The Killing Club

by Paul Finch

  They had reloaded their weapons on the off-chance there’d be someone around; a late-arrival at the party perhaps; a villager enjoying an evening stroll. But the surrounding farmland lay still and quiet. The country lane was empty of traffic, basking in the silver radiance of the new-risen moon.

  Chapter 14

  Heck was headed through Clerkenwell when he heard the news.

  He was en route to a rendezvous with Detective Constables Reynolds and Grimshaw at Stoke Newington police station. Both officers had been busy until late evening, but were still keen to speak to him about the series of face-slashings they were investigating, so he gunned his Citroën along Old Street, speeding through the darkened streets. ‘There’s an appalling news story breaking,’ the DJ said, interrupting his late-night music show in an uncharacteristically solemn tone. ‘Reports are coming in about a mass shooting in a village just outside Oxford. Details seem sketchy at the moment, but witnesses have apparently reported hundreds of rounds fired and a considerable number of casualties. It’s not known whether there are any fatalities, but the epicentre of the incident is believed to be a private house on the outskirts of Stanton St John …’

  The small hairs on the nape of Heck’s neck stiffened.

  Hundreds of rounds fired.

  Twice in the same week? Both incidents unrelated? Not bloody likely.

  ‘That’s all we’ve got at the moment,’ the DJ added. ‘But obviously we’ll keep you updated …’

  Heck swerved into the first parking zone he came to. He fished his mobile out and went through his contacts. When he found the one he wanted, he placed a call.

  ‘Thames Valley Major Crimes Unit,’ came a gruff response. ‘DC Forester.’

  ‘Mal … it’s Heck. SCU.’

  ‘Heck … what a surprise.’ But Malcolm Forester didn’t sound surprised.

  ‘What’s going on, mate?’

  ‘What isn’t? It’s kicking off here tonight.’

  ‘I mean in Stanton St John?’

  ‘Ah … thought you’d be interested in that. We’ve never had anything like it in the past, I’ll tell you that. It’s thrown us.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Hard to say for sure. The lads on the scene tell me it’s a fucking abattoir.’

  ‘Come on, Mal. Give me any details you can.’

  ‘Well, I mean …’ Even Malcolm Forester, a twenty-year veteran of specialist CID operations, and before that a soldier who’d served in the Falklands, briefly struggled to produce a coherent description of events. ‘It’s a place called Woodhatch Gate, halfway along the road to Worminghall. In a nutshell, Heck, we’ve got a home-invasion that’s turned into the nightmare of fucking nightmares. Some bunch of lunatics wiped out an entire dinner party. Just walked in and started shooting with automatic weapons. Sounds like high explosives were used to force entry. First impression is hand grenades … can you believe that?’ The hairs on Heck’s neck no longer stiffened, they bristled. ‘They’ve had the Bomb Squad in first … hang about! What do you know, Heck? What’re you working?’

  Heck hesitated. ‘The prison transit at Brancaster.’

  There was a long, low exhalation at the other end, as if only now was this possible link occurring to Forester. ‘They used grenades in that job too, didn’t they? And there were a lot of shots fired.’

  ‘There’s no guarantee it’s the same firm.’

  ‘Come on, pal! How many other firms chuck that kind of hardware around?’

  ‘How many died tonight, Mal?’ Heck asked.

  ‘Eight that we know of. Multiple shrapnel and gunshot wounds.’

  ‘Presumably Major Crimes are running things?’

  ‘Temporarily. But SECU are on their way.’

  Heck cursed. The Southeast Counter-Terrorism Unit would be a royal pain in the butt. They’d take charge of everything, nabbing whoever they fancied, no matter which side of the fence he sat on. And they could sweat you for days with no comeback – they didn’t have to follow the complex rules that governed the actions of most British police officers.

  ‘What’s going on, Heck?’ Forester asked. ‘Grenades on village greens. Machine guns in the shrubbery.’

  ‘Can’t tell you, Mal.’

  ‘So I give you everything, and you give us squat!’

  ‘I can’t tell you anything, mate, because I don’t know anything … not for sure.’ Heck hung up. ‘But I’ve got a damn good idea.’

  The trouble was – what did he do next? Everything Gemma had told him made a kind of sense. For all his antipathy to SOCAR, they weren’t amateurs, they were well-resourced and, after the deaths at Gull Rock, they’d be as highly motivated to go after the Nice Guys as he was. But he resented Gemma’s refusal to let him participate more than anything that had happened in his career to date. He didn’t even buy her rationale for it, and that was unusual; normally when they fell out over procedure, he at least understood where she was coming from.

  Heck put the car in gear and eased it forward. Some might say he was going out on a limb now, though it could also be argued – somewhat imaginatively – that he was simply responding to a serious incident, which was his duty as a police officer. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter what anyone said. He had to take at look at this. He just had to.

  He hit the gas hard almost the entire distance, arriving at Stanton St John just before midnight.

  The road to the house had been closed off by incident tape a good three hundred yards from the actual scene. Beyond this barricade, which was manned by several burly uniforms, flickering blue light spilled from the plethora of parked emergency vehicles. These weren’t just police cars, but ambulances, fire engines and even khaki trucks bearing military insignia. As Malcolm Forester had said – the Bomb Squad had been sent in first. A yipping and yelping of dogs drew Heck’s attention to handler teams making cautious exploration of the surrounding woods and fields, searching for discarded evidence or secondary crime scenes. Choppers whirred high overhead, spotlights trailing in various directions.

  Heck parked near the outer cordon, close to a mobile command post, where a growing clutch of journalists armed with mikes and notebooks were clamouring for the attention of a uniformed inspector, and proceeded along the road on foot, passing several checkpoints by use of his Serial Crimes Unit ID. Despite that, he was increasingly aware that he had no authorisation to be here.

  The central cordon, which was lit by arc-lamps, entirely encircled the large Georgian house called Woodhatch Gate, as well as its drive and outbuildings and a significant portion of garden and attached woodland, which was being guarded by armed officers who had disembarked from a nearby ARV. But even here, everything Mal Forester had said about the local lads being caught on the hop looked to be true: a photographer prowling the exterior of the inner cordon, flashbulb flaring repeatedly, didn’t look as if he was part of Thames Valley Photographic – which might mean crime scene images would appear in the local rag before the deceased’s next of kin were even informed. There was also a young woman in a nightie, standing crying at the tape. A female paramedic wearing a hi-viz coat over her green boiler suit was trying to wrap a foil blanket around her.

  Inside the central cordon, the interlopers were fewer. Only two uniformed officers were visible, firearms men posted at the end of the drive, on which various high-end vehicles were waiting, now adorned with stickers marking them for forensic examination. As Heck strode up the drive, a detective in the obligatory gloves and protective coveralls emerged from the front doorway to the house, which, owing to its massive smoke and fire damage, had clearly been the main object of attack.

  ‘DI Bennett,’ he said. ‘Major Crimes. Bloody glad to see you lot.’ He was young, short and lean of stature, with smooth features and fluffy blond hair. He was also pale, his lips grey and taut. Beneath his partly unzipped Tyvek, his tie hung in a loose knot, as though he had been constantly and unconsciously yanking at it. He referred to Heck in the plural, but didn’t seem to notic
e the newcomer was here alone.

  Heck flashed his ID, and indicated the wailing woman on the perimeter. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Oh …’ Bennett, who Heck now realised was even more harassed than he’d first looked, barely glanced towards her. ‘That’s, erm … Miss Entwistle.’

  ‘Miss Entwistle?’

  ‘She lives in the village. Her mother’s one of the victims here.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, sir … you’ve got to get her away from there! We’re going to be working this scene!’

  If Bennett was offended by such belligerence from a lower rank, he didn’t show it. Only slowly did he turn and signal that the civvie onlooker needed to be moved away.

  ‘Get rid of that scavenger too!’ Heck called to one of the armed PCs, nodding at the freelance photographer, who heard and made a bolt for it. ‘In fact, he might have tampered with evidence … arrest him for obstructing an enquiry!’

  The armed officers took off at high speed.

  Bennett watched all this in a kind of daze.

  ‘You Crime Scene Manager here, sir?’ Heck asked

  ‘Not really. Just providing a situation report for you guys. You’re SECU, did you say?’

  Heck shook his head. ‘Serial Crimes Unit.’

  Bennett looked nonplussed. ‘I thought SECU were taking this one?’

  ‘They are, but we may have an interest too.’

  Bennett shrugged distractedly. ‘So long as someone’s coming. Don’t mind admitting I feel a bit out of my depth on this.’

  ‘I doubt there’ll be anyone who isn’t,’ Heck replied, rummaging in a box at the side of the drive, taking out some fresh Tyvek coveralls and climbing into them. ‘Just out of interest, sir … we’re in the middle of nowhere here. Who reported this?’

  ‘A poacher and his mate, would you believe. They were about half a mile away, back in the spinney, when they heard the shooting and the explosions. By the time they got here it was all over.’

  Heck pulled on some shoe-covers and a pair of his own disposable gloves. ‘They didn’t see anything then?’

  ‘They say not. They’re at Abingdon nick now, getting debriefed.’

  ‘They’ll need checking for firearms residue,’ Heck said. ‘Just in case they’re not as innocent as they say.’

  ‘It’s being taken care of.’

  ‘No other witnesses?’

  ‘Not as far as we know.’

  When they entered the house, they had to step warily. Smashed, smouldering items lay everywhere. A fog of acrid smoke still hung in the hallway. Myriad bullet-casings were scattered around the first two corpses, both of whom were women. Blood wreathed the walls and radiators.

  ‘No SOCO yet?’ Heck asked, moving from one body to the next. ‘No Photographic?’

  ‘En route,’ Bennett replied.

  ‘FME?’

  ‘Same.’

  Heck glanced around. ‘This crime was committed over two hours ago. Did they all have somewhere else they needed to be?’

  ‘Yeah. We’ve had a busy night.’

  ‘Other shootings?’

  ‘No … but serious stuff.’ Bennett wiped a sheen of sweat from his pasty brow.

  Only a couple of light-bulbs remained in the lounge, but these gave sufficient light to penetrate the veil of smoke. Again they had to tread carefully; no safe access-way suggested itself amid the blasted, bullet-riddled wreckage. The dead stiffened where they sat or lay, in most cases hammered to pulp by shrapnel and gunfire.

  ‘Butcher’s shop, or what?’ Bennett said. He looked queasy.

  ‘Tell me about the other offences tonight,’ Heck replied.

  Bennett scratched his head. ‘The first was two bouncers in Oxford city centre. About eight-thirty this evening. They got dragged down an alley next to a bar, and had the shit kicked out of them. I mean literally … the living shit!’

  ‘Two bouncers? Must’ve been a heavy mob?’

  ‘They’re lucky to be alive, apparently. We’ve also had three muggings in the city tonight. No fatalities but all violent – brutal beatings. We’re usually looking at one of those a week, tops. There’s been a whole raft of burglaries too, an armed robbery at a corner shop, an attempted arson at a homeless shelter, and a young girl got attacked coming home from school. That was around tea-time in Beckley, which is only about three miles from here. The assailant dragged her into some trees, ripped her knickers off and gave her an arse-whipping with a willow twig. It was nastier than it sounds. She’s needed stitches.’

  ‘That is a busy night,’ Heck concurred. ‘Is it normally so bad around here?’

  ‘Almost never. Anyway … what’s all that got to do with this?’

  ‘Maybe nothing … but by the same token it could all be an elaborate diversion.’

  Bennett remained blank-faced. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘To ensure you lot couldn’t respond fast and team-handed to the main event of the evening. And if that’s what it was, it worked, didn’t it?’

  ‘Christ’s sake …’ Only slowly did the reality of this possibility seem to strike the DI. ‘Who … who the fuck are we talking about? A terror group, surely?’

  ‘Best if we save the hypothesis for later, eh?’

  ‘Well, this obviously wasn’t a robbery.’ Bennett indicated the jewellery visible on the women, and the watches on the men’s wrists. ‘That’s a Rolex, unless I’m mistaken.’

  Heck bent over a heavy-set male body slumped by the right-hand wall; he was horrifically mutilated, a fork dangling from his mangled cheek. The watch adorning his plump wrist was a blue-faced Rolex Submariner. Five grand’s worth, easily. Even the average professional gunman should have been interested in claiming a prize like that. Of course, there was nothing average about these perpetrators. Masses and masses of spent casings strewed the floor – hundreds, maybe even thousands.

  ‘You ever seen anything like this?’ Bennett said. ‘I mean … ever?’

  Heck declined to respond. His eyes had now come to rest on another door at the far end of the lounge. The door stood partly ajar, but not so that the large letters crudely carved with a knife or chisel on its smooth matte finish weren’t clearly visible.

  BDEL

  ‘What’s, erm … through there?’ he asked.

  ‘Two more APs,’ Bennett replied. ‘What about that graffiti?’

  ‘Yeah … that needs looking at.’ Heck edged through, entering a conservatory lit only by the moon, though there was sufficient of this to show it had suffered marginally less damage than the previous room. Yet again, there was a wide-ranging scatter of shell-casings on its parquet floor, any one of which could prove a forensic officer’s dream. The only people who left this much evidence behind them were either novices – which this lot weren’t – or they didn’t care, which was probably a lot closer to the mark, and a whole lot scarier.

  It was increasingly evident the Nice Guys had either undergone a conscious change of direction, or a change of management – or both. Whereas previously they’d specialised in erasing people without trace, now they left victims where they could openly be found and in a ghastly state of torture; now they indulged in full-on massacres. Yet Heck was certain there was more to this than mere recklessness. He had already mentioned to Gemma that he thought the Nice Guys were teaching people lessons. But maybe they weren’t just teaching their former clients, maybe they were teaching the police as well, and the entire British legal establishment.

  You fucked up our former operation, he could almost hear them saying. You killed some of our guys and sent our top man to prison. Well, this is what happens. You mess with us and we leave a trail of blood and chaos like you never imagined. We run you from one end of the country to the next, and all the time we snatch those witnesses you tried so hard to locate right from under your stupid pig noses. And we’re gonna leave collateral damage as well. Anyone, anytime, anywhere. Even Heck found the idea terrifying. But now was not the time for flipping out.

  A huge hole had b
een smashed through the double-glazed wall on his left. When he peeked through it, he saw two more bodies lying face up on the outside patio. Both were grotesquely torn by gunfire; the recipients of multiple gunshots to head and body, which had all but eradicated their personal features, though it could at least be seen that they were male and possibly middle-aged.

  ‘These poor sods look like they were singled out for special attention,’ he said. ‘Separated from the others, brought in here … executed side-by-side.’

  ‘Maybe they just tried to run,’ Bennett said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Heck replied, not thinking that at all. He glanced back through into the lounge. ‘How many IDs?’

  ‘Couple. Some of the villagers have been in, identifying them.’

  ‘You’ve had some of the villagers in here?’

  Bennett seemed to wake up at that, and abruptly looked irritated by Heck’s disapproval. ‘They were already here when we arrived! The poachers ran down into Stanton St John raising the alarm before we even got called!’

  ‘And I suppose you’ve got their details … I mean for elimination purposes?’

  ‘I’ve started a fucking log, don’t worry. Fuck’s sake, sergeant! I may look like I need my arse wiping, but I know my job, alright …?’

  ‘Alright, sir … apologies.’ Heck wasn’t particularly concerned that he’d offended the guy. But it was important for now that Bennett kept his head.

  Still disgruntled, the DI leafed through his pocket-book. ‘The occupants of the house are Doctor Ronald Po and his wife, Nina. She’s in the kitchen. He’s one of those two out there.’ He thumbed the shattered window. ‘The one on the left. The others were dinner party guests. The one half-lying under the front door’s been identified as Mary Entwistle, another woman from the village …’

  ‘What about the other guy outside?’ Heck glanced back at the corpses on the patio.

  ‘Not much chance of facial recognition with that one, but he had his college parking pass with him. Doctor Anton Trevelyan … bit of a name in Oxford. Big noise at the uni. Apparently a good friend of Doctor Po’s.’