The Killing Club

by Paul Finch

  ‘You’re not a fucking soldier, Heck! You’re a copper … you have to do things according to the law.’

  ‘I have to do this any way I can. Look Jerry, mate … this thing’s haunted me for years. The sodding Nice Guys! I was that close to knuckling them last time, but I blew it. And now suddenly they’re in my back yard again. I cannot turn a blind eye …’

  ‘So go to CID at Gillbridge Avenue. You know most of them. Barry Grant’s a good lad. Talk to him. Try and enlist Major Crimes. They’ll pay this café a visit.’

  ‘Yeah, and tramp all over it with their size sixteens.’

  ‘Don’t be a bell-end … they know what they’re doing.’

  ‘They don’t know the Nice Guys! Look … this isn’t going to be as bad as you think. There’ll be no unnecessary shooting. If there’s any, it’ll be because the Nice Guys started it.’

  ‘That doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better.’

  ‘Maybe this will.’ Heck grabbed the Glock from the sideboard and tossed it onto the sofa. ‘You take possession of the gun if it helps.’

  Farthing gazed down at the weapon. ‘It doesn’t.’

  ‘If you don’t know how to use it, I’ll show you …’

  ‘I know how to use it. I was a shot myself, once.’

  Heck was startled by that. ‘You were?’

  ‘Only a few months. Didn’t finish the training course.’

  ‘Who binned you?’

  ‘What does it matter? I learned one thing from that valuable experience, Heck. Stay out of the line of fire … always.’

  ‘Well, I prefer to work unarmed too, if I can.’

  Farthing slumped onto the sofa. ‘You know, you say things like that … and for a minute you sound completely sane. And then I remember how you got here and how you’re going to leave, which most likely will be in a coffin.’

  ‘At the end of the day, Jerry, we’re coppers.’ Heck shrugged tiredly. ‘We don’t get a choice what kind of bad guys we have to pursue. We just do it.’

  ‘Oh fucking hell, the philosophy of the street-cop. Spare me that at least.’

  ‘If you feel you’ve got to turn me in, get on with it … don’t bore me with some professional cynic routine. I’ve given you a way out. You can say I oppressed you into helping me. Who knows, the experience may traumatise you so much they’ll have no option but to let you leave early. But if all that isn’t good enough, there’s nothing more I can do.’

  Farthing pondered this for several seconds, and then sighed. ‘You realise there’ll be no way back for us after this?’

  ‘Well, that’ll suit you … won’t it?’

  ‘Christ, Heck … you’re deranged. You must be.’ He stood up and stomped across the room to the hall door. ‘I don’t believe I’m not just chucking you onto the street.’

  ‘It’d be easier doing that if you had the gun.’

  ‘I’m not leaving my prints on some murder weapon, thanks very much.’

  ‘And you said you weren’t a smart bobby,’ Heck called after him as he banged his way upstairs. ‘If it’s any consolation, Jerry, you’re doing the right thing.’

  ‘Right and wrong don’t come into it,’ Farthing’s voice echoed down. ‘Thinking about these next few days, it was a straight choice between you and Jeremy Kyle. And even you win on that score.’

  Chapter 29

  ‘Just so long as you know I’m not getting out of this sodding car,’ Farthing said.

  ‘That’s okay,’ Heck replied, distracted by the map book on his knee.

  It was late morning and Farthing’s scruffy blue Chevrolet was thirty miles up the A1, having passed Gateshead, Newcastle, Cramlington and Morpeth. Heck’s original plan had been to set out first thing, but the breakfast rush-hour traffic would have provided a major headache, plus, after the late night they’d had, it had been nine-thirty before either he or his reluctant host had come around fully. On top of that, Heck had then had to persuade Farthing to act as his driver for the day, which hadn’t been easy. At least the A1, a broad dual-carriageway, was largely clear. The rugged northern moors and their occasional belts of wild, wind-stunted trees undulated away on all sides, dotted with blue-faced Swaledale sheep.

  ‘So you reckon this Whips n Stottie place is famous?’ Heck said.

  ‘Only round here, like,’ Farthing replied. ‘It’s a caff … a truck stop.’

  ‘And how close are we to the sea?’

  ‘Not far. It’s about three or four miles. You thinking they came here by boat?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Assuming it’s them, why are they up here in the first place?’

  Heck shoved the map onto the dashboard. ‘The Northeast’s as good a place as any. They’re hitting targets in Yorkshire and Scotland as well as down south. That makes it pretty central to their plan.’

  Farthing looked puzzled. ‘But how did they get into the country?’

  ‘How do criminals normally get into foreign countries? Through Customs, using fake passports, fake visas. The Nice Guys are nothing if not connected.’

  ‘And they just carried all these weapons in with them? From what I’ve heard, it’s high-grade stuff … and there’s enough of it to start a civil war.’

  ‘The weapons may have been acquired over here. That kind of kit isn’t found easily in the UK, so they must have paid top-dollar. But I can’t see that being a problem. Christ knows how many millions they’ve earned from their rape-to-order racket. Alternatively, they might have smuggled them in through some diplomatic channel.’

  ‘Get away!’

  ‘No one checks the diplomatic bag, Jerry.’

  ‘So when you say these guys are connected, you mean they’re really connected?’

  ‘All their customers I’ve encountered so far have been high rollers. Big men in big jobs. No one else can afford the Nice Guys’ services.’

  Farthing checked his rear-view mirror, seemingly in kneejerk response to that. Heck understood why. One of the biggest problems during his battles with the Nice Guys was the extent to which they were protected, and how many men in positions of influence they could call to their assistance. The last time it had been Laycock, and this time it was probably someone in SOCAR. With that kind of support, they could head off an investigative pursuit with relative ease, assuming they hadn’t killed those allies beforehand. In one way, the Nice Guys’ very reason for being here might weaken their position. Even so, Heck couldn’t help glancing into the wing mirror too.

  ‘Worrying thought though, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘That when we’re running in the pervs and peepers and kiddie-fiddlers, we’re only scratching the surface. That the real predators are so well insulated we don’t even know they’re out there.’

  They arrived at their target destination just before noon.

  As Farthing had said, it was little more than a roadside diner, a small flat-roofed building. The legend Whips n Stottie was emblazoned on a rectangular hoarding over the main entrance in mock-medieval typeface, alongside an image of an enormous bun crammed with chips. The same motif flew from a banner atop a tall pole at the car park entrance. A considerable number of vans and trucks were already packed into its extensive parking area.

  They reversed into a parking bay some forty yards from the main building, and there waited, watching the comings and goings through the restaurant’s main front door, which was located at the top of a short flight of steps. The majority of the customers had the look of ordinary working men: some in overalls, some in jeans and t-shirts. The occasional sales rep appeared, jacket draped over shoulder. Most tended to re-emerge after a few minutes, carrying bundles wrapped in newspaper.

  ‘I suppose it would help if we knew who we were actually looking for,’ Farthing said. He’d slumped behind the steering wheel in the hope he and Heck wouldn’t get spotted, though in his tatty jumper and hooded cagoule, there wasn’t much chance of someone taking him for a copper.

  ‘Military men,’ Heck replied.

  ‘That d
oesn’t really narrow it down.’

  ‘Military men who look like they could serve now.’

  ‘So … what are we saying? Young, fit, short haircuts?’

  ‘Forget the haircuts. These are mercs. They’re also stone-killers, so if we do meet them, you don’t get in their faces … okay?’

  ‘You must’ve missed the bit where I said I’m not leaving the bloody car.’

  The wait went on. Twelve o’clock became twelve-thirty, and then one o’clock. More customers came and went. The place was busy as hell, but Heck was increasingly aware that someone would notice the stationary Chevrolet at some point, even if it was only a member of staff, and if they came out and asked questions, that would be the kind of attention he didn’t need. He opened the passenger door.

  ‘I’m going in.’

  Farthing reached into his pocket. ‘I was getting a bit peckish.’

  ‘I don’t mean for lunch.’

  ‘Oh …’

  ‘You’re right. We don’t know enough about these guys, and I haven’t come all this way to sit in a car park hoping to get lucky.’

  ‘What’re you gonna do?’

  ‘What I always do … wing it.’

  Heck entered the diner with the breezy air of a hungry customer. The atmosphere was steamy, greasy, throbbing with voices. Most of the tables were occupied, while a number of men were seated along the counter, all tucking into plates piled high with fish and chips, pie and chips, egg and chips, or just about anything with chips. He wove through to a hatch at the end of the counter. The girls working there wore pinafores, transparent gloves and paper hats. One, a young lass with short sandy hair and freckles, turned to face him. ‘Eat in or take out, sir?’

  Heck showed his warrant card, though with more trepidation than usual. As he didn’t know what most of the Nice Guys looked like, one of them could be sitting right next to him. He glanced sideways, but no one was paying attention.

  ‘It’s nothing serious,’ he told the girl, ‘but I’d like a chat with the manager.’

  A middle-aged woman emerged from a room on the right, which, owing to the clashing of pots and cutlery inside it, was probably the main kitchen. She was short and foursquare, with a head of tight, bronze-rinsed curls. She too wore a pinafore and gloves. ‘Can I help?’ she asked.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Heckenburg. You are …?’

  ‘Mrs Broadhurst. I’m the owner.’

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about, Mrs Broadhurst. But I’m looking for a bunch of guys who may have been in here as customers in the last few weeks.’

  Mrs Broadhurst didn’t look particularly worried, but was keen to take the conversation out of earshot of her customers, which Heck also thought a good plan. She beckoned him through the kitchen area – another hive of activity, staff dashing back and forth – and into a cluttered office, on which she closed the door.

  ‘We get groups of men all the time,’ she said. ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘They’ll have been in more than once. Bunch of young fellas … twenties, thirties. A mix of foreign accents most likely.’

  ‘Dear me, pet. We get all sorts of accents here too. A lot of East Europeans … you know, seasonal workers, labourers, drivers. Plus we’re on the tourist route. This is the Heritage Coast, you see. It runs all the way up. Alnwick, Dunstanburgh Castle, Bamburgh Castle, Holy Island. We get all sorts.’

  ‘Americans?’

  ‘Yes … there was one in yesterday teatime.’ She relapsed into thought. ‘Now you mention it, he’s been in here before.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘Longish red hair, red beard.’

  Heck recalled the gunman partially described by Gary Quinnell.

  ‘He was a youngish man too,’ Mrs Broadhurst added. ‘And he sometimes has a few others with him.’

  ‘Other Americans?’

  ‘No … different accents, like you say. Some British, others foreign. I assumed they were working locally, because there’s usually two or three of them, but they buy pies, chips and stuff, and always in bulk … like they’re providing for a site or something?’

  ‘Is this every lunchtime and every teatime?’

  ‘No. Sometimes I don’t see them at all, but then I’m not always on the counter.’

  ‘Is it usually the same men?’

  ‘No, there are different ones on different days, but you get the feeling they’re together. I’m sure they’re working local. They must be.’

  ‘You said you saw this American chap yesterday?’

  ‘I’m not sure … hang on. My husband might know.’ She opened the office door and shouted into the kitchen. ‘Ken … can you come in here a sec?’

  A big, angular man in his late sixties appeared. He had a craggy, weather-beaten face, a pendulous strawberry nose and silver hair slicked into a quiff.

  ‘You spoke to that young American customer who was in yesterday teatime, didn’t you?’ Mrs Broadhurst asked.

  Ken frowned. ‘I did … why?’

  ‘What did you speak to him about?’

  ‘Well … he’d had a shave and a haircut, hadn’t he?’

  ‘You’ve definitely seen him in here before?’ Heck said.

  Ken looked at Heck, puzzled.

  ‘This is a police officer,’ Mrs Broadhurst explained.

  Ken pursed his lips. ‘I’ve seen him before. He’s usually with those other foreign lads who come in. But he had longish hair and a beard before. All that’s come off now. I asked if it was a new look for him.’

  ‘Anything else strike you about him?’ Heck asked.

  ‘He’s got a limp from somewhere,’ Ken said. ‘That’s new as well. Didn’t ask about that though.’

  ‘Any of the others showing injuries? A broken nose maybe?’

  ‘Didn’t notice.’

  ‘What about the others’ accents?’

  ‘Various. Some British, others European …’

  ‘Australian?’

  Ken nodded. ‘There was an Aussie. Big fella too. He was last in quite a few days ago. Haven’t seen him since.’

  Heck knew why that was. If it was the same Aussie who’d tried to kill him in London, his flattened nose would now be one distinguishing feature that every police force in the UK could look out for. The risk of being spotted also probably lay behind the Yank’s change of appearance. He knew Gary Quinnell had survived, which meant there’d at least be a rudimentary description out on him.

  ‘So what does our American friend look like now?’ Heck asked.

  ‘Hair’s very short,’ Ken said. ‘Flattened off. Pale-faced too. Light freckles.’

  ‘How old exactly?’

  ‘Mid-to-late thirties.’

  ‘Build?’

  ‘Well … athletic.’ Ken turned to his wife, who was furtively glancing at her watch. ‘We’ll have him on film, won’t we, love?’

  She nodded, but reluctantly, as if there were other things she needed to be doing. ‘We have a CCTV over the counter.’

  ‘Can I look at the footage now?’ Heck asked.

  ‘Does it need to be now?’ she said. ‘Only it’s lunchtime, you see, and …’

  ‘This is a murder enquiry.’

  She paused, mouth open. Then glanced at her husband, who looked equally discomforted by the revelation. ‘Are these fellas dangerous then?’ he asked.

  ‘They’ll pose no danger to the public unless someone confronts them,’ Heck said. ‘So if you do see them again, it’s business as usual. It might not even be the same people, but I need to check the footage to know that for sure.’

  Ken glanced again at his wife. ‘Yes, well I think we’d better take care of that now.’

  A couple of minutes later, he was seated in front of a computer, tapping on its keyboard. Mrs Broadhurst stood nervously by. If she had things she needed to be doing elsewhere, she was in no rush to attend to them now.

  ‘If you could find some with the Aussie lad too,’ Heck said, ‘that would help.’

&
nbsp; Ken continued tapping. ‘Ah ha …’

  The relevant footage appeared. It was in black and white, but surprisingly clear in quality. It had been shot from overhead, so all it initially portrayed was the usual jumble of customers at the counter, primarily the tops of their heads. In the midst of this chaos, one man stood out for the sheer breadth of his denim-clad shoulders. Heck leaned forward, squinting. It was possibly the brawny Aussie he’d tangled with on the Underground. The figure sported a distinctive buzz-cut, but it was difficult to be sure.

  ‘That’s the American we were talking about.’ Ken pointed to the person alongside the big shape. ‘Before he had his crop.’

  This was a slighter, leaner man. As they’d said, he had collar-length locks and thick facial hair. He was wearing a khaki flak-jacket. With a cold thrill, Heck now remembered the ambush at Shacklewell Street, and the beard he’d glimpsed on the khaki-clad figure advancing from the bus stop. They watched the footage for several minutes, while the two suspects bought what looked like a dozen packages of food, but at no stage were their faces clearly visible. When it finished, Heck dug an ID card from his wallet, took a biro from the desktop, underlined his personal email address and handed it over. ‘Can you email this particular file to this address?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Ken said.

  ‘Just out of interest. How do they arrive here? I don’t suppose you’ve noticed what kind of vehicle they come in?’

  ‘I saw the one they came in yesterday. It was a maroon Ford transit van, a flatbed.’

  ‘Registration number?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got exterior CCTV?’

  ‘On the car park, but yesterday they didn’t park there. They pulled up out front.’

  ‘Presumably they’ve parked in the car park on other occasions?’

  ‘Well, yeah,’ Ken said, ‘but we’d have to go back through the files and that would take time.’

  ‘We can do that.’ Heck indicated the card. ‘Can you email all the files to that address – say for the last four weeks?’

  Ken glanced at his wife. ‘It would still take time. I mean, they’re big files.’