by Paul Finch
He passed the former media suite, the doors to which stood open. Glancing through, he saw that the new MIR was now almost totally functional. Though Operation Thunderclap hadn’t officially been launched yet, personnel were already crammed around every desk. Photographs and diagrams covered the walls, and in the centre of the room there was a large VDU display bearing a massive 3D image of the crime scene at Brancaster; evidently it was coming through a live feed, because figures in Tyvek could be seen stepping warily between the ruined hulks of vehicles. Alongside that, on two display boards, were two enlarged photos of the BDEL engraving – the first on the police car, the second on the battered wooden door of a derelict house.
Yet what most caught his eye was much lower-tech, and located just inside the main doors, facing into the office.
Heck wandered in and looked it over. It was a large noticeboard covered with purple crepe, on which glossy head-shots of the SOCAR officers who’d died in the ambush had been pinned in four neat rows of four, each with name, rank and collar number placed underneath it on black plastic labels. The other victims of the ambush – the non-police personnel – were displayed elsewhere in the room. This little item was more like a shrine; a reminder to the team perhaps that on this occasion the criminals had struck very close to home. Almost invariably, these shots had been taken in happier times; some of the men were in uniform, some in plain clothes – all ages, colours and creeds were on show, yet all looked like family men. Theirs were the sort of fresh, genial faces you’d find in wedding albums or on holiday snaps. Heck thought about the scrapbook in his own drawer, in which he kept photographs of every murder victim he’d ever got a result for. He knew one or two other coppers who did the same thing, but he’d never put the SOCAR glory boys in the same bracket. Perhaps that had been a bit hasty of him.
Two dozen yards down the corridor, he found the door to Gemma’s office open. She was slouched behind her desk, seemingly lost in thought.
‘Ma’am?’ he said.
‘Oh, come in, Heck. Sit down.’
He did so. She said nothing else for a moment or two, still looking distracted. There was something vaguely surreal about the leather strap across the back of her shoulders and the Glock nine-mill hanging at her armpit. She’d drawn a pistol before for use on the job, but by all accounts Operation Thunderclap had been blue-carded for the duration of the enquiry, which was a rarity indeed.
‘Surprised you’re setting up the MIR here and not at Brancaster, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Yeah, well … the best we could probably get up there is a bird-watchers’ hide. Anyway, I doubt the focus of the investigation will lie in East Anglia much longer.’ She pushed two bundles of stapled paperwork across the desk. ‘These came in today.’
They were two crime reports, with assorted statements and photographs attached. Heck picked them up and leafed through. The first had been forwarded by Hampshire, and it concerned a homicide committed the previous evening just off the A303 near to Andover. Even with Heck’s long experience of murder investigations, the photographs almost made him retch. It seemed that just after eight o’clock in the evening, while on his way home from work, a successful sixty-five-year-old haulier, name of Austin Ledburn, had for some reason stopped his Jaguar in an isolated lay-by, and climbed out. There was no trace of a scuffle or fight either inside or outside the vehicle; it had simply been parked, locked and left. Passing police patrols hadn’t initially thought it suspicious until two hours later, when it had suddenly occurred to them that whoever left the car had had nowhere else to go, which possibly meant it had been stolen and dumped. A PNC check had produced no reports to that effect, but Ledburn’s wife expressed concern that he still hadn’t returned home, so a search commenced in the nearby woods. Ledburn’s body was found half a mile in. He’d been tied to a tree and doused with petrol – it had even been poured down his throat – and then set on fire.
There could have been any reason why such a death was inflicted on the guy – were it not for the familiar word BDEL, which had been notched into the bark of the next tree along.
The second crime report came courtesy of Kent Police, and was just as ghoulish. This one related to a certain Geoffrey Culbrook, a retired banker who’d been found dead in his Maidstone home by his housekeeper at nine-thirty that morning. Again there was no sign of forced entry, though Culbrook had been bound spread-eagled on his own four-poster bed. He’d then been tortured with pliers, razor blades and a cigarette lighter, before being dispatched by a single shotgun blast to the face.
In his case, the BDEL had been carved onto his bedpost.
Heck laid the gruesome photographs back on the desk.
‘No I-told-you-sos please,’ Gemma said gravely.
‘You think these are former Nice Guys’ clients?’
‘Wasn’t it you who said they’d start rubbing names off the list?’
‘I theorised they might.’
‘Well, these may be the first two.’
Heck mused. ‘Were they known to us before?’
‘Ledburn was. He attempted to rape a girl when he was in his early twenties. Dragged her into bushes while she was going home from a nightclub. He got a year and a half. Twenty years later he was reported for indecently assaulting one of his secretaries. Apparently offered her money to make photocopies of her bare bottom – no comments about SCU Christmas parties! – and pinched said bottom after she told him where to go. He received an adult caution for that one.’
‘Okay …’ Heck mulled this over. ‘Kind of puts him in our court. Anything to suggest Culbrook had a sexually chequered past?’
‘Kent were initially working on the basis he was gay – fifty-eight and single. They wondered if he might have picked up the wrong bit of rough. But when Culbrook’s house was searched, they found a locked cupboard stuffed with hetero porn … and it’s the nastier end of the market. Whips, chains, thumbscrews.’
‘The victimology’s a match, then,’ Heck said. ‘In both cases. But it’s this BDEL thing that’s bothering me.’
‘Eric Fisher’s come up with something on that,’ she said. ‘He thinks it may be an abbreviation of the Greek phrase, BDELUGMA … which stands for the word “Abomination”.’
‘Abomination …?’
‘Eric’s wondering if it’s a reference to those abominations who idolised the Whore of Babylon in the Book of Revelation. It means wretches, wastrels, pleasure-seekers … they were ranked alongside harlots as the vilest of the vile.’
‘The Book of Revelation …’ Heck’s words tailed off as he considered this. Detective Sergeant Eric Fisher was SCU’s secret weapon, a tireless analyst and researcher; behind his big, dishevelled exterior, there was a huge intellect that had contributed enormously to cracking the raison d’être behind many complex murder cases. But on this occasion his thesis sounded like a bit of a stretch.
‘In Revelation,’ Gemma added, ‘that phrase, or something like it, was written on the Whore of Babylon’s forehead. It was also, allegedly – though this may be more myth than fact – branded onto the foreheads of prostitutes and adulteresses in the ancient Middle East.’
‘Ah …’ Now Heck thought he saw where Fisher was coming from. Mike Silver and his crew’s origins lay in the Middle East and North Africa. That was where they’d run their first sex/murder rackets. ‘Branded whores …’ He pondered. ‘The Nice Guys might have witnessed such punishments in hard-line Muslim countries. That may be the inspiration for this. And they certainly regarded the women they abducted as nothing more than that … cheap product to be exploited and then chucked away. But it’s the whole signature aspect I don’t understand, ma’am. The Nice Guys never left calling cards before. Ever.’
‘That’s what’s troubling me, if I’m honest,’ Gemma said. ‘You’re saying you don’t think this is the Nice Guys?’
‘No, ma’am. Far from it.’ Heck perused the paperwork again. ‘All these cases have a real aura of Nice Guys efficiency. We know they’re professi
onal stalkers. I mean, that’s what they do. All their previous victims were tracked over a period of weeks, if not months, and finally, when every condition was right, they were snatched – with scarcely a clue left behind. That’s at least partly what’s happened here. The offenders zeroed in on Geoff Culbrook and then on his house, and got inside it with relative ease. Austin Ledburn was followed home from work, and somehow induced to stop on the darkest, loneliest stretch of road. And then we’ve got Jim Laycock … who they pursued around the pubs of Kilburn while he got progressively more pissed. He’d have been an easier target, I suppose.’
‘But why the calling cards?’ Gemma asked. ‘Why the casual dumping of the bodies where anyone could find them? Previously, Silver’s speciality was making people disappear. I mean, he was cute as a fox. It was years before we even knew there was a series of murders in progress.’
Heck sat back. ‘Well, you know Silver better than me, ma’am.’
‘Hmm.’ Briefly, Gemma looked discomforted by that.
‘Did he go through some kind of personality change while he was inside?’
‘Not as I noticed.’
‘Then maybe we shouldn’t assume Silver’s in charge.’
She frowned.
‘He’d had a heart attack, after all,’ Heck said. ‘On which subject, I presume we’ve checked with all relevant medical facilities?’
‘Of course. We drew a blank.’
‘Well, who knows … maybe Silver’s dead. Maybe he died shortly after they sprung him.’ Heck tapped the new documentation. ‘Perhaps these other atrocities are the rest of the Nice Guys lashing out at a world that’s deprived them of their beloved leader.’
‘Heck … are you taking the mickey?’
‘Not really, ma’am. Look, Silver doesn’t necessarily have to be dead. If he’s got heart trouble and he’s still alive, but is totally messed-up … well, the decision-making could be in someone else’s hands.’
‘So there’s been a change of management?’
‘It’s possible. And perhaps the new guy isn’t quite so cautious. Perhaps he’s an out-and-out cowboy, and doesn’t mind us knowing it. Hell, maybe he revels in throwing out this kind of challenge. “This is what I do. I’m a reckless maniac. Catch me if you can”.’
She heard him out in glum silence.
‘There’s another possibility too,’ Heck said. ‘Maybe he’s teaching lessons. That’s something the Nice Guys have always been big on … punishing those who’ve betrayed them.’
‘And in what way have former clients betrayed them?’
‘By being a security risk. When they needed to, the Nice Guys never fought shy of making public examples. Remember that poor sod in Manchester … the one they hanged upside down and disembowelled? And it worked. Those few snouts who knew about them wouldn’t dare say a word. But this … this BDEL malarkey …’ The idea was slowly growing on Heck. ‘Abominations. If the Book of Revelation ranks these characters alongside harlots, it may not be a reference to the women as much as to the men who used them. As in, “You slimy bastards mean no more to us than the whores you raped. We can’t trust you, we don’t like you … so you’re next”. Yeah … I can go for that.’ He gathered the paperwork, shuffling it. ‘I take it you want me to run with these two?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Gemma extricated it from his grasp, placing it back on her side of the desktop. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re still not part of the team, Heck.’
He gave her a long, level stare. ‘In which case … why tell me all this?’
‘As a courtesy.’ She met his gaze boldly. ‘At the end of the day, you were the officer who originally uncovered the Nice Guys. You did more to expose their activities than all the rest of the police in England and Wales put together.’
‘And …?’
‘I’m keeping you in the loop because you’re a friend as well as a colleague. And because I think you’ve earned the right to know what’s happening.’
‘And because you wanted my opinion, ma’am … evidently.’
‘Maybe. But that’s as far as it goes. As I say, I’m sorry.’
‘Ma’am, Gemma …’ He tried not to reveal the true depth of his exasperation. ‘I could really assist with this enquiry.’
‘No can do, Heck.’
‘If nothing else, you’re going to need a lot of muscle.’
‘We’ve already got it. The taskforce is over two-hundred strong. That lot down the corridor are only the office staff.’
‘Okay, you need someone with insight … personal experience.’
‘Even if I agreed with that, after what happened yesterday it would be impossible to integrate you into a taskforce primarily made up of SOCAR personnel.’
‘But they were the ones in the bloody wrong!’
‘Heck … do not raise your voice at me.’
‘Gemma, please. Look … I’ve had this monkey on my back for the last two years. You’ve got to let me have another crack at these bastards.’
‘I don’t have to do anything of the sort. And I’m not going to.’
‘Why?’
‘We’ve been over this a dozen times.’ She opened a leather zip-folder, and slid the paperwork in. ‘My decision stands.’
‘Your decision that I’m too damaged to get involved?’
‘That’s all, Heck. Even if you’re not busy, I am.’
Heck stood stiffly and moved to the door, but then turned back again. ‘Funny how I’m not too damaged to be useful on other enquiries.’
‘Damn it, Heck, how simply can I put this?’ She jabbed a finger at him. ‘You’ll make it personal! You made it personal last time. Civilians died because you went in without back-up. Your own sister got kidnapped, for heaven’s sake! You almost went to jail. I don’t need all that now, not this time … not when we’ve got seventeen coffins with Union Jacks draped over them, not to mention six dead civvies, maybe even more.’
Heck was about to reply, when the door banged open and Ben Kane barged in. ‘Oh, sorry ma’am,’ he said. ‘I was looking for … erm, Heck.’
‘That’s alright, Ben, we’re just about finished here.’ She turned back to Heck and pointed at the door. ‘Britain’s got lots of other violent offenders. You go get ’em!’
‘Here’s one to start with,’ Kane said, pushing a wad of paperwork into his hands.
Heck wandered disconsolately out into the passage, Kane alongside him, and glanced fleetingly at the new documents. They had been issued by the CID office at Stoke Newington police station, who were in contact about a series of street robberies and face-slashings on their patch.
‘Five attacks in total, all the work of the same hand,’ Kane explained. ‘No deaths yet, but given the paltry amounts pinched and the significant quantities of blood spilled, the local factory are a bit worried it might be more about the knifing than the theft. They’ve asked us to look it over, which I now have … and it’s my view we need to nip this thing in the bud pronto, before someone actually does die.’
Heck nodded half-heartedly as they walked. It sounded like the sort of case he’d normally cop for, and be interested in – but it was a distraction at present.
‘Don’t know why you’re so keen to mix it with these Nice Guys reprobates,’ Kane said. ‘Leave that to Tasker and his crew. They’re the ones who let Silver escape.’
It was no surprise to Heck that Kane didn’t quite empathise with him on this. The guy was a notorious straight bat, primarily because he was big on self-preservation. From Kane’s point of view, it was always the same pattern when a crime was reported; investigation of facts, identification of suspect, arrest, interview, charge – after which you filed your paperwork and went home. So long as everything was clean and above board, you could sleep easy in the knowledge you’d done your job. There was never an emotional context to it: no lingering concerns for the victims or bereaved; no prolonged brooding over unexplained elements or incomplete avenues of enquiry. And yet the irony was that this thorough, methodic
al and utterly humourless approach was exactly the way you were supposed to operate as a police officer. The alternative, they always said, could lead to madness.
‘I’ve told Stoke Newington I’m sending one of my best lads,’ Kane added. ‘So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t fuck anything up.’
‘I promise,’ Heck muttered.
‘I’m serious, Heck. As you may have heard, for my sins I’m now double-hatting. I’m still official liaison with SOCAR as well as running SCU while Gemma’s busy. That means I’m getting heat from various directions, which my equilibrium could do without.’
‘Sorry … your what?’
‘It means I like things to be nice and straightforward, and at present they aren’t.’ Kane nudged the Stoke Newington paperwork. ‘So just go and do what you do. Catch this little fish, and let SOCAR chase off over the horizon after the big ones.’ They halted at the entrance to the DO. ‘That’s worth a smile, surely? I’m doing you a favour.’
A favour? Briefly, Heck was puzzled. Ben Kane was about as famous for doing people favours as Gemma was for avoiding confrontations.
‘Look, Heck … that Nice Guys thing’s a nightmare. Seventeen coppers dead, Public Enemy Number One back on the loose. It’s a real shit-storm, and it’s gonna cover everyone. But thanks to me, you’ll now be somewhere else … chasing some piddling little street robber who thinks his penknife makes him the big man.’
