Stalkers

by Paul Finch

‘You must’ve known something like this was coming,’ Palliser said.

  ‘Rumblings at the Yard, are there?’

  ‘Your comparative-case-analysis didn’t have the desired effect,’ Palliser explained.

  Heck slumped into a chair, making no effort to disguise his irritation. ‘Three bloody weeks I worked on that.’

  ‘The effort was clearly there,’ Superintendent Piper said, sitting opposite. ‘But that’s all. Considering the time put in, the evidence is too thin. How long have you been on this case now?’

  ‘Two years, four months.’

  ‘And ground gained — zero.’

  ‘I need more men,’ he protested.

  ‘Well you’ve got one less from today.’

  Heck sat up slowly. ‘How can I have one less than none?’

  ‘The one less is you, Heck,’ Palliser said.

  Heck glanced from one to the other, finally fixing on Superintendent Piper. ‘You’re not shutting it down?’

  ‘It’s not my choice.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Laycock. What a surprise.’

  ‘It’s a nothing case,’ she retorted. ‘You’ve admitted that yourself.’

  ‘In moments of frustration I may have admitted that.’

  ‘There seems to be more frustration than anything else.’

  He stood up. ‘Look, what’s the problem? I’m working every hour God sends, but most of it’s for free. I haven’t made any unreasonable requests for overtime.’

  ‘The problem is you could be better used elsewhere,’ she said. ‘Crime doesn’t stop just because you’re involved in something you find more interesting.’

  ‘“Interesting”?’ Heck could hardly believe what she’d just said. ‘We’ve got thirty-eight missing women here! Surely it’s more than “interesting”?’

  Superintendent Piper responded by rifling through a few files and print-outs, of which there were plenty strewn across the desk. ‘Where’s the evidence they’re connected? Where’s the pattern? Some of them are four hundred miles apart, for God’s sake! Sorry … I’ve trusted you on this for nearly two years, but that’s it. The trust’s run out.’

  ‘Look, ma’am …’

  ‘Don’t give me the usual blarney, Heck. You’re one of the best detectives I’ve got, but these hunches of yours are proving an expensive luxury. And look at the bloody state of you! For God’s sake, tidy yourself up!’

  ‘Don’t you even want to know why I’m in this state?’ he wondered.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve been on an all-night surveillance operation. And guess what, I had to do it all myself because there’s no one else to help.’

  Voices could now be heard out in the corridor; one of them had a distinct South London twang, distinguishing it as that of DCI Slackworth, who ran the CID office here at Deptford Green.

  ‘I’ve got one new lead in particular, which is looking really good,’ Heck added. ‘But I haven’t even had a chance to start following it yet.’

  ‘Put it all on paper,’ Superintendent Piper said, half-listening to the voice outside and looking again at the notice that had been pinned to her officer’s door. ‘Each case is being referred back to the divisional CID or mis-pers department that originally dealt with it. Your new stuff can go with them.’

  ‘Thirty-eight missing women, ma’am.’

  ‘You think,’ Palliser said.

  ‘But how can we just close it down?’ Heck asked. ‘We’re the Serial Crimes Unit, for Christ’s sake!’

  Superintendent Piper stood up. ‘We’ll keep it under review. But at present we haven’t got the resources.’

  ‘How about if …’

  ‘I’m not arguing with you, Heck. I’ve actually done you a courtesy coming down here to tell you in person. I could’ve sent Des, I could’ve told you on the bloody phone. Just deal with it, alright.’

  She marched to the door, pulling on her suit jacket.

  ‘You know, it’s a miracle anyone stays in this job,’ Heck said. ‘And I’ll tell you another miracle — that we ever catch anyone with some of the clowns we’ve got in charge.’

  ‘Watch it!’ She rounded on him fiercely. ‘Just watch it, Sergeant!’

  ‘I didn’t mean you …’

  ‘I don’t give a damn! I won’t have insubordination! Now your work here is done. So do us all a favour, get your paperwork in order and, following that, get your head in order. Then get your scruffy arse back to the Yard, pronto.’

  And she was off, storming down the passage to catch up with DCI Slackworth — a burly, foursquare slaphead with flabby cheeks and pig-mean eyes — who was busy chatting up a pretty young female constable from the day-shift.

  Heck watched her go, sourly.

  ‘Do you think anyone’ll mind if I light up in here?’ Palliser wondered, edging out of view of those in the corridor.

  ‘How should I know?’ Heck replied.

  ‘It’s your office.’

  ‘Not anymore.’

  At the end of the corridor, Superintendent Piper was standing arms folded, yet still managing to wave the notice around, as she gave both barrels to Slackworth. The familiar whipcrack voice came echoing along the passage, and Slackworth, a tough-nut in front of his own crew, was soon shuffling awkwardly and looking abashed.

  ‘“The Lioness”,’ Heck said. ‘Talk about well named.’

  ‘She has a softer side.’ Palliser was now beside an open window, blowing smoke. ‘If anyone should know that, it’s you.’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘She still cares about you though.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘For one thing, she reckons you need some leave.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re in a state, Heck. You haven’t had a break in two years.’

  ‘I haven’t been able to.’

  ‘Beside the point.’

  ‘No it isn’t.’ Heck indicated the empty desks and tables. ‘I used to have six officers working for me in here, Des. One by one, I’ve watched them get shunted to other duties. All I’ve had for the last nine weeks is an admin assistant, part-time.’

  Palliser shrugged. ‘Understanding why you’re knackered isn’t really a solution to it. She’s the gaffer and she reckons that your judgment’s become impaired. You’re losing sight of the wood for the trees.’

  ‘So I’m a burn-out as well?’

  ‘Not far off.’

  ‘This is bollocks.’

  ‘No, she’s genuinely concerned.’

  ‘I mean this whole thing.’

  ‘Oh that, yeah. That’s definitely bollocks.’ Palliser suddenly glanced up at the ceiling, wondering belatedly if there was a smoke-detector present, and relaxing when he saw that there wasn’t. ‘You’re a DS, Heck, that’s all. Yet for two years you’ve been working under your own steam, authorising your own hours and resources. It was inevitable someone was going to whinge about it. It’s politics, typical office bullshit. But it’s not unimportant.’

  ‘Especially not when someone like Laycock’s involved, eh?’

  While Superintendent Piper was head of the Serial Crimes Unit, her immediate supervisor, Commander Jim Laycock, was director of the National Crime Group and was, to all intents and purposes, God. Despite this, Heck had managed to bump heads with him on a number of occasions.

  ‘Laycock’s answerable to a higher power as well,’ Palliser said, as if this was some kind of consolation.

  ‘He’s a pencil-pushing suit.’

  ‘Which is all the more reason to fall in line for him. He has to balance the books somehow. Given the history you and him have got, it’s a wonder he’s let it drag on this long.’

  Heck walked back to his desk, his head aching with frustration. He sat down heavily. ‘At the end of the day, all I’m concerned about is these missing women. I can crack this, Des. I know it. I can find them, or at least find out what happened to them.’

  Palliser chucked his cig-butt from the window. ‘W
e’ve been through this already, mate. Wrap it up and get some rest. God knows, you need it.’

  Chapter 5

  When Louise came round, she felt ghastly: headachey and sick to the pit of her stomach.

  Initially the awful memory of her abduction eluded her. All she could do at first was puzzle about why she was slumped in a ratty old armchair that smelled of stale urine. But then, when she looked around and realised that she was in a small, windowless room and that the throbbing pain in her right bicep was the result of an injection, everything surged back — and with it, a wild panic.

  She tried to leap to her feet, but was still groggy and immediately overbalanced, her shoeless feet sliding on the white linoleum floor. She fell heavily, landing alongside an open cardboard box, which, when she looked inside it, was stuffed to the brim with lingerie: pairs of lacy knickers, silk stockings, suspender belts. She recoiled from it the way she would if it had been full of snakes. Struggling to her knees, she backed away, only to collide with something else: a steel-framed clothes rack, which again was loaded with garments. In this case they were dresses, camisoles and skirts of various sizes and colours, though in all cases they were slinky, flimsy, transparent, the sort of things glamour models would wear. Again the tawdriness of it both revolted and terrified her — in no way could this be good.

  Heart thumping, Louise tried to lurch back to her feet, but it wasn’t easy. She’d evidently been sedated for several hours, and now felt as if she was recovering from a fever; every quick or ill-timed move brought on a new flutter of dizziness. But there was one thing at least — whoever had put her here, they’d left her unbound. Tender weals were impressed into her wrists, but thankfully the plastic cuffs had been removed, and, small and stuffy as this room might be, it had to be an improvement on the claustrophobic confines of that car boot. She pivoted around, looking for any means of escape.

  The room was lit by a single unshaded bulb and was no larger than a shop fitting-room, but it contained two doors, both made of varnished wood. Louise blundered to the first. It had a lever-handle, which she pushed down. The door opened, but on the other side of it there was only a narrow, white-tiled cubicle, containing a toilet, a wash-bowl and a shower. There was also a mirror, and fleetingly she caught her own reflection — it was so different from any previous mirror image of herself that she jumped backward with a shriek.

  Only after a split second of disbelief did she come forward again.

  Then she started to cry.

  Her face looked like it had been made up for a stage-show of the macabre. Her eyes were red with weeping; her hair hung in rat-tails; what remained of her make-up was smeared and blotched grotesquely; beneath that, her normal healthy complexion had paled to an ashen, almost greenish hue. Even though she’d only been in captivity for a couple of days at the most, she already looked to have lost weight: her cheekbones were painfully prominent. She glanced down at herself and saw that what remained of her clothing was in a disgusting state: stained with engine oil and body fluids. The vile stench of urine was suddenly explainable.

  The shock of all this was simply too much. Louise had tried to maintain her composure, tried to rationalise her way through this entire kidnapping ordeal rather than keep surrendering to panic, but surely she was insane to think that remaining calm would serve any purpose now? Good God, she’d been in these animals’ clutches no time at all, and she resembled a corpse already! Suppose they kept her for weeks, months, maybe longer?

  There was no option. She had to escape from here, any way she could, whatever it cost her.

  She backed into the main room again, turning frantically. She’d been correct in her first impression that there were no windows in here. She glanced up: the ceiling, which comprised bare wooden boards, was only about two feet above her head. She reached up and pressed it; it was unyielding. What she’d been expecting, she didn’t know — that it would lift like a lid? Ridiculous. But for some reason she pressed again, even harder, exerting all her strength, then overbalanced, almost fell.

  At first she assumed that she was having a relapse; that maybe the drugs were kicking in for a second time. But then she realised something bizarre: she wasn’t the one who’d overbalanced — it was the room itself. The floor had tilted. It tilted again and she had to stagger to keep upright. The entire room was swaying — not hugely, but noticeably.

  So what in Christ’s name was this? Where the hell was she?

  Panic once again nagged at her to get out of here, insisting that, whatever this horrendous situation was, she needed to get out — for Christ’s sake, she just had to get out!

  There was still the remaining door.

  Louise had no doubt that this one would be locked. And indeed, when she pushed against it and tried the handle — in this case a brass knob — it wouldn’t budge. She swore under her breath, struggling to suppress whimpers of despair. She tried again, but couldn’t even get the knob to turn.

  ‘Goddamn,’ she moaned, thrusting her shoulder against the wood, but only succeeding in hurting herself. ‘Goddamn it!’ Her voice rose to a desperate cry. ‘Goddamn it, someone please help me!’

  Abruptly, the handle turned in the opposite direction. There was a loud click as a lock was disengaged. Louise retreated. The door virtually flew open, and a man came through, closing it behind him. It was the tall black man in the overalls, gloves and day-glo orange ski-mask, an ensemble he was still wearing. He eyed her up and down. As before, it was not the way she’d been eyed by men in the past. There was no hunger there, no arousal — it was strictly professional; a cool, clinical appraisal. When he finally spoke, she was so astonished by what he said that at first she thought she’d misheard.

  ‘I said you’re size four, yeah? Your feet, I mean?’

  Hardly knowing what to say, Louise nodded.

  ‘Good. These are for you.’

  He pushed a pair of shoes into her hands. With a sense of unreality, she looked down at them: heeled sling-backs, black patent with red trim, evidently brand new. Under normal circumstances, they’d be far too trashy for Louise’s taste. Yet somehow she didn’t think that they were intended as a gift for her.

  ‘And for Jesus’s sake, take a shower,’ he added. ‘You’re stinking the entire place out.’

  She glared up at him, the injustice of the situation finally firing her spirit. ‘Surely that doesn’t bloody surprise you?’

  He pointed to the shower-room. ‘In there. You’ll find a toothbrush and toothpaste in the cabinet next to the mirror, so clean your teeth as well. And freshen your breath.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got two hours. Better do a good job.’

  ‘What’re you talking about?’

  ‘Pretty yourself up, you silly tart!’

  Perhaps the fact that they still hadn’t killed her, proving that she was of more value alive, was giving her extra courage. Or maybe, in some basic animal way, she now realised they were approaching the main event and that all bets were off. Either way, Louise was suddenly angry rather than afraid.

  ‘I’m not going to do any such thing,’ she stated.

  The man lurched towards her. ‘Listen girl, you have no say here. You have no opinions. You have no views. You just do as you’re told. Understand?’

  ‘You’re not going to get away with this!’

  ‘No?’

  ‘The police will be looking for me.’

  ‘Occupational hazard for us, darling.’ And he smiled, showing white, shark-like teeth. ‘But I have to say, not much of one.’

  She made a dash to get past him.

  He caught her before she could even open the door, clamping one gloved hand to her throat and throwing her violently back across the room. She landed in the armchair with sufficient force to drive the wind from her. For all his size, he advanced like a cat — lithe, sinuous. He sprang onto her, thrusting his face into hers. This close, the whites of his eyes were red-rimmed; his breath reeked of garlic. She craned her neck to loo
k away from him, but his weight pinned her down.

  ‘You stupid bitch!’ he hissed. ‘I’m under orders not to mess you up until this is all over, but I won’t hesitate to do it afterwards! So don’t try that shit again!’

  ‘My name is Louise Samantha Jennings,’ she said in a quaking but determined voice. ‘I am thirty years old. You may think my family are rich because I work in the City and live in South Buckinghamshire. But I was born in North London. My father is a taxi-driver, my mother a day-care worker. I have two older sisters and one little brother. We see each other all the time. We’re a very close-knit family. I also have a niece and nephew, one on my side and one on my …’

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’ he snickered. ‘Fall on the floor blubbing?’

  ‘I’m a human being. I don’t care what you think you’re going to get from this, you can’t treat human beings this way …’

  He slapped her across the left side of her face — not hard; to humiliate rather than hurt. ‘How about this way?’ he wondered. Then he slapped her across the right side. ‘How about that way?’

  She mashed her lips together, determined not to cry out, trying desperately to show that she wasn’t the crumpled wreck she must have appeared. But her mouth trembled and fresh tears brimmed from her eyes. ‘I … I want to speak to your boss …’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘If I can’t reason with the oily rag, I’ll try with the engine driver.’

  He gazed down at her for several long moments, licking his lips with a sharp, pink tongue. ‘Well … who knows,’ he finally said, ‘you may get that chance.’ He seemed excited by the resistance she’d shown: sweat greased the flesh around his eyes; he panted rather than breathed. But perhaps thinking that he was starting to enjoy himself too much here, he now released her and rose slowly, reluctantly to his feet. ‘Not yet though … first you’ve got some business to attend to. These clothes, these undies.’ He pointed at the jumbled garb. ‘Get yourself something sexy and pretty on.’ While Louise watched in amazement, he reached down and pulled a foot-locker out from under the rack of dresses. ‘There’s make-up in here, perfume and what-not.’ He kicked at a second locker. ‘This one’s jewellery. Help yourself. Just make sure you look and smell good.’ He moved to the door, but turned to face her one more time. ‘You’ve got two hours. Do not disappoint us.’