Stalkers

by Paul Finch

  ‘You pig bastard!’ the Kid shrieked, raising the gun and slashing down with it.

  Heck blocked the blow with his left, and caught the Kid square on the nose with a right. The Kid’s head flew backward, but he kept his feet. Heck clutched at the hand holding the gun and slammed it against the wall. The Kid hung on to the weapon and tried to claw Heck’s face, but Heck butted him, drawing a yelp of outrage. They were now at the top of the stairs, the Kid teetering on the edge. Heck threw another right, catching him again on his already broken, blood-spurting nose. The Kid squawked, tottered and fell backward. Heck, not wanting to lose hold of the gun hand, dived down the stairs after him. They crashed all the way to the bottom, breaking spindles, bouncing over treads. The adrenaline that seemed to have been pumping through Heck’s veins for several days rendered him almost immune to the many bumps and sprains. Though he was again fighting for his life, it was a less terrifying ordeal than it would have been a week ago. This member of the opposition had plainly never been a soldier of any description, let alone a special forces guy; his combat skills were too inadequate. This boosted Heck’s confidence no end — he got to his feet first.

  The Kid, who was grovelling in agony on the hall floor, was still clinging on to the gun. Heck stamped on his hand twice. The gun came loose, and Heck kicked it, sending it skittering away across the tiles, its silencer detaching. The Kid tried to stand up — Heck let him, then caught him with another left, followed by a short, crisp right. The Kid crumpled down in a heap, where he lay groaning. Heck turned to look for the gun. There was no sign of it — it had slid away in the direction of a half-open door on the other side of the hall. Heck limped over there.

  But the Kid couldn’t afford to leave it at this; there was too much at stake. Unexpectedly, he dragged himself to his feet and barrelled into Heck’s back, toppling him out of the way, and running past to get to the door first. Heck caught him by the belt and hooked an arm over his shoulder. They crashed into the open door together, blundering through it and falling down yet another stair, this one made from rough wood. The floor at the bottom was cold concrete, and this time Heck got the worst of it. He was underneath and the Kid on top, so it drove all the wind out of him.

  The Kid tore himself from Heck’s weakened grasp, jumped to his feet and, in the half-light, stumbled over an empty box, hitting a workbench. Hand tools flew everywhere. The Kid swore as he kicked them around, still looking for the gun. Heck levered himself up onto his elbows. The Kid suddenly spotted something, and hunkered down. Winded, Heck tried to get up but knew that he wouldn’t make it. His opponent spun around, Colt Cobra in hand, his face a Halloween mask of bloodied, maniacal glee. He fired twice, the detonations deafening.

  The first slug hit Heck in the solar plexus with what felt like crushing force. The second took him in the upper right chest, flipping him sideways. He slammed against the bench, sending yet more tools spinning. Both blows had packed sledgehammer power; his innards seemed pulverised.

  Reality ebbed before his fading eyes, and then he slumped to the floor.

  The Kid came forward, panting.

  ‘Maybe I can build a rep on that instead!?’ he jeered. ‘Not so cocky now, are you, pig bastard!’

  He kicked Heck over onto his back, and knelt astride his body to search it. He didn’t notice Heck’s right hand close on the handle of a claw-hammer. He didn’t even notice the hammer — until it was whistling up towards his left temple.

  SMACK!

  The meaty impact echoed across the cellar.

  The Kid dropped like a sack of potatoes, his head striking the concrete.

  It took several agonising seconds for Heck to haul himself to his feet. He extricated the gun from the Kid’s hand, tucked it into his waistband, and then yanked open the shirt he’d been wearing to check the Kevlar vest beneath. The two flattened slugs were still lodged in it.

  ‘Much as I enjoyed your flash suit, Deke,’ Heck said to no one in particular, ‘I enjoyed your underwear more.’

  He worked the slugs loose and dropped them, though even that was painful — no doubt there’d be bruises the size of dinner plates underneath. He turned back to the Kid, who was still unconscious. ‘And just who the hell, I wonder, are you?’

  He searched the Kid’s clothing, finding, among other things, a mobile phone, which he pocketed, and a leather wallet containing a number of credit cards. It seemed the name the Kid was currently going under was ‘Brian Hobbs’. If that was a fake, it was a fake the Kid liked, because not only was that the name on his cards, it was also the name on his driving licence. Heck felt at the Kid’s throat, to check the carotid was still pulsing. It was, which Heck supposed was a relief.

  He moved away, looking for a light. Finding a cord with a toggle, he pulled it and a bulb sprang to life. The cellar was larger than he’d thought, and quite orderly, apart from the area the two of them had just destroyed during their fight. There was another workbench in the corner, underneath a shelf laden with jars of screws, nails and so on. There was also a hook from which a bundle of rope was suspended. That would do nicely. It was a bit Spiderman-like, but Heck couldn’t think of a better outcome than calling this incident in and leaving the culprit bound at the scene of the crime.

  He walked over there — and heard a noise behind him.

  Yet again, because it was absolutely imperative that the Kid saved this situation, he’d somehow revived himself. When Heck turned, the Kid was halfway across the cellar, a razor-tipped wood chisel raised above his head. He screamed with homicidal rage.

  Heck pulled the gun and fired four times.

  It wasn’t what he’d planned to do. It wasn’t even what he’d wanted. It was pure instinct, sheer self-preservation.

  The first three bullets tore into the Kid’s torso, stopping him as if he’d run into a brick wall, while the fourth — just in case he too was secretly armoured — was directed at his massive forehead, in which it blasted a hole the size of a fifty-pence piece.

  The Kid again flopped to earth, this time with blood venting in spurts from his chest, his back, and the right side of his imploded skull.

  Heck leaned on the bench to regain his breath. He tried to console himself with the knowledge that he hadn’t just done what he’d earlier berated Lauren for doing. This wasn’t an execution, it was simple self-defence. But he didn’t feel particularly bad about it … until about ten seconds later, when he heard the approach of sirens.

  He whirled around in a panic. This was Belsize Park of course; not the sort of neighbourhood where gunshots would go unreported.

  He took the stairs three at a time, and emerged into the hall to see a blue spinning light outside the front windows. He dashed into the kitchen, where he halted to think. A sensible patrol officer would have sent his partner around to the back before trying to gain entry at the front, but they’d only just arrived. There was still a chance. He grabbed a stool from under the breakfast bar and heaved it at the window over the sink. It exploded outward in a jangling cacophony. They’d hear it, but speed was all that mattered now. Heck vaulted out and sprinted the full length of the extensive rear garden. By the time he reached the far end, he could hear shouting. Torchlight speared onto the lawn. He didn’t look back, but scaled the fence and dropped down the other side into a narrow, leafy lane, which he ran off along at full pelt.

  Only when he was four or five streets away and thoroughly exhausted, the sweat swimming into his eyes, did he halt and double over, hacking out coughs. Almost on cue, there was a ring-tone from his pocket. It was Deke’s mobile phone.

  He took it out. By the number on the screen, the call was coming from the same phone that had called him on Lisle Street. He put it to his ear.

  ‘Talk to me,’ he said.

  ‘Mark?’

  ‘Ye-yeah, who is …?’

  ‘Oh Mark … oh God, Mark … who are these awful people?’

  The voice was cut off as though a hand had been slapped over a mouth. It had been tearful,
totally terrorised — but there was no doubt who it belonged to.

  Dana, his sister.

  Chapter 42

  Gemma’s eyes snapped open to the trilling of a telephone bell.

  She lay confused for a few moments, before focusing on the neon numerals of the clock on the other side of the darkened bedroom. It was just past midnight — she’d turned in relatively early because she’d wanted a quick start the following morning. She fumbled on the bedside table and finally found the offending article.

  She put it to her ear. ‘Yes, Piper.’

  ‘Ma’am, it’s me.’ It was Des Palliser.

  Gemma sat up. ‘Have we got something?’

  ‘Yeah … I think we do.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘How soon can you get over to Hampstead?’

  ‘Hampstead?’

  ‘Belsize Park, to be precise?’

  ‘Belsize Park?’ Gemma’s thoughts were still fuddled. What on earth could take them to that exclusive neck of the woods? ‘This is related to Heck, yes?’

  ‘I think it could be.’

  ‘Could be?’

  ‘Ma’am, this is serious.’

  Gemma was now fully awake. Palliser’s tone was one of suppressed excitement, but she didn’t like the sound of that last comment. ‘How serious, Des?’

  ‘As in … “do you want to check a fresh murder scene yourself before local plod get their dirty paws all over it” serious.’

  She leapt from the bed. ‘I’m on my way.’

  Gemma made it to Belsize Park in record time. She lived in Highbury, but a blue spinning beacon on top of her BMW meant that she could hurtle down Camden Road and up Haverstock Hill without being intercepted by uniforms, and allowed her to pull straight in alongside the crime scene tape now deployed across the driveway entrance to sixteen, Templeton Drive.

  ‘Ma’am?’ one of the local detectives said. He’d been standing behind the tape, jawing with a couple of uniforms, and looked astonished to see her.

  ‘Hello Tony,’ she replied.

  Detective Sergeant Tony Gibbens was close to retirement. His stained tie, scruffy brown mac and cynical attitude indicated that he was a creature from another era. He was balding, with tufts of white hair behind his ears. He scratched at one of these as she approached.

  ‘Fancy letting me take a look, Tony?’

  ‘Yeah, course. Surprised to see you, though, ma’am.’

  ‘What have we got?’

  Gibbens turned and regarded the house, every window of which was now brightly lit. ‘Well … it’s a two-hander. Unusual circs. But if someone’s called your mob in, they were a bit previous. Lab team haven’t even got here yet.’

  ‘Who’s Crime Scene Manager?’

  ‘DI Jeffries. When he arrives.’

  ‘Alex won’t mind me having a quick shuftie, will he?’

  ‘Don’t suppose so, ma’am.’ Headlights flooded over them. ‘This is probably him.’

  But the beaten-up Chevrolet that pulled in alongside Gemma’s BMW did not belong to DI Alex Jeffries. When DI Des Palliser climbed out, Gibbens looked even more surprised.

  ‘Something we should be told about, ma’am?’ he asked, looking suspicious.

  ‘If there is, Tony, you’ll be the first to know. Okay?’

  ‘Sure.’ He lifted the tape.

  ‘So what is this?’ Gemma asked, as she and Palliser headed up the gravel drive.

  ‘That bloke I interviewed at Goldstein amp; Hoff?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Blenkinsop … yeah?’

  ‘This is his house. And apparently he’s one of the APs.’

  She stopped and stared at him. ‘Are you serious?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Come on.’

  They flashed their warrant cards to the uniformed sergeant at the front door, then donned Tyvek coveralls from the sterile container in the porch and pulled on pairs of latex gloves and shoe-covers, before being guided towards an internal door connecting with the garage. Neither of them was quite sure what to expect, but then no officer ever was when he or she first approached a murder scene.

  Even to sensibilities as battle-hardened as theirs, the sight of the impaled man was a sobering shock. He was still transfixed mid-way up the steel spike. What looked like several bucketfuls of blood had spilled across the cement floor beneath him, and were now slowly coagulating. The lower section of the spike was crusted crimson. Blenkinsop’s waxen face, which they could only see upside down, was a rigid grimace of agony. Gemma glanced to the ceiling, where someone had gone to great trouble to saw out a large square section of boarding.

  ‘Whoever set this up wasn’t taking any chances,’ she said.

  Palliser couldn’t at first reply. He’d turned a shade green as he surveyed the punctured body. It was always difficult, even with years of CID experience, to be cool about a corpse, which, a few hours earlier, you’d seen walking around and had engaged in conversation.

  ‘Remind me what it was that bothered you about this fella?’ Gemma said.

  ‘Well …’ Palliser cleared his throat, making an effort to get it together. ‘He was way too nervous. Wouldn’t even let us take a DNA sample.’

  ‘He’s hardly the sort to be involved in routine crime.’

  ‘Nothing routine about this, ma’am.’

  ‘Agreed. Let’s have a look at the other one.’

  They moved through the house, the uniformed sergeant still chaperoning them, and descended to the cellar. This was a more conventional crime scene: wrecked furniture, and a deceased party who had clearly been dispatched by gunshots. Gemma picked her way as close to the body as she dared. A wallet lay open beside it, and personal documents were strewn around. She crouched to get a closer look.

  ‘Brian Hobbs,’ she said, reading the name on the credit cards. ‘This a genuine ID?’

  ‘We don’t know that yet, ma’am,’ the sergeant responded. He’d remained on the stairs, not wanting to trespass on the scene.

  Gemma nodded, before beckoning Palliser to the far side of the room, where they were out of the uniform’s earshot.

  ‘How’d you actually get onto this?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Force radio. Was on my way home when it came over. Sixteen, Templeton Drive. Remembered it straight away. Blenkinsop.’

  ‘There was no reference in Heck’s paperwork to Blenkinsop?’

  Palliser shook his head.

  ‘What about this guy, Hobbs?’

  ‘Not as I noticed.’

  ‘Because I think I’ve seen him before. On a couple of crime scene glossies in one of Heck’s folders.’

  Palliser looked startled. ‘Okay … okay, now I’m getting excited.’

  ‘Well don’t get too excited. Half this fella’s head’s been blown off. I can’t be absolutely sure.’

  ‘On the FR they thought this might be a robbery-homicide.’

  ‘What … Blenkinsop killed one of the robbers then fell through a trapdoor they’d prepared for him earlier?’ She looked scornful as she turned to the uniformed sergeant. ‘Have we found a firearm anywhere?’

  ‘Not yet, ma’am. We won’t do a thorough search until the Lab get here.’

  Palliser nodded towards the wallet. ‘That’s what probably gave the first impression.’

  Gemma shook her head. ‘There’s still money in it. Whoever got that wallet out wanted to know who this guy was and where he was from.’

  Palliser eyed her. ‘Three guesses who that was.’

  She crouched again to analyse the spilled documentation — and to check the address on the driving licence, which was fifty-eight, Rentoul Street, Coventry.

  She thanked DS Gibbens on her way out.

  ‘You done, ma’am?’ he asked, surprised.

  ‘Absolutely, Tony. Thanks very much.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘For the moment.’

  ‘See you then.’

  ‘See you,’ she said, climbing into her BMW.

  Before Palliser
jumped into his Chevrolet, he heard Gibbens muttering to the uniforms on the tape about the privileges of special squads, and how ‘those lucky buggers will be back in bed before one’.

  ‘I wish,’ Palliser said, as he sped away after his boss.

  Chapter 43

  Heck pinched the motor from outside a council flat in Finchley belonging to a well-known car thief. It was a Lexus LS, and the property of one Errol Buchanan, who, according to observations by Scotland Yard’s Organised Crime Division, had been involved in car-ringing operations for the best part of a decade. The Lexus, which would initially have been stolen, was now — on paper at least — Buchanan’s property. It would probably have been intended for sale abroad, but Buchanan, a reckless, self-indulgent bastard even by car thief standards, had presumably fallen in love with it and decided to keep it.

  This was why Heck had no qualms about taking and driving it away. Not that he’d have hesitated to lift it from a law-abiding citizen if he’d had no other choice.

  It was close to one o’clock in the morning and he was bulleting up the M1 motorway. That last telephone message went through his head again and again: he’d been told simply to head north and await further instructions, which he would receive en route. They’d threatened that if they saw any sign the police were following, both Dana and Lauren would suffer unimaginable consequences. There was no gloating this time, no taunting. It had been a quick, straightforward message, delivered in a businesslike monotone.

  But to hear Dana’s voice — in pain, in terror …

  It had been bad enough that they’d got Lauren, but Lauren was an ex-soldier who’d lived with fear and violence as part of her profession, and, even if she hadn’t, she’d willingly bought into this escapade. Dana on the other hand, was an estate agent and housewife, the mother of his beautiful young niece.