by Paul Finch
‘You hungry?’ the priest wondered, interrupting his thoughts.
‘Yeah … as you mention it. Had a very early brekky.’
‘Excellent. It’ll only be fish and chips … I’ve sent Mrs O’Malley out to get it for us.’
*
With all the renovations going on, it came as a surprise to find that the presbytery interior had hardly changed since Heck’s youth. It was basically a labyrinth, all narrow rooms and draughty corridors, everything drab and functional. About as far from the traditional image of the cosy village vicarage as you could get, and with minimal décor aside from the usual plethora of Catholic memorabilia: crucifixes on mantels, plaques depicting Christ as the Good Shepherd or Holy Child, plus those ubiquitous statuettes of saints.
As promised, lunch consisted of a slab of battered cod each, two portions of mushy peas and two piles of heavily salt- and vinegar-covered chips. Mrs O’Malley, who’d returned to the presbytery ahead of them, had set it all out on two dishes on the dining-room table, along with cutlery, two mugs, a pot of freshly made tea and a plate of buttered bread, before vanishing to the kitchen, where she busied herself noisily.
‘You know, Mark,’ Father Pat said, stripped to his black shirt and clerical collar, and tucking in heartily, ‘everything happens for a reason. I’m sure you’ve heard this before.’
‘Tenet of Christian belief, isn’t it?’ Heck ate too.
‘That’s part of it, I suppose,’ the priest agreed. ‘What I’m saying is … if what happened to you hadn’t happened, you’d never have become a police officer, let alone the successful police officer you are now.’
‘I’m a success, am I?’
Father Pat looked surprised. ‘Absolutely you are. I’ve seen your name in the papers.’
‘Shouldn’t believe everything you read in the press, Uncle Pat.’
‘Well … you’ve still done OK. That’s plain. So in some ways it’s all come right.’
Heck smiled to himself. ‘You sound like Mum. She used to say stuff like that when Dana complained to her about the state of the world. “It’s all part of God’s plan. God will fix it. God knows all. God is love.” I mean, where’s the evidence for any of that? I’m sorry if that’s an irreverent question to ask, but in my line of work it gets difficult believing in God.’
The priest studied him as he ate. ‘And what about the Devil?’
‘Oh, the Devil … well, that’s something else. It’s a lot easier to believe in him.’
‘“Easier” … of course. That’s the key word.’
Heck smiled again, remembering well how his uncle’s strong faith had girded him for even casual arguments about religion. But he didn’t smile broadly; there were still serious things to be said here. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Uncle Pat – I don’t remember the last time I felt any inclination to step inside a church.’
‘You’re an atheist now, are you?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘So … what? You’re too damn lazy to go to Mass?’
‘I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but lazy isn’t one of them.’
‘Let me guess – it was the Church’s fault that Bradburn showed you the door?’
Heck regarded him coolly. ‘It was the Church’s fault … or rather it was your fault that I wasn’t even informed Mum and Dad had died. That I was effectively barred from their funerals.’
The priest frowned. ‘I didn’t like doing that. But I had to respect their final wishes. You surely understand?’
Heck helped himself to more bread. ‘If I’m honest, I’d already given up on you guys. And that’s nothing personal, by the way. All this, you, my family, Bradburn … I put it behind me. Closed the door. And by the looks of it, there weren’t too many who were sorry about that.’
‘Not at first, no. But a feeling of betrayal can do that to people.’
Heck knew who they were talking about here. ‘How was Dad in his final days?’
‘Bitter, brooding. When he wasn’t coughing his lungs up.’
‘I don’t suppose he ever mentioned –’
‘You? No. Not once.’
Heck nodded. He’d expected nothing less; so much so that he was almost numb to the pain it tried to cause him. Almost.
‘Your mother spoke about you though … after George died. Asked me if I knew how you were getting on.’
Heck recollected his mother: small of stature, very gentle; spirited enough and firm of hand when they were mischievous youngsters, and devoutly loyal to their father.
‘Why didn’t you tell her to ring me?’ Heck said. ‘Dana got my phone number from somewhere eventually. Mum could have too.’
Father Pat shook his head. ‘Don’t underestimate the influence George had on her, Mark. As far as she was concerned, your dad hadn’t really gone anywhere.’
‘She still could’ve rung me …’
‘Or you could’ve rung her!’ The priest sat back. ‘You were the one at fault in their eyes.’
‘I was sinned against too, you know,’ Heck retorted. ‘I mean, first she lets Dad drive me away. Then she bars me from his funeral. She wasn’t my favourite person around that time.’
‘And it never occurred to you that she might die too? I mean, she was getting on, she was ill.’
Heck hung his head. ‘It should have, I know. But when you’re that angry, that frustrated …’
‘At least tell me things are OK with you and Dana? I mean, she made a real effort to find you after your mother died …’
‘Oh, things are fine there. She’s never off the phone or the email.’
‘Now she’s got you back, she’s going to hang onto you. Least, that’s what she says.’
‘Well …’ Heck placed the cutlery on his empty plate. ‘I may see her while I’m up here. Though that depends on factors beyond all our reach, I’m afraid.’
‘On which subject –’ Father Pat looked thoughtful as he wiped his hands on a napkin ‘– you’re aware that Kayla Green’s sister died?’
‘Yeah. She told me.’ Heck pondered that. ‘I get the impression it made quite an impact on her.’
‘Did you know Jess Green?’
‘Yeah, course … back in the day. Looked a lot like Kayla. Younger version obviously, but very sweet, very bubbly, always eager to please. Not quite as wild or as tough as her big sister.’
‘Perhaps if she had been, she’d have lasted longer.’
Heck shrugged. ‘So … you going to tell me what happened?’
Father Pat poured them both another cup of tea. ‘Their father was the last surviving parent, you may recall, and after he died, the girls were left on their own. Kayla was trying to run the family business … not that she was particularly adept at it, but it was the only thing they had. Jess, meanwhile, went off the rails a little bit.’
‘I see.’ Heck felt a vague discomfort; already he could sense where this was heading.
‘She was twenty-two by then. It had all happened at just the wrong time. No guiding hand when she needed one, I suppose. She finished up staying out all night, dropping out of college.’
‘This is going to be a familiar story, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid so, Mark, yes.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Routine stuff at first … but later on something called China White.’
‘Yeah … that’s fentanyl. Or a heroin/fentanyl combo. Either way, a couple of hits of that and you’re hooked for life.’
Even now, with everything he’d seen during his long years of ministry in an economically depressed town like this, Father Pat looked shocked by what he’d witnessed. ‘It turned her into a facsimile of a person. It’s like she wasn’t really alive.’
Heck nodded. He didn’t need to have seen it for himself in his own family to know just how much damage a hard-drug dependency could wreak on ordinary, everyday people.
‘Kayla was struggling to make ends meet at the time,’ the priest added. ‘Couldn’t be dealing w
ith Jess’s daft behaviour. Tried to ignore the whole thing … Jess got into worse and worse company.’ He sighed. ‘She ended up becoming a prostitute without anyone really noticing how or why. Around that time the drugs got heavier, this fentanyl business … Anyway, it really upset Kayla, obviously. So she finally took charge of the situation. Did everything she could … but Jess was too far gone by this time. She kept running back to this hideous life she’d fallen into. The years rolled by, but it was too much for her. She wasn’t just on drugs by then, she was ill, getting beaten up and used for the price of a cigarette. In the end, about two days short of her thirtieth birthday, some council workers found her body blocking a storm-drain.’
‘Good Lord,’ Heck breathed.
Mark, I’ve always felt I had a kind of kinship with you. Something much stronger than the norm.
Now he understood what Kayla had meant by that. It was less to do with that hot, sexy night they’d spent in that tent in their mid-teens, and more to do with the years since.
‘That’s why Kayla’s always here at the church?’ he asked.
The priest shrugged. ‘To be honest, I’d only previously known them as kids, when they were school-age. But I got a lot more involved when Kayla brought Jess down to one of the support groups I’d set up in town. We did everything we could. Kayla really threw herself into it – trying to make up for lost time, I suppose. But some people are hell-bent on self-destruction. Or so it seems.’ He shook his head. ‘After it was all over, Kayla came back here. Said she’d been amazed by the work I was doing and was eternally grateful for how hard I’d tried to save her sister. Said she’d rediscovered the meaning of life during that whole ordeal. No doubt, to your ears that sounds naïve and silly?’
‘Well …’ Heck wasn’t entirely sure why his uncle would think this.
‘It was naïve and silly. The real reason she’s here, Mark, is because she’s hiding from the world. St Nathaniel’s has become a refuge for her. She feels isolated, lost … she let the family business go to rack and ruin anyway, so there’s nothing for her on the outside any more.’
Heck nodded his understanding.
‘That’s why I mentioned the other night that you should go easy with her. I mean, she hides all that stuff well … she’s still a fine-looking girl.’
‘I get it, Uncle Pat, I get it.’
As though she’d been listening in and had taken the lull in the conversation as her cue, Mrs O’Malley came bustling from the kitchen and started removing their crockery.
When she’d gone again, Father Pat arched an apologetic eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry you’ve come back to a world that must seem upside-down compared to the one you left, son.’
Heck snorted. ‘I’m no stranger to it, don’t worry. That’s why I’m here, after all.’
‘Yes … I suppose it is.’ Briefly, Father Pat looked despondent at that thought.
‘There’s actually something I’d like to ask you about all that,’ Heck said. ‘These help groups and counselling sessions you’ve been running – for addicts, street-girls and the like. Anyone attending ever mention who they might work for … where they might work?’
‘Oh, goodness, no.’ The priest looked shocked he should ask. ‘We never touch on anything like that. Their lives wouldn’t be worth living if they started giving that kind of information out.’
Heck eyed him carefully, almost through force of habit assessing his body-language, searching for signs of deception. Father Pat noticed this, and reddened slightly.
‘None of them have ever mentioned a place on Blaymire Close, for instance?’
‘Blaymire Close … in St Martin’s parish?’
‘Yeah, Budworth.’
‘Well …’ The priest shrugged. ‘They’ve never mentioned anywhere, like I said. Even if they weren’t too frightened to talk to us about stuff like that, we’d never pass it on to the police. We’d lose their trust if we did. Surely you realise this, Mark?’
‘That’s usually the way, I suppose.’ Heck smiled ruefully. ‘But it’s always worth a try.’
‘It’s a horrific situation, I admit. Must be a daily battle for you chaps … a real struggle.’
‘Sometimes, yeah.’
‘I wish I could offer you twelve legions of angels, son, but my influence with the Almighty seems to be limited these days.’ The priest sighed. ‘Best I can do is provide a good lunch every few days you’re up here and a couple of decent whiskies if you ever fancy popping into The Coal Hole.’
‘Hey, we fortify ourselves any way we can.’
Before Father Pat could reply, a bleep from Heck’s phone indicated the arrival of a text. He glanced at it. Katie Hayes was the sender.
Blaymire Close brothel located. ETA to nick?
He quickly keyed in a response:
En route.
‘Sorry.’ He stood up. ‘Gotta go.’
‘A breakthrough in the case maybe?’
‘Could be.’ Heck moved to the door.
‘Take care, son.’
‘Always do … Listen, your influence may be waning, Uncle Pat, but perhaps put in a good word for us with the Big Guy anyway, eh? Can’t ever hurt.’
The priest nodded and smiled as Heck headed out, closing the outer door behind him. At which point Mrs O’Malley returned to clear what remained of their dishes.
‘He’s become a heathen,’ she said pointedly.
‘Didn’t you just hear him ask for God’s help?’ the priest said tersely. ‘You clearly heard everything else.’
‘All I heard was an effort to get private information out of you.’
‘He asked for our prayers, and he’ll get mine at least.’
‘He’s not the boy you remember, Patrick. The moment he put on the King’s uniform, he changed.’
‘“The King’s uniform”!’ the priest scoffed. ‘He’s a police officer, not a member of the Black and Tans.’
‘He’s become a darkman. He said that himself. It’s where he’s been, it’s what he’s been doing … he’s got it all over him.’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Margaret, he’s actually here to fight the darkness.’
‘He’ll bring it to your door, Father.’ She shook her head portentously. ‘You mark my words … he’ll bring it right to your door.’
Chapter 28
‘Mindy-May’s real name is Sonja Turner,’ Hayes said over the phone as Heck drove back towards the station. ‘She’s a local girl, twenty-seven years old. Past form for possession, soliciting and disorderly behaviour. But she’s kept clean for the last few years … at least, she hasn’t been arrested for anything. Currently embroiled in a custody battle with her ex-boyfriend over their two young kids.’
‘Which explains why she doesn’t want anyone to know she was moonlighting as a stripper,’ Heck said. ‘And why she didn’t come to us voluntarily.’
‘If she saw what happened. We don’t know for sure it’s the same girl.’
‘Have you checked the boyfriend out?’
‘He’s a military contractor. Been out in the Falklands for the last three months.’
‘OK … what about this brothel?’
‘Supposedly it’s located at 27, Blaymire Close. I drove past earlier. Looks as ordinary as they come, but I think the intel’s sound.’
‘We’ll soon know. Listen, ma’am, I’ll be back at the nick in ten. In the meantime, can you speak to Gemma? We need authorisation to go undercover. We also need a wire.’
*
Blaymire Close lay silent and deserted. It was late-afternoon and would soon be turning to dusk.
Heck, Hayes and Gary Quinnell, all dressed down in jeans, trainers and sweatshirts, drew up in Hayes’s beige Ford Contour thirty yards down the road. Hayes was wearing a bomber jacket, and had tucked her long black hair into a scruffy baseball cap. A silver-grey Saab 9-3 pulled up a few dozen yards behind them, carrying Charlie Finnegan and Dave Klebworth.
Hayes cut the engine, while Heck checked the microphone taped to t
he shaved patch on his chest. He tapped it. Two loud bangs sounded from the speaker on the dashboard.
‘You sure you’re OK with this?’ Hayes asked, as he unfastened his seatbelt.
‘No problem. I don’t anticipate trouble, but you never know.’
‘Just keep your eye on the job,’ Quinnell chirped from the back seat. ‘Don’t let them saucy women lead you into temptation.’
‘Hey, I was in church a couple of hours ago,’ Heck retorted.
‘Yeah?’ Quinnell sounded amazed. ‘Didn’t hear the earth crack or see the sky catch fire.’
‘I’ll take that as a sign the Almighty’s on our side today.’
‘He’s always on my side, boyo … not so sure about yours.’
‘If we can put a sock into the banter!’ Hayes said impatiently. She turned to Heck. ‘You sure you know the entry codes?’ From her sober expression, she seemed more than a little unsure about this operation. Gemma had signed off on it without needing much convincing – she had regularly authorised the use of undercover operatives – but the DI was under no illusion: if it went belly up, it was her arse in the sling.
‘So long as your grass was on the ball, we’ll have no problems,’ Heck said.
‘OK … well, we’re only outside if you need us.’
‘Just stay sharp, boss.’ He climbed out and closed the car door behind him, before traipsing to the other side of the road, thumbs hooked into his jeans, face etched in the happy-go-lucky grin of a guy with a pay-packet in his pocket and lots of ideas about how to spend it.
‘He’d better not screw this up,’ Hayes said quietly.
‘Don’t worry about Heck, ma’am,’ Quinnell replied. ‘He’s pretty good at this sort of thing.’
‘What’s that, knocking on prozzies’ doors?’
‘No – making like he’s a bad fella.’
‘Gee, I wonder why.’
On the other side of the road, Heck sauntered up to number 27. It was yet another ordinary-looking red-brick townhouse. All its downstairs windows were curtained, but a wooden sign on the front door read:
