Kiss of Death

by Paul Finch

  In a panic, he looked left – but it was ten feet down to the pavement. However, when he looked right, he was directly above one of the vehicles parked in the yard. It was a scruffy old Toyota van, and it had an orange rubber dinghy on its roof rack. The instant Cleghorn saw this, he jumped, legs jutted out in front. He landed inside the dinghy on his backside, only to bounce back up, arms flailing, and come down hard on the grit alongside the van.

  But in Cleghorn’s adrenalised state, that impact didn’t do nearly enough damage.

  Heck, less than fifteen yards behind, saw him get straight up again and lurch to the Toyota’s front offside window, which was open. Its driver was presumably inside the builders’ office – because its keys were still dangling from the ignition.

  Cleghorn yanked the van’s door open, jumped in and the engine grumbled to life.

  ‘No!’ Heck shouted.

  He hunkered down, took a fingertip grip on the edge of the wall and dropped the remaining distance. His impact with the ground was heavy. He fell sideways, rolled and climbed dustily to his feet – just as the van’s rear bumper disappeared through the gate. He stumbled forward, digging in his pocket for his radio, only to find that it now wasn’t there.

  He skidded to a halt, bewildered.

  It was possibly no surprise that he’d lost it. Maybe when he’d half fallen through that hole in the roof, or just scaling down the gable wall into this yard.

  He gritted his teeth with frustration. This meant he wouldn’t even be able to pass on the VRM – not in time for support cars to give chase.

  From beyond the wall, there was a screech of tyres and a hefty clunk of metal.

  Heck ran again. He skidded out onto the road, where a Ford Focus had jammed its anchors on but had still collided with the stolen van, which now stood skew-whiff across the middle of the tarmac. As a large woman jumped out of the Focus, shouting, Cleghorn threw the van into reverse, pulled it to a better angle and burned rubber as he accelerated down the backstreet opposite. The woman’s shouts became shrieks as Heck pounded in pursuit.

  ‘Call nine-nine-nine!’ he yelled at her. ‘Tell them where the bastard’s headed to.’

  But this was something Heck had dreaded all along. Any town could be a jungle if you didn’t know your way around, especially an old, industrial town like this, with lots of alleys and narrow, terraced streets.

  At least the Toyota wasn’t gaining ground on him. It was about forty yards ahead, but as the backstreet was dotted all the way with blue wheelie bins, it had to bullock past them.

  Heck found himself leaping over falling, rolling plastic and mounds of freshly shed rubbish, but he was catching up. He was exhausted, racked with pain, and the more corners they turned, the more difficult it became to work out where he was. If he’d still had the radio handset, Humberside Comms could have tracked him through its inbuilt APLS, but now both he and they were flying blind.

  A half-second later, he emerged onto a bigger road, right in the midst of teeming traffic.

  The van had barrelled straight through and was already shooting down another side street opposite. Heck jumped back as a Vauxhall Corsa screeched to a halt, its horn yowling, before weaving his way forward through a river of slow-moving but nevertheless impatient vehicles. More horns tooted, more tyres squealed.

  He tumbled across a bonnet, a beery voice bellowing profanities behind the windscreen, and hammered down the next side street, threading between warehouses, workshops and fenced-off yards, trying to memorise the route in case he had a chance to stop and use his phone. He spotted no street names that he could recognise, but if nothing else, the open sky ahead indicated that they were heading down towards the river. All he could see of the fleeing van, meanwhile, was its bumper and tailpipe as it vanished down another alley. It was a certainty that Heck wasn’t going to be able to stick with him much longer. They’d soon hit a major road from where his quarry could make a proper escape. But as Heck emerged into open space again, now with derelict land on either side, he saw the Toyota flattening a wire-mesh barricade and dipping down a slip road into a tunnel.

  That surely could only lead to one place – the waterside.

  With his last reserves of strength, Heck ran on.

  The tunnel was made from damp concrete and strewn with bricks and bottles, which were perilous in the half-light. Heck hared through it anyway. Where was the maniac going?

  And then it struck him.

  ‘You’ve got to be bloody kidding!’ he shouted.

  The Toyota was at least a hundred yards ahead when it fishtailed out into the blot of light at the end of the tunnel and hit its brakes hard. Heck saw Cleghorn jump out and grapple with the bungee cords holding the inflatable boat on the roof rack. Halting, Heck dug into his pocket for his phone, but as he was underground, he couldn’t get a signal. Frustrated, he shoved it back and belted forward again.

  It seemed like minutes later when he emerged into sunlight, a vast rippling riverscape stretching in front of him, though immediate access to it was blocked by the abandoned van. They appeared to be on a litter-strewn beach of mud and shingle, which was narrowed by fences of high, rusty steel on either side. Above the fence on his right, only the Humber Bridge, majestically crossing the skyline, provided any kind of geographic reference.

  Ahead, screened from view by the van, a motor churned to life.

  Heck threw himself bodily over the dented vehicle, but on the other side, landed in black/green slurry. His feet flew from beneath him, and he hit the ground with his backside. It was a furious thud, and it knocked the wind from him, as well as smearing him with filth.

  Swaying exhaustedly back to his feet, he scrambled forward over rubble and broken stones, but when he reached the water’s edge, both the dinghy and Tim Cleghorn were some forty yards from shore, cutting a broad if meandering wake through choppy brown wavelets. Cleghorn was clearly new to sailing, but all he’d had to do was sit at the back of the dinghy, lower the propeller and man the tiller.

  Heck sank to one knee, sweat-soaked, ragged and muddy.

  Fleetingly, he was too tired even to feel disappointed.

  The bastard surely wouldn’t get far. He’d know that he wouldn’t have enough fuel to reach the south shore. He might still put distance between himself and his pursuers, perhaps by aiming for another derelict quay a bit further along the front. But if Heck could get some support out here, they might still be able to locate him.

  He fished the phone from his pocket, only to discover that the device was now clogged with mud. He urgently tried to claw this away, while Cleghorn drew further and further out.

  Heck glanced up, wondering if some air support might be homing in – a chopper would resolve everything. But if any such thing had been deployed, there was no sign of it yet. He tried to put another call through, when a deafening noise shattered the afternoon.

  A tugboat with KLS Ship Repair & Dry Dock Ltd stencilled on its hull rounded the headland on the right, engines throbbing as it towed the steel leviathan of a midsized cargo ship. The tug had sounded its siren because Cleghorn’s dinghy had almost strayed into its path.

  Heck watched incredulously.

  The connected vessels, which were sending an enormous backwash shoreward, were about two hundred yards out, while Cleghorn was probably just over half that distance. He ought to have been safe, but as Heck had already seen, the fugitive wasn’t handy with a tiller. He attempted to turn, pulling the flimsy rubber craft in a tight semicircle, which meant that he’d brought his port side about-face to the approaching surge.

  Calling out so shrilly that even Heck could hear it, Cleghorn rode high, before tilting sideways, at which point a crosswind caught the craft and completed the job, flipping it clean over. The inexpert steersman vanished beneath the foaming surface.

  Heck continued to watch, spellbound. The ship-under-tow hadn’t even passed when Cleghorn re-emerged, spluttering and coughing, splashing the water like a terrified child.

  Swim ba
ck, Heck said to himself. For God’s sake, just swim back.

  But Cleghorn continued his frenzy, finally turning in Heck’s direction, long hair plastered over his face as he slapped the sloshing surface. When he went under again, he was waving a desperate hand.

  Heck swore aloud, ensuring that his phone was slotted back into his jacket, before peeling it off and wading forward.

  The river was bitingly cold and bobbing with all kinds of shoreline debris. He was waist-deep before he dived and commenced a strenuous front-crawl. The backwash from the ship hit him in the form of several huge waves. With a massive effort, he managed to crest them, though foul-tasting water gushed up his nose.

  ‘Can’t … I can’t swim … ’ Cleghorn screeched some distance ahead.

  Heck strove on hard, his arms already feeling like lead.

  He could see the guy about twenty yards away, stuttering and choking. They made contact a few seconds later, Heck grabbing the idiot by the collar of his sweater as they trod water together.

  ‘Listen!’ he spat.

  Cleghorn gasped and gibbered, his strained, white features still pasted with streaks of red hair.

  ‘You listening?’

  The fugitive responded with a short, terse nod, though his eyes were glazed, his teeth chattering in his grimacing mouth.

  ‘I’ve no inclination to save your worthless life, OK?’ Heck said. ‘But I’m not chasing you halfway across Hull to get nothing out of it.’

  Cleghorn began struggling again, arms windmilling.

  Heck tightened his grip on the guy’s neck. ‘Pack that in and listen! Are you listening?’

  Cleghorn gave another tight nod.

  ‘When I get you ashore, you’re going to fucking talk to me. Yeah?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Say it!’

  ‘Yeah …’ Cleghorn coughed out a wad of filthy water. ‘Yeah!’

  ‘OK … so I’m going to put a hand under your chin, and I’m going to tow you in on your back. You understand that?’

  ‘My back …?’

  ‘On your back. All you do is float. But keep still. The more you struggle, the harder it is.’

  Another nod.

  Heck hooked the fugitive under his jaw and, frog-kicking backward towards the shore, hauled the guy behind him. Frightened though he was, Cleghorn at least had the sense to follow instructions, flattening himself on the surface. That made it easier, but it was still a laborious effort. When Heck’s heels touched the muddy riverbed, he hadn’t felt as relieved in ages.

  He dragged the fugitive ashore, still by the scruff of his neck, and dropped him, then stood over the prone figure, breathing heavily, dripping.

  ‘You heard me out there,’ he panted. ‘I don’t swim the rivers of England for nothing.’

  Cleghorn lay on his side, back heaving, hands clutching the surrounding sludge as if he’d never leave dry land again. But he managed another nod.

  ‘Before we do anything else,’ Heck said, ‘you don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. You’re under arrest, of course … to start with, for taking a vehicle without the owner’s consent, for assaulting police officers …’

  Cleghorn nodded a second time.

  ‘… and for conspiracy to commit murder.’

  ‘Whaaa … no!’ This seemed to bring the guy to his senses. ‘No, no …’ He squirmed over into a sitting position. ‘I’ve nothing to do with no murder.’

  Heck kicked him. ‘I thought we’d agreed that you being straight with me is the only reason you’re still alive.’ He reached down, grabbed Cleghorn’s collar and hauled him to his feet. ‘You tell me what I want to know, or I’ll drag you out to midstream again.’

  ‘You … you can’t do this?’ the prisoner spluttered. ‘You’ve just cautioned me.’

  ‘Well, one of the advantages of not having a clue where I am on this riverfront is that no back-up’s arrived. So, there’s no one to say whether I’ve cautioned you or not, is there?’

  They eyeballed each other from two or three inches apart. Cleghorn was around the same height as Heck, but older. Any remaining belligerence drained away as Heck’s no-nonsense gaze bored into him.

  ‘Your choice, pal,’ Heck advised him.

  ‘OK, look, look … I’ll cough to the other stuff, but I’m nothing to do with these murders.’

  ‘Sorry …?’ Heck thought he’d misheard. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just what I’ve seen on the videos, that’s all.’

  ‘Murders? As in … plural?’

  Cleghorn’s fearful expression shifted to one of bemusement. ‘Isn’t that what this is about?’

  Heck scanned his prisoner for any undue body language, any sign of deceit, but saw none. ‘Tell me about Eddie Creeley?’ he said.

  ‘Nah … no way, mate.’ Cleghorn suddenly seemed to sense that he had more power in his corner than he’d realised. ‘If you don’t know nothing, I’ve nothing to say. You can kick my arse, drag me back in the river … I don’t give a shit. I’m saying nothing … not till I’ve got my solicitor present.’

  ‘You know what, Tim …’ Heck released his collar but instead placed him in a wrist-lock and produced the handcuffs from his back pocket. ‘I think getting yourself some legal rep would be a very good idea at this moment.’

  He fastened Cleghorn’s hands behind his back, snatched his discarded jacket and marched the prisoner back up the beach.

  ‘Can’t say I’m not grateful for you hauling me out of there,’ Cleghorn coughed. ‘Nightmare, that river. Thought I was a goner.’

  ‘Just don’t count your chickens, pal,’ Heck replied. ‘You may still be.’

  Chapter 21

  ‘I hear you’ve had a busy day?’ Gwen Straker said.

  ‘Could say that, ma’am,’ Heck replied.

  He was slumped in an armchair in the Clough Road rec room, his laptop open on the coffee table in front of him. Both Gwen and Gemma’s faces were visible on-screen, in separate boxes. Neither commented on his appearance; though he’d managed a quick shower and had changed into jeans and sweatshirt, he looked beaten-up and sallow-cheeked.

  ‘Anything that’s going to annoy us?’ Gemma wondered. ‘I mean, we might as well get the bad news out of the way first.’

  ‘Well …’ Heck gave it some thought. ‘You’re going to get billed for some roof repairs.’

  ‘Roof repairs?’

  ‘Yeah … some houses in the Trafalgar Road area of Hull.’

  ‘Houses, eh?’ Gwen chuckled without humour. ‘This is something of a destruction upgrade, Heck, even by your standards.’

  ‘You’ll get a bill for my best suit too.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Gemma already sounded irritated by his offhand tone.

  ‘I ruined it in the line of duty, ma’am. I’m sure you don’t want me representing National Crime Group looking like a scruffy urchin for the rest of the enquiry.’

  ‘Now listen, Sergeant Heckenburg—’

  ‘Just tell us what happened,’ Gwen cut in. ‘And keep it relevant. And less lip, if you don’t mind. No doubt you’ve had a tough day, Heck, but you’re not the only one.’

  Heck made a show of sitting painfully upright. ‘I locked a bloke up this afternoon, name of Timothy Cleghorn … for various superficial things, but basically on suspicion that he was the character who posted the pen drive through Nan Creeley’s letter box.’

  ‘And?’ Gwen said.

  ‘He’s put his hand up to it.’

  ‘He has?’

  Both women’s expressions visibly changed.

  ‘Yeah, but that’s all he’s putting his hand up to,’ Heck said. ‘In terms of Eddie Creeley, that is. If we want more, we’ve got to make a deal.’

  Gemma shook her head. ‘You know we don’t do that.’

  ‘Ma’am … we do do that,’ he said wearily. ‘We may not like doing it, we may not comfo
rtably admit to doing it, but—’

  ‘Tone, Heck!’ Gwen interjected.

  Heck leaned forward. ‘Look, the situation is that Cleghorn may have a lot to give us. Something much bigger than an armed robber who’s gone missing. On top of that, we don’t have too much to lean on him with … Let’s be honest, with nothing but that pen drive to go on, we’ll be lucky to make a conspiracy-to-murder charge stand.’

  He let that hang.

  ‘Keep talking,’ Gwen said.

  ‘I interviewed him for a bunch of petty offences. He’s coughed to them all, so he’ll be charged with those later. He’s also claiming that he stole that pen drive.’

  ‘Who from?’ Gemma still sounded sceptical.

  ‘That’s where it gets tricky.’

  ‘I’ll bet it does.’

  ‘Cleghorn tells me he’s a member of a porn club.’

  ‘Isn’t every fella, these days,’ Gwen said.

  ‘Yeah, but in Cleghorn’s case I think it’s a bit different from the norm. He says the club is, quote, “a cinema of the extreme”.’

  ‘Which means what?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘You name it, it’s there.’

  ‘Are we talking paedophilia?’ Gwen wondered.

  She rightly sounded worried, because if a bargain needed to be struck, it would be much harder to convince the powers that be when it might mean someone evading a child-exploitation charge.

  ‘No,’ Heck replied. ‘Surprisingly. He says it’s definitely not that. But it’s still pretty reprehensible. We’re talking rape, torture, horrific violence …’

  ‘The real thing?’

  ‘Apparently. And by the sounds of it, it’s all non-consensual.’

  There was a protracted silence in the MIR. From where Heck was seated, he could see that various other staff had gathered behind the SIO and her deputy to listen.

  ‘Murder … by any chance?’ Gwen asked.

  ‘Cleghorn thinks so,’ Heck said. ‘Says they’ve been getting quite a few videos recently which appear to depict real-life killings.’