by Paul Finch
There was a burst of static, a scrambled dirge of electronic disruption. Eric Fisher had said that his editing skills weren’t high-end.
Enwright now seemed to have regained his composure. He stepped forward, pausing, only to throw at Heck a look of such loathing that fleetingly, he seemed animalistic. ‘Just shoot him, Jasmine. This meddling fool has had his chance …’
‘Jasmine is a naturally beautiful child,’ his electronic twin added. The pretty schoolgirl’s icy gaze was still fixed on Heck, but suddenly she wasn’t seeing him.
‘One would never have expected to find her an outcast …’
‘These are my private files, compiled in my capacity as school counsellor,’ Enwright said hurriedly.
‘But her emotions are in ribbons. Raped repeatedly by her stepfather, she embraced her new life at boarding school as an escape … only to find difficulty associating with others. Her looks and femininity have become millstones around her neck. Abused women often seek to reduce their attractiveness, hacking off their hair, disdaining beauty products …’
‘If you won’t do it, I will,’ Enwright said, reaching for the gun – only for Jasmine to lurch away from him. Her attention was still riveted on Heck, but she was listening intently.
‘Jasmine closes herself off. Refuses to participate in any form of social life. But she is a human being, with human needs … it will be easier to target her through Gareth, the most handsome boy in the school. Of course, he won’t lay a finger on her until she is ready … his is to be a caring role, not a sexual one. But the sex will come, and that will have a purpose too …’
There was another burst of static. Heck watched the muzzle of the shotgun tautly. Jasmine’s expression was impossible to read, but Enwright’s face gleamed with sweat.
‘Those with a yearning to be wanted, a desperation to belong … one must include them, give them a sense of worth. Only then can one break their individuality …’
‘Are you hearing this?’ Heck shouted.
‘Desensitising children to suffering is never easy, but these particular specimens …’
‘Did you hear that?’
‘… will be easier than most, because all they have ever known is suffering. Heather Greer is clearly a lesbian, though she doesn’t yet suspect, or if she does she is in denial – a form of self-loathing enforced on her by her distant, archly-conservative family.’
‘That’s not true!’ Heather blurted, unsure who she was supposed to be addressing.
‘She doesn’t understand why she isn’t attracted to boys and subsequently is hostile to the endless game of tease and titillation. Likewise, Susan Cavanagh … an ugly, ungainly girl, nicknamed “Craptits” by her classmates. She reviles the culture of the female sexual icon, the glamour models, the Z-list celebrities with enhanced assets and the soulless society in which they are idolised …’
Susan stood stock-still, face frozen.
‘I made these recordings in my role as carer,’ Enwright insisted.
‘Some carer,’ Heck retorted.
But now Jasmine’s finger tightened on the trigger again; her face wore a grimace of rage. ‘This,’ she stammered, ‘this is some sort of trick …’
‘That’s it,’ Enwright agreed. ‘It’s a trick.’
‘Really?’ Heck wondered. ‘They go all the way back through your time at St Bardolph’s.’
‘How easy to persuade such creatures that Britain, a land they have no investment in, is a spiritual desert where sin is rewarded and merit ignored. Religion will be a problem. “Thou shalt not kill”, says the Bible …’
Heck advanced towards the blonde-haired girl. ‘Why don’t you give me the gun, eh?’
‘Back off!’ she snarled.
‘But it has been circumnavigated before. Christians have launched homicidal attacks upon non-Christians. The same goes for Jews and Muslims. This happened because they regarded their targets as evil. Or as innocents who must perish in a greater cause …’
‘Shoot him!’ Enwright urged her. ‘This man has come here to destroy us.’
‘It’s all about the cause. Any cause.’
‘Any cause, Jasmine?’ Heck said. ‘What does that mean exactly?’
There was a further fizzing of static, and then the voice assumed the air and confidence of a commandant: ‘We must remind the world that things were better in the past, that there was a golden age of faith … when community mattered, when people lived simple, healthy lives, enjoying innocent pleasures. Merrie England! The greatest threat to a restoration of which lies with our new heretics, the thoughtless godless who believe in nothing but their own pleasure …’ It relapsed into a sly, fluting chuckle. ‘What babble! Merrie England … what tosh!’
Heck watched the girls’ reactions. Jasmine included, they listened incredulously.
‘A faith of all faiths. Where the enemies are the party-goers … you couldn’t make it up. But there is a serious side … this will be the greatest experiment in history. The Stanford Prison debacle will have nothing on this. That zealous belief can be drawn from the incoherent ramblings of a hack horror writer …’ More static intruded, more devious chuckles. ‘But they are ripe for it. They nod when I tell them we must make examples. No one wants to kill, I assure them, yet some, I can tell already, will kill more easily than others … the world despises them. Why not strike back?’
‘We were an experiment?’ Jasmine said, turning slowly to face her leader.
‘The outcome is the same, Miss Sinclair,’ he replied. ‘Together, we’ve struck mighty blows against a morally bankrupt world.’
‘We were an experiment?!’
‘Not even a real one,’ Heck said, venturing forward. ‘Just his crazy control fantasy. You surely see now that he’s stark staring mad!’
‘You shut up!’ she screeched, her emotions breaking as she whirled back around, training the shotgun on Heck’s midriff – and not noticing Enwright spin and hurl a heavy punch at her jaw.
Jasmine crumpled to the floor, and as she did, Enwright snatched the shotgun from her grasp, twirling to face Heck, who, at only twenty yards’ distance, was well within range.
‘Callow youth,’ Enwright sighed. ‘They promise so much and deliver so little.’
He took casual aim but, like Jasmine, never saw the blow coming from behind.
It was delivered with a two-handed mallet, and it struck him squarely between the shoulder-blades. The impact was gut-thumping, and Enwright turned grey in the cheek as he slumped forward to his knees, dropping the shotgun. Heck dived towards it. Susan, her face streaked with tears, stood over her fallen mentor, still hefting the mallet.
‘You sodding, lying bastard!’ she screamed down at him, only for Heather to snatch her by the collar, screaming equal obscenities.
Heck grabbed up the shotgun and rolled over, only to see the twosome struggling.
‘Didn’t you hear what he said?’ Susan wailed, but Heather thrust her backwards, and she blundered against Claire. There was a splintering crunch. A stool leg collapsed, and Claire was left swinging between heaven and earth, face contorted.
‘It’s that copper who’s lying!’ Heather raved, drawing a blade from inside her coat, raising it high, and charging at Heck. ‘He’s the real liar!’
Heck, who was still on the floor, took aim. He only had one shot left; he would hit his assailant easily – but instead, he elevated the barrel and fired over Heather’s head.
The orange cord was cleanly severed. Claire dropped.
Heather seemed to sense this. She shrieked like a banshee as she ran the last few yards, intent on hacking and slashing her enemy to death.
The shotgun was out of shells, but it was heavy, and Heather was less than three yards away when Heck threw it horizontally into her gut. It struck with a thumping impact, doubling the girl over. She fell to the ground, gagging. Heck stamped on her hand, the knife came loose and he kicked it away.
‘You … you bastard,’ she whimpered, in a combination o
f pain and frustration.
Heck glanced up, and saw that Susan was halfway towards the farm gate when the headlights of a vehicle blazed over her. She tottered to a standstill as the police carrier that had passed them earlier came wallowing to a halt on the other side.
Meanwhile, Claire lay motionless, the orange silk tight around her throat.
Heck lurched towards her, grabbed her in his arms and quickly worked the material loose. A horrific purple welt was visible underneath. She was alabaster white, and didn’t even stir in his grasp. He called her name, slapped her cheeks, and then felt something warm against his face – his head sagged down with relief – her breath.
Chapter 49
A couple of days after her operation, Gemma woke up in a private room attached to the surgical recovery ward, to find sunshine streaming through the half-open blinds, bouquets of flowers at the end of her bed, and Heck sitting alongside her, popping seedless grapes into his mouth.
She eyed him for several moments. Moving anything else wasn’t easy, as she was heavily patched and padded, her right arm and shoulder fastened in stiff orthopaedic supports. She was still attached to a drip, which was supposedly feeding her anaesthetic as well as nutrition, though it perhaps wasn’t feeding it fast enough, because she ached from head to toe.
‘Those grapes are mine, you know,’ Gemma finally said, wincing.
‘I know.’ He popped another into his mouth. ‘They’re good too.’ As usual, he looked like he’d just come in from a lengthy shift: tie loose, collar unbuttoned, jacket rumpled.
‘Apparently, this time you’re the only one who didn’t get hurt?’ she said.
‘Give me a break. What about that dog bite?’
‘Don’t be so soft.’
‘They went down fighting, that’s for sure.’
She pondered that. ‘We got all of them, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What about Enwright?’
Heck shrugged. ‘Two fractured vertebrae, but he’ll recover. That said, I’m not sure he’ll ever be deemed fit to plead. He’s not undergone any evaluation yet, but … I dunno, the guy’s as mad as a hatter.’
‘So long as he’s locked away.’
‘I don’t think there’s any danger there. He’s got Broadmoor written all over him.’
‘And what’s the damage? I mean to us.’
‘Oh … extensive.’
‘Who’s the worst?’
‘You, probably.’
‘Not Shawna?’
‘Not as bad as first feared. Mainly it’s splinters. She’ll be off her feet for a few weeks.’
‘How about Gary?’
‘Headache.’
‘Andy Gregson?’
‘A worse headache, but getting better.’
‘Garrickson and Finnegan?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘You’re all heart, Heck. How’s Claire?’
‘Well …’ He paused, lips pursed, trying not to look too saddened by the near-tragedy that had befallen their former press officer. ‘She’s hurt and she’s shaken up … badly. But there’s no lasting physical injury. She’s a tougher lass than she looks.’
‘Something to tell her grandkids about?’ Gemma suggested.
‘Yeah … sure. But we won’t be seeing her again. I assume you know that?’
Gemma nodded, and grimaced with pain. ‘I … I should never have brought her into this in the first place.’
‘She’d probably have coped in almost any other circumstance.’
‘Maybe.’ She eyed him again. ‘I know you said that you and her were just mates, but I kind of thought, if she’d stayed with us long term … that, well, things between you might have changed?’
‘Thought or hoped?’
‘Wondered.’
‘Some chance.’ He gave her his best wolfish smile. ‘You know there’s only ever been one woman for me.’
‘Trying to catch me when I’m vulnerable?’
He regarded her thoughtfully. It could never be less than alarming to see Gemma in this condition. She was ghostly white; her eyes had circles underneath them so dark they looked like bruises. For someone who normally radiated strength and fire, she was listless, fragile, so feeble she could barely move. But it was important to remember the words of the senior surgeon who’d removed the arrow and at the same time had saved her right arm: ‘I couldn’t have done it without her. The shock alone would have killed most people. She’s a battler, this one.’
‘You’re never vulnerable,’ he said. ‘Take this, for example …’ He took a document from his pocket and unfolded it. ‘It’s a copy of a memo sent from NCG Director Joe Wullerton to the Home Office, dated yesterday.’ He began to read: ‘“In light of the successful conclusion to this enquiry, but also with regard to the exceptional numbers of casualties incurred by the Serial Crimes Unit, the evidence would suggest that, far from being a waste of taxpayers’ money, the SCU in actual fact provides a vital service, despite clear evidence that it is undermanned, under-resourced and lacking in logistical support. It is my firm recommendation that, instead of closing the department down or merging it, we take all necessary action to boost its strength and facilities so that it may continue its essential work …”’
‘Nice,’ Gemma replied, nodding, as if this was something she’d expected.
‘Joe rang this morning to say it’s too early to claim a result, but the signs are good.’
She nodded again, contented.
‘I thought you’d be jumping around the room in paroxysms of glee,’ he said.
‘Sorry … bit under the weather for that.’
‘Now who’s being soft?’
‘Heck, I’ve been thinking … as Des Palliser and Bob Hunter are gone, I’m in desperate need of a new DI.’
‘No worries there. They’ll be queuing up to work with you.’
Her tone remained patient. ‘You know what I’m saying.’
‘Course.’ He smiled again. ‘And the answer’s no. I prefer my roving commission.’
‘You know, Sergeant Heckenburg … you’re never going to get close to me again unless you start climbing the ladder.’
‘Wanna bet?’ He leaned down and kissed her forehead. ‘Got to go. Duty calls.’
‘See you later,’ she said, as he moved to the door.
Outside in the corridor, he met Gemma’s mother. She was hanging her coat in an alcove. He’d once heard it said that if you wanted to see the future self of the girl in your life, you needed only to look at her mother. If that was true, the signs were good for anyone who finished up with Gemma Piper. Melanie Piper was as tall as her daughter, equally trim, equally handsome, equally blonde, though that blonde hair was running a little to silver. As usual, she was attractively dressed, in a flower-patterned frock and heeled sandals.
‘Hello Mrs Piper,’ Heck said.
‘How many times have I told you, Mark?’ she replied admonishingly. ‘It’s “Mel”. Anyway, how’s our girl today?’
‘After a wound like that, most folk would be up and about in around six weeks. With Gemma, it’ll be about six days.’
‘I’ll make sure she doesn’t do anything silly, like go back to work early.’
‘I doubt the insurance will cover her until she’s seen out her doctor’s note.’
‘And how are you, Mark?’
‘I’m okay … good.’
She eyed him critically. ‘Quite a hair-raising case.’
‘That’s the job.’
‘You and Gemma should be together, you know that? It would make you stronger.’
He shrugged, smiled. ‘We’re both pretty strong already.’
‘I said stronger.’
‘Maybe.’
‘There are no maybes about it. See you soon … I hope.’ She bustled past him into her daughter’s private room.
Heck headed outside into the midday sun. He wasn’t sure whether this merry month of May would ever seem quite the same again, though that had been at least
part of the motive behind the recent desecrations, so he determined to put such depressing thoughts from his mind. As he climbed into his car, his mobile rang.
‘Heckenburg,’ he said, placing it to his ear.
‘Hello,’ came an uncertain voice. ‘This is DI Strickand, Nottinghamshire. I understand you’re the Serial Crimes Unit?’
Heck almost laughed. ‘I am at the moment, yeah.’
‘I’ve got something I’d like you to take a look at. But I warn you in advance … it’s a weird one.’
‘That’s okay,’ Heck said, getting a pen out. ‘Weird is what we do.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As with Stalkers, the first novel in this series, there are an awful lot of people I owe a debt of thanks to for this book. However, it is largely the same crowd, so it would seem a bit repetitive to namecheck them all again. In which case, perhaps you can allow me this opportunity to make a brief but rather personal acknowledgement.
My late father, Brian Finch, a very fine author in his own right, and a lifelong inspiration to me, departed this world in 2007 at the tragically young age of 70, having risen from very humble origins in our home town of Wigan, a sooty coal-mining borough back in those days, to embark on a career in television that, quite remarkably, would span almost four decades. He contributed numerous scripts to almost every popular TV show of the 1970s, 1980s, 1990s and 2000s, including such classic crime series as Z Cars, Public Eye, Hunter’s Walk, Shoestring, Juliet Bravo, The Gentle Touch, Bergerac and Saturday Night Thriller, though his crowning glory was his loving adapation of Michelle Magorian’s Goodnight Mister Tom for Carlton Television in 1998, which deservedly won a BAFTA.
All through this time, my dad was an invaluable source of advice, encouragement and ultra-close friendship. I think he’d always harboured hopes that I would follow him into the writing game, but when I joined the Greater Manchester Police he was as supportive as ever. Many years later, when it became obvious that I too had a desire to put pen to paper, he was there at my shoulder again, a font of thoughts and enthusiasm. It was my dad’s suggestion that I should write about what I knew best, police work. Of course, there was no shortage of cop stuff on the telly and an awful lot of authors wanted to participate, but my dad reckoned, correctly, that I would have an advantage over most of them in that I’d actually been out there and had done the job for real.
