Strangers

by Paul Finch

  As he waited there and watched, and took another swig of ‘Meths’, Heck recollected the initial reaction back at the Serial Crimes Unit, or SCU as it was officially known in police circles, when he’d first broken the story …

  ‘Why haven’t we heard about this guy before?’ DC Shawna McCluskey wanted to know.

  Shawna had grown increasingly cynical and pugnacious the longer she’d served in SCU. These days she never took anything at face-value, but it was a fair question. Heck had asked the same of Penny Flint when he’d been to see her. The primary explanation – that Sagan was an arch-pro and that those he was actually paid to kill were disposed of without trace – was viable enough. But the secondary explanation – that he’d mostly tended to punish gangland figures who’d betrayed or defied their bosses, and so those who were merely tortured and then released would be unwilling to blab – was less so. Contrary to popular belief, the much mythologised code of silence didn’t extend widely across the underworld. But then, Heck supposed that Penny Flint had been the proof of that. From what she’d told Heck, she’d had no idea who Sagan initially was and had merely thought him another customer. She’d gone off with him voluntarily to perform a sex service, or so she’d expected. When they’d arrived at what she assumed was his caravan sitting on a nondescript backstreet in Lewisham, she’d had no idea what was inside it or what would happen to her when she got in there.

  Perhaps if he’d simply beaten her up, Penny would have accepted it as justified punishment for a foolish transgression, but Sagan was nothing if not a conscientious torturer. In her case, once he’d got her tied up and helpless, it had been specifically sexual – the idea being, not just to hurt her in a deep and lasting way, but to deprive her of an income afterwards. And that was too much to tolerate.

  ‘Why is Flint tipping us the wink now?” Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper, head of SCU, asked. ‘She must’ve known about this guy for ages.’

  ‘In this case I think it’s personal, ma’am,’ Heck replied.

  ‘That won’t cut it, Heck … we need specifics.’

  ‘Well … she wasn’t very forthcoming on the details, but she’s got a kid now. A baby … less than one year old.’

  ‘Bloody great!’ DC Gary Quinnell chipped in. A burly Welshman and a regular attender at Chapel, he was well known for tempering his sometimes brutal brand of law-enforcement with Christian sentiment. ‘God knows what kind of life that little mite’s going to have.’

  ‘The first thing it’s going to get acquainted with is the Food Bank,’ Heck replied. ‘By the looks of Penny, she won’t be working the streets any time soon. Unless she can find some johns who like getting it on with cripples.’

  Gemma shrugged. ‘So she’s got a child and suddenly she’s lost her job. Perfect timing. But how does grassing on John Sagan help with that?’

  ‘It doesn’t ma’am. But Penny isn’t the sort to go down without a fight. She told me that if she isn’t good for the game anymore, she’ll make sure this bastard’s put out of business too.’

  ‘So it’s purely about revenge?’ Gemma still sounded sceptical.

  ‘Penny’s an emotional girl, ma’am. I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her.’

  It hadn’t been a lot to go on, but it had been a start. Heck had touched other snouts for info regarding Sagan, but none had been prepared to talk. At least, not as much as Penny Flint. She’d given them the suspect’s description, his home address, his place of work and so forth. In fact, just about the only thing she hadn’t been able to deliver was the Punishment Room, which he supposedly kept in a lock-up somewhere else in South London, though its actual location was his best-kept secret. They’d searched hard. But no avenue had led to his ownership of any kind of vehicle other than a battered old Nissan Primera, which he’d owned since 2005 and which was parked outside Fairfax House at this very moment. Of course, it didn’t help that Penny Flint had no VRM for the Punishment Room. It had been late at night when Sagan had taken her to it, and not knowing what was about to happen, she hadn’t been paying attention to detail.

  This was no minor problem, of course. Despite the medical evidence proving Penny had been severely assaulted, without the Punishment Room there was nothing to physically link this act to John Sagan. It would be her word against his, and on that basis no prosecution would ever proceed.

  ‘We need that caravan,’ Gemma said. ‘We could raid his flat, but what would be the point? If this guy’s as careful as Flint says, every incriminating thing in his life is stored in this so-called Punishment Room.’

  With regard to Sagan himself, it was highly suspicious how clean he seemed to be. No criminal record was one thing, but his employment, financial and educational histories were also unblemished. The guy appeared to have led a completely uneventful life, which was almost never the case with someone involved in violent crime.

  ‘What we’ve got here is a real Jekyll and Hyde character,’ Heck declared. ‘Openly a picture of respectability, deep down – very deep down – a career degenerate.’

  ‘Inspired comparisons with cool horror stories don’t make a case,’ Gemma replied. ‘We still need that caravan.’

  Short of putting out public appeals, which was obviously a no-no, they did everything in their power to locate the Punishment Room, but still came up with nothing. However, when Heck went to visit Penny Flint a second time, now in company with Gemma, it was the prostitute herself who made a suggestion.

  ‘Why don’t I just piss the local mob off again?’ she said. ‘They’ll send him to teach me another lesson, and then you can nab him.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Heck asked.

  ‘Christ’s sake, Heck, this is easy. After he finished with me last time … I was half dead, but still conscious enough to listen to his threats. “If I need to see you again, it won’t end so well,” he said. And he really meant it, I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Who paid him to do that to you?’ Gemma wondered.

  ‘Don’t be soft,’ Penny snorted. ‘I’m not telling you that.’

  ‘Okay … no names, but what did you do to annoy them?’

  ‘Gimme a fucking break, Miss Piper …’

  ‘Hey!’ Gemma’s voice adopted that familiar whip-crack tone. ‘We’re not here at your disposal, Miss Flint. Our job is to enforce the law, not pay off private scores. And we can’t do that flying blind. At present we don’t even know who you are, never mind John Sagan. So the least you can do is enlighten us a little.’

  Penny glanced at Heck. ‘You gave me your word I’d be immune from prosecution if I helped you out with this …?’

  Heck shrugged. ‘Unless you’ve done something very serious, we’re only interested in Sagan.’

  ‘Okay, well …’ She hesitated, briefly. ‘Doing a bit of delivering, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Delivering what?’ Gemma asked. ‘Drugs? Drugs money?’

  ‘Bit of both. You know the scene.’

  ‘And let me guess, you were skimming?’

  ‘What else?’ Penny’s cheeks reddened. ‘Hey … you’re looking at me like I’m some kind of criminal.’

  Neither of the two cops commented, though both wanted to. Even so, she detected the irony.

  ‘Don’t get smarmy on me, Heck. Look at the state I’m in. I’m past forty. Even before that bastard Sagan tore my arse and pussy inside-out, how much shelf-life did I really have left? Anyway … I thought I’d been careful. Thought no one’d notice, but they did. And … well, you know the rest.’

  ‘And you’re seriously saying this firm would trust you with that job again?’ Heck said.

  ‘Yeah.’ She seemed surprised he’d ask such a question. ‘Sagan’s a scary guy. They’re sure I’ll have learned my lesson.’

  ‘And what you’re proposing is to commit exactly the same offence all over again?’ Gemma said. ‘Even though you know what the outcome will be?’

  ‘The difference is this time you lot’ll be sitting on Sagan, won’t you? You can jump o
n him as soon as he gets his Punishment Room out.’

  They were impressed by her courage – in fact they were quietly startled by it. Heck wondered if her desire for revenge was getting the better of her common sense, to which she merely shrugged.

  ‘Heck … we both want the guy gone. The only way we can make that happen legally is for you to catch him in the act with his Punishment Room. This is the quickest and most obvious way to make that happen.’

  ‘Miss Flint,’ Gemma said. ‘This time you may have pushed things too far. He could just shoot you through the head.’

  ‘Nah. The firm I’m talking about like to make a show. Besides … Punishment Room, gun? Why will it matter? Like I say, you lot’ll jump on him.’

  It had sounded simple initially, but of course there were complicating issues. The fact that, by her own admission, Penny Flint had been stealing from an underworld bigwig would make her an unreliable witness in a court’s eyes. It would also allow the defence to accuse the police of conspiracy for ‘encouraging’ her to do this again. But then, if the team could write up their interest in Sagan as an anonymous tip-off, and go solely on any evidence they found inside the Punishment Room, they might be able to keep Penny Flint out of it altogether. Despite that, the risks of using a female civilian as bait would be extraordinary. Since the operation had gone live four days ago, Gemma had assigned a round-the-clock armed guard to her flat – all covertly of course, which had added an extra dimension of difficulty.

  The same applied to the stake-out at Sagan’s flat.

  Thus far, in addition to slumping on this ratty old couch in his state of feigned inebriation, Heck had kept watch from behind a window in the empty low-rise on the other side of the cul-de-sac, and had sat for another eight hours in the back of a shabby old van parked right alongside Sagan’s Primera. Other detectives in the surveillance team had spent hours ‘fixing’ a supposedly broken-down lorry on the same street, while another one – Gary Quinnell of all people, all six-foot-three of him – had donned a hi-viz council-worker jacket in order to sweep gutters and pick litter. The common factors had always been the same: damp, cold, the soul-destroying greyness of this place, and then the smell – that eerie whiff of decay that always seemed to wreathe run-down buildings. The word ‘discomfort’ didn’t cover it; nor ‘boredom’. Even their awareness that at any minute they could be called into action – an awareness that was more acute than normal given that every officer here was armed – had gradually faded into the background as the minutes had become hours and, ultimately, days.

  Heck shifted position, but in sluggish, slovenly fashion in case someone was watching. He hitched the Glock under his right armpit. It wasn’t a familiar sensation. Though every detective in SCU was required to be firearms-certified, and they were tested and assessed regularly in this capacity, he for one had rarely carried one on duty. In these days of specialist firearms teams, the gunplay tended to be left to the real experts – the heavily armed ex-military lads, who basically lived for it and would turn up at every incident looking like the SAS. But this was an unusual, open-ended operation, which no one was even sure would bring a result. Gemma had opted for pistols purely for self-defence purposes, thanks to Sagan’s deadly reputation – though again there was no certainty that reputation had been well-earned.

  And this lack of certainty was the real problem. There was no way Gemma would commit so many SCU resources to this obbo indefinitely. She was on the plot herself today, having arrived early afternoon, and was now waiting in an unmarked command car somewhere close by. That wasn’t necessarily a good sign – it might be that she’d finally put herself at Ground Zero to get a feel for what was going on, maybe with a view to cancelling the whole show. On the other hand, it could also mean that Sagan’s non-appearance today – all the previous days of the obbo he’d gone to work as usual – might mean something was afoot. They knew he only worked at his official job part-time, so perhaps to maintain the impression of normality he would only indulge in his extra curricula activities on one of his days off.

  Heck chewed his lip as he thought this through.

  Penny Flint reckoned she’d dipped again into her employers’ funds some four days ago. The retribution could come at any time, but if Sagan was a genuine pro he wouldn’t respond with a kneejerk reaction. He’d strike when the time most suited him – not that they’d want him to leave it too long. That could be inviting the bird to fly.

  ‘Sorry to break radio silence, ma’am,’ the voice of DC Charlie Finnegan crackled in Heck’s left ear. ‘But two blokes have just gone in through the front door of Fairfax House, male IC1s, well-dressed … too well-dressed if you know what I mean. Can’t help thinking I recognise one of them, but I’m not sure where from, over.’

  There was a brief lull, and then Gemma’s voice responded: ‘Be advised all units inside … we may have intruders on the plot. Could be nothing, but stay alert. Charlie, did these two arrive in a vehicle, over?’

  ‘Negative, ma’am … not that I saw. They approached from Parkinson Drive, which lies adjacent to Fairfax House on the southeast side. I’m making my way around there now, over.’

  ‘Roger that … PNC every vehicle parked, and make it snappy. Heck, you in position?’

  ‘Affirmative, ma’am,’ Heck replied quietly – he could hear a resounding clump of feet and the low murmur of voices ascending the stairwell on the other side of the fire-doors. He checked his cap to ensure it concealed his earpiece. ‘Sounds like I’m about to get company.’

  ‘Received, Heck … all units standby, over.’

  The airwaves fell silent, and Heck slumped back onto his sofa, eyelids fluttering as though he was in a drunken daze. The footfalls grew louder, and then the fire-doors swung open and two shadowy forms perambulated into view. In the dim light and with his vision partly obscured, Heck wasn’t initially able to distinguish them, though from their low Cockney voices he could tell they were both males, probably in their thirties or forties.

  ‘Q&A session first, alright?’ one said to the other. ‘Don’t let on we know anything …’

  For a fleeting half-second the twosome were more clearly visible: shirts, sports jackets, ties hanging loose at the collar. And faces, one pale and neatly bearded – he was the taller and younger of the two; the other older and grouchier, with pock-marks and jowls.

  To Heck they were unmistakeable.

  He held his position until they’d passed him, ascended the three steps to the dingy corridor and trundled off along it. Then he sat upright to watch their receding backs. Once they were out of earshot, he scrabbled the radio from his jacket pocket. ‘Heckenburg to DSU Piper … ma’am, I know these two. They’re ours. DS Reg Cowling and DC Ben Bishop from Organised Crime.’

  In the brief silence, he could imagine Gemma gazing around at whoever else was in the command car with her, mystified. ‘What the hell are they doing here?’ she’d be asking. ‘How the devil did they get onto this?’ He could also picture the blank expressions that would greet these questions.

  ‘They’re heading down Sagan’s corridor,’ Heck added. ‘There’ll be other villains living in this building, but if it’s not him they’re here for, ma’am, I’m a sodding Dutchman …’

  ‘Can you intercept, over?’

  ‘Negative, ma’am … they’re virtually at his door.’

  ‘Understood … Heck, hold your position. All we can do now is hope.’

  Heck stood up, but slammed himself flat against the wall beside the steps, crooking his neck to peer along the passage. He understood her thinking. If he went running down there and tried to grab the two cops, there was every possibility Sagan would open the door and catch all three of them. If he kept out of the way, however, it was just vaguely possible the duo had some routine business to conduct with the guy and might be on their way out again in a minute, with no one any the wiser about the obbo. That latter option was a long-shot, of course. Like SCU, the Organised Crime Division was part of the National Crime
Group. They didn’t deal with routine matters. There was one other possibility too, which was even more depressing. Suppose Cowling and Bishop were up to no good themselves? Could it be they were here to see Sagan for reasons unconnected with police-work? If so, that would be a whole new level of complexity.

  Heck squinted as he gazed down the gloomy passage. The twosome had halted alongside number 36. They didn’t knock immediately, but appeared to be conferring quietly. He supposed he could try to signal to them, alert them to an additional police presence, but the idea was now really growing on him that these two might have nefarious motives.

  There was a loud thudding as a fist rapped on the apartment door. Heck held his breath. At first there was no audible response, then what sounded like a muffled voice replied.

  ‘Yeah, police officers, sir,’ Cowling said. ‘Could you open up? We need to have a chat.’

  Heck breathed a sigh of relief at that at least. They weren’t in cahoots with Sagan after all. But now he felt uneasy for other reasons. Given the severity of Sagan’s suspected offences, this was a very open and front-on approach – it seemed odd the two detectives had come here without any kind of support. Did they know something SCU didn’t, or did they simply know nothing? Had ambition to feel a good collar overridden the necessity of performing some due diligence?

  The muffled voice intoned again. It sounded as if it had said ‘one minute’.

  His sixth sense buzzing, Heck stepped out into the open. But before he could shout a warning, two thundering shotgun blasts demolished the door from the inside, the ear-jarring din echoing down the passage. Cowling and Bishop were blown back like rag dolls. The impacts as their broken bodies and the two payloads of shot struck the facing wall shook the entire building.