by Paul Finch
But Heck was already tottering back towards the church.
Epilogue
Heck watched the morning rise through the big window, a beaker of cold coffee in his hand.
The ICU waiting room was a typically drab affair, the floor made of scuffed linoleum, rows of plastic chairs arranged along either wall and bolted to the floor just in case someone ever fancied stealing one, a lone table in the middle, scattered with dog-eared back copies of the sorts of magazines and periodicals that he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to read.
At least it was on the hospital’s third floor, so the window looked over much of the town – and the view out there wasn’t too dispiriting. The sun was up, and not a scrap of cloud clogged the pearlescent blue sky. The rainstorm the previous night had caused utter but only temporary chaos. Its effects were already dwindling. Everything still sparkled out there, wet through and dripping, but traffic was on the move, commuters were on their way to work. Once the April sun reached its midday zenith, there’d barely be a trace of rainwater left.
As Heck pondered this, Gemma entered the waiting room, pink-cheeked, fair hair damp and stringy. It made her even more beautiful, he thought. Not that any of that mattered at present.
‘OK, how you feeling?’ she asked, joining him by the window.
‘Beaten but not bowed.’ He didn’t intend it to be an ironic response, even though both his eyebrows were plastered, as was the bridge of his nose. He also had a cracked rib and a stiff right shoulder.
‘And how’s your uncle?’
He gazed out through the glass. ‘Still in IC. Sedated.’
‘What’s the prognosis?’
‘They say he should pull through. But he won’t be modelling any beachwear for a while. He’s had nearly nine hundred stitches.’
She grimaced at the mere thought.
‘How’s DI Hayes?’ he asked.
‘Over the moon, naturally. She’s just made the arrest of her career.’
He nodded, but said nothing. For several seconds, the only sound was the growing hubbub of Bradburn Infirmary waking up beyond the doorway.
‘She saved my life,’ he finally said.
‘She’s a good cop. With luck, she’ll get everything that’s due to her.’
‘Speaking of which – how’s Sagan?’
Gemma was po-faced. ‘Hinting that he wants to make a deal.’
Heck half-smiled. In the wan morning light, his hollow eyes and unshaved jaw complemented his multiple cuts and bruises. ‘The cheek of the bastard, eh?’
‘Says he can name dozens of big-time hoodlums who’ve paid him to punish their rivals.’
A second passed before Heck glanced round at her. ‘He seriously thinks he can witness for us?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s a tempting offer.’
‘You can’t be serious?’
‘Ultimately, it’s not my call. But well … it’s not like we haven’t got the upper hand at present. We found the Pain Box a couple of streets from the church. It’s a horror story inside, as you’d expect. At first glance, more like a mobile butcher’s shop, all hooks and hanging blades and chains. But then you see that X-shaped cross, and the medical equipment as well. Course, it’ll be a treasure trove in forensic terms. It’s already been towed in and they’re going over it in microscopic detail.’
Heck pondered that, envisaging the numerous DNA samples they’d likely lift in there. ‘Evidence of missing persons?’
‘By the bucket-load, with any luck. We recovered his head-cam too. Apparently he made some comment about Vic Ship hiring him to kill Shaughnessy.’
‘Yeah,’ Heck said, remembering. ‘So that’s it for Ship, eh?’
‘It’s a start. In addition, we’ve got Sagan’s laptop.’
‘Nice.’
‘Encrypted obviously, but we’re working on it.’
‘Electronic accounts book maybe?’
‘Hopefully.’
Heck sipped his coffee, indifferent to its tepid foulness. ‘So it might not just be Ship who’s sweating today.’
‘It’s certainly got the potential to go a lot further than Manchester.’
‘Not a bad week’s work,’ he replied, though he was too numb and weary to feel as elated about it as he perhaps ought to. ‘Could’ve been a lot worse.’
‘Something of an understatement,’ Gemma said. ‘We’ve stopped two multiple murderers in their tracks, we’ve put the biggest firm in Manchester under bone-cracking pressure, and Shaughnessy’s crew are finished – mostly dead, in fact.’
Heck snorted. ‘Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bunch.’
‘Course, they didn’t actually murder anyone.’
‘That’s a moot point, ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying. They were running Vic Ship’s dope in Bradburn for years. Then they branched out on their own. It’s anyone’s guess what their actual tally of deaths comes to.’
‘Well … they paid a higher price than anyone.’
‘And we should let the world know about it.’
She glanced curiously around at him.
‘We should make sure the photos from inside the church get publicised,’ he said, his tired voice thickening with emotion. ‘Because the truth is, at present we’ve got way too many Jesse James wannabes running round in neckerchiefs and shades, packing six-shooters. We need to give them a glimpse of their future. We should plaster it on the front pages … the Britannia Boys hanging on the scaffold, burned.’
Gemma mulled this over. ‘As making examples goes, some might consider that a bit, I don’t know … Tudor.’
‘It’s their justice, not ours. It’s out on the streets where it all goes wrong for them. Or alternatively –’ he shrugged ‘– we could just lie. Tell them to keep doing what they’re doing because they’ve got great days ahead.’
‘On a not unconnected matter,’ she said, consciously opting to change the subject, ‘we’ve still got the Russian angle to consider. At present, the Tatarstans probably don’t even know their man is dead, but I doubt it’ll set their plans back by much. He was once in the Russian military, by the way – Nayka. Served for eight years in an elite flamethrower unit.’
Heck almost laughed. ‘Might have helped if we’d known that earlier.’
‘Eric only found out overnight. But to be fair to the St Petersburg Criminal Investigations Directorate, they’d only just learned that we were looking into a series of flamethrower murders. We need to talk to each other more.’
‘Nayka was more than just a blunt instrument, of course,’ Heck said. ‘His primary job was to get our native gangs to liquidate each other.’
‘I realise that now.’
‘He was frustrated in that by Vic Ship’s natural caution. First Ship used a private contractor – Sagan – rather than risk getting his own hands dirty. He wasn’t even that keen to use Sagan. He wanted more information about what exactly was happening. I’m guessing that’s why Nayka tipped Shaughnessy off about where Sagan was hiding – told him he was up at Woodfold, to try and get Sagan killed and draw Ship into the battle himself. When that failed, Nayka kept his nerve. Continued to play along with Ship. He was an arch-pro. He’d already familiarised himself with Bradburn and the Bradburn underworld, so he thought he’d eliminate a few potential witnesses as well: Sonja Turner … me … Didn’t go right for him ultimately. So he took the next best option: tried to wipe out the opposition all on his own, starting with Shaughnessy’s crew. And he made a pretty impressive stab at it. Worrying thing, eh, when homicidal violence is both your passion and your profession? One sure way to get very good at it. And there’ll be more like him, ma’am. Ship had other Russians in his crew, to start with.’
‘I wouldn’t give much for their chances now.’ Gemma had a think. ‘Or yours, for that matter, Mark – when Nayka’s bosses learn you were responsible for his death.’
‘It had crossed my mind,’ he admitted.
She glanced over her shoulder, checking there was no one loitering in th
e doorway, before adding, ‘Which is why you aren’t responsible for his death.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘You know me, Mark.’ She adopted her most serious tone. ‘I don’t like shades of grey in the job. Creates a fog that can hide a wealth of sins. But if Nayka’s bosses in St Petersburg find out how he died, you’ll never be safe again. So I’m giving it to the media that he died in his battle with Shaughnessy’s crew. There are none of them left to deny it. That will become the official line, and we will never, ever veer from it.’
Heck nodded as he contemplated this.
‘You could at least pay me the respect of looking surprised that for once I’m not playing a straight bat.’ Her tone was sharp, as if this was a big sacrifice on her part.
‘I always knew you were flexible, ma’am.’
‘It’s a case of needs must.’
‘It is when I do it too.’
She threw him a look, wondering if he was trying to be clever. But he was peering through the window again. Bright sunlight glimmered on the wet rooftops beyond.
She sighed, weary herself, having been up all night. ‘We’re all learning new stuff about ourselves, I suppose. Not least you.’
‘Me, ma’am?’
‘Who’d have thought you still loved your family?’
Heck was puzzled by that. ‘I always loved them. It’s just … it was my dad I resented, really. He was the reason all this happened.’
He rubbed at the back of his neck and tried to roll his shoulder, which made him wince.
‘You sure that joint’s OK?’ Gemma asked.
But Heck’s thoughts were elsewhere. He gazed through the window again, but it was distant, unfocused. He wasn’t seeing Bradburn in the present.
‘I was his golden boy, you see,’ he said. ‘My dad’s, I mean. I was the sports star, the one who was going to bring pride to the family while the older one, the one they’d invested so much hope in academically, turned into a druggie dunce. But … after Tom killed himself, well, everything changed. I mean, obviously it changed. And indirectly, I suppose, that part of it was my fault.’
Perhaps sensing that he finally needed to discuss this long-lasting hurt, and, despite her fatigue, adopting a patient, near-parental tone, Gemma asked: ‘How was it your fault?’
He shook his head, as if the answer should have been obvious to him all along.
‘My dad went through a kind of breakdown. I mean, I realise that now. At the time I just thought he was being a pillock … he suddenly got guilt-ridden, you see. All he’d ever done when Tom was getting into drugs was punish him, bollock him, tell him what a waste of space he was. He hadn’t actually tried to help him. And then he suddenly got guilty about that … when it was all too late, of course. And that guilt, because I guess it was intolerable and just wouldn’t go away, eventually forced him to pass the buck. He started to whitewash Tom’s memory, decided that in reality Tom had been the one who’d been going places … while I’d wasted my time concentrating on sport, hanging out with my mates, being a lad around town. All the things he’d previously thought were pretty cool. As a result, I packed the rugby in before I even got a sniff of playing professionally.’
He shrugged as if it was no biggie, but the glaze on his eyes told her differently.
‘It was voluntary, of course,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to be the cause of any more friction, so I gave up my dream.’ He smirked, trying to make light of it, but there was no humour there. ‘Some dream, eh? Rugby League players don’t get paid that well even today. Instead, I got stuck into my studies, managed to get a few half-decent grades, whereas beforehand it would have been failures across the board. But even that wasn’t enough for Dad, you know. By then he’d completely flipped.’
He moved across the room to the vending machine in the corner, shoved change in and drew himself another thin, watery coffee as though on auto-pilot.
‘As far as my dad was concerned – or so he told me – the wrong one of us had died.’
Gemma couldn’t respond to that. Her own late father, himself a police officer, had been an unyielding character, a firm man who let his role in society temper the affection he showed even to his loved ones. But she’d idolised him all the same, had seen no evil in his clipped, no-nonsense persona, had wanted to be just like him – an ambition he’d tacitly if not warmly encouraged, because deep down he’d sought the best for her: the best job in the world, as he’d called it, the worthiest career. He could be strict and cool, but underneath there was much fondness there. It was impossible to imagine her own father ever making as tactless and damaging a comment as that.
‘So you see, Gemma,’ Heck said, still in his semi trance-like state, ‘my joining the job was actually nothing to do with me wanting to show the world how police-work should really be done. I know I’ve often said that, but that was bravado, bluster. In reality, I became a copper as an act of revenge. Pure and simple. Against my dad. Oh …’ Even though he’d been speaking to her, only now did he seem to notice that she was standing there. ‘Do you want a brew, ma’am? Sorry, that was rude of me.’
‘No, it’s OK, Mark.’
‘Don’t blame you really. This is pretty crap stuff.’ He trudged back to the window. ‘At the time it never occurred to me that it would alienate me from so many people. That isolation probably wouldn’t have lasted if I’d only stayed in the job a couple of years. But we Heckenburgs … unfortunately, we dig our heels in. Especially when it’s a war situation, which that became … I mean it wasn’t just my family. Soon it felt like everyone I knew hated me. Felt like the whole town hated me. So then I was determined to stay a cop. On top of that, I was pretty good at it. I think.’
‘Pretty good?’ She allowed a hint of a smile into her voice. ‘You’re so good at it you’ve only gone and saved the town that hated you. If it did hate you … which I don’t believe.’
Heck looked uncomfortable with that. ‘I wouldn’t go as far as to say I saved the town.’
‘Maybe not, but, thanks to your instincts and efforts, we’ve removed some pretty unsavoury elements. And we’ll be removing more in due course, not just from Bradburn but from all across the Northwest, and further. The dominoes are falling, trust me.’
‘Good day at the office then.’ He sipped his coffee.’ Even if it doesn’t much feel like it.’
‘It was never going to happen without casualties.’ She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Mark … you look tired and famished. You need some sleep, but first let me buy you breakfast.’
Gently and politely, he moved her hand away. ‘No, thanks … ma’am.’
‘OK … why not?’
He peered through the window again. ‘I’m sorry I came on to you a couple of times.’
‘A couple of times? It happens all the time.’
‘Yeah, I know … and I should’ve got the message by now. It’s selfish, inconsiderate and rather ungallant of me.’
‘All right, fine, good, I’m delighted you realise it … but why does that mean we can’t have breakfast?’
‘I should stay here.’
‘Mark, your uncle’s under sedation and stable. What more can you do here?’
He shook his head. ‘I need to get the house shipshape. Dana’s due back on Friday.’
‘Today’s only Wednesday. I can help you get the house shipshape in time for that. Let’s have some breakfast, eh? If you insist on keeping it professional, we can sit and discuss the case.’
‘No. We should discuss the case in the office. Make it formal.’
‘Mark …’ A faint sting had crept into her voice. ‘Are you fishing for reasons why I can’t buy you breakfast?’
He glanced at her, surprised. ‘Don’t take it to heart.’
‘Don’t take it to heart? I sat on John Sagan for hours last night during one of the worst downpours I’ve ever known, and still someone else got the collar.’
‘You were only a minute too late to arrest him.’
‘Our other main targ
et was dead several minutes before I even arrived. And now I can’t even take you to breakfast! Are you for real?’
He fidgeted awkwardly. ‘Well, if it means that much to you …’
‘It means plenty to me. I like breakfast.’
‘OK, but I want to go back to the family grave first and put some flowers on it.’ He took his jacket from a chair, seeming certain about this at least.
‘You realise the whole church and the churchyard are a crime scene?’ she said.
He edged to the door. ‘I’m sure if you’re with me, ma’am, I won’t have a problem getting through the tape.’
‘Great.’ She followed him out. ‘At least I’m useful for something.’
Get back to where it all started with book one of the series…
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