The Burning Man

by Paul Finch

  Chapter 22

  They had just joined the M61 motorway, Heck following closely behind Nayka in the stolen soft-top, when Kemp came round in the footwell. Initially, he groaned and cursed incoherently.

  ‘You just – just –’ he stammered in a thick, blathering voice, ‘you just made the biggest mistake of your life, pal.’

  Heck half-rotated in his seat, and dug the pipe lengthways into Kemp’s ribs.

  ‘Owww … you bastard!’

  ‘If I need to hear from you, Mr Kemp, I’ll ask. In the meantime, shut it!’

  They drove on, the prisoner groaning. It was now late, well past midnight, and the traffic at this hour was sparse, which made it relatively easy to stay in touch with Nayka, even though he had a tendency to put his foot down. At Walkden, they swung south onto the M60, and then around the Winton interchange, heading east on the M602. The stark, Spartan architecture of Salford flitted past: the soulless tower blocks, the bare concrete undersides of flyovers.

  Heck increasingly wondered what he was doing. It would be easier and much safer to go after Vic Ship and his crew tomorrow, with the full knowledge and support of Operation Wandering Wolf, at which point he could lock them all up legitimately. The problem with doing it that way was that these were serious criminals who would clam up. They wouldn’t be sweated, they wouldn’t be conned, and no one would grass on anyone else unless the game was absolutely up for him. Ship would almost certainly claim ignorance of the incident, and there’d be no physical evidence to connect him to it. At best, a few of his lesser underlings would go down for assault and attempted abduction, and Heck would still be no nearer to catching John Sagan the Incinerator.

  ‘Hey, dickhead!’ Kemp grunted. ‘You realise you’re fucked … you haven’t cautioned me, you twatted my head … that’s police brutality for sure. Keeping me on the floor like this is mistreatment. Fucking nonce, none of this is legal.’

  They left the motorway, circling the roundabout onto Regent Road.

  ‘Hey, fuckface, d’you hear me? My brief’ll have your underkeks on his trophy wall.’

  ‘Don’t waste your time trying to hide behind the law,’ Heck said. ‘There’s no law here tonight.’

  ‘You fucking dope,’ the prisoner snorted. ‘Do you actually know who I am? Do you know what’s going to happen to you for this?’

  They slowed down as a red light approached. Heck pulled up behind Nayka, and took advantage of the interlude to turn around again. But instead of sticking the piece of pipe into Kemp’s ribs, he jammed the muzzle of the Makarov there, and cocked it.

  The prisoner went rigid. He glowered up, eyes blazing malignantly between streaks of clotted blood. But he said nothing else.

  ‘You still think you’re under arrest?’ Heck asked him. ‘You perhaps haven’t got some street-thug instinct to tell you differently? You and your boys came to Bradburn to kill me, Mr Kemp. That means all bets are off. We aren’t going to a police station, and you don’t have any rights. So any more gob-shit from you, and it won’t be Vic mailing your body-parts to your family, it’ll be me mailing your body-parts to Vic!’

  Heck struck him again, this time with the pistol but in the same part of the ribs as before.

  Kemp cringed and choked with pain.

  The lights changed to green, and Heck hit the gas. There were no further interruptions from the dim space behind as he followed the BMW along Regent Road, onto the Mancunian Way and finally south along Stockport Road, at which point they veered off into a maze of dingy backstreets where only one in every two or three lamps seemed to work.

  After turning half a dozen corners, they trundled over cobbles up to an open pair of tall, rusty wrought-iron gates, which gave onto the forecourt of some vast, dark industrial building. There were several other vehicles parked in there already, and Nayka’s BMW was funnelling slowly through the entrance to join them. Heck declined the option, and parked on the left side of the cobbled road, some thirty yards in front of the gates. He climbed out, Makarov in hand, and hunkered down on the car’s offside. A couple of seconds later, the glow of the BMW’s headlights, which he could still see through the rusty bars, was extinguished. There was a thud and clump as a car door was opened and closed. Another few seconds passed, and the tattooed form of Nayka appeared. He regarded the soft-top curiously. When a furious kicking and shouting commenced inside, he advanced towards it, faster and faster until he was running.

  But Heck only sprang over the bonnet as the Russian reached the rear nearside door.

  Nayka was stunned to find the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed into the base of his skull.

  ‘Keep your hands where I can see them,’ Heck said.

  ‘This you, detective?’ the Russian asked. He sounded amused. Warily, he stuck his arms out to either side. ‘This you? You do our job for us, uh?’

  ‘Turn around … slowly! So bloody slowly you might die of old age first.’

  Heck backed away a couple of inches as the Russian swivelled around to face him, his weird oblong features split by that loopy, toothy grin.

  Heck lunged, clobbering Nayka’s left temple with the Makarov. The smack of steel on bone echoed down the cobbled street. ‘That’s for being dumb enough to think you could fox me in my own town!’ Then Heck smacked him across the right temple. ‘That’s for being dumb enough to think you could fox me in any case!’

  Nayka went down heavily and lay moaning on the cobbles. Heck searched him, finding first the Rambo knife, which he lobbed away into the blackness, then another handgun – a Serdyukov self-loader, or SPS – a short, blocky pistol, but slightly larger than the Makarov – and finally a mobile phone, which he smashed with the SPS’s hilt. He opened the rear door to the soft-top and threw the SPS into the front passenger seat before dragging Kemp out by the legs. The guy landed on his nose, grunting with pain, swearing.

  ‘On your fucking feet,’ Heck said, backing away, so that both remained in his field of fire.

  With his hands still cuffed behind his back, Kemp struggled – so much that Nayka, now streaming blood down both sides of his face, was able to stagger upright first. He assisted his Mancunian friend, hauling him to his feet by the collar of his tan jacket.

  ‘Very good,’ Heck said, as they stood dazedly in front of him. ‘Now, we’re going to see Mr Ship. You lead the way.’ They turned and stumbled towards the wrought-iron gates, where Heck halted them again. ‘But we’re not going in together. Turn and face me.’ They did so, battered faces etched with hatred. ‘Nayka –’ Heck dug a keyring from his pocket and tossed it over ‘– unfasten Mr Kemp’s left handcuff.’

  The Russian sneered. ‘If you know my name, cop, you know what I can do.’

  ‘I know you bleed like the rest of us, pal, I know you can die … and that’ll do me at present.’

  ‘So shoot me, uh. See if I care.’

  ‘Yeah, sure … you’re ready to pop your clogs now,’ Heck scoffed. ‘Without a chance to get even? And all over a pair of handcuffs. Can’t see it somehow. Now do as I say, or I cave your head in again. You may survive tonight, but at this rate you’ll need someone else to feed you.’

  Nayka hawked up a wad of phlegm, spat it out and, very reluctantly, did as Heck instructed. The left handcuff was opened.

  ‘You – Kemp,’ Heck said. ‘Turn, face the gate. Hook your left arm through the bars.’

  ‘What’re you up to?’ Kemp asked. ‘Are you that stupid? What the fuck you doing this for?’

  ‘Let’s not get into another conversation, Kempy. You always end up with broken ribs when me and you chat.’ Kemp sneered as he hooked his left arm around two of the bars. ‘Very good,’ Heck said. ‘Put ’em together again.’ Kemp crossed his wrists, now enfolding the two bars. ‘Excellent … you, Nayka, snap ’em back into place. That’s it – recuff him, so he’s fastened to the gate and can’t run off anywhere.’ Nayka did so, re-attaching the cuffs, locking his mate into stasis. ‘There you go. Easy, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Your death w
on’t be,’ Kemp said.

  Heck ignored that. ‘Nayka – throw me the key.’

  It landed near Heck’s feet. He reached down and recovered it, the gun trained squarely on his Russian captive.

  ‘Step away from the gate,’ Heck said. ‘A couple of yards – no more.’

  Nayka stepped away, now grinning again, spookily. Heck approached Kemp to check the cuffs were secure, which they were. He also tested the bars; they were solid.

  ‘Look on the bright side, Mr Kemp,’ he said. ‘At least I’m sparing you Vic’s wrath. Nayka here is gonna get the full brunt of it.’

  ‘He’ll kill you for this, copper,’ Kemp sneered. ‘Telling you, pal – this is going to end really badly for you.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Heck glanced around. ‘Just out of interest, what is this place?’

  ‘Seeing as you’ll never be leaving it alive, it’s the old soapworks in Longsight. It’s been up for sale a long time, and it’s likely to stay that way. Certain people we know ensure that prospective buyers never come here. No one does.’

  ‘Very scary,’ Heck said, taking the mobile phone from his pocket. He tapped in Gemma’s number again. As before, he got the pre-recorded message. ‘Ma’am … Heck here with a quick update. My meeting with Mr Ship will take place in the old soapworks somewhere in Longsight. Can’t give you an exact address but it isn’t far off the A6. Don’t send anyone yet, if you don’t mind. I feel sure I’m about to learn something good, here. Course, if I don’t check in again after two hours, well, you’ll know where to make tomorrow’s first fingertip search.’ He cut the call, stuck the phone in his pocket again and turned back to Kemp. ‘Not really adapted to the mobile phone age yet, have we?’

  ‘Fucking smartarse, that’s not going to help you. None of this is going to help you.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Heck looked at Nayka. ‘All right, my friend – walk. Let’s go and have this meeting we’re all so looking forward to.’

  Nayka turned, almost nonchalantly, and strolled in through the open gate: a long, confident stride, hunched back, sloped shoulders. ‘You give us good runaround, man,’ he said.

  Ahead of them, the building loomed closer. It clearly had been a factory at one time, but was long out of use. Heck saw scabrous walls, exposed beams, a clutter of bricks and broken tiles on the ground.

  ‘You smash Mental Mickey’s nose.’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Nayka.’

  A doorway yawned directly in front. Beyond it lay a straight corridor; what looked like dull red firelight was glimmering at the far end.

  ‘He owe you big time for that. And he collect … you know these guys …’

  Heck thwacked the Makarov against the back of Nayka’s head. It was a thunking impact, the Russian twisting where he stood, before sagging down to his knees.

  ‘I said keep the noise down!’ Heck hissed. ‘I don’t need you warning people we’re coming!’

  Nayka knelt there, dark blood welling through the shorn bristles on his scalp. Heck grabbed the collar of his fleece-lined doublet and yanked him back to his feet.

  ‘Mu’dak!’ Nayka whispered.

  ‘You asking for another?’ Heck said, propelling him along the first corridor.

  ‘You no ordinary British cop,’ the Russian snarled.

  ‘You fucking got that right, pal.’

  Some five yards from the open door at the end, Heck heard voices: mutters of conversation, idle, casual; a bunch of guys who weren’t expecting anything, let alone the worst.

  ‘All right!’ he shouted, as he shoved his captive through the gap. Nayka almost stumbled, but Heck grabbed his collar again to keep him upright. ‘You wanted me, gents … I’m here!’

  Chapter 23

  What had once been the main shop-floor in the old soap-making plant danced with reddish firelight exuding from a number of braziers. The factory was long disused, its bare asphalted floor running off for maybe a hundred yards, only broken here and there by cement pillars.

  At least thirty men were present, most grouped in the central area. They were a variety of types: different ages, colours, sizes. Some wore crumpled jackets and ties, as if they’d been called here from the office or a function. A couple were in overalls, others in tracksuits, jeans and hoodie tops. Several of them were armed with punk weapons like bats, blag-handles and pipes.

  All gazed open-mouthed at the main door.

  Even the five dogs they had with them stood silent, ears pricked up. These were two full-grown Rottweilers and three pit bull terriers. All were on chain leads and had spiked collars, and were viciously scarred around the heads and faces. The presence of these brutes explained the dried bloodstains and gnawed bones all over the factory floor – and maybe the bundle of concrete posts and wreaths of wire-mesh propped against the nearest pillar, which looked as if it could all quickly be assembled into a temporary corral.

  ‘Well, well,’ Heck said, keeping a tight grip on Nayka’s collar and making sure the Makarov was visible on his shoulder, its muzzle pressed under his ear. ‘If there’s no crime anywhere in Manchester tonight, we’ll know why … the main causes of it are all here. I see you’ve even brought your pets with you. I’ve never felt as wanted.’

  One of the dogs issued a low, rumbling snarl.

  ‘What the fuck …?’ one of the men stammered, stumping forward.

  ‘Easy!’ Heck raised the pistol.

  A couple of the others had lurched forward too, but now halted.

  They still looked communally stunned, mouths gawping, eyes popping in the firelight.

  A few dozen yards away on the right, a row of offices was partitioned from the main workshop by a partially glazed wall. One of the office doors slammed open and two figures now emerged. Heck recognised the first as Vic Ship. The Manchester kingpin was dressed in a dark green suit and slightly paler green shirt. As in his police mugshot, he had heavy, brutal features, a tattooed gorgon on his neck, and greasy grey hair bound in a short pony-tail. His hands were gnarled and thickly knuckled, and covered in chunky rings. The guy with him was maybe the more public face of the firm. He was young and good looking, with wavy light brown hair. He wore a tie with his sharply cut Norton & Townsend suit, and didn’t sport a single tat, nor a scrap of cheap or tawdry jewellery.

  ‘Fucking bastard!’ one of the others snapped, focusing on Nayka’s bloodied face. The dogs pulled on their leads, jowls wrinkling back on hideous, sword-like fangs.

  ‘Everyone stay calm,’ Ship said in a gravelly voice. He and his deputy had advanced and were now mingling with the rankers.

  ‘You tell ’em, Mr Ship,’ Heck advised him.

  ‘You’ve made a big mistake,’ the deputy said quietly.

  ‘Maybe,’ Heck replied. ‘But this could turn sour for all of us. The main question is how valuable is your St Petersburg connection?’ He twisted the Makarov muzzle into Nayka’s ear. ‘Is this guy just a soldier who no one’ll miss? Or is he the clown-prince, and will his family feel it badly if he gets popped while he’s over here?’

  ‘Put the gun down, son,’ Ship said slowly. ‘You’re well out of your depth here.’

  ‘Hey!’ Heck shouted, spotting that one of them was sidling into the shadows. ‘Back where I can see you! And you, hiding behind that pillar … out, now!’

  The two mobsters slid back into view, hands raised.

  ‘Fucking cop bastard!’ the younger one of the twosome said. ‘You fucking dead-arsed pig –’

  ‘Trevor!’ Ship interjected. ‘Shut … your … sodding … trap!’

  ‘Yeah, zip it, Trev,’ Heck said. ‘There’s no room for hotheads in negotiations like these.’

  ‘You realise you’re in a situation that’s completely out of your control?’ Ship said. His accent bespoke the tough backstreets of inner Manchester; when he spoke, it was from the side of his mouth, through clenched teeth – but his tone was calm, controlled. ‘Whatever happens, there’s no way you’ll emerge from this in one piece.’

  ‘You’d bet
ter hope I do, Vic. Because my gaffer knows exactly where I am, and if I don’t check in with her in a couple of hours, she’ll be coming right to this door … and guess what, she’ll have an awful lot of mates with her.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that when you’re here on your tod?’

  ‘Maybe you’ll believe this idiot.’ Heck poked Nayka’s cheek with the Makarov. ‘Tell him.’

  ‘Is true,’ the hostage said sullenly. ‘He called in. They know.’

  ‘If they know, boss, they’ll be on the way now,’ one of the others warned. ‘We should –’

  ‘It’s not my style to bring the cavalry when all I want to do is talk,’ Heck cut across him.

  This was greeted by a short, bemused silence.

  ‘So …’ Ship shrugged. ‘Talk.’

  ‘First of all, I’m sure you lot didn’t come here with toys either. So let’s see the hardware. And by that I mean the real stuff. All of it, now – on the floor.’

  Ship gave a wintry smile. ‘And meanwhile what do you do?’

  ‘I keep wielding the upper hand, Mr Ship. Which is perfectly reasonable given you’ve got a thirty-to-one advantage.’

  There was another brief silence, but the gang boss seemed genuinely interested to see what would happen next. He glanced at his cronies and nodded.

  ‘Boss!’ someone protested.

  ‘Do it!’ he barked.

  Gradually, a succession of weapons clattered onto the asphalt: not just the bats and pickaxe handles Heck had already seen, but pistols, knives, machetes.

  ‘Smart move,’ Heck said. He now noticed a hanging leather harness attached to long straps that were looped over a steel beam in the ceiling. ‘You fellas pick the strangest places for your weird sex games.’

  ‘You’re fucking dead, you piece of filth!’ one of them growled.