrickson said this, but Heck couldn’t imagine she wouldn’t be irked to hear such statements from an outsider.

  ‘In this respect, Operation Festival is under a news blackout,’ she said. ‘That means every aspect of it is embargoed. I’m serious, people. You don’t talk to anyone about this. Neither friends nor loved ones. And all contacts with the press – all of them – are to be conducted through Claire Moody. Look … we might as well face facts. Police cuts are the in-thing at present, and the Home Office is watching SCU. Units like ours cost a lot of money, and after the M1 enquiry people are wondering if that investment’s been worth it. Joe Wullerton reckons the best way we can prove we are is to get out into the field as a self-contained unit and take down some bad guys. And I agree with him. It’s in all our interests to make this work.’

  She paused to let that sink in.

  ‘There’s one other thing.’ Her tone now changed; softened, yet at the same time seemed to intensify. Briefly, her penetrating blue eyes fixed on each and every one of them. ‘I want you to put all sensational aspects of this case out of your mind. Let’s remember that, no matter how grotesquely the assailant has dressed it up, each one of these homicides is a human tragedy, which has had and will continue to have devastating repercussions for countless people above and beyond those whose lives have actually been taken. I’ll say what I always say at times like this … we can’t bring these victims back or undo the torture they suffered. But as the investigating police team we are morally and professionally obliged to put the one responsible for this in front of a court. There is no greater duty. No one in the world at this moment has a more vital job when it comes to the safety and security of families, communities, the country where we live as a whole. You all know what you have to do, ladies and gents – so get out there and do it.’

  Chapter 12

  Kate wasn’t sure how long the racket from overhead had been going on for, but it seemed like
a day at least: the relentless hammering, the grinding shriek of wood-saws. It echoed in the deep, narrow dungeon, beating the three prisoners down like a fist.

  But this was only a new torture to lay alongside those others they’d already been suffering. The heat in the cramped cell had become stifling, and with it the stench. Three people having to defecate in the same place over and over created a reek so overpowering that they could almost taste it.

  And then there was the thirst.

  Every so often a cable was lowered from the blackness overhead – it was a coaxial cable with a dim bulb located halfway up it to allow them to see, and a bucket suspended at its end. Sometimes this bucket contained a few scraps of bread, a few rashers of bacon, a raw carrot or two, but though Carl said that at other times it was filled with water, there hadn’t been anything to drink all the time Kate had been held here, and they were now parched.

  Carl and Lee’s answer to this was to lie groaning, though the latter’s suffering was worse as he was also going through cold turkey. Kate understood this to an extent; her own cravings for a cigarette were nagging at her, though they couldn’t be half as painful as Lee’s. She’d tried to assist, but her lighter had long ago exhausted its supply of fuel and in the pitch-dark she’d been unable to do anything useful with his trembling, sweat-soaked form. Carl, who’d initially appeared to be the stronger of the two, hadn’t turned out to be much of a cellmate either. On this last day in particular, he’d collapsed as though having a breakdown, whimpering about the noise, about his throat being dry as shoe-leather. But even before then, when she’d attempted to talk to him about a possible escape, he’d been spectacularly useless.

  ‘Look … I couldn’t have dropped too far,’ she’d said quietly, fearful that their captor might be listening to them. ‘Otherwise I’d have broken something. That means if one of us climbs on the other’s shoulders, he might be able to reach the trapdoor.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Carl had replied in a voice of disbelief.

  She’d imagined his weasel face elongated with shock at the mere suggestion he do something physical, those jaundiced bug-eyes ready to plop from their sockets like poached eggs.

  ‘I know we’re not gymnasts,’ she’d persisted. ‘But how hard can it be when our lives may depend on it? Look, you try climbing onto my shoulders first.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Carl … you might be able to get out of here! Then you can go and get help.’

  ‘Me … go to the pigs?’ He’d sounded outraged by the mere notion.

  ‘Who else do you think is going to come and save us? The House-Breakers Union? Car Thieves Incorporated?’

  ‘I’ll never fucking make it,’ he’d whined.

  ‘We’ll never make it if we stay down here. At least Lee won’t. He needs to be in hospital.’

  ‘That’s his fucking problem. He’s the junkie. Do you think I haven’t wanted to do drugs? Think I haven’t had a shit life I’d like to forget from time to time …’

  She’d sighed, rubbing her aching forehead. ‘Maybe I can get on your shoulders then.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ he’d scoffed.

  ‘Christ, you’re fucking spineless!’ It was a rare occasion when Kate lost her temper. Apart from anything else, it generally served no purpose. She’d learned from experience that people who faced abuse every day tended to stop responding to it. The same thing had happened now.

  ‘Whatever,’ he’d said, uninterested.

  ‘You can at least try,’ she’d pleaded. ‘If we don’t try, we’ll be stuck here.’

  ‘We won’t be stuck here. He’ll let us out at some point. He must do. Why would he be keeping us alive?’

  That question again – increasingly one Kate had no desire to ponder.

  And then they’d heard movement overhead, and any hope that they might climb acrobatically out of here was gone, because the hammering and sawing had started. At first Kate had shouted, trying to be heard above the ear-pummelling dirge.

  ‘For God’s sake give us a break, won’t you! Isn’t it enough that we’re turning blind down here? Isn’t it enough we’re choking to death on our own stink? For Christ’s sake show some pity! We’re human beings, not animals! You bastard … you sodding, heartless bastard, we’re dying down here!’

  Of course, even she at length had slumped down, broken and sobbing, though she knew that was unwise as it would expend even more vital moisture from her body.

  Uncountable hours later it seemed, the bedlam above ended as it had begun – abruptly, without warning. A roaring silence followed.

  Kate gazed weakly up into the blackness. As always, not even a glint of light was visible. Carl was moaning to himself again, muttering incoherently. There was no sound from Lee, which was some kind of small mercy. Slowly and exhaustedly, Kate rose to her feet. She crooked her neck back to shout again. ‘Please … pleeeaaase … give us something! If nothing else, we need water!’

  She was so unused to getting any response that her surprise when a hatch creaked open almost knocked her flat. She peered upward, fascinated, at a square of dim light. She heard a dull clank and realised that the metal bucket was being lowered. Droplets of cold water scattered over her as it slopped during its descent.

  It was the same pattern as before. The electric bulb, fixed about seven feet above the bucket, was activated when it was almost within reach. The drear brick walls of the cylindrical prison sprang into blinding relief. Carl came scuttling from his corner, a begrimed stick-insect, his red-rimmed eyes goggling, but Kate got hold of the bucket first. Only a few days ago it would have been inconceivable that she’d take any food or drink from a receptacle like this. It was dirty, dented, its rim rusted, its broken handle fastened with duct-tape. But at this moment it might have been a crystal goblet. What was more, it was brimming with fresh, clean water.

  She took several deep draughts before Carl snatched it away and began to guzzle. There was only a quarter of the bucket left when it occurred to Kate that Lee would need some as well. She grabbed the bucket back and carried it over to their semi-comatose companion, managing to dribble some water into his gaping mouth. At first it overflowed and ran down his chin, but then he coughed and choked and even though he didn’t open his eyes, he began to swallow – swallowing and swallowing until there was no water left.

  Immediately the bucket ascended, swaying out of Kate’s reach. She glanced up, wondering if she might see their captor’s head in the aperture, but there was nothing.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouted. ‘Hey, you’ve not gone too far yet! We’re all still alive down here, no thanks to you! Look … why don’t you let us go before this turns into something much worse? I don’t care how you do it … blindfold us, gag us, take us and dump us on a motorway somewhere. But we’re not dead yet, so you need to get real!’

  Carl muttered something. It sounded like: ‘Can’t feel my feet …’

  She glanced around at him. The light from the bulb was extinguished as the bucket was lifted from view overhead, but the dim pillar of radiance descending from the hatch was still sufficient to show Carl standing against the wall. He leaned on the bricks with one hand but had doubled forward. He shook his head groggily, and his free hand groped at his brow, which shone with sweat. As he sank slowly to his knees, Kate felt a growing lethargy and heaviness in her limbs, which went way beyond anything she’d known up to now. Suddenly she too was groggy – she tried to shake it off, but she was turning nauseous as well. Her vision fogged over and she slumped down onto her side. The last thing she saw before unconsciousness overwhelmed her was a rope-ladder unravelling into the pit, and a figure descending with what looked like several bundles of cable over its brawny shoulder.

  Chapter 13

  Even for officers in SCU, messages arriving before six in the morning were so rare that they tended to mean bad news. Heck wasn’t aware what time it was when the mobile, which he always left on his bedside cabin
et at night, began bleeping in the darkness. Before his groping hand managed to locate the offending article, he focused across the room on the digital clock, whose glowing numerals read 5.58 a.m.

  He put the phone to his ear, at the same time yanking the pull-cord on the bedside lamp. ‘Yeah, Heckenburg?’

  ‘Heck!’ It was Shawna McCluskey. ‘Are you online?’

  ‘I’m in bloody bed. What’s going on?’

  ‘You’d better get online quickly.’

  Heck cradled the phone under his chin as he blundered down the darkened passage to the small, cold room he used as his office.

  When he got online, he found that Gemma had just circulated an MPEG.

  ‘That’s crime scene footage … shot about an hour ago by Merseyside Police,’ Shawna said.

  Heck’s matted hair stiffened as he gazed at the pixellating image.

  ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘What do I think?’ he said. ‘I think someone’s just cancelled the Easter break.’

  Bad as it had appeared on film, the crime scene was even more terrible in reality.

  Though most of the team was able to cut short their weekend break early, the Bank Holiday traffic was flowing thickly by mid-morning, so it had taken them several hours to flog their way up the M1 and M6 motorways, and then join the M62, where it ran west from Greater Manchester into Liverpool. The weather was fine, remarkably sunny for an early day in April, so that made the going all the heavier.

  The slagheap in question, a great barren hummock of spoil-land on the north side of the motorway, had once been part of the Sutton Manor colliery complex, the rest of which was now long vanished. It stood maybe fifty metres at its apex, so its upper ridge was visible from the M62 even though Merseyside Police had managed to screen off its lower section with tall curtains of canvas and steel, which they’d borrowed from a festival staging company and had deployed along the motorway’s hard shoulder, having first closed that stretch of the nearside lane and turned it into a temporary car park. Gemma’s team left their vehicles here because in this first instance they themselves were not permitted access to the slagheap. An unmade road led onto it from the rear, but for the time being that, and much else of the open land on the other side, had been closed off for finger-tip inspection by Merseyside crime scene examiners.