The Killing Club

by Paul Finch

  Heck shrugged. ‘Gone to that great karate lesson in the sky.’

  ‘You piece of shit!’ She yanked the pistol from under her jacket.

  ‘Joke!’ he said, showing empty hands. ‘He’s chained to a root back in those woods. You’ll need to go and help him.’

  Slowly, suspiciously, she lowered the gun. ‘Turn around.’

  He did as instructed, and she came up behind. He heard a slither of leather as she slotted her weapon into its holster. ‘Don’t try anything. Just remember …’

  ‘I know … you’re a fifth dan.’

  She grabbed the nape of his neck and pushed him. ‘Show me … now!’

  He proceeded. ‘Don’t you think you should actually arrest me? Make this official.’

  ‘That depends what state Nick’s in. If he’s in a bad way, I’ll be arresting you … you can guarantee that. Fuck Frank Tasker and fuck Gemma Piper!’

  ‘You really are a potty-mouth, you know that?’

  ‘Shut up!’ She shoved the back of his left shoulder.

  He toppled forward. She attempted to grab him to keep him upright and he snatched her left arm, twisting it into a goose-neck. But as DS Fowler had threatened, she was better at this sort of thing than he was. Before he’d managed either to turn her or drive her to the ground, she’d wriggled free and caught him with three rapid blows, the first to his instep, the second to the median nerve in his forearm and the third to his solar plexus. Agog with pain, he staggered to the edge of the footway.

  ‘No you don’t!’ She locked an arm around his neck to prevent him falling.

  But Heck wasn’t falling, plus he enjoyed a height and weight advantage – so when he dropped to his right knee and ducked his right shoulder, gravity did the rest. Fowler slid forward and over him, and though she kept hold of his tracksuit top, he merely had to unzip it. It tore loose, and she plummeted ten feet, body-slamming the river, before vanishing beneath its surface.

  Heck rose shakily to his feet, prodding at his numbed arm. Sensation was only slowly returning to it. In reality, this was all he needed. Now he’d definitely attract attention, naked from the waist up. He remembered the waterproof coat he’d seen back at the Canoe Club, and was about to head back when a spluttering shout caught his attention.

  Fowler had re-emerged, but the river’s current had already taken her out of reach of the wall. Superficially, the Avon was a calm body of water, flowing smoothly and slowly, but it was seventy-five miles in length, and an awful lot of water travelled down it, which might explain why the policewoman was being pulled inexorably out into the middle and pushed downstream with increasing speed. She briefly ducked under the surface again, and reappeared splashing and choking.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he called. ‘Just swim to the side.’

  ‘Can’t,’ she gasped, a broth of brackish water bursting from her lips.

  ‘You’re not telling me you can’t swim … I don’t sodding believe it!’

  Heck kicked his trainers off and hit the water straddle-legged.

  It wasn’t merely the cold that took his breath away: he went deep and had to kick his way up through the greenish gloom, breaking the surface to discover that the current, which wasn’t just strong but swirling, had already lugged him thirty yards from the embankment. Fowler was a significant distance ahead, splashing frantically, drifting ever further into midstream.

  Heck set off after her in a front crawl, the force of the river adding invisible flippers to his feet. By the time she passed beneath the bridge, he was only about twenty yards behind, but the overarching steel amplified her chokes and screams. He saw her sink underneath again, a single hand flailing. He swam harder, the iciness of the current dwindling as he worked his muscles, generating extra heat.

  When she briefly re-surfaced, she was ten yards beyond the bridge. Open meadows lay to either side, dotted with cattle. The banks were flatter, but swampy, thick with bulrushes, which would make it difficult getting Fowler ashore if she was in a bad way. He glanced up, again spotting only her hands as they churned the water to foam. Then they too vanished, at which point Heck plunged under, changing to breaststroke, driving himself forward with a big frog-kick – and catching sight of her in the murk, turning upside down as she struggled and convulsed.

  He dived deeper as he approached, and then kicked himself upward, catching her torso in the cradle of his arm. She clamped to him, wrapping arms and legs around him like an octopus, impeding his progress. But he’d been expecting this. He levered her off his body with his elbow, but fixed a talon-like grip on her left armpit as he struck for the surface.

  They broke out side by side, Heck gasping, Fowler gagging.

  ‘Oh God … Jesus,’ she coughed, threshing against him.

  He manoeuvred himself behind her and clapped a hand under her chin. ‘Lie back!’

  ‘Oh Jesus …’

  ‘Lie back! Do it now or I’ll let you drown!’

  She did as instructed and he was able to backstroke towards shore, towing her behind him. She continued to cough and twitch, but had the presence of mind to cease struggling and lie level on the water. He glanced behind. They were about twenty yards from land, but still moving due southwest. They’d bypassed the swampy area, and a lengthy stone quay had appeared. There was a recess in the middle of it, through which timber steps led down into the water. Heck adjusted position, steering them towards this. River weed brushed his legs and feet, and they hit the stair side-on. It was slimy and rickety, but Heck raised his haunches and slid himself up onto it, ascending backwards, hauling Fowler by the collar of her jacket. She was limp as a doll, wheezing heavily. Her black hair had come loose, and hung over her shoulders in sodden, glossy tangles.

  ‘Here,’ he said, pulling her onto the riverside path, pulling off her jacket, which had already rucked downward, twisting her arms at her back. At the same time, he covertly slid the Glock from her shoulder-holster and stuck it into the back of his tracksuit trousers.

  She fell onto her face, shoulders heaving.

  ‘And you’re supposed to be a fifth dan,’ he said, searching the jacket. ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘They weren’t training me to fight … to fight fishes, were they?’ she stammered.

  ‘You’re lucky you didn’t fall into the river where I grew up. The toxicology report on your corpse would be off the scale.’

  ‘Fall in?’ She coughed again and tried to get up. ‘You call that falling in … you bastard!’

  ‘Let me help.’ He leaned down, and in a quick movement snapped one handcuff to her left ankle, and the other to a steel mooring-ring in the quayside.

  ‘What …?’ She glanced uncomprehendingly down her leg. Slow realisation dawned. ‘What … what the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  Heck stepped back as he continued to search her jacket.

  ‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’ She went for her holster, only to find it empty. Her expression changed from angered outrage to utter disbelief. ‘You’re mad … that’s the only explanation. You’re fucking mad, Heckenburg!’

  ‘It’s been said,’ he agreed, pulling out four seventeen-round magazines.

  Regulations stated that an armed officer was not supposed to draw more ammunition than two magazines per operation – not without special authorisation. Further evidence that SOCAR were playing well beyond the bounds of normality.

  ‘You’ll not get away with this,’ Fowler said, as he shoved the magazines into his tracksuit trouser pockets. ‘You’ll just not. It’s gone too far.’

  ‘Not nearly far enough.’ He dug her mobile phone out next, which he tossed into the river, and then a keyring. As well as the keys to the car and her handcuffs, it had two electronic fobs attached to it. He turned and set off along the path.

  ‘Hey … wait!’ Fowler shouted. She lobbed handfuls of grit after him. Her voice rose to a screech. ‘Heckenburg! Don’t leave me like this … what if some pervert comes along?’

  ‘God help him,’ Heck s
aid over his shoulder.

  ‘Christ’s sake, it’s only lunchtime! No one’ll check on us until this evening!’

  Heck halted in mid-stride.

  Lunchtime.

  Such an innocent word, and yet it kick-started a deluge of ideas. That phrase on the printed papers in the sewer guy’s pocket – whips n stot. Okay, Heck didn’t know what it meant, but he now recalled exactly where he’d heard the phrase, or something like it, before, because that had also been one lunchtime.

  A couple of weeks ago now, but a memorable lunchtime all the same.

  The lunchtime he’d spent in the company of PC Jerry Farthing at Gillbridge Avenue police station, Sunderland. Farthing himself had used the phrase: ‘Mind my whips and fucking stottie.’

  And yet still it made no sense. Some colloquialism of the Northeast maybe? But if he wanted to find out more, he knew where he had to go. He carried on down the path.

  ‘Heckenburg … you’re not leaving me like this!’ Fowler shouted.

  ‘No choice,’ he called back.

  ‘I’ll catch my bloody death!’

  ‘I’ll send someone to find you.’

  He followed the path back to the bridge. On the other side, he found his trainers. He brushed the grit and pebbles from the soles of his feet, and pulled them on.

  When he reached the Canoe Club, it was still deserted, so he helped himself to the hi-viz coat. The car park wasn’t as empty as he’d first thought – Fowler’s Ford Titanium sat in a distant corner. The first of the two fobs opened it; the key brought it purring to life. He eased the classy ride up a twisting, gravelly track, back to a country lane he recognised. When he reached the outer gates to the safehouse, he opened them with the second fob and headed up the drive. Time wasn’t on his side, and the temptation was simply to put as much distance between himself and here as he could – but now it was a case of less haste, more speed.

  The same fob opened the second pair of gates, and then the front door. He hurried upstairs, peeled off his sopping clothes and jumped into the shower. After that, he pulled on a pair of clean jeans and trainers, a black roll-neck sweater and his black leather coat. The Glock and its magazines, he distributed between his two inside pockets. He also grabbed his wallet; he wasn’t going to risk using his credit cards, but his warrant card might come in useful, plus it contained a hundred and fifty pounds in cash.

  Initially, he headed south, making for Chippenham, which he reached in just under twenty minutes. Here, he parked outside a newsagent, and placed a quick nine-nine-nine call via the payphone next door.

  ‘Two officers from the Serious Offenders Control and Retrieval special investigations unit need assistance,’ he said curtly. ‘You’ll find both in the vicinity of the Canoe Club on the south bank of the River Avon, just east of Malmesbury. One officer is halfway along the woodland path connecting the club to the Malmesbury road. The other is also on the south bank, close to the Canoe Club. Take hacksaws.’

  He climbed back into the car and this time headed north. The car provided a smooth ride as he took first the M4, then the A34, then the M40.

  When he fiddled with the radio, it came on a station pre-tuned to low, easy jazz, which kind of suited his mood. Of course, he knew he couldn’t keep the Titanium for long. An all-points would go out on it at the first opportunity. On top of that, they’d already have traced the call he’d made, and none of this meandering back and forth across the South Midlands would hold them at bay for long. As such, an hour and a half later, he swung into the car park attached to Northampton Railway Station. He parked at its farthest end, and bought himself a permit for five hours. He affixed this inside the windscreen, and checked around carefully before locking up.

  He strongly doubted SOCAR would have caught up with him already, but the Nice Guys were another matter.

  There were plenty of cars and vans parked up, but the only visible person was a bag-lady in a ragged dress, long scarf and colourful, woolly hat. She had a supermarket trolley filled with tin cans, and was adding more to it from one of the bins near the car park exit. Heck strolled past, not attracting her attention, and wasn’t followed by anyone as he entered the station lobby, where he went straight to the desk and paid a sizeable chunk of cash for a one-way ticket to Sunderland.

  Chapter 24

  Frank Tasker waited alone in the canteen attached to the Police Scotland office at Inverness Airport. Beyond the windows, an EasyJet airliner taxied towards the runway, its jet-engines shrieking as the air-crew tested their RPMs at full power.

  The SOCAR chief barely heard. He sipped at a beaker of coffee, so wrapped in his concerns that he completely failed to notice whether or not his usual stipulations that the beverage be hot and sweet had been satisfied.

  Only after several minutes, did he sigh and glance at his watch.

  It was mid-afternoon already. The Eurocopter scheduled to fly them the sixty-odd miles up the northwest coast was currently on its way from Glasgow City Heliport, and ought to be here soon. It was only an hour and a half’s flight from Glasgow, but he felt useless, redundant – as if time was slipping away while the case spiralled out of control. The door banged open as Gemma entered, her raincoat over one arm, her own coffee balanced on a pile of plastic-covered documents.

  She sat down at the table, opposite him.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  She’d spent the last half-hour engaged in a quick video conference with various bods back at the Yard, and now flipped open her pocket-book. ‘The guy in the sewer is one Leon Fairbrother, aka “Bruno”. Thirty-two years old. Well known to us as a juvenile, but later joined the Grenadier Guards, 16th Air Assault Brigade. He served with distinction during the invasion of Iraq, but in 2005 was investigated for the abuse of prisoners at Abu Naji, court-martialled and sentenced to two years in Colchester. He broke out after one, and went on to commit three armed robberies, during the course of which a security guard was shot and wounded. This was presumably to acquire sufficient funds with which to leave the country … which he duly did. He hasn’t been heard of again until now.’

  Tasker grunted. ‘First time round it’s Scorpion Company rejects. Now it’s guardsmen turned blaggers. This Nice Guys Club’s a regular Legion of the Damned, isn’t it?’

  She closed her book. ‘It’s the old story. We train these guys to fight. Afterwards, we don’t know what to do with them. They don’t know what to do with themselves.’

  ‘My heart bleeds for them.’ Tasker finished his coffee. ‘Speaking of damned rankers, I take it Heckenburg hasn’t been accounted for yet?’

  Gemma shrugged, as worn out by the Heck business as Tasker was. They’d been hit by this particular bit of bad news via text the very second they’d disembarked from the aeroplane outside.

  ‘They’re trying to trace his route as we speak,’ Gemma said. ‘He borrowed a set of SOCAR wheels to make his initial getaway.’

  ‘Borrowed?’ Tasker snorted. ‘That’s one way of putting it. And how long is he likely to hang on to those?’

  ‘No longer than he needs to.’

  ‘Which knowing him, won’t be long.’ Tasker gave another sigh. ‘The only reason I’m not bawling you out again, Gemma, is because it was my two monkeys who let him go. Are they badly hurt?’

  ‘Gribbins is hurt … not too badly. Fowler was incapacitated.’

  ‘She’s supposed to be a sodding black belt! This bloody guy, I’m telling you …’

  ‘You know, Frank … Heck’s on our side.’

  ‘For the present, yeah.’ His brow knotted. ‘But what about when the shit hits the fan? Who’ll he be batting for then? I told you, Gemma … you should’ve pulled him back into bed at the first opportunity. Give him something else to think about, break his little heart … anything, so long as it took his mind off this.’

  ‘The Nice Guys tried to frame him for a crime he didn’t commit,’ she said. ‘They beat him and chained him up. They murdered his friend, and drugged and kidnapped his sister. And that’
s before we even consider the thirty-eight women whose rape and strangulation he was investigating. I think even I would have trouble providing a big enough distraction from all that. And now there’s something else … while we were off the air, another body’s shown up in North Yorkshire.’

  ‘One of ours?’

  ‘There’s no signature on this one, plus it was ninety feet down a pothole. But it’s got some of the hallmarks. Middle-aged white guy. Tortured to death for no known reason. That’s all I’ve really got.’

  ‘Have you assigned someone to check it out?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Let’s see what they say. If it’s one of ours, we open another incident room.’

  A Scottish officer appeared in the doorway and gave them a nod.

  Outside, the streamlined shape of the Eurocopter EC135 T2 waited on the police helipad, resplendent in its bright red and yellow markings. Gemma had flown in choppers many times before, but mainly over southern England. By contrast, this would be a truly spectacular ride. Not that it wouldn’t be in keeping with an investigation that was assuming unreal dimensions. At no stage in their careers had either she or Tasker ever envisaged they’d someday be investigating the murder of a one-time bishop.

  Apparently this death had initially been thought a suicide, but the first medical officer to assess the body had noted some kind of inscription carved into the victim’s chest. It hadn’t been entirely legible – apparently the fierce northern seas could do that to a body pretty quickly, but it had read something like: ‘BDE’.

  That had been good enough for Tasker, and for Gemma.

  But even so – a bishop!

  Gemma was numbed by the mere thought of the scandals that could be exposed when this case was finally blown open. Presuming it ever would be.

  Chapter 25

  The train journey from Northampton to Sunderland was scheduled to take five hours and thirty minutes. Not an inordinately long time, but it included two changes of train – one at Birmingham and one near the end, at Newcastle – which Heck always found exasperating.