The Killing Club

by Paul Finch

  He made to leave, but she caught the collar of his shirt and, rather to his surprise, pushed him back against the waiting-room wall. ‘Christ’s sake, Heck!’ she hissed, pink-cheeked. ‘What did we talk about yesterday? I thought I was getting through to you. Did it all go in one ear and out the other?’

  ‘No … that would be the bullets they fired at me. When I was on my way to catch the Shoreditch Slasher, ma’am … or is it “Gemma”? Sorry, I get confused.’

  ‘You little …’ Her grip tightened on his collar, though she barely seemed aware of it. For several seconds she struggled to give voice to her feelings. ‘Do you have any idea how hard you make it for someone to care about you?’

  That wasn’t something Heck had been expecting. They continued to glare each other out, neither giving ground – but now he noticed how moist her eyes were, and that stumped him further. She was massively stressed by this, of course. A number of policemen had been killed. One of her own detectives had been shot that very morning. A whirlwind of other murders were occurring around the country, all connected to the case, the work of perps so twisted they had no qualms about chucking hand grenades at dinner parties. To call this enquiry ‘high pressure’ would be somewhat euphemistic. But in all the years Heck had worked with Gemma, and there’d been many, he’d never once seen her cry.

  ‘You’re going to a SOCAR safehouse, do you understand?’ she said, regaining control, though only with a momentous effort. ‘And when you’re there you’ll have a round-the-clock armed guard … at the taxpayers’ expense. So you’d better not give us any reason – any reason at all, Mark! – to decide this is money badly spent.’

  ‘You’ve got it,’ he said, subdued.

  ‘Yes?’ Unsurprisingly, she sounded deeply suspicious.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You need to keep it together, ma’am,’ Heck said. ‘If you don’t mind my saying.’

  They were headed along the Chelsea Embankment in Gemma’s Merc. Heck had pointed out that his own Citroën was in the car park at the Yard, but she’d replied that he wasn’t going to need it in the near future, so it would be perfectly safe there. That hadn’t pleased him much, but there’d been no arguing with her.

  ‘Tasker’s lot are a glorified PSU,’ he added. ‘Great at kicking doors down and roughing up suspects – so they’re the brawn. But as the experienced murder detective, you’re the brain. If you lose it, they’ll never catch these bastards.’

  Gemma stared directly ahead.

  ‘I was thinking when I was under the ground,’ he said chattily. ‘How crap it would be if I bought it. I mean down there, in a place where no one would ever find me. But more because I’d never get to say goodbye to all you guys. Hell, you know what it’s like. Every time we go on duty we wonder if this’ll be it. But most of us tend to die in bed, don’t we … with our loved ones around us. Like Gary.’

  ‘Gary’s not dying,’ she said tersely.

  ‘No. But if it was going to be me, I didn’t fancy my deathbed being a pile of shit at the bottom of a sewer. Wouldn’t have been much fun breathing my last without having you sitting there to hold my hand …’

  ‘Can it, Heck! It’s not gonna work.’

  ‘You know, there was no need to drive me home personally.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I’m on-side,’ he said. ‘Grudgingly, I admit. But surely I’m still allowed to have a legitimate concern about the enquiry? I mean, this is real Nice Guys stuff. Okay, they’re cowboying it. But apart from that it’s the same as the first time. It’s like the whole country’s their playground. They’ve got it mapped and planned. They know exactly where their hit-teams need to go to find targets. They know exactly when to be there. Complex arrangements don’t faze them. I mean, they must have waited outside the Yard for me to come out. That takes some balls. And some patience. But that’s what you get with ex-special forces. And they’re thorough. They do their homework. I don’t think they’re based in town. I’ll tell you why, because they don’t need to …’

  ‘I thought you said I was the ace murder detective?’ she interrupted. ‘The one who knows what she’s doing?’

  ‘You are …’

  ‘Stop lecturing me, then.’

  He understood why she was vexed. Gemma valued her reputation for indomitability. She was an exceptionally talented police officer, but she’d earned her high rank through blood and sweat too. She’d always been called ‘the Lioness’, but her ascent to the higher echelons of CID, a journey during which no form of positive discrimination was possible, had seen her fight battles that had toughened her to an alarming degree. And yet she wore this with pride. It wasn’t just her armour; it was her badge of victory, her mark of courage. Though now she’d let it slip, and Heck had glimpsed the raw emotion beneath.

  ‘You underestimate me,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing, look … Gemma, you know I have some expertise on this. It could even be deemed negligent of you not to put some protocol in place where you can tap that resource …’

  ‘That’s why I’m allowing you to keep your mobile phone. If I need to ring you and … tap your knowledge, I will.’

  ‘Okay. So … what’s the rest of the plan?’

  ‘It’s simple. You’re leaving straight away. Soon as you get your stuff, you’ll be escorted out of town.’

  ‘May I ask where exactly? I might as well know.’

  ‘You’ll know when you get there.’

  ‘At least tell me you’ve extended the same courtesy to Dana and Sarah.’

  ‘Of course I have.’ She threw him an indignant glance. ‘What do you take me for?’

  Heck nodded, grateful. Even now, a couple of years later, he could hardly bear to think about the brutal hands laid on his sister by the original Nice Guys; it had been nothing short of a miracle that his niece hadn’t been present at the time.

  ‘I’ve put Greater Manchester on it,’ she said. ‘And I’ve stressed the importance. You can relax. They know you were one of theirs. They won’t drop the ball.’

  They arrived at Heck’s flat half an hour later. An unmarked car – a black/grey Ford Focus Titanium, an expensive model, which meant it probably belonged to SOCAR – was parked a little way down the road. Heck and Gemma climbed out.

  ‘Don’t like it much,’ Heck said, indicating his new front door, which was still bare of paint and ornamentation.

  Gemma shrugged. She didn’t care for it much either, but then, as she’d said, she thought his whole flat was a dump.

  Heck produced his shiny new key. ‘I trust Frank Tasker’s got a spare one of these? If he’s planning any more early starts, it’ll keep the damage to a minimum.’

  Her only reply was an arched eyebrow, so he opened the door and traipsed up the stair. Gemma followed him slowly.

  ‘Thanks for making them tidy up,’ he said. ‘Mind you, I was hoping for a complete redecorating job and some new carpets.’

  ‘Quit the attempted levity. We haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Time for a shower first?’

  ‘Make it quick.’

  He turned to face her as he stripped off his muddied shirt. ‘If this really is about my welfare … you can always pop into the bathroom with me, and wash my back.’

  ‘You’re lucky you’ve been through Hell today … speaking to me like that.’

  ‘Yeah, I mean otherwise I might get sent into exile. Imagine, eh?’

  He wandered through to his room, where he tore off the rest of his soiled, bloody rags, and dumped them in his laundry basket. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his waist and walked back out to the bathroom. He didn’t see Gemma on the way, but heard her talking with someone down at the bottom of the stairs. Once in the cubicle, he stood under a hot spray for a good ten minutes – then fifteen – then twenty – then twenty-five – no longer luxuriating in its scalding embrace but determined to punish her. He’d hurt her already in a way, which he regretted, but
he’d had a pretty rough morning himself, and now they were doing this to him. In that light, he was determined to make her wait as long as possible to show how badly he felt he was being treated. It was a full forty minutes before there was a knock at the bathroom door.

  ‘Come in,’ he yelled. ‘It isn’t locked.’ The door creaked open, and he heard her enter. He turned the water off and clawed a towel from the rack alongside the cubicle. ‘You’re a bit late,’ he said, lumbering out, towelling his face. ‘I’ve washed all the interesting bits.’

  ‘So I see,’ Steph Fowler commented.

  He hastily covered up. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  She couldn’t conceal a smirk. ‘We’ve been detailed to take you on holiday.’

  ‘We?’ Heck glanced at the open bathroom door.

  Nick Gribbins stood there. His right arm was fixed in a fresh cast, but he was smirking too. ‘Don’t worry, sarge,’ he said. ‘We’ve got your back.’

  Heck shook his head. ‘This just gets better and better.’

  Chapter 20

  The Ford Titanium belonged to Steph Fowler, and apparently this was the only vehicle they were taking. Once Heck had packed a holdall, they drove out of Hammersmith along the Great West Road, joining the M4 in Chiswick, following this out of London and continuing west.

  The arrangement was for Fowler and Gribbins to take it in turns guarding Heck, operating a night shift and a day shift. Gribbins had opted for night, he sneeringly remarked, because the less time he spent having to converse with ‘Salman Rushdie Mark II’ the better.

  ‘Don’t tell me you were protecting him as well?’ Heck asked from the back seat. ‘I’d have thought Alexander Litvinenko would have been more your handiwork. You know, the one who got killed …’

  ‘Alright!’ Fowler interrupted from behind the steering wheel. ‘We’re going to be living on top of each other. We might as well keep it civil.’

  Gribbins grunted and said he had to get some kip to acclimatise for the new shift pattern. Heck merely gazed through the window as they drove on towards the West Country. It was nearly October, and the vibrant greens of summer were fading. Autumnal shades fringed the edges of woodland. Sparse scatterings of leaves lay on fields and meadows.

  Heck saw none of this, his thoughts straying to the almost unreal scenario that Mike Silver was at liberty again, and not only that – that he and his confederates were causing murderous havoc. There’d been occasions before when Heck had pondered the near-unthinkable possibility that Silver might escape, and maybe that it would be the work of other Nice Guys coming in from overseas. He’d considered the vague chance they might try to clean house behind them, disposing of all potential witnesses to their activities: former clients and informers, and even former investigators such as Heck himself. But he didn’t think he’d expected it to happen in reality. Most likely, he’d assumed – if Silver ever did get free – that he’d simply go into hiding abroad and never darken British shores again. And who knew, as Heck had suggested to Gemma, perhaps Silver had done exactly that. He was ill, after all. Maybe someone else was cleaning house for him.

  It was a pleasing thought – that Heck had thrown such a spanner into the Nice Guys’ works that they were having to close down their British arm, seeking to erase any memory of it for fear it would lead to the extinction of their entire operation. But the job clearly wasn’t done yet, and being driven away from it all, as Heck was now, was hardly going to help him change this for the better.

  ‘Any offers on where we’re going yet?’ he asked Fowler.

  ‘You’ll find out when …’

  ‘… when we get there, yeah I know. You don’t think this obsessive secrecy’s a bit of a joke? We’re all adults here.’

  She eyed him through the rear-view mirror. ‘Do me a favour … remember that.’

  ‘It cuts both ways, you know.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re even complaining about. Most coppers would be happy to be in your shoes. A few days off in a beautiful part of the country, full pay.’

  ‘Beautiful, eh?’ Heck rubbed his chin. ‘The New Forest?’

  She snorted.

  ‘Cornwall?’

  ‘No such luck.’

  ‘Pity … those’d be proper holidays. If I wasn’t on call, that is.’

  ‘On call?’

  He raised his mobile. ‘That’s why Superintendent Piper let me keep this. In case someone on your team needs a bit of advice – like how to tie his shoelace, maybe.’

  ‘If you’re such hot shit, how come every time you get close to the Nice Guys, innocent bystanders die? Or nearly die.’

  ‘Nice Guys die too,’ Heck replied. ‘So far, that makes me pretty unique among the world’s police.’ She didn’t respond. Maybe she agreed with him on that score. ‘Anyway, you two must have really messed up to get this gig.’

  ‘I think the boss just reckons we know you pretty well.’

  ‘Yeah? Good luck with that.’

  ‘Don’t give us any trouble, Heckenburg,’ she added. ‘You give us trouble, and it’ll force us to get heavy … and that’s not the way we want to play this.’

  ‘Get heavy? I thought you two were supposed to be protecting me?’

  ‘Maybe the person you really need protecting from is yourself.’

  Good answer, he thought. If a tad mendacious. ‘Don’t fret. I won’t give you any trouble. Denuding Thunderclap of two men just to watch my back is two too many.’

  Fowler’s eyes again flickered in his direction, as though assessing him, as though attempting to deduce how truthful he was being.

  He offered her a three-fingered salute. ‘Scout’s honour.’

  She half-smiled, but continued checking her rear-view mirror, this time scanning the motorway. At least she was doing her job, he supposed. Which was more than he was currently capable of. After the events on the Underground, he felt bone-tired – to the point where his eyelids were soon fluttering. He finally fell into a doze, only waking around five-thirty as they pulled into the motorway services at Membury.

  Gribbins remained asleep, but Fowler turned in her seat. ‘Toilet break?’

  Heck shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  She followed him through the station’s main doors, which made him a little self-conscious. He glanced over his shoulder, to find that she was glancing over hers.

  ‘Something wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing specific.’

  ‘Good … let’s try not to make it too obvious, eh?’

  When he’d finished in the lavatories, he went into the shop, bought himself a sandwich, a bottle of water and an evening paper. ‘Not sure how much longer we’re going to be driving,’ he said, sensing her at his shoulder as he queued. ‘So I thought I’d get myself some nourishment.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she replied, not lulled into revealing their destination.

  They drove another thirty miles, finally leaving the motorway at the Chippenham turn-off, but heading north rather than south.

  ‘The Cotswolds, eh?’ Heck said. ‘Very nice.’

  Fowler didn’t comment.

  For the next quarter-hour, they toured a verdant landscape of rolling hills, thin woods and sumptuous quilt-work farmland – though all was now dwindling in the long, blue dusk. At last they swung onto a single-track country lane winding between deep hedgerows. Ten minutes later, they turned in at a narrow drive set in a hawthorn hedgerow. Fowler hit an electronic fob, and the tall, wrought-iron gate creaked open. Beyond that, they drove uphill through dense birch-woods, in whose shady depths gleamed the crimson eyes of multiple infrared cameras.

  ‘You got trip-wires too?’ Heck asked. ‘Pits filled with sharpened bamboo?’

  ‘We’re well protected,’ was all she said.

  Three hundred yards up, they halted at another gate, an immense slab of timber, at least ten feet high and surmounted with steel spikes. Towering granite obelisks provided the gateposts, on either side of which twelve-foot brick walls l
ed away through the undergrowth. These also had spiked railings on top, woven with strands of electrified wire.

  ‘The entire place is walled off,’ Fowler explained. She hit another button on her fob, and the wooden gate swung aside. ‘There are spotlights too, and CCTV checkpoints every thirty yards around the perimeter. No one gets in here, period.’

  ‘All this for me?’ Heck was genuinely incredulous.

  ‘It wasn’t built for you,’ Gribbins said, yawning and stretching. ‘But it’ll serve.’

  They pulled onto a gravel lot alongside a lawn, in front of what had once been an old farmhouse. It comprised various wings and gables, and was built from gold-hued Cotswolds stone, but its mullioned windows were set into tough PVC frames and in all probability had been constructed from reinforced glass. Cables snaked unobtrusively around the exterior, suggesting alarms at the various entry points.

  As Heck took his holdall from the boot, he glimpsed the back of the perimeter wall. It would be even more difficult to cross than he’d previously thought; as well as the spiked and electrical defences on top, it was double-skinned, with a high barbed wire fence on the inside comprising multiple strands and multiple barbs.

  ‘Someone tries to come over that wall from the other side, they’ll get nicely tangled,’ he observed.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Fowler agreed.

  ‘Not to mention someone trying to go over it from this side.’

  ‘If you want to go out, you just ask us,’ Gribbins said.

  ‘You mean I can travel?’

  ‘No.’ Gribbins chuckled. ‘But you can ask us.’

  ‘You can go anywhere you want in the vicinity,’ Fowler said, shooting her partner a look. ‘For a walk, a drive, a trip to the pub, or just to the village to get supplies. So long as one of us is with you.’

  ‘Which village would that be?’ Heck asked. ‘You might as well tell me. I saw signs to Malmesbury. I know I’m in Wiltshire.’

  ‘The nearest habitation is the village of Lea,’ she replied.

  ‘Okay … I don’t know it, but as long as they’ve got a corner shop, I’ll be fine.’