by Paul Finch
‘A clip and a half.’
‘Good God. I take it you’re able to account for each one?’
‘I gave a full statement to that effect, but I didn’t shoot anyone, OK?’ He unfastened the harness, wrapped the empty holster in the strap and laid it on the filing cabinets. ‘I kind of wish I had done. It would have saved me a lot of grief, if no one else.’
Gemma looked at her desk. ‘Is this the paperwork you retrieved from Green Van Man?’
He nodded.
‘Just to be clear … you didn’t remove this from the crime scene afterwards?’
‘No way. It was in mid-action. I had no choice because there was no guarantee we were going to collar this fella. If he’d got away and he’d taken this with him, we’d be sitting on a big pile of nothing right now.’
‘And you’re already working on it? Even though you haven’t yet been cleared to resume operational duty?’
‘So, clear me. You’re my commanding officer. If it bothers you, get in touch with Professional Standards. They seemed happy enough last night.’
She gazed at him for long, non-comprehending moments, wondering how it was that Heck always seemed able to bounce back from potentially devastating experiences on duty with seemingly no ill effects, and secretly suspecting that in actual fact he was just very good at concealing them. It wasn’t as if the same viewpoint hadn’t been expressed by several other senior officers, including Joe Wullerton.
‘Like I say,’ he added, ‘the bastard in the bulldozer killed himself – I didn’t do it. So yes, there’ll be other things to deal with, but it’s all purely technical.’ He scrubbed a grimy hand through his matted hair. ‘And frankly, this stuff is more important anyway. In fact, on first viewing, it quickly becomes apparent why that maniac fought to the death to keep it.’
She glanced at the paperwork again, but more, he thought, because she seemed to lack the energy to spar with him. It struck him that Gemma was in a worn-out state too, wearing the same clothes she’d been in the day before, her blonde locks a mess, make-up faded, cheeks sallow. Almost certainly, she’d spent the whole night at Finchley Road, dealing with the prisoners left over from the cinema raid.
‘Just wait.’ She opened her office door and shouted: ‘Anyone going down to the canteen?’
There was no reply, though clearly there were staff around. Heck could hear phones ringing, muffled conversations.
‘Bloody great,’ she said.
He moved to the door. ‘I’ll go?’
‘Forget it.’ She pointed at a chair in the corner; not her chair, he noticed. ‘You grab another two or three minutes. You look like you need them. Coffee and a bacon barm?’
He couldn’t resist smiling. ‘That’d be wonderful.’
She left him in the doorway. Torpor crept up on him again. He found himself leaning against the jamb.
‘Well, well … sounds like you had another adventure last night,’ a voice said.
Heck opened his eyes and saw Gail in the corridor, stripping her jacket off.
‘Just be glad you weren’t there,’ he replied.
She eyed him with a cool air. ‘I hear Jack Reed got shot in the leg?’
‘Yeah. Two rounds. Shattered knee, shattered tibia. Lost pints of blood. If he hadn’t used his own belt as a tourniquet, he’d likely have died at the scene.’
Her expression turned neutral. On one hand, it probably struck her that merely having been present at such an event would be stressful for anyone, but on the other, she no doubt reminded herself that this was Heck, who mostly got what he deserved.
‘And is Her Ladyship furious with you?’ she asked.
‘Well … she’s buying me breakfast.’
‘Quite a price to pay to win that degree of affection.’
‘We’ll see how affectionate she is when she comes back up and I lay my latest theory on her.’
‘Anything you care to share?’
‘Not yet … sorry.’
She looked peeved again. ‘Why be sorry? It’s not like I’m part of it any more.’
‘Gail …’
‘Don’t say anything, Heck. Just go and solve the case and be everyone’s hero for quarter of an hour … before you give her another reason to fall the hell out with you. And if you hear anyone choking to death on the dust between the filing cabinets, don’t worry … it’s only me.’
‘Gail!’
But she’d already gone, vanishing into the MIR.
Gemma returned five minutes later, carrying food and drink. She handed Heck his bacon roll, he thanked her and munched ravenously into it. She also ate, leaning back against the door.
‘Anything new on the perp?’ Heck finally asked, mouth half-full.
‘Nothing on him to indicate who he was,’ Gemma replied. ‘No facial recognition was possible either … seeing as he hasn’t got a face. We’ve fingerprinted and DNA-checked him, but there’s nothing in the database. We’ve circulated his details to Interpol, but they haven’t got back to us yet.’ She took a swig of coffee. ‘The gun, by the way, was an FN SCAR assault rifle. Belgian-made, almost never seen off the battlefield.’ She gave him an appraising look. ‘You’re really lucky to be alive.’
‘I’d say someone up there likes me, but I’ve not given Him much cause of late. It’s probably because I was close to Jack. Jack’s the sort the gods protect.’
‘Yeah, well …’ She scrunched her crumb-filled wrapper into her empty beaker and lobbed them both into the bin. ‘It’s only because of you that Jack’s alive.’
‘Or because it was too dark for Green Van Man to take proper aim.’
‘Jack said you deliberately decoyed the gunman away after he got wounded … purposely drew his attention to yourself.’
Heck shrugged as if it didn’t matter. ‘Reed’s a better bloke than I thought he was. But even if he wasn’t, one dead copper’s always one too many.’
She moved away, tucking the tails of her blouse into her skirt. Producing a mirror and a brush from a drawer, she set up on one of the filing cabinets and tried to do something with her hair.
‘Where’s Gwen, anyway?’ Heck asked.
‘She’s been with Joe Wullerton since the early hours. He’s then going on to NPCC, who’ll have reps at this morning’s meeting of COBRA at Downing Street.’
‘COBRA?’
‘Of course.’ She eyed him through the mirror. ‘Last night’s craziness was terror-related, wasn’t it?’
This was something they’d agreed the previous night, almost as soon as the dust had settled. Because whatever the real organisation was they’d stumbled onto here, it might not take long for the rest of it, firstly, to note that one of its drivers was missing, and secondly, to link it with the shooting incident that everyone was now talking about – which might lead to a wholesale dismantling of whatever operation was in progress. The only option had been to put out a different but plausible cover story.
‘She’s also got a last-minute meeting with a certain Superintendent Brakespeare from Operation Trident,’ Gemma said.
‘Trident?’
‘Concerning this nutty gang kid, Spencer Taylor. The one who did the shooting over in Tottenham earlier this month.’
‘And?’
‘Taylor still hasn’t been found. Seems we are now the official go-to people when wanted felons drop out of sight. If only they knew the truth, eh?’
‘I hope she told Brakespeare to take a running jump.’
‘Most likely, she didn’t.’ Gemma came back to the desk. ‘You know why … because right at this moment, Mark, we need friends rather than enemies. Anyway, enough chit-chat. Talk to me.’
Heck did. Outlining his latest thesis for the next half-hour, along with all the reasoning and calculation that had led him to it. Gemma listened in a state of growing incredulity – for once making no interruptions. But it was only when he opened the laptop and played back the first of the three videos that were stored there that she halted proceedings, taking out her pho
ne and making a call.
‘Gwen … it’s me,’ she said. ‘Just wondering how you’re doing and where you’re up to? OK … excellent. Can you come straight to my office? There’s something you could do with hearing. Yeah … it’s Mark Heckenburg. He has a new theory, well it’s an extension of his old one really. Yes. Yeah … look … I think you should get up here ASAP and hear it for yourself. Yeah … OK.’
She cut the call and looked at Heck. ‘She’ll be here any time.’
Gwen Straker, who’d been in the process of entering the car park when Gemma called, arrived five minutes later. Like Gemma, she too had clearly been up all night, looking uncharacteristically ruffled and saggy-cheeked.
‘The official story about Newham is that it’s terror-related,’ she confirmed, dumping her bag and peeling off her raincoat. ‘The whole of that area’s been sealed off, and Joe’s had NPCC impose the highest level of classification. At present, no one outside Sledgehammer and NPCC knows exactly what happened. How long that’ll last is anyone’s guess. Counter-Terrorism have an inclination, but they’re not asking any questions yet.’
‘Won’t the casualties and their relatives ask questions?’ Heck wondered.
‘Everything the wounded officers’ relatives have been told is “need to know”. With the exception of Jack Reed, the injured lads themselves don’t know a great deal. The deceased officer … Inspector Jake Renshaw, has no family apart from a daughter in New Zealand, who won’t be here for a couple of days.’ Gwen finished by eyeballing Heck long and hard. ‘That’s a lot of favours I’m calling in, Mark … I sincerely hope this new lead you’ve allegedly got is workable.’
He shrugged. ‘Ma’am … in criminal investigation, we can only follow the evidence.’
‘Don’t lecture me, just give me the good stuff.’
‘And, personally …’ he swept his hand over the table, ‘I’ve never been handed a wad of evidence quite like this. In case you were wondering, Green Van Man was carting this around in a rucksack. When I snatched it off him, that’s when he came after us. Me and Reed, I mean … instead of making a run for it. When I realised this mattered to him, I decided that there was no way in hell he was getting it back.’
Gwen pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and leaned down to examine the paperwork. The bulk of it comprised individual typed sheets. In each case, there was a name at the top in capitals and a mugshot in the top right corner. She recognised several of those names and faces immediately. One sheet belonged to Eddie Creeley, for example, another to Leonard Spate, another to Christopher Brenner, another to Terry Godley.
‘You’ll note that there’s personal info on each of these sheets,’ Heck said.
Gwen nodded, observing that in each case, as well as the mugshot and name, there was a physical description, including hair colour, distinguishing marks, even body shape and estimated weight. There was also, on the bottom, a time and date, and underneath that, a postcode.
‘You were on the money about where most of our suspects have gone,’ she said.
Heck shrugged. ‘No surprise to me.’
She gave him a half-irritated glance.
‘You don’t need to count them,’ he said. ‘Of the twenty names on our Most Wanted list, fourteen are here. In all cases, the places where they were picked up correspond roughly with the geographic locations we were investigating.’
She glanced round at him. ‘What do you mean … picked up?’
‘Ma’am, I think these postcodes represent the locations where our fugitives were collected by Green Van Man. Voluntarily, of course. They probably thought they were being spirited off to some safe haven overseas. But, in reality, he was delivering them to a nastier fate.’
She pondered this.
‘There are thirty-eight personal info sheets here in total,’ Heck said. ‘As I say, fourteen of the names featured on them were on our list. But a quick skim through will show that the rest of them were bad eggs too. Look at this one … Byron Jervis, remember him?’
‘The name’s familiar.’
‘Murdered a little girl he’d abducted from a back garden in Blackpool.’
‘I remember him now,’ she said. ‘That was several years ago, though.’
‘These files date back about six months,’ Heck said, ‘but all these guys are fugitives who’ve been on the run for a while.’ He picked another up. ‘Gavin Fortescue wasn’t on our list either, but he battered to death a mentally ill man after luring him out onto some wasteland in South Yorkshire.’
‘Yes, I remember.’ Gwen shook her head. ‘It’s not like these fellas are any actual loss, is it?’
‘No, it isn’t, ma’am,’ Heck agreed. ‘And I’ll state for the record that I’ve no interest in their welfare. The fact that the majority of their violent deaths are probably recorded on the various pen drives we took from that cinema in Putney doesn’t upset me in the least. But we have a specialist police unit to preserve.’
She nodded thoughtfully.
‘I’d draw your attention to something else,’ he said. ‘And this is the bit where DSU Piper rang to make sure you were coming in. Because, if you think these revelations have been tough to swallow … wait till you hear this one.’ He picked up a bunch of grainy black-and-white photographs. ‘See anything familiar?’
Gwen assessed the first image. It had clearly been taken at night, with a night-vision camera. It depicted a man leaning in through the open window of a vehicle, with a large envelope in hand. He had a mat of flaxen-blond hair, and lean, hawkish features comprising a narrow jaw, high cheekbones and a hooked nose.
‘I … isn’t that Ray Marciano?’ Gwen said.
‘Correct,’ Heck replied. ‘You knew him?’
‘Not well. But I worked with him a couple of times.’
‘Formerly a DI with the Flying Squad,’ Heck said. ‘Famous for his white-blond hair. Oddly enough, one of our vanished villains, John Stroud up in Shropshire, was seen by a witness talking to an unidentified blond-haired guy shortly before he disappeared.’
‘Ray Marciano,’ Gwen said slowly, clearly unable to process it.
‘Highly decorated officer,’ Gemma reminded her.
‘And yet, despite that,’ Heck said, ‘he resigned last February … just around the time our wanted-persons files date back to. Went to work for a noted defence lawyer.’
‘Heck …’ Gwen’s face was suddenly like stone, ‘what exactly am I looking at here?’
‘You can see that this is a kind of clandestine meeting?’
‘No … all I can see is Ray Marciano at a vehicle window.’
‘OK, look at this one.’ Heck offered her another pic, in which Marciano was handing the envelope through the window, putting it into the grasp of an unseen person.
‘And this one.’ The next pic showed the envelope being opened, presumably by whoever in the vehicle had received it, and a document in the process of being extricated.
‘Lo and behold,’ Heck said, offering her the final pic from the series, a close-up of the document itself, which displayed a recognisable name and face, ‘it’s one of our twenty Most Wanted. This one is Henry Alfonso from Canning Town. You may recollect, ma’am, he robbed houses all over North London by breaking in late at night, wearing a ski mask and wielding a butcher’s knife. Of course, if he ever found a woman living there alone, he raped her. You’ve got to give Ray Marciano credit … he only chose the cream of the crop.’
‘Stop right there!’ Gwen said. ‘This means nothing. This series of photographs could have been cobbled together any time. They might be completely unconnected to each other.’
‘They could, ma’am,’ he agreed. ‘But they’re not actually photographs. They’re image-grabs.’ He indicated the pen drive. ‘From some of the footage on here. It contains three short films in total … on each occasion, it’s a different late-night meeting between Green Van Man and Ray Marciano. And on each occasion Ray gives our pal an unmarked envelope. A bit like these …’ He pointed to t
hree brown paper envelopes sitting in separate plastic folders.
‘Those are some of the original envelopes?’ Gwen asked.
‘They were in the rucksack with everything else,’ Heck said. ‘Anyway, no words are exchanged during these secretly filmed meetings …’
‘How do we know they were secretly filmed?’
‘Watch them, ma’am. The camera, which was probably Green Van Man’s phone, is covertly placed on the back of the seat behind him. He only takes it down to get clean shots of the envelopes and their contents after Ray has gone. Needless to say, in each case, the envelope contains another of these wanted-persons sheets.’
Neither of the two women spoke.
‘It’s unpalatable, I know,’ he said, ‘but to me it’s proof that Ray Marciano is involved in this. Most likely, he tracks the targets down. He’s the ace investigator, after all. He then makes some kind of arrangement with them – as I say, they think they’re off to safety, probably at some considerable expense – and then Ray informs Green Van Man where and when he can pick them up. They get into the van, which is armoured like a bloody tank. Once they’re in, there’s probably no way out.’
There was a prolonged silence while Gwen pondered everything she’d been told.
‘You’re seriously suggesting that Ray Marciano—’
‘We should also consider that Morgan Robbins could be involved,’ Heck interrupted.
This time Gwen looked genuinely, seriously shocked. ‘Morgan Robbins the solicitor!’
‘Ray works for him.’ Heck pointed to another of the photos. This one had been taken during daytime hours, on a busy street. It showed Marciano deep in conversation with Robbins himself, a tall, regal-looking chap with a shock of white hair and huge white eyebrows, wearing a stylish suit.
Gwen shook her head. ‘Like you said … they work together. Green Van Man could simply have taken this picture near the entrance to Robbins’s office just to try and implicate him.’
‘The third video on the pen drive was taken in a London pub somewhere,’ Heck said. ‘It’s only half a minute long, but it shows Ray Marciano and Morgan Robbins on the other side of the table.’
