The Killing Club

by Paul Finch

‘Look …’ Heck chose his next few words carefully. ‘I don’t want to alarm you unduly, but the men we’re looking for may be involved in more than one murder. Several more. As I say, there’s no threat to the everyday public, but more lives may be forfeited if we don’t start making ground on them. Seriously folks, we need those files as soon as possible.’

  ‘Okay … erm, right.’ Ken exchanged another discomforted look with his wife. ‘Erm … well I’ll get onto that straight away.’

  ‘Thanks. That would be helpful.’

  Sensing that he’d outstayed his welcome, Heck thanked his hosts again and made his way outside, having to suppress his excitement. Not only had the bastards been in this area, they were still here. There was a payphone at the foot of the steps. He popped into it to call Gemma. As before, it cut to her messaging system. Frustrated, he hung up and lurched outside.

  And that was when he saw the van.

  The maroon Ford transit.

  It was parked directly in front of him, about twenty yards away.

  Heck went rigid. How long had they been here? Had they been inside the café while he was there? Would they recognise him if they’d spotted him? Highly likely, given that he’d been made a priority target.

  With a judder, the van’s engine was shut off.

  That was a break – it looked as if they’d only just arrived. Even so, Heck could barely move. He watched, half-paralysed, as the van’s driver and passenger doors opened. Only at the last second was he able to spin around and re-enter the booth, where he slammed the phone to his ear and began wittering in mock-Geordie. His neck hairs stiffened as two pairs of feet clumped across the car park.

  He had the Glock under his coat. But he could hardly use it out here, with truck-stop customers everywhere. Sweat greased his forehead as the feet approached him.

  And then passed by. Ascending the steps to the diner’s front door.

  He shot a glance in their direction. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but the one on the left was nondescript – no one Heck had seen before. The one on the right, however, wore a khaki jacket, walked with a pronounced limp, and though his red hair was all but shaved to bristles, Heck knew him straight away.

  The door closed behind them, and he darted from the booth. By a no-risks estimate, he had four minutes tops during which time the Nice Guys would queue at the counter, place their order, get served and return to their vehicle. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t casually turn around while waiting and glance out through the window. If they did that, he’d be in clear view, but this was too good an opportunity to miss.

  He walked quickly over to the flatbed van, throwing a brief signal in the direction of Farthing’s Chevrolet, which was parked diagonally opposite some forty yards to the right. Whether his nervous chaperone had noticed what he was up to, Heck was unsure, but there was no time to find out. He circled to the rear of the van – which was clearly a hire-truck of some sort, probably for use in the farming trade. A blue tarpaulin lay over its rear deck. When he glanced under this, he saw tools, old empty feed-sacks and the like. There was plenty of room.

  Heck hovered there, ripped by an indecision that was almost painful. The obvious thing to do was to return to the Chevrolet and either cajole Farthing into following the bastards, or push the guy out of the way and take charge of the wheel himself. But the chance of not being noticed on these empty moorland roads was poor.

  It really was a no-brainer.

  Heck threw a quick glance in the direction of the diner, then clambered over the van’s tailgate and squirmed beneath the tarpaulin. It was dank and musty under there, redolent of compost and swelteringly hot. He also had to insinuate himself between rough-edged spades and forks. After that, all he had to do was lie and wait. Within a couple of minutes, he smelled the two men approaching before he heard them: the aroma of fresh fish and chips, the tang of vinegar. They chatted together as they reached the car. It sounded as if the American had brought a Brit with him today, but no actual dialogue was discernible.

  A second later, the engine started and the vehicle shuddered to life. It was still possible they’d noticed him and were now taking him away to some private place of execution. His muscles tensed at the thought, and he felt at the Glock. If nothing else, he’d take both the sons of bitches with him.

  They drove for quite a few miles, apparently headed north. When they swung off the dual carriageway, it was in a westerly direction, the van jolting along what felt like an unmade track. Heck lifted the tarpaulin and risked a glance over the tailgate. The A1 bisected his vision horizontally, rapidly receding as they followed a dirt road away from it. There was loud juddering as they passed over a cattle-grid. After that trees and thickets closed in, and they swerved around bends and curves. Heck was thrown back and forth, the tools rattling and clashing. So noisy was it that he couldn’t hear any conversation in the driver’s cab. All of a sudden, this felt like a bad idea. His breath came hard and ragged as he drew the Glock and cocked it. They wouldn’t expect him to be armed. The moment that tarpaulin was ripped away, they’d each get a nine-millimetre slug in the face.

  The brakes screeched as the vehicle suddenly slowed to a halt. Heck twisted around so that he lay sideways across the deck, but in a good position to aim the Glock with both hands.

  A voice sounded, and this one wasn’t muffled by the driver’s cab. Heck recognised those dulcet Aussie tones, but he still couldn’t distinguish what was being said, even though he listened intently, drenched head to toe in freezing sweat.

  A metallic rattle suggested a chain being removed. He realised they’d stopped at a gate, probably with a guard on it.

  It had to be now. Or it was never.

  Heck fumbled for the bolts at either side of the tailgate, sliding them loose. Gripping the top of the tailgate with his left hand, he lowered it gently, and clambered out, pushing it back into place and managing to slide one of its bolts home before dropping to a crouch on a dirt road. There were only woods to his rear, but he felt horrendously exposed – especially as the vehicle edged forward again.

  Heck’s thoughts raced. Whoever had opened the gate ought to be standing on the left – so he went right, still at a crouch, plunging headlong into a mass of brambles and nettles. They plucked at his face and hands, but then he was through into a leafy dell, where he halted again, listening hard. There were no immediate sounds of pursuit. In fact, a clang signified the gate had closed. It was followed by a metallic rattle as the chain was replaced.

  It was still two or three minutes before Heck dared to breathe normally, let alone move. He slotted the Glock back under his coat, and pushed forward on hands and knees through more tangled foliage. It was five or six yards before he reached the footing of a dry-stone wall. Warily, he rose to three-quarter height.

  On the other side of the wall, there was open ground. In the midst of it, only partly obscured by a belt of birch trees, stood a large, rambling farmhouse. From what Heck could see, it didn’t look like a working farm. There were no animals; there was no sign of traditional farmyard activity. But a number of vehicles were parked in front of it, including the maroon van, and various figures moving around – all of them youngish men. About thirty yards to Heck’s left, another youngish man – a burly, big-shouldered guy with a distinctive buzz-cut and an almost comically broad sticking-plaster across what could surely be no more than a stub of nose – leaned on a gatepost, picking at an open bag of chips. He wore a thigh-length waxed coat, beneath the lower hem of which protruded the stubby steel barrel of an automatic rifle.

  It was an unnerving sight, but also a reassuring one. Because now there was no doubt in Heck’s mind – he’d found the Nice Guys’ hideout.

  Chapter 30

  It was a difficult journey back to the A1.

  Not so much because of the distance – it was probably no more than a mile and a half – but because Heck didn’t want to stay on the road. Another Nice Guy vehicle could easily happen along. In addition, there had to be sentr
ies, though he was making a guess there wouldn’t be too many. The Nice Guys were team-handed, but they had a lot of targets to hit, so how many men could they realistically spare to put on guard in the woods – especially when no one else knew they were here? Most likely, there’d be one or two, and they’d probably be watching the main approach.

  This meant he should veer far from the actual road, and stick religiously to the undergrowth, which he did, moving cautiously and at a crouch, constantly scanning the high branches for vantage platforms and the surrounding ground cover for anything resembling a woodland hide – and thankfully seeing nothing of the sort.

  When he came unexpectedly to another road, he sank to his haunches and waited. Only after several minutes did it occur to him that this one was different. For one thing, it was laid with tarmacadam. Plus, as far as he could tell, it ran north to south rather than west to east. He still hung back, but moved parallel with it in a northerly direction. About four hundred yards further, he reached a crossroads with signposts and a payphone.

  The place-names on the signs meant nothing to Heck: Christon Bank, Stamford and Dunstan. But the phone was a godsend. Again, he attempted to call Gemma. As before, there was no reply, but this time he had a contingency plan. Under normal circumstances, Ben Kane would be the last person Heck would confide in. He was the archetypal by-the-book man. But if nothing else, he would put the machine in motion. Okay, once Kane knew, the rest of the office would also know – word would hit the mole in record time, but as long as it also meant there were armed units from Northumbria en route ASAP, it wouldn’t really matter.

  ‘Serial Crimes Unit, DCI Kane,’ came the clipped voice.

  ‘Boss … it’s Heck.’

  ‘Heck …?’ Kane stuttered. ‘HECK … WHAT THE DEVIL ARE YOU PLAYING AT?’

  ‘Listen, please … I’ve found the Nice Guys.’

  There was a short, breathless silence. By the background noise, it sounded as though Kane was in his car. ‘What’re you … Heck, what’re you jabbering about?’

  ‘They’ve rented a farmhouse in the countryside.’

  ‘Are you pissed or something?’

  ‘I’m sitting on them right now. The whole shebang. All their ops are probably carried out from here. I bet all their kit’s here, the vehicles they’ve been using … everything.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘No, I always make up really amusing lies like this. Of course I’m bloody serious! I’ve followed them all the way to Northumberland.’

  ‘Whereabouts specifically?’

  ‘Not far off the A1, somewhere south of Berwick. You’ll have to put a trace on this call to get the exact location. I’m in a payphone at a crossroads between three villages I’ve never heard of … Christon Bank, Stamford and Dunstan.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be hard pinning that down. Heck … how’ve you managed this?’

  ‘With no little difficulty.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure it’s them?’

  ‘Bloody right, I am. The Aussie bastard who tried to nail me at Shacklewell Street’s here. So’s the Yank who half-did Gary. I’m telling you, sir, this is them … one hundred per cent.’

  ‘Okay … how secure is your position?’

  ‘They haven’t spotted me yet, I don’t think. The farm’s about a mile and a half away, through rough woodland. I’m going back in a sec, to keep an eye on it.’

  ‘Negative, Heck … do not do that!’

  ‘They don’t know I’m here …’

  ‘And what if they’ve posted sentries?’

  ‘That’s occurred to me, sir. I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Heck, no! And that’s an order.’

  ‘Copy that,’ Heck said after some hesitation. ‘There’s something else … I’ve been trying to get hold of Silver Command, with no joy.’

  ‘They’re on their way back from Scotland, as I understand,’ Kane said. ‘But Gemma diverted to the North Yorks moors to have a look at another body. They should be back in range soon.’

  ‘Soon’s no use. We have to take these bastards down now!’

  ‘Heck, the soonest I can get the team up to Northumberland is four hours.’

  ‘We need to move well before then … look, I think SOCAR have a mole in their ranks.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Even if they do, I can hardly keep this thing under my hat.’

  ‘I know … so speed is of the essence.’

  Kane pondered. ‘Listen … stay put while I make some phone calls. I’ll try and mobilise armed response units from Northumbria. They can hook up with you pretty quick. If nothing else we can throw a ring around them till everyone else arrives.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘In the meantime, we’ll be on our way up. But you stay exactly where you are, okay … so the shots aren’t running round the woods like blue-arsed flies. What time have you got?’

  Heck checked his watch. ‘One-forty.’

  ‘Same here. I’ll try and get them with you for three-thirty at the latest.’

  ‘Sir … that’s two hours.’

  ‘Heck, be realistic … you’re in the fucking boondocks. First I’ve got to persuade them I know what I’m talking about, and in case you’d forgotten, I’m a DCI, not God. Then they’ve got to gear up and mobilise. Then they’ve got to find you.’

  ‘Okay … look sir, just remind them it’s a silent approach priority. That farm doesn’t look particularly defensible, but if it’s old it’ll be solidly built … thick-walled, small-windowed. And we already know what a bad attitude the Nice Guys have got.’

  ‘You just stay put. You hear me, Heck … stay put!’

  ‘I hear you, sir.’ Heck hung up, stowed his leather coat to the rear of the booth, shoved the Glock into the waistband of his jeans, covering it with his sweater, and set off back to the farmhouse.

  He understood the DCI’s concerns, but Kane wasn’t just Mr By-The-Book, he was also Mr Over-Cautious. Anyway, it didn’t matter. Heck would ensure he’d be back at the crossroads for three-thirty, when the RV was due. But there was no way in hell he intended to kick his heels alongside an empty phone box for the next two hours. Besides, he needed to scope the farmhouse out properly so they knew what they’d be facing. He’d go carefully and quietly, and would take the same route back that he’d taken coming out. Again, it was slow progress, and took him almost forty minutes to reach the farmhouse perimeter, where he crouched below the dry-stone wall’s parapet, listening to a faint gabble of voices from the other side.

  By Heck’s own reckoning, he was about fifty or sixty yards west of the main gate, which ought to be distance enough from the Aussie sentry. Slowly, holding his breath, he raised his eyes above the top of the lichen-covered stonework.

  Initially, he thought the Nice Guys were leaving.

  He was sufficiently west of the tree belt to see that various cars were being readied at the front of the building, though there was so little urgency on view that it soon became apparent this was not an evacuation.

  A sizeable group of the Nice Guys, maybe eleven or twelve, was standing outside the farmhouse’s front door, conversing. All were clad for the hunt in khaki, canvas and waterproofs, and all of them were gloved. It was cool for late September, but it wasn’t really autumn yet – such packaging looked like overkill, even for men used to the balmy climes of North Africa and the Middle East. Of course, its main purpose was to prevent them leaving traces of themselves in the cottage.

  Some loaded kit bags into car boots, but others loaded weapons as well. Even from this distance, Heck could identify assault rifles, submachine guns, and pistols tucked into the waistbands of trousers.

  It was an ugly thought that he was kneeling here, safely concealed, while the Nice Guys were systematically dispatched on hit-missions. How many more people were going to die while he lurked behind this wall? And there was another worry. It increasingly nagged at him that whatever evidence
this farmhouse contained relating to the murders and to the wider activities of Nice Guys networks overseas, it could all be destroyed very quickly during the course of a protracted siege. It was a particular concern that the list of Nice Guys’ clients in the UK might get flushed. That was the piece of vital evidence they’d lost last time, thanks to Jim Laycock. Okay, it might be a contradiction. The Nice Guys were in the UK to kill off their former clients, but Heck didn’t want them killed – he wanted them put in front of a court, convicted, exposed to the whole world as the rape-murderers they were, and then subjected to some exemplary sentencing.

  One by one, the cars reversed from the front of the building, swinging around and rumbling towards the main gate, which the Aussie sentry held open for them. Each one held a complement of three or four Nice Guys.

  Heck switched his attention back to the crowd at the farmhouse front door. There were only a handful left now, along with a couple of cars. A tall, fair-haired man seemed to occupy centre stage. It was difficult to make out his distinguishing features from this distance, but he seemed to be issuing orders. He was about six-two, wearing green army surplus trousers and a zip-up brown bomber jacket.

  The last of the others climbed into the first of two remaining vehicles, a Renault Mégane, leaving the blond leader and one other – the American. The Mégane reversed away, pivoted around and swerved along the farm track after the others. The Aussie stood aside as it growled past, sipping a soft drink through a straw.

  The two remaining Nice Guys reached some agreement. The tall blond man closed the farmhouse door, before they climbed into the last vehicle, a tan Ford Mondeo estate. As that too pulled a three-point turn and headed to the main gate, Heck sank behind the wall, toying with various options. He glanced at his watch. It was still an hour before his RV with the Northumbria shooters. So what did he do – leg it back to the payphone, call Ben Kane again, and tell him the birds had temporarily flown? Maybe put an all-points on the vehicles? Not that he’d had a chance to memorise any of their registration numbers. He perhaps ought to warn Northumbria that at least a few of the Nice Guys were currently not here. That meant they’d have to make a very covert approach, and find a lying-up point somewhere close by. Of course, he was due to meet them himself in an hour’s time. He could give them that message personally.