by Paul Finch
‘You don’t remember?’
‘I, er …’ Slowly and sluggishly, his memories of the previous night began to return. ‘Oh, yeah … ouch.’ He touched his forehead delicately.
‘How’s your head?’ she asked, opening and closing the cutlery drawer seemingly as loudly as she could.
‘This is one of those occasions when I think I could live without it.’
‘You smell like a camel.’
He glanced down and saw that he was still wearing his jeans, t-shirt and socks from the night before, all rumpled and sweat soaked. ‘You put me to bed?’
‘Who else?’
‘Didn’t bother getting me undressed then, eh?’
‘Making you comfortable wasn’t a priority. If I was going to sleep on your sofa, I had to get you out of the lounge.’
‘You slept on the sofa?’ Heck could scarcely believe it.
‘How do you like your eggs?’
‘Erm … poached.’
‘Okay, coming up. Bacon, beans, sausage?’
Only now did he notice the food items arrayed along the worktop. Some were still in packages. ‘Where’s this stuff come from? I haven’t got any of this in.’
‘I’ve been round the corner to the supermarket.’
‘So this is the condemned man’s last breakfast, is it?’
‘Just get a shower, Heck, get dressed, and present yourself in a fit state for duty.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m actually at home here … on holiday?’
She glared at him. ‘You’ve stolen a mountain of police evidence. You’re lucky you’re not enjoying an extended holiday at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Now do as I say.’
Heck did, taking a long shower and climbing into a clean pair of shorts and a vest. When he wandered back, their two breakfasts were on the table, along with a round of toast, a jug of orange juice and a pot of coffee.
‘Just like the old days,’ he said, sitting opposite her.
‘Nothing like the old days,’ she corrected him. ‘Eat, while it’s hot.’
‘Only you could make an invitation to breakfast sound like an order from a concentration camp guard.’ But feeling refreshed and suddenly hungry, he tucked in.
She watched him as he ate, barely picking at her own food. ‘First of all, let’s hear what you’ve got,’ she finally said.
He regarded her over the rim of his coffee cup. ‘What do you mean?’
‘After all these months and months of backbreaking work, with no tangible results, what reason is there to persist with this enquiry? You must have a reason.’
‘I’ve got thirty-eight reasons.’
‘Thirty-eight possible reasons.’ She sighed. ‘Heck … we have to face the truth. There’s no guarantee these women haven’t gone off on purpose. There are all sorts of explanations why someone might want to disappear. We don’t know what goes on in people’s lives. Look … remember back in the 1980s, there was the case of the Oxford don? He was about to be awarded a professorship and made head of his department. The kids from his first marriage were all grown-up and successful in their own right. He had another kid on the way courtesy of his second wife, who was a lot younger than him and hot as hell. I mean, this guy had everything to live for. Yet, the morning after the award ceremony he vanished. They found his car in a lane off the M40. The keys were still in it. His wallet was still in it. There was even a solid gold watch, engraved, that his family had bought him in honour of the award — it had been left on the dashboard. Aside from that there was no trace. Then, about six years later, he was found — working under a false name on a sheep farm in the Outer Hebrides. And living rough. I mean, this guy slept in a croft with a peat sod roof.’
‘Remind me why he did that.’
‘I don’t know why. Some kind of breakdown. The point is it happens.’
‘Gemma, that was a one-off. We’re talking nearly forty people … ’
‘None of whom you’d class as vulnerable.’
‘Exactly.’ He took another swig of coffee. ‘There are no children on our list, no OAPs, no mental patients. The youngest was eighteen, the eldest forty-nine. More to the point, they’re mostly professional types, organised, able to look after themselves. Like it or not, that’s a pattern. I mean, it’s an unlikely one, but it’s still a pattern. Not only that, all our women vanished during routine activities … while they were doing something they did every day. None were taken while on holiday for example, or on day trips to other parts of the country …’
‘Heck …’
‘If you’re going to abduct someone, and not make a complete bollocks of it, you’ve got to watch them, memorise their patterns of behaviour. I hate using this analogy but, in nature, predators hunt along game trails. Because then they know exactly when the prey animals are coming, and exactly how many or how few of them there’ll be. After that, all they have to do is pick their moment and intercept …’
‘Heck!’
He clamped his mouth shut.
‘Funnily enough,’ she said, ‘I read your comparative-case-analysis. You know … the one you left in my in-tray and covered with red marker pen “More urgent than anything else you’re doing today!” I’m fully aware why you fingered these particular cases and clumped them together. But it’s still too thin. Apart from the circumstantial stuff, there’s no evidence of abduction, let alone abduction by the same individual.’
‘So what are we doing here? Why are we having breakfast together?’
For a few moments, Gemma looked as if she didn’t know. She pushed her plate aside, even though it was still full. ‘Tell me about this new lead you’ve got. The one you mentioned yesterday morning.’
‘Oh, yeah … that.’
She jabbed a warning finger. ‘Don’t you dare tell me that was a lie!’
‘It wasn’t, don’t worry. Look … you go through to the incident room. I’ll finish getting dressed.’
While Heck got dressed properly, Gemma took their dirty dishes into the kitchen, scraped them and shoved them into the dishwasher, before drifting through to his so-called incident room. She peered again at the faces ranked on its far wall. So often in her career, she’d perused photographs of victims of violent crime. On first viewing, they nearly always enraged and appalled her. Only later on was she able to click into ‘professional investigator’ mode, and treat them as just another part of the job.
As she’d insisted several times, there was no guarantee that this particular bunch actually were victims, but somehow, seeing them all together like this, linked if nothing else by so much painstaking analysis, she began to suspect that they probably were, and it had a melancholy effect on her. In almost all cases, they were smiling or laughing, having been photographed among friends and loved ones. The majority were family snapshots, taken on holiday or at functions. How happy they’d all been while posing for these pictures, how bright their world had seemed. How terrified they’d have been to know the darkness that awaited them.
Heck reappeared in jeans, pulling on a sweater.
‘Well?’ she asked.
He started sifting through papers. ‘I actually had two new leads I was going to run with.’ He found a bulging buff folder, checked it was the right one, and then sat on the desk, indicating that she could have the chair. ‘First of all,’ he said, opening the folder, ‘you accept that in some force areas these disappearances were treated as abductions?’
‘Which is why they were passed to us.’
He nodded. ‘Two summers ago down in Brighton, a lady called Miranda Yates dropped out of sight while loading shopping into the boot of her car. Both the car, which was left with its boot open — I’m guessing the abductor hadn’t closed it properly and the wind caught it — and the car park, were treated as crime scenes. This photograph was taken later in the day.’
He handed Gemma a glossy, which depicted a mass of bystanders held back by police tape. She assessed it. It was common practice to take covert photographs of crime scene o
nlookers. Astonishing as it seemed to police officers, some perpetrators actually did return to see if anyone was appreciating their handiwork.
‘Which face are we looking at?’ she asked.
Heck pointed out a young man in the front row. He was in his early twenties, with neatly combed dark hair. His vacant expression was not wholly visible because he was turning slightly, plus he was wearing a pair of sunglasses. Aside from that, the only noticeable thing about him was his slightly overlarge forehead.
‘I’ve sent copies of this to every local intelligence officer in England and Wales, and it’s a non-starter,’ Heck said. ‘As his features are partly obscured, no facial recognition has been possible thus far. But have a good look at him, and now check this other photo.’ He produced a second glossy, also depicting a crowd, though on this occasion gathered against a row of skeletal trees. ‘This was taken in Aberystwyth last March. Julie-Ann Netherby, a student at the university, was last seen in the basement of her hall of residence, doing her laundry. This picture was taken outside the hall, the following day.’
Gemma scanned the picture and almost immediately spotted someone who might have been the same man. Even less of this second chap’s face was visible — he was standing behind someone else, but aside from having shorter hair and a thin, wispy moustache, he was undoubtedly similar. He even had the same prominent forehead.
‘I suppose it looks like him,’ she said.
‘Agreed, but I know what you’re going to say. It isn’t definitely him.’ Heck took the photos back and filed them. ‘I admit this one’s a long shot. At present I’m referring to him as “the Kid”. He’s a suspect, but until we find out who he is — and all enquiries at the uni drew a blank — there isn’t much more we can do on that.’
‘So what’s the other lead?’
Heck dug out three more photographs. ‘Do you remember in one of my previous reports when I mentioned a suspect called Shane Klim?’
Gemma nodded. ‘The sex offender from Birmingham?’
‘Correct. Let me refresh your memory. Last January, a Newcastle estate agent called Kelly Morgan failed to report for work and subsequently wasn’t seen again. What really bothered the other girls in her office was that a couple of times over the previous weeks, she’d said that she thought someone was stalking her. She’d only seen him in daytime, and initially thought he was a jogger. But when she kept on spotting him, in different parts of the city, she became concerned. She said he was heavily built and that he always wore a hood. That in itself proves nothing of course. However, if you recall, a hooded figure was also captured on CCTV passing the front door of Annette Connor’s house in Liverpool. She disappeared a year last April. Here’s the still.’
Gemma checked it out. It was a black and white image-capture, very grainy, clearly taken at night. It showed a bulky man, wearing a dark leather jacket and, underneath that, a hoodie top with the hood pulled up. He was only photographed side-on as he strolled head down along the pavement.
She shrugged. ‘And I’ll say again what I said last time — that could be anyone.’
Heck nodded. ‘Could be. Probably a million men walk past that house every year. But remember Margaret Price, another one who disappeared doing the shopping? She was one of our South London girls, and she’d also confided in a friend that someone had recently alarmed her. She was coming home from work one misty autumn night, when she saw a man jogging past her house. She thought it was strange because he didn’t seem the jogging type — he had a heavy build and was puffing hard. Apparently, he was wearing a hood. And a horror mask.’
Gemma sighed. ‘Not this again …’
‘It’s important, ma’am,’ Heck said. ‘Margaret Price glimpsed his face as he passed, and he was wearing a horror mask. At least that’s what she thought.’
‘And if I recall correctly,’ Gemma said, ‘your contention was that it wasn’t a horror mask? You wondered if it was his actual face. First of all, Heck, we haven’t got a statement from this Margaret Price — so it’s all hearsay. Secondly, it was almost Halloween, so if it was a horror mask, there could be a perfectly innocent explanation. Thirdly, we’ve discussed this already …’
‘Suppose that what Margaret Price actually saw was a mass of scar tissue?’ Heck argued. ‘That might explain why he was hooded all the time. Look, it’s partly a hunch, I admit … but Shane Klim would be an excellent fit.’
He’d brought Shane Klim, a repeat rapist from the Midlands, to his superiors’ attention previously, on the basis that while escaping from Rotherwood high security prison on the Fylde Coast four years ago, Klim had been attacked by guard dogs and had had his face very badly bitten (in fact ‘torn to bits’ was how one witness described it). Though Klim killed two of the dogs and got clean away, it was deemed highly likely that his face would be disfigured afterwards. The problem was that Klim had not been seen since, so no one really knew how badly he’d been scarred.
Gemma pondered what little they knew. ‘And you’re absolutely sure there’s no one else in the system with that extent of facial damage?’
‘No one matches that profile at all,’ Heck said.
She assessed the most recent image they had of Klim; a custodial mugshot taken before his escape from Rotherwood. It portrayed a brutish man with wide cheekbones, heavy brows, a broken nose, piggy eyes, a shaven head and jug-handle ears. ‘Do you have any info on his whereabouts yet?’
‘Not yet, but I soon will.’ Heck handed over the third and final picture. ‘Because this is our next new lead. I only came up with it the other day, but I think it’s a goer. Take a look at Ron O’Hoorigan, a habitual house-breaker. He was in Rotherwood prison at the same time, and I’ve now learned that he shared a cell with Klim for nearly two years.’
O’Hoorigan didn’t look quite as mean as Klim, but Gemma knew how looks could be deceptive. He had a lean hatchet-face, with thick, dark sideburns and longish dark hair which hung to his shoulders in a greasy mop.
‘You think he may know something?’ she asked.
‘Cons talk, especially when they’re banged up together twenty-three hours a day.’
‘Heck, you seriously think Klim told O’Hoorigan he was planning to escape?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time that happened.’
‘Even if he did, he’s hardly likely to have told him where he was going afterwards, or what his plans were for the continuation of his criminal career once he’d got out.’
Heck looked frustrated. ‘We won’t know unless we ask O’Hoorigan, will we?’
‘Is O’Hoorigan still inside?’
‘No. He was released eight months ago. As far as we know, he’s now on his home patch in Salford, Manchester.’
‘That’s your old hunting ground, isn’t it?’
‘That was a long time ago,’ Heck said. ‘But I know the area, yeah.’
She handed the photo back, saying nothing.
‘So what do you think?’ he asked. ‘I know there are a few assumptions here, but have we wound things up prematurely, or what?’
‘Come on, Heck, this is a hundred to one.’
‘Yeah, but if I’d given you this lead a few weeks ago, wouldn’t that have changed things?’
‘Not necessarily. Look … at the end of the day it’s about money. There’s nothing here to justify so much further expense.’
‘Have I ever been wrong about stuff like this before?’
‘On other cases, no, but on this one it’s different.’
‘All respect, ma’am, but we can’t say that yet. Look, this one isn’t finished. Not as far as I’m concerned.’
She got up and walked agitatedly around the room. Finally she rounded on him. ‘If I’m going to play ball with you on this, and write your leave down as a front so that you can continue undercover while you follow this new lead, you’re not going to disappoint me, are you?’ She fixed him with so intense a gaze that at first he barely heard her. ‘I mean, you’re not going to let me down, Heck?’
>
‘Are you serious?’
‘Well you’re not leaving me much choice. The other day I said you looked knackered, and I meant it. You still do. You look shot. But I know you, Heck … you’re not going to let this drop under any circs, you’re going to press on regardless, despite it being the most flagrant breach of procedure I’ve ever known. So if you don’t get killed because you’ve got no back-up, you’ll probably end up losing your job. Either way, I’ll finish up without the services of one of my most experienced detectives. And that’s something I can’t afford right now. Not that I appreciate being blackmailed like this.’
‘What about Laycock? He’ll never sign off on it.’
‘Need-to-know basis.’
‘You’re going to go over his head?’ Heck was astonished.
‘There is no over Laycock’s head. Not in NCG. I’ll have to go behind his back.’
‘Yeah, but that won’t last. How’re you going to justify me being in deep cover? I mean, deep cover from whom? Someone else in the job? That’s how he’ll see it.’
‘Leave me to worry about that.’
‘I’m serious, Gemma.’ Heck got to his feet. ‘He’ll have to know about this at some point, and then what’s he going to think?’
‘Just make sure we’ve got a result to show him. Then he won’t have any gripes.’
Heck mulled it over. The stakes were suddenly drastically high. Much higher than he was close to being comfortable with. ‘And no one else is going to know about this?’
She shrugged. ‘If I have to, I’ll let Des know … but aside from him, no one. You report directly to me, okay?’
He nodded.
‘Promptly and regularly,’ she said.
‘And you’ll do the paperwork?’
‘I’ll do the paperwork.’
‘That’s always music to my ears. But you know … I wouldn’t rush to put anything on paper just yet.’
‘You mean in case this goes belly up?’ She stared at him. ‘Don’t let it.’
‘You’ll lose deniability.’
‘We’re not all rule-bending maniacs, Heck. I can’t live that way.’ She grabbed her car keys. ‘Now look … just this one lead, okay? I’m serious. You run this new lead to ground and you do it low key. And after that, zip, kaput, it’s over.’