by Paul Finch
‘Crack of dawn yesterday,’ she said dully.
‘Correct. Now, I don’t know how quickly these fights-to-the-death occur, but it’s not necessarily as soon as the victim is brought down here.’
‘You’re saying you think Taylor might still be alive?’
‘It’s possible, isn’t it? If these fights are for the benefit of Milena Misanyan, they’ll happen at her convenience, won’t they? I mean, she’s an international businesswoman, she’ll likely have a busy schedule.’
‘Heck … how could she possibly know someone like Spencer Taylor?’
‘Gemma, it’s not who these guys are. It’s what they are. Vicious criminals. Real toerags.’
‘Yes, we all hate them. But this is something else again …’
‘Have you read Misanyan’s CV?’ he asked. ‘She’s been verging on serious illegality all her adult life, but it’s not just that … her two sisters were horrifically murdered and displayed on some kind of framework afterwards. Surely that’s going to drive you a little bit crazy?’
‘And why would she come to the UK to get revenge?’
‘Who says it’s just here? Maybe it’s a full-time hobby for her. Look, ma’am … I know all this sounds unlikely, but this is where the evidence has led us. And if there’s even a chance this idiot kid, Taylor, hasn’t been in the arena yet, we might not just have an opportunity to save him, but to grab ourselves a living witness. I know he’s a murdering little scrote, but surely we’ve got plenty of reason to get this thing moving?’
‘I’ve already told you, Gwen’s down at the Yard now …’
‘Can’t you interrupt them? This is serious. Look, I’m down here holding the fort, but as you say, I can’t do much on my own …’
‘Just hang tight a little longer,’ Gemma interjected.
She now sounded more than tired, which initially puzzled him given the news he was bringing her. But while he was only working one case, intense though it was proving, she was literally overloaded with them. She still had the fallout from the cinema arrests to deal with, while the Newham shootings had created a furore that could even be heard down here.
‘I’ll send Gwen an urgent message,’ she said.
‘No disrespect …’ Heck tried not to let his disappointment sound in his voice. ‘But when you’ve done that, can you also mobilise Devon and Cornwall? Preferably their Major Crime Branch and Armed Response Unit. We’ll need boats too, and choppers.’
‘You know, you’re asking an awful lot here, considering there’s no other detective with you to corroborate any of this.’
‘Don’t take my word for it, ma’am. Check the attachment I’m about to send you.’
He cut the call and forwarded the image sent by Sumitra Bharti. At which point there was a knock at his bedroom door.
‘Yeah?’ he shouted.
‘Erm … Mr Heckenburg, sorry … it’s Ted Nance.’ The muffled voice was strongly Cornish, much more so than Mrs Nance’s had been. ‘Sorry, but we’ve got a bit of a problem.’
Heck closed his laptop and slid it under the bed, before opening the door.
The man on the other side was wearing a chequered shirt and a cardigan and tie made of some curious fuzzy material. He had a moustache and a mop of greying hair and wore thick-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir … you’re the gent who arrived in the Megane earlier?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m afraid it’s been damaged.’
‘What … on the car park?’
‘I’m afraid so. I’m very sorry.’
‘You don’t mean it’s been broken into?’
‘I’m not quite sure.’
‘Bloody great.’ Heck closed the bedroom door, locked it and hurried down the stairs, Nance coming in pursuit.
‘We’ve got a camera out back, sir,’ the landlord said. ‘So, I’m sure if we have a look …’
‘Yeah, fine,’ Heck said over his shoulder. ‘Let me just check the damage.’
As he walked through Reception towards the back door, he knew that, if his Megane had been broken into, it couldn’t be a coincidence. How often did motors get screwed in this neighbourhood, if ever? This was a further indication that he was onto something, but, bewilderingly, it also suggested that someone was onto him.
First, though, the car.
It was where he’d left it, at the far end of the small car park, a blue plastic dumpster on one side of it, a parked white van on the other. The car park lighting was not good; in fact, the lamp nearest to his Megane wasn’t working. But even so, there was no visible damage as he approached, and the alarm was not signalling. Which confused him.
‘What’s actually happened?’ he said, again over his shoulder.
‘If you check near the front,’ Nance replied, bringing up the rear.
Heck sidled between the van and his Megane, still not observing so much as a scratch. ‘You say at the front?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
Not a break-in, then; more like legit damage. Though how the car could have been pranged at the front when it was parked nose to the wall, he couldn’t fathom …
A figure stepped into his path.
Heck halted.
It was one of the Armenian workmen. He was middle-aged, short and squat, but powerfully built. With his hair thinning on top, his pug nose, jug ears and odd, protruding face, he had a rodent-like aspect, currently split by a crescent grin.
Before Heck could react, he sensed someone else at his back. He tried to spin around, but the impact on the rear of his skull was massive, jolting his head, stunning his senses. As Heck slumped to his knees, Rodent scuttled forward to prevent him falling full-length. He was vaguely aware of hurried, whispering voices. An object dropped down alongside him – a bulging sock, with sand spilling out of it. A classic underworld blackjack, it could deliver tremendous impact but had enough yield in it to reduce the risk of causing serious damage.
Someone took Heck’s legs, and between them, his assailants carried him to the rear of the white van.
‘Quickly,’ a voice hissed.
It sounded like Nance, but the accent was no longer Cornish.
The next thing Heck knew, they were twisting him onto his back and feeding him into the darkness of the interior, where other hands took hold of him. He caught one glimpse of his second abductor, presumably the one who’d struck him, seeing a much younger face, with hair shaved at the sides but smoothed across the top of his head in an oily, black flat-top.
Then he was inside the vehicle. It was dark and smelled of salt water. Someone else climbed inside and the door banged shut, closing out what little light there’d been. Not that they seemed to need it; as Heck lay flat on the corrugated metal floor, his wrists and ankles were firmly and expertly bound with some tight twine, which had the potential to slice flesh if he wriggled about too much. In truth, he didn’t wriggle at all; he was too groggy. Though, as the van’s engine throbbed to life, and he felt the vehicle reverse out of its parking bay, awareness was ebbing back. Someone seated alongside him chuckled.
‘I’m not very flattered you didn’t recognise me.’
That voice again … Ted Nance. Except that Nance now spoke with a light Cockney accent, which wasn’t a giveaway in itself, but again, all the pieces were steadily falling together.
‘Ray Marciano, I presume?’ Heck said.
‘Yay,’ the voice replied. ‘You got there in the end.’
Chapter 35
There was no conversation as the van jolted along. The pencil-thin gleam of light around the edges of the rear doors revealed nothing, either inside or out. A short time after departing the Rope & Anchor, it slithered to a halt, and Heck, who was now fully conscious, fancied he could hear waves in close proximity.
The doors opened, and though it wasn’t exactly light out there – the nearest lamps were several hundred yards away, just about delineating the seafront road and the shops and bars – it was sufficien
t to reveal that he’d been driven to the end of the stone quay. That was perfect for them, of course. He was too far from shore for any villagers to hear him should he shout out, especially over the breaking of the surf, and at this late hour they were beyond the reach of prying eyes.
A couple more men in grey overalls were waiting there. Ray Marciano, divested of his ‘Cornish innkeeper’ disguise, exposing his more familiar blond hair and lean, sharp, shaven features, jumped out, as did the other two henchmen who’d ridden with him and Heck in the back.
‘Bring him,’ Marciano said.
Heck saw no point in resisting; he couldn’t anyway, as he’d been bound expertly. Help was on its way, he hoped, but when it would arrive was anyone’s guess. All he could try to do now was buy time for himself … but in as subtle a way as possible.
They hauled him out and stood him upright. The back of his head throbbed, and he was still dazed from the blow, but not so much that he didn’t see the motorboat bobbing and tilting on the waters alongside them, a single plank gangway leading down to it.
‘Can you hop?’ Marciano asked. ‘Or do we carry you?’
‘I can hop,’ Heck confirmed.
‘Good … but don’t be thinking about jumping in. The lads who’ve tied you know what they’re doing, so you won’t be able to wriggle out of it … and no one’s coming in after you.’
‘I’ve come this far, I might as well go the whole hog,’ Heck replied.
Marciano smiled at that, amused by Heck’s air of affected nonchalance. He turned and signalled to Flat-Top and Rodent.
The pair of them came forward, took one elbow each and steered Heck to the head of the gangway. It was so narrow that they weren’t able to walk down it one to either side, but Flat-Top went first, sauntering ahead, while Rodent brought up the rear, a firm hand clamped to Heck’s right shoulder.
There was only a single light in the boat, a lamp on a hook suspended over the outboard motor, and it illuminated little – though this was to Heck’s advantage. He couldn’t throw himself into the drink, but that didn’t stop him throwing something else. Lying in the pitch-dark of the van’s interior, and with his hands tied in front of him rather than at his back, he’d been able to filch both his phone and his pocketbook from out of his jeans. Making a call would have been impossible, as the light from his iPhone facia would have alerted his captors, so instead he’d had to content himself with covertly tugging his polo shirt from his belt, and concealing them both underneath it, and now, as he made his awkward way down the gangplank, releasing them.
Thanks to the near non-existent light and the roll and splash of the waves, they vanished into the water without anyone noticing. This, as it turned out, was a timely move. The instant he alighted in the boat, Marciano shouted down that they should search him. They did so, and finding nothing, bade him sit on one of the rowing benches.
‘Cutting my blood supply here,’ Heck complained, as one by one, they climbed down alongside him.
Flat-Top snickered to himself, as if this was going to be the least of their captive’s problems. Marciano, who took his place on the facing bench, regarded Heck with equal amusement.
The boat chugged slowly away from its mooring, describing a slow, graceful arc across the choppy water before the ex-cop finally spoke.
‘So was it the Cornish accent that fooled you?’ he asked.
Heck frowned. ‘Was that supposed to be Cornish?’
‘OK, the fake tash then? The daft specs? The wig? It all had to be improvised at the last minute, of course, me not expecting you an’ all.’
Heck shrugged. ‘Never knew what you looked like anyway. Never bothered looking you up.’
‘Aww.’ Marciano sounded genuinely disappointed. ‘So, you wouldn’t have known me even if I’d lowered my newspaper back there in the hotel bar, eh?’
Heck shrugged again. ‘Sorry.’
‘Well … I recognised you straight away. Especially when I heard your name. There can’t be many Heckenburgs knocking around, can there? A bit unexpected, mind. I mean, I had a bad feeling that someone would show up … but not the second-best detective in Britain.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself, pal. You weren’t the first best even in London.’
‘Well … I will admit I’ve never been as much of a headline-grabber as you.’
‘Yeah, I wonder why.’
‘Which is all the more reason I’m surprised and disappointed to see you here now.’
Heck regarded him blankly. ‘If you’re disappointed with your own security arrangements, you should be. But don’t be surprised by how crap they are. I wasn’t.’
Marciano chuckled. ‘You can keep this bravado thing going, if you want to. But I’m the one sailing towards a happy future, and you’re the one tied up in fishing line.’
Heck snorted. ‘Anyone can hire a bunch of muckers to do their dirty work. I’m sure this set of gorillas can be relied on to beat the living shit out of someone if that’s all that’s required. Even so, Ray, if this is the best you’ve got, I’m unimpressed.’
‘You know what I’m unimpressed by?’ Marciano’s mocking smile hardened. ‘You pretending that you’re a badass. Because, compared to these guys, you’re not. You’re really in deep shit, here, Heckenburg, and you know you are. So, what you need to do at this moment is shut your mouth and listen.’
He paused as if to think, the dark sea surging past with an ever heavier swell, the boat rising and falling as the island loomed closer.
‘When I say I’m disappointed, Heck … I can call you “Heck”, yeah? That’s your nickname, isn’t it?’
‘Only where my mates are concerned.’
‘Good … I’m in august company. But when I say I’m disappointed, Heck, I mean I’m disappointed in you. I’ve followed your adventures over the years, and you’re either a genius or a madman. I mean, they say the dividing line between the two is thin. So … maybe you’re both. But one thing’s always been apparent. You’re resolute. You hunt these bastards down and you put them where they need to be … and sometimes that’s the grave.’
‘That’s the job,’ Heck replied. ‘It’s not because I get off on it.’
‘I understand that. I’m not a sadist, myself.’
‘Unless it pays, eh?’
‘No way.’ Marciano seemed entirely serious. ‘It’s not in my nature to be cruel. I believe that most crims deserve a second chance. They go down, bit of time in the clink, slapped wrist or two … then they come out again, and they’re either sadder and wiser men, or they haven’t learned anything and a week later they’re back inside. But, you know … that’s the life they chose. Costs society a bit of money, but it’s better than them being out on the streets. But that’s most crims, Heck … not all.’ He paused again, for effect. ‘You know as well as I do … there are some renegades who are way fucking beyond that. Whose crimes are so reprehensible that they won’t even take a chance in court, they just do a runner, haven’t got the guts to face their fellow men.’
‘And so you decided to be their judge, jury and executioner.’
‘I’m not the executioner. I just do what I always did.’
‘You track ’em down, yeah?’
‘Just like you do, Heck.’
‘I deliver them to justice.’
‘So do I!’ Marciano laughed again, but it was a hard, flat sound, devoid of humour. ‘Christ, fifty years ago, these wretches would have been hanged and no one would’ve batted an eyelid. You think if the Moors Murderers had been convicted before 1965, the death penalty would have been abolished? It would have lasted another decade, at least.’
‘Even if it had,’ Heck said, ‘all those facing it would still have been given a trial first.’
‘We give them a trial.’
‘Trial by battle, Ray? Some might call that a dated concept.’
‘Some would call brotherly love a dated concept. Doesn’t mean it lacks virtue.’
‘Do you actually believe this bull?’ Heck
asked him. ‘Or these days, do you only believe what you get paid to believe?’
Marciano sighed, as if the prisoner was a lost cause.
‘Seriously, Ray,’ Heck said. ‘You’re not running this show. You don’t own Fantasy Island, over there. So, you’re getting paid to do this, and paid pretty well I’m guessing … you didn’t pack the job in for monkey nuts, did you?’
‘And you’re trying to catch these worthless specimens purely because you want to save your career,’ Marciano scoffed. ‘Operation Sledgehammer? What a farce! I doubt it would have entered any of your heads to go looking for these long-vanished arseholes if National Crime Group hadn’t been in trouble. So, don’t give me dogshit dressed up as principles, Heck …’
They were interrupted by a grunt from one of the Armenians.
The island was almost upon them. Waves crashed invisibly, only faint hints of white to indicate where surf burst on its seafront walls. The floodlit end of a timber jetty drew near, and beyond that, higher up, the lights of Trevallick Hall twinkled through skeletal frameworks of scaffolding.
Heck watched as they slid into place alongside the dock. As they sat there, swaying, a rope was thrown down and a set of ladders lowered. Rodent edged past to take charge of the ladders, but before he did, he snapped open a glinting blade, bent down and sawed through the bonds on Heck’s ankles. At the same time, Marciano drew a Beretta from the pocket of the black waterproof he’d pulled over his ‘Ted Nance’ shirt and tie and cocked it.
‘Nothing stupid, Heck,’ he advised. ‘Let’s not spoil things now.’
Heck said nothing as they manhandled him up onto the jetty and led him forward through a narrow, single-storey building with a flat roof and open doors at either end of it. It was almost like a customs point, with a couple more of the men in grey overalls lounging on stools, smoking. They regarded Heck with only passing interest as he was escorted through by Marciano, Flat-Top and Rodent. From here, they marched uphill via a rutted lane lined on either side by thatched-roof cottages. Possibly, these had once been residences for staff at the hall, but now they were boarded up.