The Killing Club

by Paul Finch

  The engine growled, drowning out his muffled whimpers, and the vehicle juddered as it pulled out of the car park onto the road network. Laycock struggled harder, but they were literally on top of him, a mass of booted feet and heavy muscle swathed in canvas and waterproofs. Noticeably, no one spoke; there was no reassurance that everything would be okay if he complied; no consolation offered that this would all be over in the morning; no attempt of any sort to reason with or calm him.

  Laycock wasn’t sure how long they were on the road for; maybe half an hour, maybe less. All he knew in that time was the darkness, the airlessness, and the pain of his injuries, the crushing weight on top of him, and the violent banging and jolting of the vehicle – and then the abrupt crunch of a loose surface beneath tyres, and the prolonged squeal as brakes were applied.

  When the rear doors were yanked open, only very little light was shed in – the result of a waning half-moon passing through autumnal clouds – but it was sufficient to show the tall, angled outline of an unlit building, the exposed ribs of its rotted roof suggesting it was derelict. Yet more men were waiting there – in an orderly row, like a bunch of soldiers on parade.

  Despite the violence he’d so far been subjected to, the first bolt of genuine horror only passed through Laycock’s rapidly sobering mind when he realised they were all wearing black ski-masks. With a wild lurch, he attempted to fight his way out of the van. He was a big guy himself, in his youth a military policeman, and he could pack a punch and a kick. But he didn’t get more than two or three inches before he was again restrained. One of the figures outside leaned in. With a metallic click, torchlight speared through the entrance.

  ‘Let’s at least make sure it’s the right guy,’ an American voice said.

  The light hit Laycock in the face, penetrating to the backs of his aching eyes, causing him to blink involuntarily. A damp rag was moved vigorously back and forth across his face. He realised they were mopping away the clotted blood.

  ‘Yep,’ the American voice confirmed. ‘Check.’

  The light went out and Laycock was taken by all four of his limbs and flung – literally flung – out onto the ground. He rolled over, thinking to jump to his feet, but when he looked up, the ramrod-straight silhouettes of his captors hemmed him in from all sides. Man by man, each one of them drew something from out of his clothing, and held it up. Laycock’s eyes had attuned sufficiently to the dim moonlight to observe that in every case it was the same thing – a claw-hammer.

  ‘What is this?’ he gabbled. ‘Whoever you are, you’ve got the wrong fella!’

  ‘No we ain’t,’ came that casual American voice.

  ‘Are you fucking mad? I’m a cop, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘We’d hardly have gone to this trouble if you flipped burgers.’

  ‘Wait … just fucking wait!’ Laycock half-screamed, holding up empty palms, trying to press his abductors back with a helpless gesture. ‘Whoever you are, whatever I’m supposed to have done, I can fix it … there’s nothing that can’t be undone …’

  But the first of the claw-hammers was already hurtling at his face, unseen in the gloom. It connected with a smack of meat and cracking bone.

  ‘Ouch!’ the American said, and chuckled.

  The other hammers arced down from all sides, over and over, thwacking into limbs, torso, skull, shattering those flailing hands like they were porcelain.

  Chapter 9

  It wouldn’t be true to say that Heck didn’t dream.

  He did dream occasionally, or maybe he dreamt every night and only recalled vague snippets in the morning. But as a rule his sleep was deep and undisturbed. Perhaps this was down to his own body, some internal mechanism looking out for his welfare, preventing him reliving the worst events of each day as he tried to rest. Either way, all he ever knew of his dreams were brief, hazy recollections, though these could be disturbing enough: a prostitute’s severed foot still in its pink high-heeled shoe; a female body lying naked in a bathtub, its face covered with clown makeup. But for the most part, given how disjointed and out of context this fleeting, broken imagery tended to be, it was easy enough to shrug off.

  Not so on this occasion.

  This time he was in his sister’s house, which was located in Bradburn, a post-industrial town in a depressed corner of South Lancashire. It was the same house where his late parents had lived, where he had grown up as a child. Normally it was clean and tidy, yet now it was filthy and dilapidated. Heck wandered helpless and teary-eyed from room to room, appalled by the dereliction. What was more, he could hear the giggles of two children playing games with him – darting around, staying constantly out of sight. He never saw them, but somehow knew who they were: Lauren and Genene Wraxford, two pretty little black girls, sisters from Leeds, who as young women would be murdered by the Nice Guys. He shouted at them not to grow up, not to leave this place, which though it was dirty and crumbling – fissures scurried across the walls, branching repeatedly – they would be safer in if they just stayed here. But still he couldn’t see them, and now bricks and plaster were falling. He blundered through the dust to the front door, only to find it was no longer there – solid brickwork occupied its former place.

  Frantic, Heck scrambled back through the building, which now consisted of empty, cavernous interiors, many made from rusty cast-iron and fitted with grimy portholes for windows. When he reached the back door, he saw that a heavy iron bolt had been thrown. This too was jammed with rust, and only by exerting every inch of strength did he manage to free it. The door opened – but not onto the paved back yard where he’d kicked a football during his childhood, onto another vast interior, this one built from concrete and hung with rotted cables. At its far end, a gang of men were waiting. All wore dark clothes and ski-masks. They approached quickly and silently, and now he saw they were armed with punk weapons – logs with nails in them, bicycle chains, lengths of pipe.

  ‘By the time we get bored with you, son,’ a gloating, Birmingham-accented voice whispered into Heck’s right ear, ‘you’ll wish we’d finished you the first time.’

  He spun away, stumbling along a passage, at the end of which stood a bathroom, clean and well appointed, filled with warm sunshine. Heck recognised it from a holiday cottage he and Gemma had rented in Pembrokeshire when they’d been dating all those years ago. At its far side, a shapely woman stood naked in the shower. She faced away from him; her long fair hair flowed down her back in the stream of water. He knew it was Gemma – her hair had been much longer then. Before he could speak, the bathroom window exploded, and those hostile forms – more like apes than humans – came vaulting in. Heck shouted, but no sound emerged, and the bathroom door slammed in his face, another bolt ramming home.

  His eyes snapped open in the dimness of early morning light.

  For several seconds he could barely move, just lay rigid under the duvet, sweat soaking his hair, bathing his body. At last his vision, having roved back and forth across his only vaguely recognisable room, settled on the neon numerals of the digital clock on the sideboard, which read 5.29 a.m.

  Gradually, he became aware of a need to urinate. At length, this propelled him from the warmth of his bed and sent him lurching along the chilly central passage of his flat to the bathroom. On the way back, he was still attempting to shrug off the soporific effects of sleep – for which reason he was caught completely off-guard when there came an explosion of breaking metal and rending timber downstairs.

  Heck stumbled to a halt, damp hair prickling at the sound of furious male voices and the thunder of hobnailed boots ascending the single stair from the front door.

  In a state of confusion, he backed into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Whatever was happening here, it struck him vaguely that he had options. He could try to escape, though his sole bedroom window opened over a fifty-foot drop into a litter-strewn canyon, through which an exposed section of the District Line ran between Fulham Broadway and Parsons Green. Alternatively, he had his mo
bile with him, and could call for back-up if he first shored up the door – but in truth there was nothing in here with which to create such a barricade; no chest of drawers, no dressing table. The other option – and this looked like the only realistic one – was to fight.

  Heck kept a hickory baseball bat alongside his bed. He snatched it up just as the bedroom door was smashed inward. When he saw a gloved hand poking through, clutching a pistol, he swung at it with all the strength he had.

  The impact was brutal, the smack resounding across the room, a squawk of agony following it. The pistol, a Glock, clattered to the floor. Heck made a dash for it, but the injured intruder, who was wearing a motorbike helmet, dived in, catching him around the waist, bearing him to the carpet. Other intruders followed, also armed with pistols, shouting incoherently – and wearing police insignia all over their black Kevlar body-plate.

  What Heck had first taken for motorbike helmets were anti-ballistics wear, but he’d already rammed his elbow down three times between the shoulder-blades of the first assailant before realising this. ‘Bloody hell …!’ he said.

  ‘Armed police!’ they bellowed as they filled his room, seven of them training pistols on him at the same time. ‘Drop the fucking bat! Drop it now!’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ he said, letting the bat go, showing empty hands.

  ‘Nick …?’ one of them shouted, crouching and lifting his frosted visor to reveal that he, in fact, was a she.

  ‘Don’t you fucking move!’ another shouted.

  The point-man, the one called Nick, still lay groggily across Heck’s legs. He groaned with pain as he tried to lever himself upright. Heck assisted with his knees and a forearm, shoving the guy over onto his back.

  ‘I said don’t fucking move!’ another officer roared, aiming a kick at him.

  ‘What’s your problem, dipshit?’ Heck retorted. ‘I’m a bloody cop!’

  ‘Shut up!’ the girl replied, hoisting her fallen colleague to his feet.

  Whoever ‘Nick’ was, he was a big fella, Heck realised – at least six-three and broad as an ox. It had been a stroke of luck to get those early shots in. In contrast, the girl was about five-eight, but lithe, and from what he could see of her, handsome in a fierce, feline sort of way.

  Gemma Mark Two, he thought to himself.

  ‘You fucking little shit, Heckenburg,’ she snarled, ruining the illusion – Gemma rarely used profanity. ‘Get on your face now, or I’ll put you there permanently.’

  Behind her, more of the arrest team were piling into the crowded bedroom, several armed with staves as well as handguns. Heck supposed he ought to be flattered, but he was too busy listening to the crashing and banging elsewhere in the apartment.

  ‘What’s the matter with you people?’ he asked. ‘You obviously know who I am!’

  ‘I said get on your face!’ she reiterated. ‘Ignore me one more time, and I swear I’ll put a bullet straight through that empty braincase of yours.’ Her eyes were a piercing cat-green; her gloved finger tightened on the trigger of her Glock, which she pointed straight at Heck’s face.

  He rolled over, arms outspread.

  ‘Too right we fucking know you!’ she said. ‘Hands behind your head!’

  He complied, and then they were onto him – she and several others landing knees-first, driving the wind out of him.

  ‘Lie still!’ she said. ‘Keep your hands away from the bat!’

  ‘You idiots have screwed up,’ Heck grunted. ‘Whatever intel’s brought you here, it’s either fake or very flawed.’

  She holstered her Glock, and twisted his arms behind his back, quickly and efficiently inducing two painful goosenecks, which suggested she knew her martial arts. She slipped his hands into a pair of nylon cuffs, and cinched them tight.

  ‘Save that famous motormouth of yours for the judge,’ she said into his right ear – in the same gloating tone he’d heard in his dream, which gave him a mild jolt, though of course the accent was different; this one was Home Counties, strictly Middle England.

  They lifted him roughly to his feet.

  ‘I’m DS Fowler from the Serious Offenders Control and Retrieval unit,’ the girl said, ‘and I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.’ She gave him the full caution. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘What do you do for an encore?’

  One of her male colleagues punched him in the side. Heck winced but managed to stay upright. Though he was still barefoot, dressed only in shorts and a sweat-damp t-shirt, they frogmarched him into the corridor, where personal items and bits of furniture were already being tossed out from the other rooms. By the continuing roar of destruction, they were leaving no stone unturned. Someone Heck recognised stood in the midst of it, apparently supervising. He was a short, paunchy man, with podgy, hog-like features scrunched under his helmet, though his general proportions – which were globular in shape – seemed equally uncomfortable squashed into his black coveralls. His name was Derek O’Dowd, and he was an officious little twerp formerly of the Met’s Accident Investigation department. It was no surprise that he’d wound up in SOCAR. More unexpected, perhaps, were the inspector’s pips on his shoulders.

  ‘Just remember, guv,’ Heck said to him, ‘… anything you break, you buy.’

  O’Dowd swung around, his mouth fixed in its usual O of outrage when someone had disputed with him. Immediately, he began shouting. ‘Have you ever – ever in your fucking life! – tried showing respect for rank, Heckenburg!’

  ‘You ever tried ringing a doorbell? What did you think I was going to do, flush myself down the toilet?’

  ‘Good Christ!’ O’Dowd bellowed. ‘Get this fucking sociopath out of my sight! If he opens his trap one more time, one of you stick your fist in it!’

  DS Fowler and the guy called Nick, who apparently was another sergeant, a DS Gribbins – hustled Heck to the top of the stairs, and walked him down between them, though Gribbins cringed as he rotated his wrist and flexed his fingers.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got full movement,’ Heck said. ‘Not broken, at least.’

  ‘Don’t push me, Heckenburg,’ Gribbins snarled.

  They arrived outside, where the presence of several police vehicles, including a couple of divisional units, and numerous other armoured SOCAR personnel, ensured that, despite the early hour and milky light of dawn, curtains would be twitching up and down Cherrybrook Drive, a typical nosy Fulham street.

  ‘I’m just saying it’ll be okay,’ Heck added.

  Even though they were out in full public view, Gribbins spun around, snatching Heck by the collar of his t-shirt. Briefly they were nose to nose. Gribbins’s thick brown moustache made him resemble some TV cop from the 1970s. But he was currently flushed with anger and streaming sweat.

  ‘It may have escaped your notice, pal! … but we’re not taking this as lightly as you seem to be.’

  ‘I kind of got that,’ Heck replied. ‘But just out of interest … maybe as a common courtesy to my fellow-police status, who am I supposed to have murdered?’

  ‘No one important,’ Fowler said, stepping between them. ‘Just a DI in the Met.’

  Heck’s mouth dropped open. ‘What …?’

  ‘Laycock.’

  ‘You mean Jim Laycock?’

  ‘Why … how many Laycocks are there on your personal hate list?’

  ‘You …’ Heck was only fleetingly lost for words. ‘You better had take me in.’

  ‘Oh … had we?’

  ‘Right now.’ Shaking free of their grip, he turned and headed to the prisoner transport parked at the kerb, climbing straight into the back of it.

  There was no cage inside this one, so when Fowler climbed in as well, looking a little bemused, she sat on the facing bench and pointed a warning finger at him. ‘Don’t even think about trying something. I’m a karate fifth dan.’

  ‘Suppose that makes me feel a bit safer,’ Heck replied.

  ‘And that smart mouth is going to make things even toughe
r on you.’

  The engine started, the vehicle lurching away.

  ‘I’m totally serious.’ Heck glanced up at her. ‘The only thing is, I’m not sure a bit safer is gonna be enough.’

  Chapter 10

  ‘I’m guessing interrogation’s a skill you guys haven’t mastered yet?’ Heck said. ‘Because in the last five minutes, your questions have revealed to me that Jim Laycock was abducted last night from a pub in Kilburn at roughly eleven p.m. … that he died sometime between twelve and one, and that his body was found this morning in an abandoned vehicle in Hornsey. All stuff which, if you’d kept it quiet, you could have used to trip me up.’

  ‘And in return you’ve told us nothing,’ DS Fowler said. ‘Which hardly looks good from your point of view, does it?’

  ‘I’ve told you nothing you want to hear,’ Heck replied. ‘But it happens to be the truth … which is sometimes pretty boring, I’ll admit.’

  He was clad in a paper custody suit, and slumped in an interview room at Hammersmith police station. On the other side of the table sat SOCAR detectives Gribbins and Fowler, first names Nick and Steph. Though now in civvies, the former of these appeared no less a thug, his brutish looks topped by a curly brown mop. His corduroy jacket and open-necked plaid shirt somehow accentuated his big, powerful frame. Also out of battle-dress, the latter had a rather cool ‘Mrs Peel’ kind of aura. Her slim-fit pinstripes hugged her athletic form, but she wore her jet-black hair gathered in a severe bun. Detective Inspector O’Dowd was nowhere to be seen, though he was probably watching through the two-way mirror on the wall. Maybe Frank Tasker was through there as well, though Heck hadn’t seen the SOCAR boss in the custody suite when he’d first been brought in.

  ‘I got home last night just after eleven,’ he explained again. ‘Having first bought a Chinese takeaway from the shop on Larkhill Lane, Fulham. You can ask the lady who owns it. She was the one who served me. Now you do the maths … Fulham to Kilburn in less than half an hour?’