The Burning Man

by Paul Finch

  ‘Yeah,’ Heck said. ‘She’s a headcase.’

  ‘So even if she does give us something, can she stand up to cross-examination in court?’

  He shrugged. ‘As hostile witnesses go, this one would be a nine out of ten. But at present she’s all we’ve got.’

  ‘I hear Katie Hayes has sorted out a safehouse for her?’

  ‘Yeah. For a few days at least. Till we can get Witness Protection onside.’

  Hayes, who’d departed the interview room half a minute earlier, now appeared alongside them. She looked haggard and bleary-eyed.

  ‘Well?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘She’s hard work, ma’am,’ Hayes replied. ‘Which is a bit frustrating. I mean, she had a scare, obviously. So I suppose it’s understandable she’s a nervous wreck. I’ve asked her to give us another half-hour. Then we’ll pack in and start again in the morning. Once the e-fit’s completed we can get her to look at some photos.’

  Gemma pondered this. ‘Any thoughts yet where the original tip-off might have come from?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Heck said, increasingly discomforted by the thought that someone else out there knew that Mindy-May was a potential witness to the sex shop. OK, whoever they were, they obviously had no vested interest in preventing her talking to the cops, but if they knew about Mindy-May, others might know about her too.

  Hayes, meanwhile, had her own reasons to be concerned about this.

  ‘That’s something else that’s worrying me about this testimony,’ she said. ‘As long as we don’t know everything there is about this lass and how we got to her, that makes her unreliable all-round. I mean, who’s to say she’s not in league with the Incinerator? What if all this evidence she’s supplying us with is a diversion?’

  ‘If she’s pretending to be frightened,’ Heck said, ‘she’s a damn good actress.’

  ‘Maybe, but too many of these histrionics in court, and it won’t take long for the jury to side against her.’

  They were talking in circles, Heck realised, frustrated. They needed more to work with.

  ‘You off somewhere?’ Gemma asked as he pulled on his jacket.

  ‘I am, ma’am. Blaymire Close.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because everything’s suddenly looking like it may hinge on who tipped us off.’

  ‘Thought you were of the opinion that was Shaughnessy’s mob?’ Hayes said.

  ‘It may have been,’ he replied. ‘I said all along they could cooperate – that they’d so want this guy wrapped up they’d be happy to leave it to us. But if they found out Mindy-May was hiding in that brothel it means the word had already hit the street. It means that someone else, who we haven’t yet met, knows more about this than we do.’

  ‘OK,’ Hayes replied. ‘But I’m coming with you.’

  ‘No, I’ll go with him,’ Gemma said.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Hayes sounded disappointed. ‘Surely, as DSIO Incinerator, I should be –’

  ‘Not in my opinion,’ Gemma replied coolly. ‘You’ve got a significant witness here, Katie, whom we need to be a little more cooperative. That’s your priority.’

  ‘With respect, ma’am, I disagree. I’m a senior investigator on this case, and –’

  ‘And I’m the senior investigator, DI Hayes, and my decision will stand. You don’t just have to get something useful out of this girl, you also need to supervise her transfer to the safehouse. So you’ve actually got two priorities before you chase other leads. I’m sure DS Heckenburg won’t have a problem with my company.’

  Heck shrugged. ‘Not at all, ma’am.’

  Gemma glanced at Hayes again. ‘Don’t worry … we’ll not be going at it like rabbits the moment we get some privacy.’

  The DI turned a distinct shade of red and strode stiffly back towards the interview room. Gemma pulled her own coat on, and she and Heck walked out to the personnel car park.

  ‘She’s not made any comments to that effect,’ Heck finally felt brave enough to say.

  That was a lie, of course, though he’d now decided that he liked Katie Hayes. He wasn’t going to drop her in it for no reason. Even so, Gemma made no reply until they were on the road together in his Megane.

  ‘Who?’ she asked, somewhat unnecessarily.

  ‘DI Hayes … about me and you, I mean.’

  Gemma gazed directly ahead. ‘Apparently she’s very efficient.’

  ‘She seems to be. I mean, she’s a bit of a bull at a gate …’

  ‘Oh … I wondered why you had an affinity with her.’

  Heck drove on. ‘She’s been good to work with so far. Enthusiastic, gets things done …’

  ‘The sort of young career policewoman I might at one time have been able to inspire, eh?’

  ‘Ma’am, I don’t know where you’ve got the idea that she thinks me and you are an item.’

  ‘She doesn’t need to think we’re an item to think less of me, does she?’

  Here it finally comes, he now realised. The inevitable bollocking.

  ‘Ma’am, she hasn’t said any –’

  ‘I’ve got ears, Heck, and I’m not stupid, so don’t treat me as if I am.’ For once, though, Gemma didn’t raise her voice. ‘She doesn’t have to go around gobbing off crudely like that bloody political appointment Ron Gibbshaw to display a certain level of disrespect.’

  ‘I don’t think she disrespects you at all. Look, she cheeked you back there because she doesn’t like being left out of the action, which is kind of to her credit. If you don’t mind me saying, I think you’re being a bit paranoid about this. I’ve said I’m sorry about that thing at your B&B, and I meant it. It won’t happen again.’

  Gemma glanced round at him, her expression unreadable in the liquid shadows.

  ‘I don’t actually mind you making moves on me, Mark. It’s happened all my career – from various quarters and all ranks. And I’ll respond to you the way I do to the rest of them – I’ll belittle you till you’re half an inch high, or I’ll slap you down with casual ease. But I’ve said this before, and I’ll now say it one last time: what I don’t like is you exploiting our former status by bending the rules of this game to breaking point. Because I’ll tell you now, I’m tired of fighting a daily rearguard against the idea that you and me share some kind of secret bond, that you are my favourite and that you enjoy special privileges. So I’m going to make a final plea that you try to understand my position. Just once in your life. And if that’s not possible, perhaps try to understand your own. For example, do you enjoy being a detective in the Serial Crimes Unit?’

  Heck was trying to concentrate on the road, but this seriously unnerved him. ‘You know full well … it’s the only thing I’ve got.’

  ‘On a scale of your usual glib responses, that’s a new low. There are lots of posts for experienced detective sergeants in all the police forces of England and Wales –’

  ‘Yes, but I like SCU, ma’am. I’m at home here, it’s my comfort zone.’

  ‘OK. So, if you and I were to get it together again – I don’t just mean officially, I mean in any shape or form – you understand, don’t you, Mark, that we couldn’t keep working in the same department?’

  ‘We did when we were younger.’

  ‘And it didn’t pan out, did it? We rowed. A lot. In fact, you ended up dumping me. Now just consider that – I got dumped. Talk about an experience I’d never had before.’

  ‘I soon knew I’d made a mistake.’

  ‘You didn’t. That’s the whole point.’ Gemma still didn’t raise her voice, although it remained sharp, penetrating; this was a message she was clearly determined to ram home. ‘We can have each other … or we can have the job. We can’t have both. That’s not me being mean. That’s a simple fact of life. And if it’s something you haven’t thought about before, Mark, you need to start thinking about it now. And not just now, may I say, but every time you decide to treat me like your ex-girlfriend instead of your boss. Am I clear on that?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said gloom
ily.

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And now, still on the subject of facts – perhaps you’d like to explain to me why we’re going back to this brothel on Blaymire Close?’

  ‘What? Oh, yeah. Sorry … bit distracted.’ Struggling to get his scrambled thoughts in order, Heck swung the Megane in among the parallel rows of terraced houses dividing up the Budworth district. ‘It’s occurred to me, and it’s an ugly possibility, but Katie Hayes got me thinking. Could Mindy be playing us? Suppose these fire-attacks have been carried out by Shaughnessy’s crew all along. I mean, I still don’t fancy them for this – but if they are responsible, she could be part of it.’

  ‘You mean she could be a plant?’

  ‘Yeah. You know, ma’am, I might really have screwed up on Saturday when I told Shaughnessy that I thought we were looking for a lone operator.’

  ‘As in you could have given him a really good idea?’

  ‘Well … given him an opportunity to put himself and his crew in the clear by sending his undercover agent, Mindy-May, to prove my theory.’

  Gemma pondered this. ‘So who are we going to see now?’

  ‘There’s a pimp works at the brothel called Cowley, and another hooker called Sookie. She’s older than Mindy-May, and more than a little wiser. On reflection, I’m not sure we’ve got every scrap of information out of those two that we can.’

  However, a couple of minutes later, when they pulled up across the road from the brothel, an odd reddish light flickered behind its downstairs windows. Heck all but jumped out of the car, Gemma following quickly.

  ‘You smell that, ma’am?’ he said in a tight voice.

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Something’s burning.’

  ‘Or it’s already burned. Shit!’ He charged madly across the road and down the entry. Gemma hurried after him.

  Halfway down, the full smoke and stench engulfed them. They gagged and wafted their way through. The side-door had been smashed wide open, the jamb showing extensive splintering at the point of the central lock, as though from a Halligan bar. In addition, there was massive scorching around the peephole. Even before he entered, Heck could picture what had happened:

  The coded knock at the door.

  Sookie, for whom it was always business as usual, tip-tapping across the kitchen in her sexy undies and pretty heels.

  As per the rules, drawing back the slat.

  But instead of seeing some eager customer’s face, being greeted by the char-black muzzle of a flamethrower, which blasted her backward across the kitchen.

  A different tool then employed to force open the door.

  He clamped a handkerchief to his mouth as he fought his way inside. Even so, he could taste roasted human meat at the back of his throat. Gemma retched and coughed.

  Extensive pockets of fire burned on all sides. The kitchen cupboards, the worktops, the floor itself were blackened and smouldering. But the first thing they were properly able to distinguish in the smoke-smothered room was a twisted corpse, crisped and featureless, with greasy flames dancing up and down it as it lay against the row of far cabinets. It was from this where most of the choking smog issued. The only part of the corpse that hadn’t been torched, its feet, were still neatly slotted into a pair of red velvet shoes.

  ‘You said there were two people here?’ Gemma gasped, eyes streaming.

  Heck kicked open a connecting door. They glanced through it into the hall, which had also been gutted by flame, and in many sections was still burning. This area was denser with smoke, having contained more fabric. Yet in the middle of it, halfway along, a contorted shape knelt in a pool of fire. This figure had been flambéd to the point where it resembled an objet d’art rather than a living being. No human features remained, but the baseball bat was clearly visible, hanging limp from the extended scabrous claw that had once been Cowley’s left hand.

  ‘This has only just happened,’ Heck said, retreating. ‘The bastard’s only just been here.’

  Unable to tolerate the choking stink any longer, Gemma staggered outside after him. She was already fiddling with her radio.

  ‘DSU Piper to –’ she coughed, only for Heck to violently shush her.

  ‘Christ’s sake!’ she snapped. ‘We need the Fire Brigade!’

  ‘Ma’am … listen!’

  ‘Heck, this house is still burning, what the hell am I supposed to be –’

  ‘Shhhh!’

  Reluctantly, she fell silent. And from a neighbouring street, heard the dull thud of what sounded like a car boot being closed.

  ‘Bastard’s just packed his gear away,’ Heck hissed.

  ‘Heck, this is no –’

  Another thud sounded. A car door closing. A motor revved, and an engine growled to life.

  Heck starting running.

  ‘Heck!’

  ‘I’m in pursuit!’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘If you can secure the scene, ma’am …’

  He slid to a halt beside his Megane, and yanked the door open. Then waited again, sweat prickling his face. He could still hear that engine. It was difficult to know the direction on a quiet night like this when sound travelled every which way, but he took a gamble that it was somewhere ahead and to the left. He leaped in, gunned the car to life and drove quickly down Blaymire Close to its far end, which was a cul-de-sac, though progress was still possible from here: a ginnel, no more than a foot passage, led off northeast, while a slightly wider alley, a backstreet between two more rows of terraced houses, ran northwest.

  It was at the far end of this latter route where Heck spotted the suspect vehicle – a saloon car of some sort, a Peugeot estate possibly, wallowing slowly away. However, the instant Heck turned into the alley himself, the Peugeot’s driver, who had obviously spotted him in his rear-view mirror, got his foot down, his motor rocketing forward, rubbish and wastepaper spinning from under his wheels. At the next corner the Peugeot swung left.

  Heck followed at speed, jack-knifing his car round in pursuit.

  Chapter 31

  Initially Heck chased the fugitive down a B road with residential properties on either side. He didn’t want to risk racing along here, but that wasn’t stopping the driver in front, who sped recklessly to the first junction. On the next turn, potholes in the road had filled with rainwater. Both cars skated across, Heck sliding sideways as his wheels locked. The Peugeot driver got his foot down again. Now they were on a main road, heading towards the town centre.

  ‘DS Heckenburg … Operation Wandering Wolf, chasing a suspect in the Incinerator murders,’ Heck shouted into his radio. ‘Oldenshaw Way, heading into town … suspect driving a grey Peugeot estate, index: Papa-Quebec-two-three-Whiskey-X-Ray-Victor.’

  Directly ahead, the traffic lights had changed to red. A Citroën Picasso was sitting there, exhaust chugging. The Peugeot swerved around it, cutting through the intersection. Heck swore, having to copy the manoeuvre. Very fortunately, nothing was coming from the other directions.

  ‘Bridge Street, heading north,’ he shouted, though already a mass of static-filled messages were scrunching back and forth.

  Two pedestrians scuttled out of the way as the Peugeot made a sharp left, swerving around to the rear of Marsden House, a bleak, functional building which had served as Bradburn’s main social security offices for so long that it was known simply as the ‘Dole Shop’. Beyond this, they swung into another backstreet, though it had been narrowed by a line of vehicles parked on the left. The Peugeot ploughed recklessly past, shearing bodywork, snapping off wing-mirrors. The next junction was a crossroads, narrow avenues leading in all directions, but mostly into the realms of dereliction. The fugitive hit the gas as he cleared the parked cars, spinning left. Heck screeched around the bend in pursuit, skidding through an acre of mashed cardboard. Now they were on aged cobblestones, bouncing and jolting. But Heck had gained ground. At the next turn, he struck the Peugeot a glancing blow with his front bumper, shattering its nearside light cluster. He�
�d have come up alongside it had they not suddenly run into an alley so tight that its walls were almost flush to either side of their cars.

  Heck thought the chase was over. This had to be a cul-de-sac.

  But fifty yards in front, the Peugeot’s headlights reflected back – not from the flat brickwork of a dead-end, but from an immense set of double doors with a single plank nailed across them.

  The fleeing driver accelerated.

  ‘Can’t be bloody serious!’ Heck shouted.

  The doors crashed open on impact, the Peugeot vanishing from view. Heck followed, with no clue where he was headed.

  ‘Still in pursuit, still mobile!’ he barked into his radio. ‘But inside a building somewhere to the rear of the Dole Shop. Some kind of derelict mill or factory. Could use support, over!’

  For hair-raising moments, they careered side by side through a vast, dark space, weaving amid endless concrete pillars. The Peugeot veered left, as though attempting to circle back. In an effort to pre-empt him, Heck swerved left too, tromping the gas, seeking to overtake him on the inside if he could – only for an old, heavy desk to loom into his path. He braked and swung right, falling back into the Peugeot’s wake, having lost fifty yards, in fact now only glimpsing the fugitive vehicle as its tail-light vanished through an internal door. Heck burned through the doorway after it, slamming his pedal to the floor. This next passage ran seventy yards, and was cluttered with cardboard and plastic bags, which flew up behind the Peugeot like fluttering, dust-shrouded ghosts. Ahead, meanwhile, there was another set of doors. The fleeing driver caromed through them, splinters of wood and metal flying back over his roof, hailing into Heck’s windscreen.

  Outside, they hit a paved yard, its mossy, misaligned flagstones so greasy they were more like an ice rink. The Peugeot slewed across, fishtailing through an open gateway, its rear offside banging on a brick post but insufficiently to impede it. Heck lost traction while attempting the same, fighting the wheel as he spun in a complete circle, but righting the Megane in time to thrust it through the same gap.

  Another alley lay ahead. Fifty yards along, the Peugeot’s tail-light receded and receded – and vanished, simply winked out.