Stalkers

by Paul Finch

  ‘It’s risky.’

  ‘Risks are sometimes necessary.’

  They crept past the door recess to a small wash-house window. It was double-glazed, its frame made of PVC.

  ‘Breaking one of these will disturb the entire neighbourhood,’ Lauren said.

  ‘Yeah, but that won’t.’ Heck pointed to the floor above, where there was a smaller window with a panel of frosted glass. ‘That’s a bathroom or toilet. It’s our best bet.’

  It was far out of reach, though a horizontal stretch of iron guttering was located about three feet underneath it. They might conceivably be able to reach that. ‘Okay.’ She still sounded unhappy. ‘How do we do it?’

  He produced the duct-tape. ‘Plaster the glass with this, then punch it.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘It works for hundreds of shithead house-breakers every day. There’s no reason why it shouldn’t work for us. No one’ll hear a thing.’

  ‘Who’s going to do it?’

  ‘Can you stand on that gutter without ripping it out of the wall? I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Christ,’ she said, resigning herself to the inevitable.

  ‘Here.’ He gave her the roll of tape, then took his sweatshirt off and handed it to her. ‘When you get up there, wrap this round your fist.’

  They glanced around once more just to make sure they weren’t being observed from the premises opposite. But it was still pitch-black in the narrow canyon between the two rows of cottages. Nothing stirred apart from the bats darting about overhead.

  Using Heck’s foot as a stirrup, she clambered up his body until she was able to stand erect on top of his shoulders. She wasn’t heavy, but after the battering he’d recently taken, he had to lean against the wall for support.

  ‘Can you reach?’ he asked in a strained voice.

  ‘Just about.’ She yanked down on the gutter with both hands to ensure it was solid, and then used it to lever herself upwards. It was just wide enough for her to gain a purchase with her knees and then reach up and find the window sill. Once standing, she carefully layered the duct-tape on the glass. ‘Here goes nothing.’

  There was a dull whump as she struck it. Another followed, slightly louder, but not loud enough to alert the neighbours. Piece by piece, she handed the sticky tape-coated shards down to him. ‘You know we’re leaving prints all over this stuff?’

  ‘He’s not going to call the police. Don’t worry.’

  A short while later, she was able to climb in through the empty frame. Heck moved back to the rear door. She opened it from the inside. He stepped through and closed it behind him. Again they had to wait as their eyes attuned, but street lighting filtered in through the front windows, so it wasn’t long. The interior was split level in the 1960s beatnik style, the upper floor open aspect with only a carved wooden balustrade to separate the sleeping area from an eight-foot drop. Aside from smaller rooms like the wash room and kitchen, the ground floor was an all in one lounge-diner, modern in look yet with old-fashioned fixtures: a flagged floor, oil paintings on the white plaster walls.

  They advanced warily.

  ‘What exactly are we looking for?’ Lauren asked.

  ‘We’ll know when we find it. There must be something here we can use — I was right about the personalised alarm.’ Heck pointed to a corner of the ceiling, where a tiny red light was flashing on and off, and a video camera turning to follow their progress.

  ‘Shit!’ She made to dart away, but he grabbed her.

  ‘Don’t panic. I want him to know we’ve been here.’ He made a V-sign at the lens.

  ‘This is so nuts,’ she replied.

  ‘No. This is psychological warfare. He needs to know that his adversaries are at least as smart as he is.’

  ‘Sounds like macho bullshit to me.’

  ‘Whatever, it works.’

  They poked around the downstairs, moving furniture, opening drawers, before Heck headed up to the first floor. Lauren followed, increasingly tense. They’d been here several minutes already, which felt as though they were stretching their luck absurdly. They searched the bedroom shelves but found nothing of interest.

  ‘Know anything about hacking?’ Heck asked, eyeing the bedside computer.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  He tried to access the system anyway, but the password defeated him. While he was thus engaged, Lauren brushed against the wall, only for it to creak as though made from flimsy material. Heck heard this and got to his feet. They examined the wall carefully. Now that their attention had been drawn, it became apparent that this portion of wall had been left accessible. There was no furniture against it; it had no skirting board. Heck tested it with his fingers. It creaked again.

  ‘This is just soft-board. Ah hah …’

  He’d found a tell-tale slit in the paper, which, when he followed it, described a rectangle about six feet tall by three wide. He pushed hard. There was a click as a catch was released, and the rectangle swung outward. A bare wooden stair lay beyond.

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ Lauren said.

  ‘Fifty years ago it would’ve been Deke’s ascent to the gallows.’

  The stair connected with the loft, or with a room that had been constructed inside the loft. It was small and square, with only the roof’s south-facing slope serving as its ceiling. There were no windows, so Heck felt it safe to flick a switch. An electric light came on, revealing another desk, another computer, a filing cabinet and a wall-cupboard.

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ he said.

  He opened the cupboard first. Inside it there was a steel rack containing a variety of automatic weapons. Various pistols and revolvers were ranged along the top: Glocks, Brownings, Berettas. Below those, there were heavier-duty items: rifles and submachine guns. Heck recognised a Kurtz, two Armalites, a Kalashnikov, even a high-powered Dragunov sniper rifle.

  ‘Good God,’ Lauren said slowly.

  Heck turned to the filing cabinet and yanked open its drawers. They were packed with paperwork filed in buff folders. A reference code had been scrawled on each one with felt pen. The codes were the sort you used when listing electronic data and wishing to keep it orderly and chronological; for example, ‘a’ through to ‘z’, followed by ‘za’ through to ‘zz’, followed by ‘zza’ through to ‘zzz’, and so on. There was also a leather-bound ledger. Heck flicked it open. It was filled, page after page, with lists of scribbled notations. At first glance it looked like gibberish, but there were numbers in there with pound signs attached, big numbers, each one struck through with biro (possibly to indicate that the full fee had now been paid). On one occasion, Ezekial — because this was evidently a ledger of his accounts — had earned twenty-five thousand pounds for a single job. On another he’d earned forty-five thousand pounds.

  Lauren stiffened. She thought she’d just heard movement outside the house.

  Heck continued to flick pages. Each separate list clearly referred to a different employer — at least that was the way it appeared. She hooked his arm with her hand. He shook her loose; he was too preoccupied.

  ‘Someone’s coming in,’ she whispered, dashing to the top of the loft stair. She strained her ears to hear more — a key was turning in the front lock. This time Heck heard it too.

  ‘We’ve got to go!’ Lauren hissed.

  He nodded, but his eyes scanned quickly down the very last page in the ledger. At the bottom of the final list, the reference to the most recent job was ‘RO’.

  Ron O’Hoorigan?

  The figure alongside it read ten thousand pounds.

  ‘Heck!’ Lauren had been halfway down the stair and now stuck her head back into the room.

  He glanced at the top of the list. Whoever these particular jobs had been performed for, he — or they — were referred to simply as ‘Nice Guys’.

  ‘Heck, for Christ’s sake!’

  He nodded, switched the light off and followed her down the stairs.
r />   Just as they did, the cottage’s front door slammed open, and yellow streetlight flooded into the darkened ground floor. Lauren dashed across the sleeping area on cat-like feet. She made straight for the bathroom, but Heck didn’t immediately pursue. He paused halfway, and moved towards the balustrade. Even the sound of someone blundering around downstairs, and then the loud clack-click of what could be a firearm being cocked made no apparent impression on him. He loitered there as though uncertain about something. It took Lauren to hurtle back in, grab him by the collar, haul him into the bathroom and push him out through the window.

  They both landed on their feet, and raced down the garden towards the rear gate. As they reached it, full lighting came on in the house behind. They didn’t glance back, but crashed out into the alley and raced away into the London night.

  Chapter 23

  They ran north up Kingston Road, crossed the river at Teddington Lock and only slowed to a walk when they reached Petersham Road. By now they were sweaty-faced and panting. The few late evening pedestrians gave them a wide berth.

  ‘Why did you hesitate like that?’ Lauren asked.

  Heck shook his head.

  ‘You’re not going to start going barmy on me, I hope?’

  ‘He was there, wasn’t he? Right there, right in our grasp. If we’d jumped him then, it could’ve been the key to everything.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? You saw the way he beat the shit out of those idiots in Salford. Besides, it sounded like he was armed.’

  ‘Yeah, that might’ve been a problem. But we could still have nabbed him if we’d been canny. The thing is … it’s not him we’re after. It’s whoever’s paying him.’

  They were now entering Richmond. At weekend these privileged streets would be alive with well-heeled revellers, even late at night. But midweek it was quiet, its jazzy bars and swish restaurants closed and silent. A mist was forming, rolling in from the river. They glanced behind them a couple of times, but there was no sign anyone was following.

  ‘This is a lot bigger than I thought, Lauren,’ Heck said. ‘This guy, Deke … I don’t think he’s just some brainless bit of underworld muscle. I think he’s a hit-man. A proper one, a pro.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Doesn’t it make sense, with the weapons he had? The fact that he’s ex-special forces supports that theory.’

  ‘In which case, doesn’t it rule him out of our investigation?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘But we’re just looking for a missing woman.’

  ‘Look, Lauren …’ He mopped his sweat-damp hair from his forehead as they walked. ‘There’s something you need to know … I haven’t been entirely straight with you about this. I’m not just investigating Genene’s abduction. A whole bunch of women have gone missing in similar circumstances in the last few years. Genene’s only one of them.’

  She glanced sidelong at him, at first looking as if she didn’t quite know how to react. ‘You mean … you mean this is some kind of serial killer?’

  ‘I don’t know. I considered that possibility at first, but we’ve never found any bodies. You understand that what I’m telling you here is classified? You can’t go spreading it around.’

  ‘Who am I going to spread it to, Heck?’ She blew out a long, slow breath. ‘That’s not good news, but I don’t suppose I should be any more upset than I was before. All respect to these other birds, Genene is still my priority. But just out of interest, how many are we talking?’

  ‘Upwards of thirty.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Maybe more.’

  ‘And this Shane Klim is the one who’s …’

  ‘He’s probably not been acting alone. It’s increasingly difficult to see how anyone could be doing this alone. And now we know that a professional hit-man is involved … I mean, that puts it into a different category altogether.’ Heck rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘Always assuming I’m on the right track. This is all still theory, I’m afraid. If it’s wrong, and we’ve blundered into some totally different criminal conspiracy, I’m back to square one in a big way.’

  ‘But like you say, you’ve got to chase every lead right to the end, no matter how slender?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lauren looked thoughtful as they strode. ‘Heck … just tell me this. If it turns out that you have blundered into something else, some other naughty business Ron O’Hoorigan had knowledge of — and it’s got nothing to do with Genene or these other women, and you’ve been barking up completely the wrong tree — you’re not just going to give up on them?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘You are going to find them?’

  ‘Or find what happened to them, yeah.’

  She stopped him mid-stride, fixing him with a near-luminous stare. ‘Promise me that, Heck. We’re not doing all this for nothing? You’re not just gonna give up?’

  Heck was quite sincere when he replied: ‘That’s something I can always promise.’

  She nodded, and followed him as he headed into Richmond tube station. ‘Where we going, anyway?’

  ‘East,’ he said.

  ‘You know somewhere we can stay tonight?’

  ‘I’ve got a vague idea.’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve got mates all over London. We can crash with one of them.’

  He shook his head. ‘Our lot’ll be after you for sure by now. All your known associates will be under surveillance.’

  ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘Leave it to me.’

  They caught the District Line and rode to Embankment, where they changed to the Bakerloo and headed south again into dingier districts. At this late hour, the train was otherwise empty, and strewn with the debris of the day’s passengers: sweet wrappers, Styrofoam cups, discarded newspapers.

  ‘Won’t Deke just move his base of operations now he knows we’re onto him?’ Lauren asked.

  Heck shrugged. ‘Maybe. But that’s something he won’t be able to do quickly or easily. Even if he does, he won’t be able to go far.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’ve got this.’ He reached under his sweatshirt and produced a book — it was the leather-bound ledger from Ezekial’s loft.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ she said.

  ‘It couldn’t be bloodier for him. This amounts to a detailed list of the very, very serious crimes he’s committed.’

  ‘So he’s going to come after us?’

  ‘He’s already after us, Lauren. But now it’s personal. In fact, it’s more than personal. If he wants this back, it won’t just be a simple matter of putting the knuckle on us — he’ll have to make a deal.’

  ‘Or alternatively he’ll scarper for good. You take that to the law now, and they’ve got him.’

  ‘Not quite.’ They’d now arrived at Elephant amp; Castle, so Heck slid the book out of sight again and they stepped from the train. ‘We stole it during a burglary, remember. It’s inadmissible as evidence, and Deke knows it. He also knows that, when push comes to shove, we want his paymasters more than we want him.’

  ‘You really think he’ll be prepared to trade them?’

  ‘He may have no choice. At present, his arse is in a sling.’

  They left the station. Whereas Richmond’s sedate streets had been settling down for the night, this part of London — Southwark — was still noisy with traffic, honking horns and belligerent, drunken shouts. They turned left under a brick arch, and followed a narrow side passage.

  ‘I can’t believe it’ll be that straightforward,’ Lauren said. ‘We’ve hurt him bad, and you know what they say about wounded animals.’

  ‘Speaking of which …’

  The passage now became a tunnel, and led to a tall steel door. A weak bulb illuminated it, showing where blue paint had flaked away, exposing the raw metal beneath. It had the look of a service entrance, as if it had once connected to a warehouse or factory. The bulb over the lintel buzzed and flickered, threatening to plunge them into bla
ckness.

  ‘What’s this place?’ she asked.

  ‘A drinking den,’ Heck said. ‘A card school … a knocking shop. Hopefully our lodgings for the night.’

  He hammered on the metal with his fist. It reverberated deep inside, as though through vast, empty chambers. There was no immediate response, so he hammered again.

  Lauren glanced behind them uneasily: the tunnel dwindled off into shadow; a mouse scurried across it. ‘Who the hell lives in a place like this?’

  ‘An old acquaintance of mine,’ Heck replied. ‘Someone you thought you were going to have a chat with yourself at one time. His name’s Bobby Ballamara.’

  Chapter 24

  Gemma read carefully through the print-out that Palliser had just pulled off CrimInt.

  ‘And this is the last thing he asked Paula Clark to do for him?’ she said.

  ‘Certainly is,’ Palliser replied.

  ‘Eric Ezekial? Not the sort of name you’d forget easily.’

  Palliser’s office was knee-deep in littered paperwork, most of it having been dragged from the various bags that Heck had brought up from Deptford Green. The larger office beyond the open door, where the Serial Crimes Unit’s detectives had their desks, now lay deserted and dark. Gemma and Palliser, both with collars open and sleeves rolled back, were working by the low light of a single desk lamp.

  Palliser yawned. A few moments ago he’d had the sudden inspiration to contact Heck’s former secretary and see if he’d confided anything in her before ‘going on leave’. It had paid dividends, though the woman had torn a strip off him in the process.

  ‘She wasn’t best pleased when I rang her up at this hour,’ he said.

  ‘She’ll be even less pleased when I ring her up again, in about two hours, to see if there’s anything she can add,’ Gemma replied. Anyone overhearing this casual comment might have assumed she was joking, but Palliser knew ‘the Lioness’ better than that. ‘This number she faxed it to is definitely up in Manchester?’

  He nodded.

  Once again, Gemma stabbed Heck’s number into her mobile. Once again, there was no response. Sighing, she put the phone away. She laid the print-out on her desk, alongside a similar print-out for Ron O’Hoorigan and a case file photograph of Genene Wraxford; in trying to pinpoint Lauren Wraxford, the girl Heck was in company with, it hadn’t taken them long to spot that one of the missing women shared the same surname. But she wasn’t their main focus at present. ‘This guy Ezekial is obviously the key,’ Gemma said. ‘Lives in Kingston, I see.’