The Burning Man

by Paul Finch

  He expected the atmosphere to be lighter in the Incident Room itself, or MIR as it was known, Operation Wandering Wolf having mostly been assembled from experienced detectives, including a number from SCU and GMP Serious, men and women from off-division who were less likely to be emotionally involved in the torment of Bradburn. He entered it through a pair of swing doors. It was a surprisingly small but compact office, lit by garish yellow strip-lights on the ceiling and smelling faintly of sweat. Though it couldn’t have been in operation more than a week, it already had that stuffy, lived-in feel so typical of the average police workplace. Crime-scene photos and intelligence reports covered every wall and display board, while the desks and cabinets were laden with over-crammed baskets of files, phones, laptops and half-drunk mugs of coffee.

  As Heck sidled in, a group of about twelve detectives were jammed inside, several of whom he immediately recognised as SCU officers, including Gary Quinnell and Charlie Finnegan. For the most part, they chewed on pens or wrote in their pocketbooks, while a trim young woman of about thirty stood in their midst, briefing them. She wore a black skirt-suit and black high-heeled boots, her black hair tied in a sharp knot at the back of her head, though Heck had the impression that, if untied, it would fall to extraordinary length. She was the first to glance around when he entered, turning a handsome but rather severe face towards him.

  She indicated with a nod that she’d be with him shortly, so he stood awkwardly in a corner and placed his laptop on a shelf. The woman continued with the items on her agenda. Heck knew he ought to pay attention, but couldn’t help glancing around, spotting two side-by-side sections at the far end of the room, which had been partitioned from the main area with glass doors and hanging blinds. Bronze Command offices, no doubt, the place from which all policies, protocols and procedures would be implemented, though where Gemma had pitched up he couldn’t tell. As SIO and senior Silver Command, her pad might not even be physically connected to the MIR.

  There was no sign of her either, though, given the events of the previous night, it would have been odd if she hadn’t been out and about. That probably went for the rest of the taskforce too. The relative handful of officers Heck saw here probably represented only a segment of it. Quinnell and Finnegan nodded in response to Heck as his eyes roved across them. The rest ignored him.

  ‘OK, that’s it,’ the dark-haired woman concluded. ‘You all know where you are and what you’re doing. Let’s get to it.’

  With scuffles of feet and a scraping of chair legs, the room came alive, bodies moving in all directions. The woman shuffled her paperwork as she approached Heck.

  ‘So … DS Heckenburg?’

  ‘Correct,’ he replied.

  ‘Katie Hayes.’ She offered a slim white hand. ‘DI.’

  Heck shook with her. ‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am.’

  ‘Originally from GMP Serious,’ she explained curtly. ‘Currently deputy SIO on this bloody disaster.’

  ‘I’ve heard of you, ma’am,’ he said, though he’d always assumed she’d be more bullish; only last year, she had arrested and convicted a prolific kidnapper, and later secured him a full-life prison sentence.

  For her own part, DI Hayes seemed equally bemused by Heck. She appraised him in detail as they stood there, eyeing him up and down unashamedly until it reached the point where he became self-conscious. He was smartly suited-up for the occasion, he’d shaved, he even had clean shoes on.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, lips pursed. ‘I’m not seeing it.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘I’m not seeing why your gaffer rates you so much.’

  Heck couldn’t help feeling vaguely abashed by that. ‘I wasn’t aware she did.’

  ‘What – she goes round inventing cool-sounding jobs for all her personnel?’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, I don’t –’

  ‘Forget it.’ She turned and headed towards the partitioned area on the left, clearly her personal office. ‘It’s just that I’ve never heard of an enquiry team having a “Minister without Portfolio” before.’

  Heck ambled in awkward pursuit, only for Gary Quinnell to block his path.

  ‘Forty-five years for Wheeler,’ the big Welshman said, gripping Heck’s hand in his ham-fist and pumping it. ‘Good job, boyo.’

  ‘How’d the wanker take it?’ Charlie Finnegan wondered, sliding up in his usual vaguely untrustworthy fashion.

  ‘Not like a man,’ Heck said, distracted.

  ‘Hah, tough shit,’ Finnegan sneered. ‘He’s going to have to learn to, though, isn’t he?’

  Heck would normally have shared in such dark humour, but memories of Tom again invaded his head and he merely nodded as he diverted across the room to the open door of DI Hayes’s office. Its interior was quite small but nevertheless crammed with much more office equipment than it had been designed to hold, not to mention stacks of files and other documentation, all of which overburdened its high shelves to the point where it looked as though an avalanche of paper would shortly engulf the room.

  The DI herself stood by her desk, again skimming through files.

  ‘Erm … Minister without Portfolio is a kind of SCU quirk, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah?’ She no longer seemed especially interested. ‘What does it mean precisely?’

  He shrugged. ‘It means I have a watching brief on the whole enquiry, I pick up any slack, I fill in here and there … wherever I’m needed. It also gives me time to generate my own leads and, if necessary, chase them down. Really it just means that I’m a lead-investigator. That I have a roving commission. I work the streets, I work the snouts, the crims …’

  She glanced around. ‘So you’re a thief-taker?’

  ‘I get a few collars, yeah.’

  ‘And apparently you’re local?’ She’d clearly been thoroughly briefed about the role Heck would be playing here, but there was obviously a pecking order and she wanted to establish it from the off.

  ‘I was born and raised in Bradburn, ma’am, yes.’

  ‘And yet somehow you ended up in the Met.’

  ‘Well, I joined GMP originally, but I transferred south when I was two years in.’

  She filched a pen from her skirt pocket and inscribed notes on the latest document. ‘Any particular reason?’

  He hesitated. ‘Personal stuff.’

  ‘Nothing that’s going to affect your ability to function on our behalf, I trust?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ She straightened up from her desk. ‘Well, we can always use thief-takers. God knows, I wish I had one on every street corner. And you knowing your way around is a big plus.’ She sounded friendly enough in context, but her tone remained curt, brusque. ‘We’ve got liaison attachments from local plod and divisional CID, but, as you probably know, most of Operation Wandering Wolf comprises your lot – almost none of whom come from this part of the world at all – and our lot, GMP Serious. We get over here to Bradburn every so often. There’s plenty heavy crime here, but only recently at the rate of one murder a week. So a lot of us are still feeling our way around too.’

  ‘I must be honest, ma’am,’ Heck said. ‘It’s a while since I’ve been to this neck of the woods. I need to have a proper mooch about, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yeah, well … you won’t like everything you find. They’ve knocked the place down and built it up again half a dozen times since you lived here … as opposed to the employment rate, of course, which they knocked down and haven’t bothered rebuilding at all. That doesn’t make things easier from a police perspective. Lots of drinking, lots of drug-taking. And now we’ve got two underworld factions who appear to be scrapping it out to the death.’ She sniffed, suddenly thoughtful. ‘I understand you’re the detective who first uncovered this torturer-for-hire, Sagan?’

  Heck nodded. ‘I turned up the intel that led us to his door, yeah.’

  ‘Bit of a clusterfuck, that, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Or words to that effect, ma’am, yes.’

/>   ‘Never mind.’ She finally put her paperwork down. ‘At present, he’s only one member of the merry little band we’re trying to take down. You are onside with that, by the way?’ She eyed him keenly again – quite a character test she was putting him through, he realised. ‘John Sagan may have shot one of your colleagues – a close one, I gather – but it’s not just him we’re going for. We’re after the whole lot of them.’

  ‘I understand that, ma’am.’

  ‘We’ve got seven murder victims already, and that figure’s likely to increase.’

  ‘That’s fine, ma’am. Let’s go get ’em.’

  ‘Ready to pitch straight in, then?’

  ‘Ready and willing.’

  ‘DSU Piper said you would be.’ DI Hayes leaned across her desk and picked up another pile of bulging buff folders, bound together with several elastic bands. ‘She’s currently at the crime scene off Westgate Street, by the way. You’re aware there were two more flamethrower deaths last night?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How much do you know?’

  ‘Only what I overheard at the front of the nick,’ Heck said. ‘Presumably you guys can fill me in on the rest?’

  ‘Best if you fill yourself in.’ She handed him the armful of folders. ‘From this lot. It’s a potted history of the enquiry to date … obviously minus any leads or evidence that may have come in over the last hour or so.’

  A cursory downward glance revealed that the folders were packed with documentation; crime reports, photos and witness statements, not just relating to the homicides the previous night, but most likely to all those committed so far, possibly with additional notes and observations from crime-scene examiners and other specialists.

  Perhaps pre-empting an objection, DI Hayes spoke again.

  ‘The policy file’s available for perusal too. Hard copy or online. Good luck, though – it’s already the size of the Yellow Pages. The main thing is Miss Piper wants you to fully familiarise yourself with the case overall. That makes sense, doesn’t it, DS Heckenburg?’ She pinned him with a cool but satisfied stare. ‘You being our Minister without Portfolio.’

  ‘Ma’am –’ he tried not to object too volubly ‘– this’ll take me all day. I’d rather just get out there and –’

  ‘Yeah, Miss Piper said you probably would. She also told me to ensure I didn’t listen to any, quote, “flim-flam”, and fully authorised me to pull rank in any way I see fit to ensure that you fully comply with her instructions. Not that I would need authorisation, would I, Sergeant, being as I’m your official line manager?’

  ‘No, ma’am, you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Good.’ She pointed out through the open door across the MIR to the far opposite corner, into which a desk had been shoehorned, though it was so small that there’d be just enough room on it for his laptop, with a beaker of tea on the shelf behind. ‘That’s your desk over there. Now, you won’t need a slide-rule to know that from where I sit in here, if I keep the door open, which I will, I’ll have a perfect line of vision … and will know the exact moment you stand up and try to go somewhere else.’

  ‘With all respect, ma’am, what if I need a pee?’

  ‘You can go for a pee anytime you like. It’s just down the corridor.’ She smiled. ‘So long as you get through this lot first.’

  ‘Can I at least get a brew?’ he asked.

  ‘Course you can. The tea-making kit’s in the opposite corner to your desk. You can make me one while you’re at it.’ She pulled her chair out and sat down, booting up her desktop, their business seemingly done. ‘Oh, milk and half a teaspoon of sugar.’

  He moved stiffly to the door.

  ‘And DS Heckenburg?’

  He glanced back. She was watching him intently.

  ‘That’s half a teaspoon, not three quarters. Trust me. I’ll know the difference.’

  Chapter 16

  Heck wasn’t sure if DI Hayes’s determination to put him in his place before they had any chance to get off on the wrong foot meant she suffered from some kind of inferiority complex – though he doubted this after her score the previous year – or if she was only doing Gemma’s handiwork, the SIO having advised her that Heck could be very useful to a murder enquiry but only if they kept him on a tight leash.

  If it was the latter, he didn’t object to it per se. He knew he’d caused Gemma problems in the past. It wasn’t that he was naturally insubordinate or disobedient, but he could never resist making his own running if he felt the official line was off-track – which was an increasing cause of concern to his gaffer, as she feared it implied to others that their former relationship as boyfriend and girlfriend was limiting her control over him. It had probably only been a matter of time before she’d decided to give him a babysitter. But he wasn’t going to let it be an issue at present. One thing both Gemma and DI Hayes had been right about: he needed to familiarise himself with the case first, and so he got stuck into it.

  However, as he dug through the new reams of paperwork he’d been given, it rapidly became clear how complex this business was, and how distressing.

  The previous killings he was already familiar with, though the extra documentation filled in the remaining blanks – in the most intricate and gruesome detail, several new aspects of it catching his eye in particular. The most recent incident, the double-header the night before, was no less horrific than the others. The two latest victims – Shelley Harper, who was 36, and Nawaz Gilani, 22 – had been attacked while seated in Gilani’s taxi cab at the rear of the Stags n Hens bar on Westgate Street. They’d literally been engulfed in several gallons of burning petrol, which had been sprayed at them through a smashed window via a jet-stream system, which yet again was most likely to have been a military-style flamethrower. The resulting fire had raged with such heat and fury that the car had been reduced to blistered wreckage long before the Fire Brigade arrived, even though they were called to the scene by people inside the pub relatively quickly. By then, the bodies had ceased to resemble anything human. The crime-scene photos displayed twisted, blackened mannequins partially melted into the charred interior.

  Gilani had been identified speedily because the car was still recognisable from its chassis number, while Harper was traced through the Renault Clio parked at the back of the Town Hall, for which the burned female corpse possessed a key. Forensic analysis of the female corpse had also revealed fragments of the ‘Our Mavis’ costume that Harper had been wearing that evening. There was a growing hypothesis that Nawaz Gilani had been the main target and that Shelley Harper had got involved by accident. This assumption appeared to stem from the none too fantastical belief that certain taxi drivers were known to make illegal late-night deliveries – drugs, prostitutes and the like.

  But already Heck was unconvinced by that.

  To start with, Gilani had no form. He came from a respectable family and was never known to have been in trouble in his life. Secondly, his taxi had been booked in advance, and by a customer in the pub – not by Shelley Harper. This meant she’d grabbed it opportunistically, even though her own car was just around the corner and apparently in full serviceable condition. Which was suspicious behaviour on her part, to say the least.

  There’d been no post-mortem on either body yet, so there was no way to tell if the woman had been drinking – that might explain why she’d gone looking for a taxi – but several people who’d attended the drinks function after the unveiling ceremony had already been interviewed, and none had seen her take a drop of alcohol. So why had she ignored her own vehicle? It wasn’t as if she might have forgotten where she’d left it, or had missed her way in the dark – reportedly, she’d left the Town Hall halfway through the party by one of its rear exits, which meant that she’d have walked right past the parked Clio.

  The most obvious explanation was that someone had physically prevented Harper from getting into her car. Could the killer have followed her out of the Town Hall maybe? That seemed unlikely given the equipment he loaded hi
mself down with – body armour, a petrol tank in a harness, a flamethrower no less. More likely he’d scoped out her vehicle and had been waiting there for her. At that late hour, there’d have been no one else around – she might have been about to climb into the car, had suddenly been confronted by this terrifying figure, and ran. That would also explain why she’d appeared at the rear of Stags n Hens rather than at the front; to do that, she’d have had to thread through a maze of unlit backstreets late at night, but if she’d been running from someone that would be more understandable.

  Of course, on the face of it none of this made much sense. As far as Heck could tell, Shelley Harper had been a local model, beauty queen and wannabe actress. She’d done one nude spread a long time in the past, but that had strictly been softcore. She hardly matched the victimology of the others. He spotted one notation appended to the crime report by DI Hayes, which wondered whether she might have had some connection to Vic Ship through her regular attendance on the Manchester club scene. Could she have worked for him as an escort girl maybe? Could she have been one of his many mistresses, or mistress to one of his cronies?

  This was good thinking by Hayes; such a theory was far from implausible, but it was pure imagination at present.

  Heck pondered Shelley Harper. As yet there was no portrait taken of her before she’d died. She was unmarried, had no children and her parents were both dead. She had one alternative other: a certain Jake Witherspoon, her on-off boyfriend. Apparently she’d had a stormy relationship with him, but it had never been known to result in violence – at least, none that had been reported to the police. In any case, Witherspoon had already been interviewed and had a rock-solid alibi for the previous night.

  As Heck perused all this stuff and mulled over possibilities, the landline on his desk rang.