The Killing Club

by Paul Finch

  Aside from its socks, the blubbery white body inside wore only Y-fronts and a bloodstained vest. Its throat had been cut with such savage but professional precision that the blade, no doubt one of those big bastard commando knives, had almost severed the spinal cord. It wasn’t the sort of fate Heck would have wished on anyone – not even Inspector Derek O’Dowd.

  ‘Looks like you were finally of use to someone, Dezzer,’ Heck said glumly, before running from the garage.

  The fat cop had been an easier picking than Klausen had anticipated.

  Heckenburg had surprised them all with his fighting spirit and his stubborn refusal to be beaten, but by contrast the fat cop was everything they’d originally hoped for.

  Klausen had first spotted him two streets away from the estate agency, moving nervously from doorway to doorway, fully armoured and with an MP5 and a Glock at his hip. At first he’d looked a threat, even if he had been overweight, his sagging guts squashed inside his flameproof coveralls and ceramic plate. But his sluggish gait had suggested a man out of condition, while neither weapon had even been drawn; his Glock buttoned into its holster, his MP5 locked to his harness, implying extreme inexperience.

  It was no trouble to sneak down an entry after him, accost him from behind, slice his fat neck and strip him of his outfit and weapons. As an added bonus, there’d been two pips on his shoulders – this would now prevent the rank and file querying Klausen as he strode casually through Holy Island village. And that was the way it panned out. The Dane strolled easily and unhindered among bustling law officers. Even though his visor was raised, no one batted an eyelid. One or two of the numerous dazed civilians who had now been released from their confinement might have recognised him – perhaps they spotted him through a window earlier. But they were too busy weeping and embracing each other. Of course, the police kit helped, not to mention the spreading dusk, which only now was being illuminated by streetlights springing to life.

  It was a pity about Ali and Sergei, he thought as he wandered along the pier, but everyone’s usefulness had its limit. He’d already given up on the company phone when he’d sent them into the estate agency to retrieve it. He knew when a battle was lost. With half of the remaining team by then in custody, he’d had no option but to beat a tactical retreat. If the police managed to get hold of the damn phone, they’d be able to roll up much of the existing network, but not all of it. They would never get all of it. And if Klausen could successfully spirit himself away from here, he’d be able to start anew somewhere else. He had boltholes all over the world, and any number of aliases with false paperwork to match.

  He reached the end of the pier, where two boats from the Northumbria Police Marine Unit waited: impressive thirty-foot offshore cruisers, their hulls patterned with distinctive turquoise and yellow Battenberg. They weren’t exactly designed for comfort, having open front decks where the salt spray could engulf you, and small, enclosed wheel-houses at the rear – but neither of them were presently occupied, and that was all that mattered. Klausen opted for the one on the left, casually stepping aboard and sidling into the wheel-house, and almost laughing when he saw the keys dangling from the ignition. He pulled off his gloves, removed his helmet, and leaned over to assess the panel of controls – and a door clicked open behind him.

  An immediate second click denoted the cocking of a firearm.

  ‘Mr Klausen, I presume?’ said a low voice. ‘Hands up please. And no quick or furtive movements.’ Warily, Klausen complied. ‘Turn. Verrrry slowly.’

  Again, Klausen complied, his back to the exterior door.

  Though it was clear from the insignia on the tall, white-haired cop’s armour-plated shoulders that he was someone of senior rank, the Dane didn’t recognise Commander Frank Tasker.

  ‘Seriously,’ Tasker said, Glock aimed with both hands, ‘you thought you were just going to sail away from here? You think we haven’t got radios, don’t talk to each other?’

  Klausen said nothing, merely fixed his captor with an ice-green gaze in which his status as merciless murderer was subtly implicit. His mouth curved into an upward smirk. He’d already clocked the nervous sweat glinting under Tasker’s raised visor.

  ‘Okay …’ The cop approached, halting about four feet away. ‘The first thing you do is unhitch the submachine gun. Use one hand. Let it drop.’

  Klausen lowered his right hand to the side of his harness.

  ‘Watch it!’ Tasker said sharply. ‘I won’t hesitate to pull this trigger.’

  There was a snap, and the MP5 fell to the floor.

  ‘Kick it to me.’

  Klausen did so, the weapon clattering across the wheel-house.

  ‘Now the Glock. Same thing … one false move, dead Nice Guy.’

  Klausen reached with his left hand to the weapon at his hip.

  ‘Don’t take it out of the holster … let the whole thing go.’

  Klausen’s smirk twisted into a smile, his hand sliding away from the holster to the buckle on his tactical belt. ‘I assure you,’ he said, ‘I’ve no intention of trying anything.’ He released the buckle, and the belt slid to the floor. Almost casually, he kicked that across the cabin as well.

  Tasker’s face still shone with sweat, but now he too smiled. ‘Why’s that? Never part of the script you’d meet someone who can shoot back?’

  ‘I know when I’m beaten.’

  ‘Hands back up! Keep ’em up!’

  Klausen raised his hands again. ‘You’ve got me. It’s that simple.’

  ‘Simple? I think not … not when you murdered so many of my officers!’

  ‘Pull that trigger if you wish, but I know a lot of things that will be useful to you.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you do, but …’ Tasker shook his head, ‘I’ll need to think about that, you see. Because when I get you into some official interview room somewhere, we won’t be able to do it this way, will we? You’ll just clam up.’

  Klausen’s beaming smile never faltered, and all the while, surreptitiously, his raised hands edged closer to the sides of his head, behind which, a couple of inches down, tucked out of sight beneath the high collar of his flameproof armour, was his back-up weapon, a Ruger SR9.

  ‘Course, it’s always possible you might try to escape … like Silver did,’ Tasker said, his confidence growing, so much that he lowered his guard slightly. ‘Only this time it’ll be you who gets shot.’

  ‘What is that … some kind of threat?’ Klausen’s hands were now behind his head.

  ‘More a possibility,’ Tasker said. ‘Anything can happen, my friend.’

  ‘It can indeed!’ Klausen snatched the Ruger from his nape – only for a sharp karate blow to break his grip on it. He cursed as he tottered forward.

  Tasker raised his Glock again, fleetingly bewildered.

  ‘Weren’t trying to get this, were you?’ Heck said, stepping into the cabin properly, jamming the Ruger into the side of the Dane’s neck.

  Klausen was twisted at a painful angle, but froze on hearing Heck’s voice.

  ‘Is this a day for surprises, or what?’ Heck added, grabbing him by a hank of hair and slamming his face into the bulkhead wall. ‘You know … when I got up this morning, having spent last night in someone’s armchair, I never had the first clue I’d be nailing you bastards into coffins by teatime.’

  ‘Easy, Heck,’ Tasker said.

  ‘They’ve had their chance, sir!’ Heck slammed Klausen’s face into the bulkhead again, then grabbed him by the collar and spun him roughly around.

  The Dane was cut deeply across the bridge of his nose, red droplets trickling down to the end and dripping off. He tried again with that confident smile, but this time he wasn’t fooling anyone. Heck shoved him back against the bulkhead, and trained the Ruger right between his eyes.

  ‘Heck …’ Tasker said. ‘We need him.’

  ‘We don’t actually, sir. We’ve got a few of the others. We’ve got their company phone – and there’s a telephone directory of contacts
in that; everyone who’s ever done any business with these creeps. We don’t need this one at all.’

  Klausen’s breathing was slow but steady. His eyes almost crossed as they fixed on the steel glint of the Ruger.

  ‘This is what it’s like, pal,’ Heck said in low monotone. ‘The last few seconds before you die. Not very pleasant, eh? Well … tough shit. It’s high time he who dealt it, felt it.’

  ‘Heck …’ Tasker warned. ‘You think Gemma will ever look at you again?’

  ‘Gemma!’ Heck snorted. ‘There’s a name from the past.’

  ‘I can give you other names …’ Klausen said.

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ Heck snarled. ‘You think you can rape and murder like you’re some kind of latter-day Viking! Lock people up! Throw hand grenades? You think Gull Rock plus satellite telly and an internet link is adequate payback for that … just because you’ve turned evidence?’ He retreated a couple more steps, the Ruger still locked on Klausen’s forehead.

  Klausen attempted a shrug. ‘This will be murder. Your boss is a witness.’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ Tasker disagreed. ‘You went for his gun … he had no choice.’

  Heck threw the commander a fleeting glance.

  Tasker gazed back, po-faced. ‘Your call, Heck. This bastard deserves it for sure, but what was that case you recently had in Sunderland? Some citizen taking the law into his own hands because a bunch of in-breds were beyond the pale? Go on, do it … shoot him like the dog he undoubtedly is. Isn’t that what your crazy Nazi-hunter did? What his dad did before him?’

  Heck shook his head. In truth, these thoughts hadn’t been a hundred miles away even before Tasker brought them up. But there were some things you just couldn’t tolerate. Some offences were so heinous they simply had to be punished.

  All the pain and misery I could have prevented in my career … if I’d put a bullet through the head of every criminal I’ve ever met, instead of locking him up …

  ‘You’ve got me covered, sir, is that correct?’

  ‘That’s what I said, Heck.’

  Heck looked back at the prisoner, who despite his empty smirk was now bathed in sweat, his palms fixed at shoulder height.

  ‘Trouble is, sir,’ Heck finally said. ‘I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could kick your bloody arse.’ He fixed his attention on Klausen. ‘And you shouldn’t trust him either. Just remember that … whatever he tells you, whatever he offers you. Not that it’ll ultimately be his call, because I can assure you now, Kurt, whichever holiday camp you think you’re going to … there are men in prisons all over Britain who owe me favours. Big ones.’ Even then, Heck shook his head at his own weakness. ‘In the meantime, Kurt Klausen, you don’t have to say anything unless you wish to do so …’

  Chapter 38

  The aftermath of the Holy Island gunfight was massive and chaotic.

  High-ranking officials from almost every department, including senior politicians, and news crews from all over the country, had converged on the Northumbrian coast long before ten-thirty that night, when the causeway was due to re-open. By various means, some of them had even got across the narrow waterway before then, and were soon busying themselves up and down the milling streets of the normally quiet settlement, exploring the scene of what – according to one anchor-man – was ‘a terrorist-related incident on a par with the Siege of Sydney Street or the battle with the Balcombe Street Gang’.

  Significant areas of the island, of course, had already been taped off for crime scene examination. Numerous medical staff had been ferried over from the mainland, and were treating casualties. Military units were on hand with dog teams to search for and take possession of unexploded ordinance. Also, mysteriously, a number of street-vendors had appeared and were providing the various police officers present with tea and rolls.

  In the midst of all this, a mobile command HQ had been set up on the village green. This was basically a caravan crammed with telephones, computers and a raft of tea-making equipment. Gemma Piper hadn’t enclosed herself in there to take refuge from the bedlam outside as much as to try and get her thoughts in order – though it wasn’t easy doing this while attempting to field several phone calls at the same time, check half a dozen reports and also write one of her own. On top of all that, she was tired and stressed, having shot and killed a suspect that day (only the second of her entire service).

  But her overall feeling was one of cautious relief.

  This thing had never been likely to end peacefully, if it ended at all, but the incident’s toll of fatalities was markedly less than she’d expected: ten Nice Guys and one police officer. None of the civilian occupants of the island had suffered more than superficial injuries. It still didn’t feel like a victory, but the sight of the Nice Guys’ so-called ‘company phone’, sealed in a sterile evidence sack and carefully labelled, lying on the desk alongside her, was some kind of achievement.

  There was a rapping on the caravan door.

  She hooked the phone under her chin – Joe Wullerton, Director of the National Crime Group, was keeping her on hold – but only because he himself was being kept on hold by the Home Secretary. ‘Make it quick!’ she called.

  Heck came in looking as battered and bruised as he had earlier, though at least he’d now removed his blood-caked clothing, which would all need to go to Forensics. He was currently wearing a blue and white Northumbria Police tracksuit.

  It was a miracle he was alive, of course. Thanks to her. Not that she felt like hearing any fawning gratitude. They’d studiedly avoided each other during the two hours elapsing since the estate agency rescue, but she would have words to say to him in due course. She’d have plenty.

  ‘Two bits of paper for you here, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Both very important.’

  ‘Leave them on the desk. I’ll look at them later.’

  ‘I think you’ll want to look at them now.’

  She glanced irritably up again.

  ‘This first one is the list of all the Nice Guys’ former clients in the UK,’ he said, placing a scruffy hunk of pages on the desk beside her. ‘Forgot to mention it earlier. Looks like you’ve got a lot more locking-up to do here before you go overseas.’

  She cut the call and unfolded the document. ‘Good God … this is excellent.’ Fleetingly she forgot her annoyance with him. ‘You’ve heard that lad, PC Farthing, is going to be okay?’

  Heck nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s good news … if a trifle amazing. He deserves a commendation. At the very least.’

  ‘And that Ben Kane got locked up by Northumbria?’

  ‘He’s a lucky bunny too,’ Heck said.

  She flipped a couple more pages. ‘We’ve also received word the Navy intercepted three speedboats out in the North Sea, not far from Tynemouth. Seems they’d disembarked from the Netherlands earlier this evening. The armed crews manning them have also been taken into custody.’

  Heck nodded. ‘These goons have always been able to organise on the hoof. Probably realised the game was up once I compromised their hideout.’

  ‘It might have worked,’ she mused. ‘If they’d managed to hold out a bit longer …’

  ‘Or if you hadn’t been tipped off so early,’ Heck said.

  ‘You were certainly in the right place at the right time,’ she conceded, taking another evidence sack from a drawer and inserting the list. ‘Once the causeway was flooded, they started cutting phone lines, disrupting electronic communications. We’d have been blind to everything happening here.’

  ‘And instead you’ve got nine prisoners.’

  ‘More than a few of whom have indicated a willingness to sing like canaries.’

  He nodded again. ‘So it’s job done.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She spun her chair around to look up at him. ‘What’s the other one?’

  ‘What’s that, ma’am?’

  ‘The other bit of paper. You said there were two.’

  ‘Oh, that …’ Rather casually, he dug a small square of frayed cardboard from the fro
nt pocket of his tracksuit trousers and dropped it on the desk. ‘That’s my request for a transfer out of the Serial Crimes Unit.’

  She stared at it, initially too puzzled for his words to sink in.

  ‘Sorry it’s on the back of a pub beer mat,’ he said, turning it over to reveal a near-illegible biro scrawl. ‘But I didn’t have the correct forms.’

  ‘Hang on …?’ She gazed at him, assuming they were at cross-purposes.

  He returned the gaze blankly, unconcernedly.

  ‘Heck … what … sorry, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Obviously I’ll help you clear this lot up. My collar, my case, and all that. But the first opportunity that comes along afterwards, I’m out of here … ma’am.’

  ‘Wait a minute … sit down.’

  ‘I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind. Got kicked in the butt.’

  She regarded him as coolly as she was able to under the circumstances. ‘Is this pathetic nonsense because I put you into protective custody?’

  ‘You didn’t put me into protective custody, ma’am. You put me into custody. The intention was to keep me out of the way because you knew I’d find out you and Frank Tasker had made a deal to let Mike Silver escape.’

  She placed her pen on the desk. ‘That isn’t entirely true.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not entirely true?’

  ‘Silver would never have been allowed to escape. The idea was to put him under secret house arrest somewhere. Look, Heck … you yourself said there are Nice Guys rackets running in different countries. Interpol strongly suspects that too, and Mike Silver was our only lead. We had to get him to talk.’

  ‘House arrest? For how long?’

  ‘The remainder of his life.’

  ‘And what are we talking … some hotel somewhere? Swimming pool? Five-star restaurant?’

  ‘A SOCAR safehouse.’

  ‘Now, don’t tell me …’ Heck couldn’t believe what he was thinking, but suddenly it all made sense. The newness of the place, the OTT security. ‘It isn’t by any chance near the village of Lea down in the Cotswolds?’ He could tell from the flush to her cheek that this was true. ‘Just out of interest, ma’am … did you take a diploma in how to add salt to nasty wounds?’