The Killing Club

by Paul Finch

  He managed to get to his feet and swing the Steyr at the tottering, bloodied figure. But fleetingly, Farthing’s world had turned searing white. He tried to focus on the Nice Guys advancing beyond the smashed cars, gazing at him along their barrels.

  When five rapid shots followed, each striking Farthing’s midriff, he barely felt them. But they still knocked him down in a twisted, tangled heap.

  ‘After Heckenburg!’ Klausen barked, vaulting over the Discovery’s bonnet. Three of his men set off at a gallop, vanishing through the bushes. Kane lumbered forward, grey-faced and bloody. ‘You didn’t tell us Heckenburg had a partner,’ the Dane snarled, kicking at Farthing’s crumpled body.

  ‘I don’t know who that moron is,’ Kane stammered, spitting crimson phlegm.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘The wound’s superficial, but I’ve also had half my sodding teeth knocked out …’

  ‘It’s less than you deserve. This is a fuck-up!’

  ‘Listen … Heckenburg’s got one of your phones …’

  The Dane’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that you say?’

  ‘It had a lot of foreign contacts in it. I got it off him, but he snatched it back …’

  Klausen turned to Cullen. ‘Was he in the house?’

  Cullen’s face fell. ‘If he was … Goddamn, that’s the company phone!’

  ‘Lort! All of you … QUICKLY!’

  Chapter 33

  The woods ended abruptly. Which wasn’t really ideal.

  Heck had woven maybe half a mile through dense trees and undergrowth, to suddenly see open space ahead. He increased his pace, breaking from cover – only to pitch forward over a low dry-stone wall. He found himself sitting half-winded on open grassland, which slanted several hundred yards down to the thundering coastline of the North Sea. The only living things in his immediate vicinity were sheep, all of whom glanced at him with mild curiosity.

  The sound of voices in the woods behind jerked him to his feet.

  Red-faced and sweaty, he stumbled on downhill, the flock bleating as it cantered away. It was late afternoon, but the sun poked through lacy cloud, and cast a mellow light over the sloping pasture, bringing out its verdant green, turning the sea a livid royal-blue. Of course, in that typical deceiving way of coastal scenery, the crashing waves weren’t quite as close as Heck had initially thought. He tottered down over a grassy ridge, only to see that it was another several hundred yards to the next ridge, and another several hundred to the one after that.

  ‘Gemma, Gemma,’ he chunnered as he scrambled on. ‘We’re gonna have a chat, me and you. We really are.’

  As well as the shouts behind him, he could now hear voices in front.

  Beyond the final ridge, it was only fifty yards to the water’s edge, the heavy surf blasting spray along a shoreline mainly comprised of jumbled rocks and natural granite pavement. Just inland from this was a straggling procession of people, maybe two hundred strong. Heck halted, panting. They combined numerous ages, and wore variously coloured cagoules and walking boots, and in many cases were equipped with backpacks and staffs. They moved single file, or in twos and threes, and stretched out southward along the beach for a very considerable distance. None initially noticed him, because they were mostly wearing headphones and appeared to be engrossed in whatever it was they were listening to.

  Heck’s initial response was fright for these innocent passersby.

  Whatever happened, the Nice Guys couldn’t afford to let him escape. What was more, they were in a kill-frenzy, trigger-happy beyond belief. But there had to be a point where common sense kicked in. If he went and joined these walkers now, would his pursuers really come after him, still shooting, mowing down anyone who got in their way? Heck’s heart hammered at the horror of such a thought. But surely they wouldn’t be so rash as to create as big an incident as that? They were unmasked, with fully exposed faces – and most of these people would have mobile phones with them; they could raise the alarm instantly.

  He glanced again at the people roving past, trying to work out exactly who they were. At their head, he sighted a kind of point-man, a diminutive, bespectacled scarecrow, also in a cagoule, his bare brown legs like pipe-stems between overlarge boots and baggy, khaki shorts. If that wasn’t ludicrous enough, he had a mop of white, wind-tossed hair and a bushy white beard. He didn’t notice Heck as he strode on, talking energetically into a microphone.

  Angry voices again drew Heck’s attention to his rear. A significant number of humped ridges now lay between himself and the wood, so he couldn’t see its edge, only the tops of its trees. But he knew the Nice Guys’ frontrunners had emerged, and were now probably baffled as to his whereabouts.

  It was a terrible risk, but in truth there was no other option.

  He hurried down the final slope, still unnoticed by the coastal walkers as he tagged on halfway along, hands in his pockets, assuming an air of innocence.

  Surreal moments followed. A strong salt tang blew from the rocks to Heck’s right, which he saw were covered in weed and bladder wrack. With each explosive impact, foam surged through their nooks and crannies, droplets of spray hitting him. Meanwhile, on the left were the Nice Guys – three or four of them, the blond-haired figure of Klausen among them. They moved parallel to the walkers along the last ridge, watching in silence. They’d opted for caution – at least for the time being. Not that this really improved Heck’s position.

  Casually, he increased his speed, one by one overtaking the others, most of whom were still too fascinated with their tour guide’s discourse to notice. Directly ahead, maybe a quarter of a mile away, there was an immense headland crowned by the ruins of a medieval castle, its sandstone walls glowing gold in the late afternoon sun.

  ‘Dunstanburgh Castle is one of the highlights of the Heritage Coastal Walk,’ came the cultured voice of the guide. He was still forty yards ahead, his wiry legs setting an impressive pace, but his voice carried on the sea wind. ‘It was built in 1313 by Earl Thomas of Lancaster, not so much as a bastion against Scottish raiders … which was the cover story, but in defiance of King Edward II.’

  Heck glanced left again. More Nice Guys had appeared, and were keeping pace with him – but Klausen had trailed down the slope. He was going to join the tour, and was already close enough for Heck to see the repressed rage in his face.

  Heck increased his pace, again overtaking people. He was now past halfway up the straggling line. On the ridge, the American was on a phone. Despite the vast openness around him, Heck couldn’t help but feel boxed in. More breakers erupted to his right; there was no escape that way. In front, the castle was now a hugely impressive chunk of ancient architecture, its eroded outer wall and soaring, broken towers filling his vision.

  ‘Most of the destruction you see today resulted not from the border wars with Scotland,’ the guide’s voice added, ‘but from the Wars of the Roses a century later. Yorkist forces all but annihilated it during two separate sieges.’

  Heck hurried forward. As he did, he glanced over his shoulder. Klausen had fallen in line with the rest of them, but he too was walking at pace, passing one preoccupied tourist after another.

  ‘What happened to Earl Thomas?’ Heck asked, now almost at the front.

  ‘Oh, he met a singular fate,’ the guide replied, glancing airily back. ‘He finally rebelled in 1321, but was defeated in battle.’

  ‘Here?’ Heck wondered.

  ‘At Boroughbridge near York. If he’d made it back here, he may have evaded capture and his subsequent execution, which was decapitation by axe … it apparently took the headsman nine blows.’

  Heck looked around again. Klausen was about five yards behind, walking alongside a thirty-something couple. The tubby, bearded father had a baby suspended on his chest in a papoose.

  ‘There are some things you don’t do, eh?’ Heck said, ostensibly addressing all three of them. ‘Challenging the king. Imagine thinking you can get away with that?’

  ‘They breed
’em tough up north,’ the father said laconically. By his accent, he was a Londoner.

  ‘He considered he had a legitimate grievance,’ the tour guide explained. ‘Edward II was weak and famously ill-advised. His court was filled with self-interested schemers. They too were torn down eventually.’

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Heck asked Klausen. ‘Worthwhile sacrifice … a hero who brought down a bunch of nasty little sods?’

  ‘I think some people bite off more than they can chew,’ Klausen said quietly.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ the tour guide said aloud, his tone implying he was less interested in discussion than he was in making announcements. Ahead of them, the ground ramped slowly up towards the castle. ‘We’ll take a break once we get inside. You can wander around and look at the ruins, and then get out your flasks and your sandwiches and what-not.’ He treated Heck to a chirpy grin. ‘Bet you’ll be glad to take the weight off, eh?’

  ‘I’ve had busier days,’ Heck replied, ‘but not many.’

  Back at the crossroads, Ben Kane knew he was in trouble.

  It had always seemed likely the Nice Guys would prove to be fair-weather friends, if any kind of friends at all. He perhaps should have expected them to abandon him in his hour of need. But he found it odd they would do so when it was potentially so much to their disadvantage. If he got picked up now, the only living presence at the scene of a mass shooting, with two dead bodies on the road, two bullet-riddled cars, a bullet hole in his own shoulder, bullet casings strewn like grass cuttings, an orgy of evidence to connect the many rounds discharged here with those discharged in the various other shooting and bombing murders to have occurred in the last few weeks, and all that only ten minutes from a house they had rented, how did they think he could explain it away?

  It all served to underline Kane’s increasing concerns, the ones that had brought him up here to the Northeast in the first place – namely that Kurt Klausen was out of control. Kane didn’t know him that well, but by all accounts Klausen had always been muscle rather than a thinker; an arrow compared to Mad Mike’s bow. In getting rid of Silver, he’d thought he was taking charge of the entire operation. Clearly the rest of the men had at least partly bought into that. Thanks to Kane’s regular reports, they’d quickly become concerned that Mad Mike was about to cut a deal with Gemma and Tasker, and had taken to this second mission in Britain with determination and no little relish. But Klausen’s insistence on cowboying his targets, making an example of each and every one, instead of doing it covertly and subtly, as Kane had suggested, had backfired. On top of that, Heck had been his usual infuriating self, refusing to relinquish the case, doggedly chasing every lead until it had finally, miraculously, got him somewhere. And wherever Heck was, Gemma wouldn’t be far behind. It was like they were telepathically linked, those two. Whatever was going on here, it was highly likely the police powers in Northeast England would be mustering by now. In which case, it was time for Kane to cut out, though this wouldn’t be easy either. The initial gut-thumping agony of his wound had subsided a little, but there was no question he’d broken at least one bone in his shoulder. The bullet had passed clean through, and now the bleeding had staunched itself, which meant no major blood vessel had been damaged, but though he was on his feet, he could only stumble around in an agonised daze, his left arm hanging like a piece of lead. If he was having trouble walking, he didn’t have the first idea how he was going to drive, but he had to find out.

  Groggily, he folded his body into the driving seat of his Land Rover Discovery. The car was Swiss cheese. He’d already seen that. Its interior was slashed and torn, filled with broken glass and splintered metal. God knew what state the engine was in. He was under no illusion that, even if he managed to get it started, it wouldn’t take him far – not without being noticed. But he needed to try. The trouble was, when he scrabbled at the ignition port, the key was missing.

  Sweat dripped from Kane’s face as he gazed at it uncomprehendingly. He fumbled in his pocket, but there was nothing there. He felt sure he’d left the key in the ignition in the event he’d need a quick getaway.

  That was when someone dangled it outside his shattered window.

  It hurt Kane just to turn and look. But he was still stupefied to see Jerry Farthing on his feet. The Northumbrian copper was pale as ice, with congealed blood speckled up his right cheek, as though it had spurted from under his collar.

  ‘I actually learned two things when I was a shot,’ Farthing said, breathing hard. ‘Always keep out of the line of fire …’ He yanked open the remnants of his jumper, exposing a cluster of flattened-out slugs embedded in body armour. ‘And always wear your vest.’

  Then he reached into the car – but not with the key, with his CS canister, which he emptied into Kane’s face. Kane jerked away, but it was too late. His eyes and nose immediately began sizzling, feeling as if they were clogged with pepper. He glugged and choked, and as such he didn’t see Farthing snap his left wrist to the steering wheel with a pair of handcuffs.

  ‘For … for Christ’s sake,’ Kane gagged. ‘I can’t breathe … get me to hospital …’

  Farthing turned and tottered away. Slowly, gingerly, he filched his mobile phone from his jeans pocket. The problem was, reality was ebbing around him. Though his vest had saved his life, he knew that at least one of the slugs had penetrated. It had taken a momentous effort to reach the car, had taken so much out of him that he now struggled to make sense of his own phone. He coughed up a mouthful of blood, spattering its keypad. He so wanted to make a call, so wanted to help Heck – but his head was seething, his vision fogged, his legs giving way at the knees. He toppled a couple more yards across the tarmac, and when he finally collapsed, it was into the roadside undergrowth.

  Chapter 34

  Heck glanced back along the line of walkers several times as the path now veered hundreds of yards inland, rising towards the castle entrance on its west side. It was difficult to tell how many of the Nice Guys had joined the group, but behind the tall Dane, every six yards or so there was a face that didn’t quite fit: cold, sneering, feral.

  To his left, there was only moor and rising meadow, though a farm track led straight west from the castle, presumably connecting with a main road of some sort. The tour guide diverted along a narrower sub-path, which curved sharply north, ascending ever more steeply but finally bringing them around to the front of the ancient structure.

  Dunstanburgh towered over them, but now they were close to it, it was clear there wasn’t a great deal of it left. Its encircling outer wall rose in some sections to about twenty feet, but there were big gaps and fissures, and beyond that very little else. The gatehouse itself, through which they were to enter, was more impressive. Much of that remained, and its arched access tunnel passed between two immense towers, the lower halves of which were intact, though their upper portions had long ago collapsed, leaving jagged monoliths of weed-grown stone. As they approached the tunnel entrance, they passed a floor plan of the structure. According to this, there were almost no other buildings after the gatehouse. The bulk of the castle’s interior, though it projected right back to the shoreline, mainly comprised open grassy space. This was a bit of a gut-punch, as it meant the maze of rooms and corridors Heck had been banking on to lose himself in didn’t exist.

  Before entry, there was a prefabricated kiosk on the right with an English Heritage logo on it and a smiling elderly lady waiting inside. The tour guide, shorts flapping in the breeze, skipped ahead to speak with her. Heck glanced behind again. The majority of the group were removing their headphones and digging into haversacks, bringing out flasks of tea and packages of sandwiches. The Nice Guys walked stiffly and in silence, most of them making their way to the front. Fleetingly, Heck locked eyes with Klausen. The Dane’s disfigured face creased into a mocking smile.

  ‘This way, ladies and gentlemen!’ the tour guide called, standing to the left of the arch, ushering them through.

  The stony footpath
gave way to ancient cobbles worn by time. Heck led the way, his footfalls echoing in the arched passage. Some ten yards ahead, the vast emptiness of the interior beckoned, all paved walks, green grass and blue sky. Before reaching it, they passed an entrance on the right, but a barred gate was drawn across this, blackness skulking beyond. The next entrance was on the left, but this had been adapted for modern use. Its wooden door stood open; Heck glimpsed electric lighting and shelves cluttered with mugs, pens and cuddly toys in knitted chainmail.

  He turned abruptly, stepping through, hoping no one would follow but sensing immediately that someone had.

  It was similar to many ‘ancient monument’ shops – not a large room, but well stocked; more mugs and toys arrayed along the walls, along with guidebooks and local crafts, while in the middle several rotatable racks carried postcards. Another English Heritage lady stood behind a small counter. She smiled politely on seeing Heck. Then she glanced at those behind him – and her face fell.

  He recalled that age-old tenet so beloved of homicide investigators: ‘Monsters rarely look like monsters.’ Though occasionally it was possible to sense what they were, and then again – he thought about that disfiguring scar on Klausen’s cheek – sometimes they looked the part too.

  Ahead, just left of a fire-extinguisher suspended in a basket, there was an internal door marked ‘Staff Only’. Heck turned towards it. Behind him meanwhile, numerous feet now scuffed the linoleum. Some might be innocent – but another quick backwards glance told otherwise. Klausen was closest, his jack o’ lantern grin plastered in place.