The Killing Club

by Paul Finch

  He didn’t get far before Mary-Ellen’s Land Rover, blues and twos flickering, spun into view over the next rise, sliding to a side-on halt, blocking the carriageway. The thief fancied his chances when he saw the figure who emerged from it: a Cumbrian police uniform complete with hi-viz doublet, utility belt loaded with the usual appointments, cuffs, baton, PAVA spray and so forth, but with only a young girl inside it – probably younger than he was in fact, and considerably shorter, no more than five-five. Of course he didn’t know PC Mary-Ellen O’Rourke’s reputation for being a fitness fanatic and pocket battleship. When she crossed the road to intercept him, he tried to barge his way past, only to be taken around the legs with a flying rugby tackle, which brought him down heavily, slamming his face on the tarmac. He lay there groaning, his fake head-piece hanging off, exposing the fair hair underneath. Mary-Ellen knelt cheerfully on his back and applied the handcuffs.

  ‘Sorry folks,’ Heck said to the astonished elderly couple, as he marched past, driving the other two prisoners by the scruffs of their necks. ‘DS Heckenburg, Cumbrian Constabulary. We’ve been after this lot for a little while.’

  ‘We’ve not done nothing,’ the girl protested. ‘We were trying to help.’

  ‘Yeah, by lightening these good people’s load while they were on their holidays,’ Heck replied. ‘Well don’t worry, now you’re going on your holidays. At Her Majesty’s pleasure. You don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you don’t mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence … in case you were wondering, you’re all locked up for being a set of thieving little scrotes.’

  It was mid-evening when the arresting officers finally returned from Windermere police station, where they’d taken their prisoners for interview and charge. While Mary-Ellen headed to Cragstone Keld nick to sign off and close up for the day, Heck made his first port of call The Witch’s Kettle, not least because on a cold and misty autumn night like this – the chill in the air had now turned icy – the warm, ruddy light pouring from its windows was very alluring. Inside, a big fire crackled in the grate, throwing orange phantasms across the olde worlde fittings. Though once again, thanks to the time of year, there were only a few customers present: Ted Haveloc, a retired Forestry Commission worker, who now did everyone’s gardens for them; and Joe and Mandy Elwell, who ran the Post Office. Hazel was alone behind the bar, reading a paperback. She laid it down as Heck approached.

  ‘And?’ she asked, vaguely uneasy.

  He took off his jacket and pulled up a stool. ‘Couldn’t have done it without you.’

  ‘You arrested them?’ She looked surprised, but still perhaps a little shaky. Hazel was every inch a local lass – she was well travelled but had never actually lived outside the Lake District, as her soft Cumbrian accent attested – and the thought of serious crime finally visiting this peaceful quarter was something she was still trying to get her head around.

  ‘All three,’ he confirmed. ‘Caught ’em in the act.’

  She served him his usual pint of Buttermere Gold. ‘So what was it all about? Or aren’t you allowed to tell me?’

  ‘Suppose you’ve a right to know,’ he said. ‘Several times in the last fortnight, tourists up here have been waylaid by distraction-thieves. It happened in Borrowdale, near Ullswater and down in Grizedale Forest. The usual form was the visitors stopped for lunch somewhere, but no sooner had they got back on the road than they had to pull over with a couple of flat tyres. A few minutes later, a young bloke and his girlfriend would conveniently stop to assist. Once these two had driven off again, the tourists found valuables missing from their vehicles.’

  Hazel looked fascinated, and now maybe a little relieved that the crimes in question weren’t anything more violent. ‘I’ve heard about that on the Continent.’

  ‘Well … it if works in France and Spain, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work here. Especially in rural areas. All we knew was that the suspects were driving either a green or blue motor, which might have been a Hyundai. The victims were never totally sure, and we only got glimpses of it on car park security footage … on top of that we only ever had partial VRM numbers, and they never seemed to marry up. You won’t be surprised to learn that after we arrested this lot, we found dozens of different plates in the boot, which they changed around regularly.’

  ‘So this was like their full-time job?’

  ‘Their career. The way they made their living. Anyway …’ He sipped at his beer. ‘As the crime-spree only seemed to start around here two weeks ago, I made a few enquiries with other forces covering tourist spots – and I got several similar reports. A young male and female distraction team targeting motorists out in the sticks. It was always the same pattern. The boy offered to help with the tyre-change, while the girl stood around chatting. In no case did the spree last more than two weeks.’

  ‘They only booked in here for two weeks,’ Hazel said.

  ‘They never outstay their welcome,’ he replied. ‘The upshot was I canvassed all the hotels and bed and breakfasts.’

  ‘And that worked?’ She looked sceptical. ‘I mean, even in the off-season there are thousands of young couples who come up to the Lakes.’

  ‘Yeah, but not so many who’ve got a gooseberry in tow.’

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  Heck leaned forward. ‘You may recall … I didn’t ask you if there were any adult couples staying here. I asked if there were any adult trios.’

  ‘Ohhh.’ Now Hazel looked impressed. ‘Who’s a clever boy?’

  ‘It struck me there’d have to be a third thief, someone concealed in the Hyundai. He would do the actual stealing while the others put on their show.’

  ‘And sure enough one such trio was staying here,’ she said. ‘And they even drove a Hyundai.’

  ‘And the rest is history.’ He grinned. ‘Mind you, I’m not saying we didn’t get lucky that they happened to be rooming right here.’

  She continued mopping the bar. ‘So long as they’re gone. I mean I hope they haven’t left anything behind … I wouldn’t want them coming back here.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. Quite a few forces want to talk to them. They’ll be in custody a good while yet.’

  Realising he hadn’t yet paid for his pint, he pushed some money across the bar-top, but she pushed it back. ‘On me. For a job well done.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll tell you what … I’d never have had them pegged for criminals. Didn’t seem rough at all. If anything, they came over as a nice young family.’

  ‘Successful crooks are rarely dumb. You want to infiltrate quiet communities, it doesn’t make any sense to ride in like a bunch of cowboys. Not in this day and age.’

  ‘Makes you realise how vulnerable we are up here, though.’

  ‘Nahhh,’ came a brash, chirpy voice. Mary-Ellen had materialised alongside them, now in a black tracksuit with Dorset Police stencilled across the front. She leapt athletically onto the bar stool next to Heck. She was toothy but pretty, with fierce green eyes and short, spiky black hair. A champion swimmer, fell-walker and rock-climber, she radiated energy and enthusiasm – even now, at the end of a long, tough shift. ‘You’ve got us two, haven’t you?’ she said. ‘We’re a match for anyone.’

  Heck made a modest gesture. ‘And here’s the other girl of the moment. Wouldn’t have been able to do it without her, either.’

  ‘What’ll you have, M-E?’ Hazel asked.

  The Irish lass feigned astonishment. ‘You buying, sarge?’

  ‘I’m buying,’ Hazel said. ‘You two have taken some nasty people off the streets today. Our streets. And with the bad weather due, they could have been stuck around here for God knows how long. Who knew, we could have been murdered in our beds.’

  ‘Don’t think they were quite that nasty,’ Mary-Ellen replied with her trademark rasping chuckle. ‘But I’ll have a lager, cheers. I’ll tell you what … felt good getting our hands on some proper
villains for a change, eh?’

  ‘Too true,’ Heck said, peeling away from the bar and heading off to the Gents. ‘Excuse me, ladies … too bloody true.’

  Neither of the women chose to comment on that parting shot.

  Mary-Ellen was a newcomer to the Lake District herself, having transferred up here only a couple of months ago. Prior to this she’d served in Sherborne, near the South Coast, another semi-rural area, so she lacked Heck’s experience of big city policing and major investigations. But given that the most serious crimes they tended to have to deal with up here involved low-level drug dealing, thefts from gardens, and the occasional drunken incidents in pubs – she could understand how he might be feeling a little restless. He’d taken to this distraction-thefts enquiry giddily, like a kiddie in a toy shop, and had almost seemed disappointed he’d closed the suspects down so quickly. But whether Hazel would sympathise with this was another matter. In the real world, the handsome, homely landlady – newly divorced thanks to her beer-bloated rat of a husband running off with one of his barmaids two years ago – should be the apple of every single bloke’s eye. The problem was there weren’t that many single blokes in the Cradle. As such, it was perhaps no surprise Hazel and Heck had gravitated towards each other.

  It had occurred by increments, if Mary-Ellen was honest … with near-reluctance, as though both parties were trying to avoid being hurt, or perhaps trying to avoid hurting each other. But though they’d never so much as exchanged a kiss in public, the Irish lass had seen their mutual attraction grow: the furtive looks they’d exchanged, the occasional touching of hands, Heck perched comfortably at the end of the bar where the till and telephone sat, a position of familiarity that wouldn’t normally be reserved for everyday customers. In light of all this, it was anyone’s guess what kind of confidences he and Hazel shared – and maybe a concern that he was wasting himself out here in the boondocks was one of them. Even if it wasn’t, Hazel was surely worldly enough to sense it for herself … and yet she was famously proud of this small, successful business she ran, and she adored her tranquil life in Cragstone Keld, this ‘haven in the mountains’ as she called it. The idea of moving anywhere else was hardly likely to appeal to her. In that respect, Heck’s increasing boredom with his current post was a subject probably best left alone.

  ‘Will I have to give evidence?’ Hazel asked when he returned to the bar.

  Heck pondered. ‘Shouldn’t think so. I mean, there’s nothing they could cross-examine you on. I enquired if you knew anyone matching a certain description. You did and gave me a statement. After that, you had no further involvement. In any case, they’ve already coughed to the distraction-thefts up here in the Lakes, so the chances are that part of the case won’t go to trial.’

  ‘I may need that from you in writing if I’m not going to worry about it,’ she said, moving along the bar to serve another customer.

  ‘So what do we think?’ Mary-Ellen asked. ‘Good day?’

  ‘Very good day,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Hazel’s right about the weather. Forecast’s terrible. Freezing fog up here tonight and tomorrow. Maybe even longer. Visibility down to a few feet.’

  ‘Great. Life’ll be even quieter.’

  ‘Hey …’ She elbowed him. ‘A few detectives I know’d be glad of that. Catch up on some paperwork.’

  ‘To catch up on paperwork, M-E, you first have to generate it.’

  She regarded him appraisingly. As a rule, Heck didn’t get morose. But he was leaning towards glum at present. ‘Heck, didn’t you volunteer for this gig?’

  ‘Yeah … sort of.’ He waved it away. ‘Sorry … quiet is good. Course it is. Means low levels of crime, people sleeping safe in their beds. How can I complain?’

  She chugged on her lager. ‘It won’t be cakes and ale. There’ll be accidents. People’ll get lost, get hurt … there’s always some bell-end who’ll come up here alone, whatever the weather man says.’

  Heck pondered this. It was true – the fells were no place for inexperienced hikers, especially in bad weather. And yet all winter the amateurs would try their hands, necessitating regular and risky turn-outs for the emergency services. If this coming winter turned particularly nasty, the Cradle itself could face problems. With only Cragstone Road connecting it to the outside world, snow, sleet and even heavy rain had the potential to cut them off. The predicted fog would be even more of a nuisance as it may prevent the Mountain Rescue services deploying their helicopter.

  ‘I think I can safely say,’ he concluded, ‘that even I would rather be tucked up warm in bed than dealing with that lot.’

  ‘I’m sure that’ll be an option,’ Mary-Ellen said quietly, as Hazel came back along the bar.

  ‘Looks like there won’t be much custom in here for the next few days,’ the landlady commented.

  ‘Just what we were saying,’ Mary-Ellen agreed, drinking up. ‘Anyway, I’m off. Thanks for the beer.’

  Heck glanced around. ‘Bit early …?’

  ‘True Detective’s on satellite again tonight. Missed it the first time round.’ She sauntered out of the pub. ‘See you later.’

  ‘True Detective …?’ Hazel mused. ‘Isn’t that the one where they were after some kind of satanic killer?’

  ‘Seem to recall it was,’ Heck replied.

  She recommenced mopping the bar-top. ‘Not the kind of thing we get up at Witch Cradle … despite the name.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed.’

  ‘These sneaky buggers pinching people’s handbags and wallets are about the toughest we’re used to up here.’

  ‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’

  She gave him a warm half-smile. ‘Yeah … course you do.’

  ‘Hey, I may surprise you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m adaptable. The quiet life has its attractions.’

  ‘Such as?’

  He shrugged. ‘We’re all adults. It’s not like we can’t find ways to fill these long, uneventful hours.’

  She smiled at him again, saucily, as she pulled Ted Haveloc a pint.

  Outside meanwhile, as the forecasters had predicted, a front of semi-frozen air forged its way across the mountains and valleys of northwest England, sliding under the milder upper air, gradually forming a dense blanket of leprous-grey fog, which, in a region already famous for having very few street-lamps, reduced visibility to virtually nothing. The scattered towns and villages were shrouded in murk. Cragstone Keld – a hamlet of only twelve buildings – was swamped; one house couldn’t see another. And of course it was cold, so terribly cold: billions of frigid water crystals suspended in the gloom; every twig, every tuft of withered vegetation sprouting feathers of frost. By eleven o’clock, as the last few house-lights winked out and the full blackness of night took hold, the polar silence was ethereal, the stillness unearthly.

  Nothing stirred out there.

  These were foul conditions, they’d say.

  It was a foul night all round.

  The foulest really.

  Abhorrent.

  Loathsome.

  Want more? Read the rest of

  Dead Man Walking

  when it hits the shelves in

  November 2014.

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  A vicious serial killer is holding the country to ransom, publicly – and gruesomely – murdering his victims.

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  About the Author

  Paul Finch is a former cop and journalist, now turned full-time writer. He cut his literary teeth penning episodes of the British TV crime drama, The Bill, and has written extensively in the field of c
hildren’s animation. However, he is probably best known for his work in thrillers, dark fantasy and horror.

  Paul lives in Lancashire, UK, with his wife Cathy and his children, Eleanor and Harry. His website can be found at: www.paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com.

  By the same author:

  Stalkers

  Sacrifice

  The Chase: an ebook short story

  Copyright

  AVON

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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  Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

  Copyright © Paul Finch 2014

  Cover photographs © Shutterstock

  Cover design © Andrew Smith 2014

  Paul Finch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780007551255

  Ebook Edition © July 2013 ISBN: 9780007551262