by Paul Finch
There was something undeniably macabre about these cases. And maybe it was curious that they’d all occurred in Surrey in the last few months, but coincidences did happen. Didn’t they?
She was so lost in these ruminations that, even after she’d sat down at an otherwise empty table, her lunch lay untouched for several minutes. It was only when she’d taken one or two halfhearted nibbles at her sandwich that she noticed Ron Pavey and a couple of his Street Thefts cronies seated at the next table along, evidently discussing her. Pavey occasionally glanced around, that sardonic grin plastered to his ugly mug.
Gail looked away, trying to ignore him. She checked her watch. Truth was, she now felt a twinge of guilt. It wasn’t advancing the investigation sitting here doing nothing, even though she was entitled to the occasional meal break. Someone pulled out a chair at the other side of the table, and placed down his own sandwich and teacup. Assuming this would be Pavey coming back for round eighty-nine or whatever it was, she prepared her most withering stare – and found herself face to face with Will Royton.
‘Oh, guv …’
‘Everything all right?’ he asked, unfolding his napkin.
‘Erm, yeah, course.’
He glanced up at her, detecting a tone. ‘You sure?’
‘Guv – DS Heckenburg?’ She wasn’t quite certain how to pose this question. ‘Is he the real deal?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, we’re supposed to be working on the death of Harold Lansing. Now he wants me over at Tilford.’
Royton bit into his sandwich. ‘Let me guess: the crash site of that AWOL barrage balloon? Nasty business, that.’
‘Well yeah, but I don’t see what it’s got to do with me.’
Royton shrugged. ‘I’m sure he’d do it himself, but he was at Wayland Prison this morning, as I understand it, interviewing Gordon Meredith. You remember him?’
‘Yeah, the lorry driver.’ Gail was puzzled. ‘Sorry guv, how do you know about that?’
‘DS Heckenburg’s kept me fully abreast of his enquiries. His updates are a bit short on detail, but at least they’re regular. He’s obviously working fast – I understand he’s now off to some farm where a chap called Thornton tried to inflate a tractor tyre and somehow ended up inflating himself.’
‘Yeah, it’s somewhere near Woldingham.’
Royton eyed her as he ate. ‘And you’re liaising with FIU to see if Harold Lansing had any financial skeletons in his closet?’
‘Erm, yeah …’
‘How is that progressing?’
‘Not well, I’m afraid. I’ve not exhausted every avenue, of course. Far from it. But for the moment it looks like Lansing was clean.’
Royton shrugged. ‘Perhaps Mark Heckenburg’s got something?’
‘Most likely a vivid imagination.’
‘You sure about that, Gail?’
‘He’s guessing, guv. It would be the most extraordinary thing on Earth if all these tragic deaths were connected.’
‘More extraordinary than if they were all genuine accidents – all weird in nature, all happening in the same geographic vicinity, all within a relatively short time period?’
She regarded him with interest. ‘You’re not buying into this, are you?’
‘Gail, let me tell you something about DS Heckenburg. He’s come to us with the recommendation of Detective Superintendent Piper at the Serial Crimes Unit. Now I know it’s fashionable to diss these specialist units in the big city – write them all off as elitist prats who won’t get out of bed in the morning unless national survival is at stake, but that isn’t what it’s like. I know Gemma Piper well, and she runs a very efficient unit. SCU detectives have been at the cutting edge of some major and complex investigations, and Mark Heckenburg’s been right there with them. I was warned that he thinks outside the box, though this is supposedly his strength not his weakness. I’ve been warned he’s no stranger to controversy … that he’s unconventional, unorthodox, but also that he makes things happen.’
‘That’s all fine and dandy, guv, but frankly I’m more concerned about my reputation than Mark Heckenburg’s.’ She made a dismissive gesture. ‘Great, he’s got a glowing track record. Fine, wonderful. I’m impressed. But at present he’s off in some strange fantasy world, and I’m worried he’s going to drag me into it.’
Royton gave this some thought. ‘Gail, is it possible you shouldn’t be so concerned about your reputation?’
‘Guv?’
‘Not to the extent that it’s limiting your effectiveness on the job.’
‘Guv, I didn’t mean—’
‘Hear me out, Gail. If nothing else, DS Heckenburg is a senior rank to you. That means he has tactical command.’
‘Tactical command?’
‘I told you, you’re a taskforce of two, and I’m afraid – if it comes down to it – he’s the boss. Now if you’re unhappy about anything – his methods, his management style, anything at all – write it on paper and forward it up the chain. I assure you it won’t be ignored. But for the time being, I don’t think it would do any harm for you to treat his input a little more seriously.’
As Gail headed west along the A25, she hadn’t felt so chastened in quite some time. Will Royton’s stern words hardly qualified as a telling-off – not by police standards – but he had, to a degree, put her in her place. And that was something Gail didn’t enjoy.
She’d been just under a year in CID, and three years in uniform before that. In a relatively brief time she’d logged a significant number of arrests, many of which had proceeded to full conviction, including two for murder, when as a young PC she’d found herself in the right place at just the right time. Some poor sod was hammered coming out of a kebab shop late on a Friday night. It was a case of mistaken identity, but the two hoodlums responsible had both broken bottles over his head, killing him instantly. Gail had been the first officer on the scene, those responsible were pointed out by shocked onlookers and, with the assistance of the public, she’d made the arrests. Those were the collars that had kick-started her career and, professionally at least, there’d been nothing to detract from it since. As a detective, she’d had a steady turnover of prisoners; there’d been no disciplinary procedures against her; she’d rarely even been reprimanded. In her last written assessment, she’d been described as ‘a highly proficient officer with an excellent working knowledge of the job, a good temperament to go with it, and a determination to succeed’. She’d already passed her sergeant’s and inspector’s exams, and although the promotion call hadn’t come yet, she was increasingly hopeful that it would, even if it did necessitate going back into uniform for a spell.
Everything had been going swimmingly – apart from that business with Ron Pavey. That hadn’t been good if she was honest, which she rarely was on this subject, even with herself. Now she put all that down to having been very young and inexperienced, to having been blown away by Ron’s superficial qualities of street smarts and knowhow. At least that was all over now. Okay, she’d stayed with him longer than she ought to have – mainly because she hadn’t wanted to be seen as shallow, dropping a lover at the first sign of something better coming along, though that in itself could now be construed as naivety. The main thing was that she’d got rid of the idiot – eventually. She felt like such a fool, the way it had ended so messily. Not just because of the pain it had involved, but because it had happened in the sight of so many. Not all of it – thank God! But enough of it to turn her cheeks red whenever she recollected it. But one way or another, thankfully, she’d got rid of him.
And now this business with Detective Sergeant Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg.
‘Heck!’ she snorted as she drove. ‘Great nickname.’
He’d seemed like an okay guy too, once she thought she’d got to know him. Until Ron had stuck his nose in, and Heck had been far too quick to enter into a dick-measuring contest. On top of that, he was now doing precisely what he’d promised he wouldn’t: riding roughshod ove
r her views and giving her orders. Even Will bloody Royton was in on the act.
At Guildford she took the A248 towards Shalford, still far from convinced this wasn’t an utter waste of time. She steered her Punto through the steadily increasing mid- afternoon traffic, making progressively less headway until at last, while passing Godalming, she found herself shuffling along at less than walking pace – and all the time her doubts grew on her.
It was true that everything Royton had said about Heck had made an impression of sorts. There was no doubt that he was a talented detective. He wouldn’t have got where he was because of his disarming manner (which he didn’t have anyway), or because of his looks (which he did have, if she was truthful). But why the hell did he have to turn up now, at just the wrong time? And why did his theories have to be so wildly at variance with hers? And yet here she was again, as Will Royton would say, thinking about herself rather than the enquiry. Even Heck had noticed it, accusing her of trying to turn this thing into a competition, and getting the hump as a result – with more than a little justification, she grudgingly admitted.
At Tilford, she found that she wasn’t the first on the scene.
Local officers had cordoned off two or three residential streets at the north end of the small suburban community. Not only that, the Air Accidents Investigation Branch had arrived from Aldershot.
‘Who did you say you were?’ asked the uniformed sergeant minding the perimeter. He was a tall man with a military bearing and a clipped red/grey moustache.
Gail showed him her warrant card for the second time. ‘DC Honeyford. Reigate Hall CID.’
He eyed her suspiciously. ‘And what’s your interest here, DC Honeyford?’
A couple of younger uniformed blokes, no doubt constables from this sergeant’s relief, stood some distance away, watching but sticking close together so as to whisper amused confidences.
‘There’s a faint possibility, Sergeant, that this incident is connected to a series of crimes we’ve been working on.’
‘Well I’ve heard nothing to that effect.’
‘I’m sure you will, Sarge …’ She took out her mobile, tapped in a number and offered it to him, ‘when you speak to Detective Chief Inspector Royton. He’ll probably be very interested to know why I’m being refused entry to the scene.’
‘All right, you can put your phone away,’ the sergeant said with a sneer. He stood to one side. ‘Good God, the slightest sign that we aren’t prepared to bow and scrape for them, and they’re running off telling tales.’
Gail wasn’t sure who ‘they’ referred to – CID officers or, more likely, female officers in general – but she didn’t rise to the bait as she slipped her phone away and stooped under the incident tape.
‘I’d have your sick bag handy, DC Honeyford,’ the sergeant called after her. ‘This isn’t something you’ll ever have seen before.’
The actual crash site was located at the end of a small suburban cul-de-sac called Willacombe Walk. In addition to the residents’ cars, numerous other vehicles were now parked there, including four police cruisers and a fire engine. It seemed that the blimp had crash-landed just beyond two semi-detached houses. An enormous flap of tattered silver-grey material hung down over the front of the building. Pieces of white metal frame lay twisted and mangled across the joint garden area, along with numerous roof tiles, a length of PVC guttering and a fallen satellite dish.
Gail showed her warrant card again, and after being issued with a pair of rubberised shoe-covers was passed through a side gate and down an entry to the rear of the property. Again, long banner-like tatters of dirigible were festooned everywhere: hanging over the backs of the houses as well as the front, draped along the bushes and fencing, flying in strips from the high branches of a willow tree. There were several people present, all in Tyvek coveralls, all working the scene. She finally managed to speak to one of them; a thin, elderly man with lank grey hair and pinched, almost peevish features. When he introduced himself as Engineering Inspector Gibson, he was far warmer to her than the uniformed sergeant had been, but then he was from the Department of Transport and was hardly likely to feel challenged by her presence.
‘Possible criminal activity, you say?’ He mused on that as he led her across the churned rear lawn, stepping over broken branches, heaped glass, and bundles of contorted steel cable. ‘Well, the word from the Trade Fair at Woking is that crime is suspected.’
‘How’s that, sir?’ she wondered.
‘We think, or so your lads at the scene tell us, that this poor sod Donaldson was attempting some kind of crude sabotage.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Believe it or not, it seems as if he’d stolen some oxy-fuel cutting equipment during a burglary at a body shop in Woking a few days ago. He’d already untied most of the advertising blimp’s mooring ropes and was in the process of shearing through the main cable when he somehow got caught up.’
‘Possibly a silly question,’ Gail said, eyeing the large forensic tent covering the garden’s north-east corner. ‘But I assume he’s dead.’
‘I sincerely hope so,’ Gibson said, lifting the flap and standing aside. ‘This isn’t very pretty.’
Gail went through, and found herself gazing into the semi-imploded shell of a greenhouse. Its interior was all but destroyed, nothing more now than a mountainous mass of glass shards mingled with black soil, shreds of tomato plants, and hunks of freshly butchered human meat. Though she’d tried to prepare herself for this, she felt the skin tighten around her mouth, her lunchtime sandwich curdling in her belly.
‘Smell that?’ Gibson said.
‘Sorry?’ Gail glanced sideways at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice how green she’d turned. Belatedly, she understood what he’d said, and sniffed at the air. Immediately, she detected a whiff of alcohol.
‘Whatever he was doing, the poor fella was soused,’ Gibson added.
‘Why would he be attempting sabotage?’ she asked.
‘Can’t help you there. Maybe his employers knew he was a drunk, and were in the process of disciplining him.’
‘What about the blimp – I mean, why did it come down?’
Gibson rubbed at his chin. ‘We’re not sure. At least not yet. They’re not designed to come down. They’re compartmentalised, you see, internally. If one does get punctured or ripped – say if a bird hits it – it gets contained. The dirigible keeps flying. Just out of interest, when you say you’re investigating criminal activity possibly connected to this … care to elaborate?’
Gail did, eyes fixed on the jumbled heap of glass and body parts, outlining Heck’s theory, and rather to her own surprise giving it more credence than she felt it merited. Gibson listened with fascination, his tufty grey eyebrows arching.
‘It’s not the sort of thing you encounter every day, I’d imagine,’ he finally said. ‘But then neither are accidents like this. You mean someone deliberately hooked this poor chap to a tether line and let it go?’
‘Possibly.’ Now that Gail considered that, it was actually quite hideous. ‘It’s only a hypothesis.’
‘There’s something you ought to look at.’ Gibson sidled left, still inside the tent, but moving along the outside of what remained of the greenhouse. Gail followed him, and they shuffled round to the rear. Here, the forensic tent had been extended to accommodate the garden’s wooden-slatted perimeter fence. Crammed down between this and the greenhouse’s shattered exterior wall were yet more human body parts. Foremost among them was a human leg, unevenly severed just below the knee, but still wearing a boot and sock. A fragment of rope was tangled around its ankle, so tightly that it had dug into the flesh, creating a webwork of severe postmortem bruising.
‘This is how Donaldson was attached,’ Gibson said. ‘There’s no actual knot, as you can see, but it’s been wrapped round his lower leg several times, the cords interweaving each other. It could conceivably have been an accident – maybe he was standing in a coil of rope when the thing suddenly
took off – but it’s not impossible that someone did that to him deliberately.’
Gail pondered Heck’s theory again, wondering exactly how feasible it was that they were hunting for some kind of insane practical joker.
‘I don’t suppose you can forward copies of your documentation to my office?’ Gibson said.
‘Yes sir, of course. Can you do the same for us?’
‘When we actually produce some, yes. The whole scene’s got to be minutely examined first. The family and neighbours have been moved out and I’m not sure when they’ll be allowed back, to be honest. I’m not sure they’ll want to come back. The two little girls who live here were the first to come outside and find the body.’
‘Nice,’ Gail said, distracted by the bleeping of her mobile.
She stepped outside as she took the call, thankful for an excuse to get away from the scene of carnage. It was Will Royton, wondering where she was up to. She told him what she knew, adding that AAIB were interested in Heck’s theory.
‘You’ll have to liaise with them on this one, Gail,’ he replied. ‘This is totally their province.’
‘Already arranged that, guv. Listen, can you get someone to have a chat with Woking CID? There was a burglary at a body shop a couple of days ago. Some cutting gear got lifted. It may be connected to this, so we could do with knowing everything they know.’
‘I’ll sort it,’ he said. ‘Do I detect from your tone that you’re now a little more sympathetic to DS Heckenburg’s ideas?’
‘It’s just … I don’t know. There’s still no evidence that this is anything more than a bizarre accident.’ She noticed Gibson, now at the other side of the garden with one of his younger colleagues, waving to her. ‘Gotta go, guv. I’ll call you back.’
She joined Gibson by the far fence, alongside a young woman also clad in Tyvek. Gibson indicated another sheet of ragged fabric dangling down from the guttering on the house’s gable wall. A series of three vaguely circular rents – all spaced neatly apart, each one several inches in diameter – were visible in the middle of it.
