Kiss of Death

by Paul Finch

  They scampered upstairs to their lockers, donned their covert Kevlar vests, and raced back down to the car park. Here, Reed watched in silence as Heck opened the boot of his Megane, dumped his official-issue shoulder strap and replaced it with a different make and design, this one with a clamshell-style inverted holster, so that when he clipped his Glock into it, it hung upside down.

  ‘Is that a fast-draw holster?’ the DI asked, incredulous.

  Heck shrugged as he pulled a black anorak over his T-shirt and gun-harness and zipped it up. ‘Suppose you could call it that.’

  ‘Didn’t know those things were even legal.’

  ‘It’s not in regs, that’s for sure. But it works.’

  ‘Where’d you get the idea? Some old sweat who was around in the good old days?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Heck climbed into the car. ‘Steve McQueen in Bullitt.’

  It was now 10:45 p.m., so they made a blue-light run down to Putney, where they retrieved McDougall’s Sedan and headed northwest, joining the North Circular at Neasden.

  This was not an officially registered police vehicle, so Heck couldn’t simply stick his detachable beacon on the roof. Nevertheless, it was midweek, and the hour was late, which meant that traffic on the North Circular was conveniently light.

  ‘You really think a whole raft of our targets could have been snatched by these people?’ Reed wondered.

  Heck shrugged as he drove. ‘I don’t know, sir. It’s a theory. One minute I think it’s viable, the next it seems far-fetched. I’ve no clue how they’re doing it, if they are. But aside from your score, no one’s made any ground at all, which is weird. Gwen’s more sold on it than Gemma. Gemma thinks it too much of a coincidence … I mean, that we and someone else are both after the same group at the same time.’

  ‘It would be more of a coincidence if there was no common denominator,’ Reed replied.

  Heck threw a querying glance at him.

  ‘They’re top of everyone’s shit-list, aren’t they?’ the DI said. ‘If we want to take them down for that reason alone, why shouldn’t someone else feel the same way?’

  Heck pondered this. It made a kind of sense, though if this was vigilante action, it would take an extraordinarily organised firm to pull it off. Plus, that hardly tied in with the production of murder videos as a form of extremist pornography.

  ‘Whatever,’ he said, ‘thanks for your support back there, sir.’

  ‘I think you’d have swung it anyway, Heck. You can be a pretty persuasive guy. But the thanks are appreciated. Especially as you can’t stand the sight of me.’

  ‘Never said that, have I?’

  ‘You don’t need to. I’ve got eyes and ears.’

  Heck mulled it over. ‘It’s not the case that I “can’t stand the sight of you”, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps if you called me “Jack” instead of “Sir”, that would help.’

  ‘Never thought there’d be a day when a senior copper begged an underling to call him by his first name.’

  ‘I’m not begging you. But I can’t force you either, so it’s your shout.’

  ‘I’ll stick with “sir”, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Said I didn’t hate you,’ Heck explained. ‘Didn’t say I liked you.’

  Reed nodded. ‘Always best to be straight with people.’

  They made it to the spot McDougall described to them at twenty-to-midnight.

  It was a derelict lorry park located next to a flyover of the North Circular Road. The lorry park itself, which was accessible by a flimsy wire-mesh gate hanging from corroded hinges, was largely empty, a couple of rusting hulks at one end of it, the rest just cinders and weeds. The row of oil drums where McDougall told them he always parked was visible on the west side, in front of an overgrown embankment, along the top of which ran an elevated section of the Hammersmith & City line. To the east, underneath the flyover, it was too dark to see anything of consequence, though McDougall had told them it was a rubbish-strewn wasteland: relics of cardboard city littered here and there, more dumped vehicles, abandoned fridges, shopping trolleys and the like.

  They made a quick recce, just to ensure they were in the correct spot, and then headed back onto the road network, hooking up with the Trojan in a small terraced street about five minutes’ drive away. It was an unmarked troop-carrier, manned by four plain-clothes shots and their inspector, a guy called Renshaw – a short, compact Cumbrian, with hard-bitten features and a jutting white beard.

  ‘This guy might not be carrying,’ Heck said, ‘we simply don’t know, but just in case, I could do with you and your lads finding optimum clean-shot positions around the lorry park. You’ve got night-vision scopes, yeah?’

  Renshaw’s expression implied contempt for such a question.

  ‘You’ve been emailed all the details?’ Heck added. ‘But just to remind you … the target vehicle is a green transit van. As far as we’re aware, there’ll only be one person inside. He will park on the east side of the plot and get out of the vehicle to meet us. Apparently, this is his unchanging MO. He’s only expecting two customers – that’s us two. Hopefully, in the shadow of the flyover, he won’t be able to see us properly until we’re right on top of him.’

  ‘What if he puts a light on you?’ Renshaw asked.

  ‘Theoretically, he won’t. He won’t want to attract any attention to what he’s doing. That’s why he always comes at midnight, so it’s dark whether summer or winter. In addition, we’re told that he’s in a kind of comfort zone. He’s done this so many times now that he doesn’t expect anything to change. That means the two parties always approach each other in the same way. We, for example, will park alongside the oil drums on the west side. We’ll be in the same car that this guy’s contacts always use. Soon as he’s ready for us, we walk over …’

  ‘And you don’t know whether he’s carrying, or not?’ Renshaw interrupted.

  ‘No,’ Heck admitted. ‘We just need to be prepared for anything. As soon as we meet him, we give him this …’ He produced a bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, ‘which he’ll think is cash, though on this occasion it contains nothing but newspaper strips. Hopefully, we’ll get close enough with it before he notices that we’re not the usual guys. That’s also when we make the arrest. You’ll know because you’ll hear us shouting.’ Heck felt absurdly apologetic given that he and Reed would be in the greater danger. ‘I know it’s a bit thrown-together, sir, and I know it’s risky … but we’re acting on intel we’ve literally only just received. There’s nothing else we can do.’

  Renshaw shrugged. ‘Don’t beat yourself up too much. Dig-outs rarely come off all sweet and clean. Be a fucking drag if they did.’

  ‘One other thing,’ Heck said. ‘We need this fella alive. If you have to slot him, you have to slot him … but please make sure you really have to, yeah?’

  ‘Don’t worry. We know no other way.’

  It didn’t sound convincing, but Heck and Reed had no time to discuss it with him.

  They left the firearms team to make their own recce and deploy as they saw fit and drove back to the lorry park, finally arriving alongside the row of oil drums at four minutes to midnight. Heck parked and applied the handbrake.

  They waited.

  A gust rustled across the open expanse, whipping up shreds of litter. With a crashing and banging, an Underground train passed along the embankment behind them, its array of reflected light dancing over the cindery emptiness.

  Another silence followed. Reed glanced at his watch.

  For the first time since meeting him, Heck thought that the DI seemed tense. His posture was taut, his shoulders rigid. No one was ever cosy before a potentially dangerous arrest like this, but one aspect of Jack Reed that even Heck had found appealing was his air of relaxed competence. This was a cop who normally gave the impression that nothing fazed him; that he knew what he was doing at any given time and was always comfortable.

  ‘Whe
re do you think Renshaw’s men are?’ Reed wondered.

  He leaned forward, peering through the windscreen and across the lorry park, scanning the vast, black bulk of the flyover as it soared horizontally over the eastern sky.

  ‘Well, they’re not going to be up there,’ Heck replied. ‘First of all, if the target does what he always does, it means he’ll be standing leeward of the van, so they wouldn’t be able to see him. Secondly, after stressing that we don’t want this guy slotting unless it’s absolutely vital, this should be a close-contact op. Renshaw’s only got four men, so he’s not going to stick any of them up there, where they’ll be well out of it.’

  Reed sat back again, as though content to be schooled, which seemed at odds with the tall, fearless man who had faced down the Black Chapel dressed only as a country vicar. One difference this time, of course, was the presence of firearms.

  ‘This your first time across the pavement?’ Heck asked him.

  ‘First time I’ve ever carried on duty, yeah.’

  ‘Not much call for it down at Critical Incident?’

  ‘Well …’ Reed mused. ‘I’ve locked up a few murderers in my time. A few rapists. None of them were armed when we nicked them.’

  Heck was genuinely surprised. ‘First time I saw you, I had you down as ex-military. Former army officer, or something.’

  ‘Me? Some chance. My dad was a porter on Southampton docks.’ Reed looked oddly amused. ‘That take a bit of wind out of your sails, does it? You being a class warrior and all.’

  ‘I’m no class warrior.’ Heck scanned the lorry park. ‘With me it’s purely personal. But you do have a rather fine command of the Queen’s English.’

  ‘Suppose you can blame Oxford for that.’

  Oxford would explain plenty, Heck thought. You had to admire a guy who’d made it to the Dreaming Spires from a dockland background, but it doubtless had opened all kinds of doors for him. Probably got him fast-tracked through the ranks the moment he joined the job. In that regard, it seemed weird that he wasn’t already spoken for romantically, perhaps with some posh lady from the Home Counties. Or maybe he was spoken for and, where Gemma was concerned, he was contemplating playing away.

  ‘Family man, are you?’ Heck asked.

  ‘Was,’ Reed replied. ‘Didn’t last.’

  Which wasn’t music to Heck’s ears either, for obvious reasons.

  ‘Job?’ Heck asked. ‘Usually is.’

  ‘Not really … my wife died.’

  It was a simple but gut-punching comment, which only struck Heck belatedly. He glanced awkwardly around. ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  Reed gazed through the window. ‘Road accident. And we’d only been married two years. Hadn’t managed to have any kids at that point, thank God.’

  ‘Me and my big mouth, eh?’

  ‘Shouldn’t dislike me any the less for that, Heck. I hear you’ve had a rough time, too …’

  There was a sudden clatter of metal from out in the darkness.

  Almost by instinct, Reed went for his gun.

  ‘Whoa … easy.’ Heck grabbed his arm. ‘Probably just one of the shots. They like to think they move around like panthers. But, take it from me, they don’t.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Reed breathed aloud.

  Again, they scanned the encircling night.

  ‘Remember … our guy’s coming in a vehicle,’ Heck said. ‘And if he suspected anything, he wouldn’t be coming at all.’

  Several seconds of quiet passed, broken only by further gusts of wind sighing through the embankment foliage behind them. It was now midnight, but there was still no sign of the guy.

  ‘You a bit of a veteran when it comes to this sort of thing?’ Reed finally said.

  ‘Wouldn’t say I’m a veteran,’ Heck replied. ‘Done it once or twice. Can’t say I’m a fan.’

  ‘Even though you’ve got Steve McQueen’s gun in your armpit?’

  Briefly, there was humour in Reed’s voice. He was trying to make light of it. For his own sake mainly.

  ‘The way I see it,’ Heck said, ‘if I’ve got to protect myself by using lethal force, I might as well be able to do it properly. But remember …’ he patted his concealed weapon, ‘when you’ve got this in your hand, never think of it as anything less than a portable life sentence. If you absolutely must slot someone, be two hundred per cent certain it’s the right bloke.’

  ‘Well … they always said on Level Two that the most important thing was watching your backgrounds.’

  ‘Yeah, except that doesn’t mean much on nights like this.’

  They peered into the opaque shadows beneath the flyover. They’d been here several minutes now, and their eyes still hadn’t adjusted to an extent where even the whole of the lorry park was distinguishable, let alone those deep, hidden reaches under the road. En route, Reed had phoned East Ham Central, to ascertain the likelihood that vagrants, drug users and other homeless might be camping there but had been advised that at present the site was clear of occupation. That was good to know, but in this darkness you could never be absolutely sure.

  The DI glanced at his watch again. It was two minutes past.

  Green Van Man was officially late and getting later.

  ‘You know, like we said … it’s entirely possible this pigeon may already have flown.’

  ‘Yep,’ Heck agreed.

  ‘You said yourself that the Friths’ solicitor could have tipped him off by now.’

  ‘Could have,’ Heck admitted. ‘It’s a possibility, but whatever happens here tonight, Lance and Margot are going down.’

  ‘Not necessarily for a long stretch.’

  ‘Aiding and abetting murder? That’s not totally unlikely, is it?’

  Reed considered. ‘The Friths are providing a willing market for these murder videos, I suppose. So, you could argue they’re procuring the commission of the crimes. There may be a case to be made there, so no, it’s not totally unlikely. You saying you think they may attempt to cut a deal too?’

  ‘Wade McDougall did,’ Heck replied. ‘And he’s a more practised villain than the Friths. Probably got better instincts. The other thing is … McDougall’s using his own solicitor, not the same one as the Friths. So, they don’t necessarily know he’s talked yet. From their point of view, the worst thing that can happen tonight is miladdo turns up to make his sale, there’s no one here to buy and away he goes again. No one’s any the worse off. That gives them time to think this thing through, to maybe realise they’re better off serving the bastard up rather than giving him a chance to escape. So, yes, to answer your original question, there is a possibility they’ve warned him already, but I reckon it’s thin …’

  His words petered out. He raised a finger.

  Two parallel beams of light were cutting sideways across the desolation beneath the flyover, picking out abandoned wrecks, burned tyres and other scattered rubbish. As they watched, a transit van, from which the lights emanated, turned into the lorry park through its open gate. It wallowed sluggishly across the cindery surface to the far side, before grinding to a halt. Its engine fell silent and the headlights went off.

  Heck reached under his anorak to turn his radio down, and whispered, ‘Game on.’

  Chapter 30

  They had about fifty yards of open ground to cover, and did so slowly, in a determined effort to look as relaxed as possible, all the time maintaining ten to fifteen yards between themselves as they advanced. You didn’t need any firearms training to know that a couple of bodies standing close together made a much easier target than a couple standing wide apart.

  The only problem was … to the eye of experience, that in itself might seem unusual.

  All Heck could see of the guy was his dark outline against the pale, boxy shape of his vehicle. He was shorter than Heck had imagined, no more than five-seven or -eight, but solidly built, his neck so thick that it was barely discernible, his head large and flat across the top – it looked like an anvil.

  Increasingly as they
approached, Heck felt uneasy. Surreptitiously, he lowered the zip of his anorak. The figure by the van waited motionless, watching them.

  At which point he’d wise up was anyone’s guess. If it had been raining, they could have pulled their hoods up and probably got away with it. But to have done that on a dry August evening would have been too suspicious.

  The man adjusted his position, leaning forward slightly.

  Was he scrutinising them more carefully?

  Heck’s hand stole slowly towards his left armpit.

  And then, with the repeating crash of steel riding steel, another tube train rumbled along the elevated line behind them, its lightshow glaring across the lorry park.

  The green van came fully into view, as did the short, stocky, white-faced figure of its driver. He wore blue jeans and a grey, zip-up hoodie top. His hands were planted in its front pockets, a white plastic bag suspended from his right wrist, where he’d looped it.

  The question was, how much of the two cops did the lightshow reveal?

  Probably not a lot. They’d be framed against the passing train, nothing more than silhouettes. But even so, that would be enough to show that one of them wasn’t six-foot-five.

  At a distance, six-foot-three Jack Reed might pass for that.

  But not this close, less than twenty yards away.

  The waiting figure adjusted position again. It was a sharper movement than previously.

  ‘Hit the deck!’ Heck shouted, diving to the floor.

  Reed did the same, and just in time – as the waiting man opened fire with a concealed weapon in his front pocket. Two blinding flashes split the night.