The Killing Club

by Paul Finch

  That said, there was no pleasure to be found in this – sitting up at midnight, rigid as a fire-poker, just waiting for that suspicious sound outside: a cat hissing, a milk bottle rolling. Just thinking about it brought sweat to his brow, but no more so than the thought of returning to work – and that was equally a source of shame to Farthing, because there was a distant time when he’d been a damn good bobby.

  At present, he didn’t know how long he could stay on the sick, ‘bad with his nerves’ as they’d say at the office, though the whispers would doubtless adopt a more ominous tone in due course, wondering if he wasn’t shaken as much as shattered. Perhaps they’d add that they’d seen this brewing for some time: wasn’t he always the last to respond to an emergency call these days? Wasn’t he the one who always wanted to swap his shifts to avoid working Friday and Saturday nights?

  Farthing filched a tissue from his cardigan pocket and dabbed his brow, but it only seemed to make him sweat more profusely. The price of refusing to share, he supposed. He hadn’t even revealed the full extent to which he feared he’d lost his nerve to his Fed rep or his official stress counsellor. They’d only agree he was finished as well.

  It wasn’t as if he could just resign. That would cost him his pension, and what else could he find at forty-five when he’d only ever been a copper? It would be another six or seven years before they’d consider granting him early retirement, while medical departures weren’t thrown around like confetti anymore – certainly not for stress. They wouldn’t even be able to slide him into an inside job, not when most of those roles were performed by civvies these days. Not, if he was honest, that he felt much like sitting at home all day. He’d just done a couple of weeks of that, and it was amazing how mind-numbing daytime TV could actually be.

  Farthing glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was ten past midnight, but fleetingly the hour didn’t matter. The mere sight of the thing, an ornate wooden pillar-design timepiece, brought a fog of tears to his eyes. It had formerly belonged to his father, donated as a farewell present after forty years on the docks: Jack Farthing; an iron-hard roughneck with forearms like ham-shanks and a plethora of tattoos in an age when inked skin actually meant something, but with a loving heart too.

  ‘Dad,’ Farthing said under his breath.

  Jack Farthing: a roaring giant reduced to a wheezing skeleton within five years of retirement.

  Bastard cigarette companies.

  How he’d fought, even then, to his last ounce of faltering strength.

  And in the light of all that, how would he feel about his son’s current fight – or lack of it? Farthing regarded the clock as though mesmerised by the bitter-sweet memories it invoked. Even so, the sudden rapping at his back door brought him sharply to his feet. Perplexed, his focus tightened on the clock face.

  Ten minutes past midnight.

  And someone was at his door?

  Not only that, they were at his back door?

  Which meant they’d entered his back yard, meaning they must have climbed over the rear wall or gate.

  Farthing turned. There was no light on in the kitchen, but the connecting door was open, which meant the shimmering glow of the TV would be visible. Whoever it was out back, they’d know someone was home.

  The temptation was just to ignore it, to make them think he was out.

  Unless that was what the caller wanted. Why else would someone knock at this hour? Had they been watching the house maybe, and owing to his hideaway existence of the last few days, was it their assumption he was off on holiday?

  But even then, why knock on the back door?

  Farthing uprooted himself from the patch of carpet next to his armchair. But he didn’t venture to the rear of the house; he went to the front, into the tiny hall at the foot of the stairs. Did he run from here? Just open the front door and bolt into the street, screaming for help? Good God, that really would be the end of his career as a copper. The reality was that he had to check this out himself. There was no point pretending an alternative was possible.

  Hanging from the post at the bottom of the stair was his utility belt. Breathing hard, he took the CS spray out of its pouch, and his baton, snapping the latter open to its full two feet of flexible polycarbonate resin.

  Slowly, Farthing ventured back into the lounge and edged to the kitchen door. Despite the glow from the TV, it was very dark in there; there was no light on the other side of the kitchen window – so if someone were looking in, they’d see him before he saw them. But wouldn’t that be a good thing, if it meant they ran? Just showing there was a householder present was usually enough to dissuade opportunist burglars.

  With slow steps, he crossed the kitchen, which was strongly redolent of baked beans, macaroni cheese, tomato soup – anything from the stock of cans in the under-stair closet, which he’d warmed up whenever he’d got hungry during his recent hibernation here.

  Eight years since Mum died, and you can’t even cook, you waste of space!

  He knocked the bolt off, turned the key, and opened the back door.

  There was nobody there.

  The narrow yard was dank, black, empty.

  Had they fled after all? Had they seen him coming?

  Farthing stepped outside, both weapons clearly displayed. His eyes slowly adjusted, the faint yellow of sodium streetlights diffusing over the encircling rooftops, exposing his surroundings with incremental slowness: the wheelie bin on his left; the tall, brick outline of what had once been the outside loo.

  ‘You alone?’ a husky voice asked.

  Farthing almost jumped out of his slippers, before spinning left, baton at his shoulder, CS canister extended as per the textbook.

  ‘Whoa, it’s me!’ Heck said, palms raised.

  ‘What … what the …?’ Farthing’s eyes bugged in utter disbelief.

  It wasn’t just the shock of finding Heck in his yard in the middle of the night – though that was shock enough – it was how tired and bedraggled Heck looked. The normally relaxed SCU cop looked exhausted: his hair was a damp straggle, his face drawn, his shoulders drooped. He approached with a footsore limp.

  ‘Can I come inside?’ Heck asked. ‘I’m knackered …’

  Bewildered, Farthing indicated the open back door. Heck lumbered through it. He halted briefly in the kitchen, nostrils twitching, before moving through to the lounge, where the Match of the Day summarisers were giving their round-up. Without invitation, he collapsed into the armchair.

  Farthing followed him in, switching on a sideboard lamp. The arrival of Mark Heckenburg at his home address would have been remarkable under almost any circumstances. They’d got to know each other reasonably well in the days following Ernest Cooper’s arrest, but it had been cool and professional. They’d hardly become what he’d call friends. They hadn’t even gone for drinks together after work.

  ‘So …’ Farthing finally stuttered, ‘exactly what the fuck is going on?’

  ‘I’ve come a long way to speak to you, Jerry.’

  ‘You’ve … eh?’

  ‘I’ll explain everything in a minute … look, sorry about this, mate.’ Heck sat up. ‘I’ve got to have something to eat. I’m famished.’

  Farthing eyeballed him, still with disbelief, before pivoting round on his heel and heading into the kitchen. He reappeared a minute later with a plate of cheese and crackers, and a cup of tea – only to find Heck by the sideboard, gulping from a bottle of Black Grouse.

  ‘Hey … come on, that was a birthday present!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Heck put the bottle down. ‘Been flying on empty for hours.’

  Farthing pushed the plate into his hands. ‘Best get these down.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Heck sat again. The cheese and biscuits weren’t up to much – stale and vaguely tasteless, thrown together at speed – but Heck wolfed them anyway, and then swilled down the mug of tea. When he’d finished, he glanced up at his host, who stood there with hands on hips, like a disapproving housewife.

  ‘How’
d you get my address?’ Farthing asked.

  ‘There’re only three J. Farthings in the Sunderland phonebook. The first two were wrong numbers. I didn’t bother calling the third. Anyway, never mind that. I take it no one’s said anything? At your nick, I mean. You haven’t heard anything on the grapevine?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Me.’

  Farthing shrugged. ‘I’ve been out of circulation for a few days.’

  ‘Oh … how come?’

  ‘My nerves are shot … I’m on the sick.’

  ‘Cooper?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Put the shits up anyone, that.’ Heck’s tone was conversational, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. ‘And there’s not been anything on the telly?’

  ‘Telly?’ Farthing looked alarmed. ‘Have you got yourself into some kind of trouble?’

  ‘No … well, not really.’

  ‘Not really?’

  ‘SOCAR’ll be looking for me.’

  ‘Yeah, and what’s SOCAR?’

  ‘They’re sort of halfway between us and MI5.’

  ‘Great.’ Farthing paled. ‘So they kick arse and don’t even have to answer for it.’

  ‘Hear me out,’ Heck said. ‘SOCAR are cops. The Serious Offenders Control and Retrieval unit. They’re not officially part of NCG, but they have a multi police force remit. They’re like the judiciary’s strong right arm. They protect the courts, juries, witnesses, investigate jail breaks, chase fugitives … transport high-risk prisoners.’ He winced as he peeled off his leather coat. ‘Sometimes they transport high-riskers. Sometimes they even get them to their intended destinations. Must admit I’ve never known them have this much clout before. They even overruled SECU, the most empowered firm in British law-enforcement since Henry VIII’s mob went crown green bowling with a bunch of severed heads …’

  ‘What the fuck?’ Farthing shouted.

  Heck glanced down. He’d assumed the object that had just thudded to the floor was his wallet – but it wasn’t, it was the Glock.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ he said. ‘The safety’s on.’

  Farthing’s gaze jumped from the weapon to his visitor. ‘So … hang on. Let me get this straight. You’re currently an armed fugitive. Is that what you’re trying to tell us?’

  Heck placed the gun on the sideboard. ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘This SOCAR mob … are they bent?’

  ‘One of them is. I think. The point is … you’ve heard about the Nice Guys Club?’

  ‘That mob who whacked those lads escorting the prison caravan five days ago?’

  ‘Correct. And they’ve whacked a few more since then.’

  ‘It was all over the news till this morning.’

  ‘The latest is they’ve green-lit my boss. And if that doesn’t work out for them, they’re gonna leg it … either one of which will leave us with a mountain of scrambled egg on our faces, but knowing how efficient these bastards are, they may actually manage both.’

  ‘Okay.’ Farthing shrugged. ‘But I guess I’ve missed the bit where this involves me.’

  ‘If I’m going to take the fight to them, Jerry … you’re all I’ve got.’

  ‘You want to run that by us again?’

  ‘I’m onto them,’ Heck said. ‘And I’m gonna get them before they do any more damage. But I can’t do that on the run. I need somewhere to lie low.’

  Farthing’s expression of disbelief slowly lengthened. ‘Here?’

  ‘You owe me, remember?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Farthing shook his head energetically. ‘I owe you a pint. Or a lift when you decide to go and turn yourself in. I’m not getting involved in this …’

  ‘Hey …’ Heck’s tired mask hardened; he glowered at his host. ‘I put my life on the line for you!’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Heck, think what you’re asking! You want to use my house – my home address – as a base of operations from which to attack this bunch of professional psychos!’

  Farthing’s outrage was perhaps justified. It had long been police tradition that home didn’t enter the equation; that you fought the enemy on their own patch. Bizarrely, it was often the case that even criminals respected this. But Heck was weary and irate, and for a moment all he could see was the same lump of sweating, wobbling jelly he’d been lumbered with in the abandoned factory at Hendon. He levered himself to his feet with such force that Farthing backed away.

  ‘All I need is a roof,’ Heck said harshly. ‘You can provide that much, can’t you? Look what I provided for your non-existent family. You! Still fucking alive!’

  ‘Alright, alright …’ Farthing wheeled away from him.

  ‘And I need something else,’ Heck said. ‘Your local knowledge.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘When me and you first met in the canteen at Gillbridge Avenue …’ Heck knuckled at his brow. ‘There was a phrase you used. “Mind me whips and stottie”. Something like that.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘“Whips n stot”,’ Heck said. ‘Does it mean something? I hope it does, because it’s the only lead I’ve got.’

  Farthing looked baffled. ‘You’re from Lancashire, aren’t you?’

  ‘By origin, yeah.’

  ‘You’d call it “a chip barm”. Whips means Jockey’s whips … chips. Stottie is a kind of loaf made in the Northeast. So … chips and buttered bread.’

  Heck regarded him dully. At first he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Something that simple, and yet … it had appeared in print, like a letterhead. ‘Is there a local business with that name … a fish and chip shop maybe?’

  ‘There’s a café.’ Farthing spoke matter-of-factly, as if this could surely be of no importance. ‘It’s fairly well-known up here. Whips n Stottie.’

  Heck felt that old tremor of excitement. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Just off the A1, on the stretch between Newcastle and Berwick.’

  ‘How far from here?’

  ‘Forty miles.’

  Heck groaned. ‘Might as well be a thousand for a bloke on foot.’

  Farthing looked startled. ‘You’re on foot?’

  ‘Want to see the blisters?’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Walked.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Durham.’

  Farthing’s mouth dropped open. ‘All the way from Durham?’

  ‘Managed to get a taxi part of the way … about a third of the distance.’

  ‘No wonder you’re … hang on!’ Farthing moved to the kitchen door, staring into the darkness beyond the rear windows. ‘You sure no one followed you here?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m not talking SOCAR. I’m talking these Nice Guys fuckers.’

  ‘Jerry, I’ve just dragged my arse along every kind of road you can think of. High streets, suburban avenues, country lanes covered in horseshit, and most of that time I was alone. If they wanted to jump me, they’ve had half a dozen chances.’

  Farthing still opened his back door a crack and peeked out. It was several seconds before he closed it, locked it and returned to the lounge.

  ‘Can I make a call?’ Heck said, indicating the telephone.

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘My boss.’

  ‘The one they’re after?’

  ‘They may be after her. They may also decide she’s too hard a target. Truth is, I don’t know.’

  ‘Won’t she trace it back here?’

  ‘I’m trusting that she won’t.’

  ‘Come on, Heck, this is my home address …’

  ‘Yeah, and why is that a problem?’ Heck tried to keep the exasperation from his voice. ‘Christ’s sake, Jerry … there’s nothing weird about me showing up here. We’re in court together soon, giving evidence against Ernie Cooper. We have to talk, compare notes. How the hell were you to know I was on the run?’

  Despite this logical argument, Farthing looked increasingly alarme
d. For a second Heck almost felt sorry for him, but he truly was in the last-chance saloon here.

  Eventually, Farthing shrugged and gestured at the phone.

  Heck picked it up and made the call. As before, it went straight to voicemail. He was tempted to leave a message, but that would be a risk. He hung up.

  ‘No reply?’ Farthing asked, unashamedly relieved.

  ‘Didn’t think I’d get one. At present, she’s in the Highlands of Scotland, probably in a chopper.’

  ‘No signal then.’

  Heck stood silent, not seeing the TV weatherman running his hands across a meteorological map of England’s Northeast coast.

  Farthing loafed around the room. ‘Look … you’re clearly shagged. I’m not going to turf you out now. Why don’t you get your head down, and we’ll talk about this in the morning?’

  Heck nodded. This was probably the best he could have hoped for.

  ‘You’ll have to use the armchair,’ Farthing said. ‘There’s only one bed here. Don’t worry about me. I’m not going to dob you in or anything.’

  Heck eyed him curiously. It had never occurred to him that Farthing might ‘dob him in’. But then – here was a guy who seemed to have broken off from the police family in more ways than one. Farthing’s expression was suddenly inscrutable; it betrayed no obvious emotion, which Heck thought strange given that two minutes ago he’d had the weight of the world on his shoulders. In fact, Farthing was now the considerate host. He made Heck another mug of tea, and brought a pillow and some blankets down from upstairs, along with a hot-water bottle.

  ‘I know you’re tired and all, so it might be tough getting a proper handle on things,’ Farthing said, after checking the downstairs doors and windows were locked. ‘But you need to think about this. Can you really go after these killers on your own?’

  ‘Hopefully I won’t have to,’ Heck yawned. ‘If I can get through to my gaffer, we should be sorted.’

  ‘When’s she due back from Scotland?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Heck adjusted the pillow behind his head. ‘All we can do is wait.’

  Farthing nodded, said goodnight and traipsed up the stairs. Heck remained where he was, slumped in the armchair. He picked up the remote control for the TV, turned the volume down and channel-hopped, scanning various late-night news programmes. Nowhere could he find references to the shootings and bombings, which suggested the press embargo was holding. At least that meant the Nice Guys couldn’t learn their handiwork in Yorkshire had been discovered by simply watching television.