by Paul Finch
‘How’d you mean?’
Boyd watched uncomfortably as Heck jotted all this down on the witness form. ‘Look, if my name goes on this and it gets read out in court …’
‘The Desecrator’s going down for life, Cameron, or you are!’ Heck retorted. ‘Don’t start fucking around now that we’re getting somewhere! This bloke … posh, how?’
‘I didn’t hear him speak. But he looked wrong … for The Moorside, I mean. Refined, like.’
‘Any distinguishing features on either of them?’ Heck asked. ‘Tattoos, piercings, birthmarks, scars?’
‘Come on! It’s five months ago.’
‘Tell me exactly what happened.’
‘They came in about eight in the evening. And at first they kept themselves to themselves. But then the lass starts tarting around with all the locals.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well … there’s music playing, see. And she starts dancing. Real sexy. Giving everyone the come-on, trying to get all the old fellas to have a dance with her.’
‘What was her boyfriend doing?’
‘He was just sat there in the corner, sipping a Diet Coke. I remember that much, ’cos I thought what a fucking limpdick.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘Donkey jacket, jeans, trainers.’
‘He didn’t say anything?’
‘No. So then I starts thinking she might be a pro and he’s her pimp.’
‘A posh pimp?’
‘Well, yeah … doesn’t figure, does it? So then I thinks maybe she’s one of these swingers, you know. She’s shagging like a demon and he’s sitting there having a wank. Anyway, she finally comes over and sits on my knee. Totally uninvited. Can’t remember what she said, but she’s getting all breathy like she’s really turned on. Asks me where the action is, something like that.’
‘Was she posh too?’
Boyd pondered. ‘Sort of. Not a Manc lass. Course I’m not paying much attention to that, ’cos I’ve got a fucking boner in my keks.’
‘Her bloke say anything to this?’
Boyd shook his head again. ‘Just sits there. I remember thinking if this twonk steps in now, I’ll twat him into the middle of next week … this bitch is begging for it. Anyway, next thing I’m spit-swapping with her. Eventually, she drags me outside by the belt, and I had her at the back of the pub, up against the bog wall.’ Boyd smiled, reliving the lurid moment. ‘I mean, she’s got no undies on, I’m hard as a rock. My flies are down in a shot and I’m straight up her …’
‘You can spare me that detail …’
‘Hey, do you want to know what happened, or not?’ Boyd gave Heck a challenging glare, as if it was all or nothing. ‘Her hands are everywhere, right? She’s gasping, squeaking. I shagged the guts out of her. I hadn’t even taken my clothes off … but she’s ripping at them. And she’s ripping at my hair too.’
‘Your hair?’
‘Correct. She’s that excited she’s pulling my hair out in bloody handfuls. I’m excited too of course, so I don’t really notice at the time, never mind object.’
Heck thought on this. ‘What happened afterwards?’
‘Well, when we’d finished I just slid down on my arse. I was totally knackered. She just saunters away … straightens her skirt, blows me a kiss. And that’s it. The lad comes out of the pub and they walk around the corner together and they’re gone.’
‘Would you know her if you saw her again?’
‘Yeah, but I never have.’
‘What about the bloke?’
‘I might remember him, I don’t know.’
‘Cameron … ten minutes ago you said I’d get ripped apart in court for telling lies. Now, seriously, how do you think you’re going to sound offering that testimony?’
Boyd shrugged. ‘If you don’t believe me, there’s proof. A security camera at the back of The Moorside. It’ll all be on film.’
‘This happened back in November? What’re the chances it still exists?’
Boyd leaned forward, as if to impart something confidential. ‘One of the barmen there’s a lad called Pete Dwyer. He lives upstairs. He’s a porn addict. I’ve been in that bedsit of his … it’s like a backroom in Bangkok. He also happens to be in charge of the security cameras, so if I know Dwyer, that blonde lass will now be a movie star. So … will that do you, or what?’
Heck sighed. ‘Only an ignoramus would tell me a lie like that and expect to get away with it. And you are an ignoramus, Cameron. But at present, you don’t leave me a lot of choice.’ He dotted the final paragraph of the statement, then slid it across the table along with the pen. ‘Read this and sign it.’
Boyd did so, but then sat there suspiciously while Heck folded the sheet and stuck it under his jacket, pocketing the pen and closing his laptop.
‘Oi! You said you’d erase that phony witness statement.’
‘Hold your horses.’ Heck rose to his feet. ‘I want to see what Pete Dwyer’s got to say first.’
‘He’ll tell you I’m not lying.’
‘If he does, good.’ Heck moved to the door and knocked on it. ‘But look, Cameron … I’d like to get you off that hook, but I can’t lie to you that for the next fifteen years or so a prison snitch isn’t going to be extremely useful to me.’
‘You bastard!’ Boyd whispered.
The door opened.
‘That statement won’t go anywhere,’ Heck replied, ‘so long as you keep delivering.’
Chapter 32
Heck trudged across the sparkling wet car park towards the Motel-With-No-Name. He wasn’t sure how late in the evening it was, but he was so drained that all he wanted to do was strip off his damp clothes and fall into bed. Though he was hungry, he lacked the energy or inclination to look for food. His room was at the top of a half-stair leading up from the first floor. It was located at the end of a short passage, onto which only two other doors opened. Even though the entire SCU was billeted in this building, he’d never yet seen or heard anyone else on that level.
Until now.
Claire was sitting at the top of the half-stair, head bowed, arms wrapped around her knees. From her posture, he at first thought she was asleep. She was wearing a bathrobe and a pair of fluffy slippers; her hair was damp and stringy, as if she’d recently showered. But when she glanced up, she looked far from relaxed. Her eyes were red and puffy; her lips quivered.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ she replied in a small voice. ‘You’re very late. I’ve been waiting ages.’
‘Sorry. It’s a job that won’t rest. You okay?’
‘Not really.’ She chuckled at the thought. She clearly wasn’t falling drunk, but he could smell alcohol. ‘I really blew it today. At the press conference.’
‘I heard a bit of it on the radio,’ he said, feeling indifferent about it. Claire’s honest confusion might now have dire consequences, but in truth he was too tired to be worried.
‘What a performance, eh? No wonder DCI Garrickson tore such a strip off me afterwards. He was absolutely hideous. I’ve never had such a telling-off.’
‘Ignore him.’
‘I’ve let you all down.’
‘I told you … headlines are a one-day wonder.’
‘Perhaps it’s one day too many?’
‘Why are you sitting out here?’
‘Why do you think?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s nearly ten …’
‘That prostitute’s going to die because of me, isn’t she?’
‘Claire, that prostitute is going to die because she’s in the hands of a bunch of sick weirdoes who get their kicks from hurting people.’
‘I signed her death-warrant. That’s what DCI Garrickson said.’
‘The chance of saving that girl’s life by lying that we were onto the bastards responsible was the longest of long-shots. There’s absolutely no way in hell you should beat yourself up about it.’
She gave a brave but wry smile. ‘Now … that’s
what I came here for. After a really shitty day … a bit of Mark Heckenburg wisdom. I thought if the man I was warned could sell STD cream in a nunnery can’t show me how to put a positive spin on all this, no one can. And yes …’ She half-stumbled as she stood up. ‘I have had a couple of drinks, before you ask.’
‘All I was going to ask was if you fancied another one? Little nightcap? I’ve got a bottle in my room.’
Such a suggestion might have seemed ultra presumptuous even as recently as a few days ago, but an awful lot of fire and water had passed under the bridge since then.
‘Sure.’ She sniffed and scratched at her brow. ‘Why not?’
Heck’s room in the Motel-With-No-Name was not much to write home about: whitewashed brick walls, felt carpet tiles, a desk, a chair, a single bed, a blind on the window (which gave a dull view over the M62), an insipid painting, and a small en-suite containing a shower so narrow that some men he knew would only be able to enter it sideways.
‘Seriously, don’t let the press conference bother you,’ he said, closing the door behind them. ‘None of us are bloody perfect, least of all our swaggering ape of a DCI.’
‘You never let things get you down, do you?’ she replied, slumping into the chair. It didn’t sound entirely like a compliment.
He produced a bottle of Bushmills and two paper cups.
‘Even in the middle of this bloody nightmare, you’re somehow managing to keep your cool,’ she said. ‘Ploughing on, determined to crack the case.’
He shrugged as he poured them three fingers each. ‘It’s what I have to do.’
‘All I had to do was keep a lid on this thing, and look what happened there.’
He handed her the drink, then sat on the bed. ‘It’s not your fault the word got out. It’s a nasty game, this. Not all our enemies are on the other side. Even me and Gemma, who’ve been doing this for years, haven’t totally learned that yet.’
‘Nice speech.’ She sipped disconsolately. ‘But I know what you two think of me.’
‘Garrickson doesn’t speak for me or Gemma …’
‘It doesn’t matter what Garrickson said. He’s just gobbing off because he’s an oaf and an office bully. You two are more discreet but you all think the same.’
‘How do you know?’
Claire took another long sip; her three fingers were gone already. ‘Because I’d think it too, if I was you. I’m a complete liability … a weak link in the chain, and even one weak link can’t be tolerated when you’re trying to catch a bunch of murderers. Isn’t that true? Everyone in this team needs to be on top of their game, and I’m way off that.’
‘It was a ridiculously big job to give you in your first month.’
‘Interesting.’ She held out her cup for a refill; he duly obliged. ‘You’re not prepared to lie to me … to tell me that everything will be alright.’
‘I wouldn’t be doing you any favours if I lied to you.’
‘Exactly. Which is why I’m tendering my resignation first thing in the morning.’
Heck had been expecting something like this, yet somehow it failed to move him. He’d grown to like Claire, and admire her spirit – his initial thought about her, that she was primarily a pretty face, now made him feel ashamed. But he’d also watched her wrestle to keep it together. If she found violence upsetting, which she clearly did despite her most strenuous efforts, she was in the wrong place here.
‘I see you’re not trying to talk me out of it,’ she commented.
‘It’s your decision.’
‘It wouldn’t make any difference if you did.’ She stood up, crossed the small room and plonked herself down next to him. In the process, her robe flopped open, revealing that she was naked underneath. It might have been an erotic moment, but she barely seemed to notice. She shuddered and leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘I never knew such evil could exist in the world.’
He placed his arm around her; the peck he planted on her hair was gentle and platonic. ‘It’s not this bad all the time, you know.’
‘I thought you weren’t going to lie to me.’
‘That’s not a lie.’
‘This department chases the worst of the worst. That’s its purpose.’
‘We also catch them; we protect society from them.’
‘I agree, and maybe that gives you a boost from time to time. But don’t try to sweeten something that can’t be sweetened. Are you any closer to catching them?’
‘We have a few new leads.’
‘In other words “no”. You see, Mark … even you have a skill for being economical with the truth. More than I do, and I’m the one who gets paid for it.’
‘Claire, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Not everyone can stomach this kind of work.’
‘They treated me like an enemy out there.’ Fleetingly she didn’t just look hurt by that memory, she looked stunned, dazed. ‘I was trying to give them information, and … it was like I was the criminal … not the killers who are doing all this. Me.’
‘No one responds well to horrific situations like this. Not the public, not the press … they lash out. If we’re in the firing line, which we often are because we’re usually the only ones there, we’ve just got to take it on the chin.’
‘Well I haven’t got as good a chin as yours, I’m afraid.’ She turned her head as though to assess his physiognomy – and then kissed him on the side of the mouth.
‘What are you doing?’ he said warily.
Slowly, she twined her arms around him. ‘Heck, we may not see each other again after today.’ Her voice was breathy, husky. ‘So why don’t we end things on a high note, eh?’
‘Claire, you’re upset …’
‘Come on, you want it as much as I do.’
‘And you’re drunk.’
‘So what …’
Even as their lips met Heck knew this was a bad idea, but her curvaceous form melded against him, and though it might be slightly tainted by alcohol, the sweetness of her tongue was undeniable.
Chapter 33
Gracie wasn’t sure when exactly it was that Chantelle had disappeared from the pit. Night and day no longer had meaning in this place of near-perpetual darkness. Every few hours the bucket was lowered containing water and food, the latter of which never varied much – bread, bacon, cheese – regardless of whether it was supposed to be breakfast, lunch or dinner. So she’d quickly lost all sense of how long she’d actually been down here. If she hazarded a guess, it was maybe a week ago when she’d woken to find herself alone. At the time it had seemed impossible that someone could come down and snatch one of them away without the other being disturbed. Surely Chantelle would have tried to resist them? That should have been sufficient to wake Gracie from her tormented sleep. But she remembered nothing of the sort.
It had occurred to her in the lonely hours following that maybe she’d been drugged. She’d felt nauseous and shivery, her head splitting – though it was difficult to pin the cause of this down with any certainty because incarceration in this dungeon was hardly likely to be good for her health. Despite the water she regularly drank, her throat was sore from her persistent pleading into the darkness above. On those few occasions when the light was lowered so that she could see into the bucket, her eyes stung from lack of use. As there were no seats to recline on, she was constantly on the floor, squatted or crouched against the wall, her joints aching, her limbs cramped. Then there was the smell of her own excrement; there was now a mountain of it on the other side of the pit, and its stench had become overwhelming. Sometimes it caused her to vomit, and, when there was nothing left inside, to dry-heave, which in itself was agony. God alone knew what kind of germs she was breathing down here.
‘Whoever you are … whatever you’ve got planned for me, you’d better get it done soon,’ she croaked up into the blackness. ‘Because I’m pretty sure I’m going to die in this place …’ Her head slumped backwards onto aching shoulders; the mere effort of raising her voice now exhausted her.
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br /> There was an echoing clunk of woodwork.
Gracie froze, her eyes snapping open and straining upward.
A light appeared, but it wasn’t the light she’d seen before, the electric bulb attached to the bucket cable. This one had a reddish, wavering tint, and it swayed from side to side. An oil-lamp, she realised. It was maybe ten feet above her, but it was slowly descending. With a thump, something landed in the pit. The expanding glow revealed that it was the foot of a rope-ladder.
Gracie scuttled backwards until she struck the wall. Sweat prickled her face, her heart beating ten to the dozen. Was this it? Was this the moment?
A dark humped shape descended. The lamp she saw was swinging from its belt, the red light reflecting on the encircling brick walls. She could tell from the outline that the incomer was a man. When he alighted on the dungeon floor, he had his back to her, but he was tall, strongly built. He wore boots and waterproofs; the hood was pulled down, revealing a tousled thicket of black spiky hair. Even before he turned to face her, she knew who she was going to see – the young man who, along with the blonde girl, had first lured them into captivity.
On that occasion, though an impressive physical specimen, he’d seemed nervous and shy. He’d worn glasses and had smiled a little boy’s smile, but he’d been handsome too – square jawed, with bright blue eyes, a firm red mouth and sharp, straight nose. He was still handsome now if she was honest, but in a cold, severe sort of way. When he took the lantern from his belt and held it up in his gloved fist, she realised – to her incredulity – how young he actually was. No more than eighteen.
With his other hand, he produced something from under his waterproofs: a flattish metallic device, about the size and shape of a small directory. When he dropped it on the ground, and she saw its rubberised upper plate and the neon numerals darting along its glass frontage, she realised that it was a set of weighing scales. So mundane an item was this that at first, perhaps absurdly, it had the effect of reducing her terror – though very quickly the increasing weirdness of this predicament struck her.