Stalkers

by Paul Finch

  He nodded, but said nothing.

  At the door, she turned and looked at him again. Briefly the domineering force was absent. She seemed concerned, but also a little disappointed. ‘You realise this is more trust than I’ve ever put in anyone, Heck? And the irony is that you’re one of the least trustworthy people I know.’

  Leaving him with that thought, she turned and descended the stairs. Heck watched her from the top, until she’d left the building. Then he went back into his flat, closing the door behind him.

  Chapter 12

  When he went into work that morning, Ian Blenkinsop felt as if he’d just got up after a night of heavy drinking. His stomach was hollow, his head throbbing.

  On arrival, he was greeted cheerfully, as always, by his secretary Sally, which made him feel positively nauseous. It wasn’t Sally’s fault. She was forty, but very well kept, with a sizeable bosom, slick, chestnut red hair and handsome, feline looks. Many was the time he’d nursed an erection in the lavatories while thinking about her. He’d once had similar designs on Sally to those he’d had on Louise; in fact he’d told himself a couple of times — usually in his cups — that should the ‘thing’ with Louise go okay, he’d generate a plan for Sally. Now the mere thought of that was unbearable to him.

  He closed himself into his office, which was not his custom — normally he’d leave the connecting door open between his and Sally’s work areas. Then he walked to the window, which ran floor to ceiling, and opened the blind, admitting the morning sunshine that was breaking through the thin wash of clouds in ethereal shafts.

  From this side of the building, the dome of St Paul’s cathedral dominated the skyline. To Blenkinsop’s mind it was still the most majestic structure in London. Born from the ashes of the Great Fire, it had withstood everything the centuries could throw at it: time, the elements and of course Hitler’s aerial onslaught, which had flattened so much of the surrounding city. He realised that he’d taken its magnificence for granted until now. What a dauntless symbol it was: of man’s fearlessness in the face of tragedy, of his devotion to the might and mystery of God — things that Ian Blenkinsop felt hugely distanced from at this moment.

  There was a tap on the door and Sally came in with his coffee. She seemed a little subdued. He wondered why. Was it because he’d been abrupt with her on his arrival, or could it be that now he knew he was a brute on the inside, it was starting to show on the outside? That was nonsense, of course. Even Dr Jekyll, when he’d become Mr Hyde, hadn’t manifested as a physical monster.

  Jekyll and Hyde.

  There’d been times in the past — poring sweat-soaked over some particularly lurid and illegal pornographic imagery, or being driven back to his hotel in downtown Lagos or Sana’a, or wherever it was, in the early hours of the morning — when Blenkinsop would consider himself in these terms. But it was no solace to think that way now. These things — especially the thing he’d engaged in last night — weren’t nearly as romantic as Robert Louis Stevenson’s famous romp. The popular image of Hyde was a wicked but likeable rogue, who flitted among the ladies of the night in a dapper suit, a topper and a cape, winning them over with his wolfish smile, and then abusing them in masterful ways that might, in some cases, leave them begging for more.

  Sexy anti-heroes of that nature were rarely to be found in real life. And they weren’t to be found at all in Ian Blenkinsop.

  He stared out at the City, at its towers and temples of commerce. Would this wonderful view ever be the same to him? Would he ever again feel part of this frenetic, good-natured hive that he so loved, knowing what he now knew for certain about himself — that he was a beast, an aberration? He tried to remind himself, as he had tried many times since yesterday, that this wasn’t as wholesome a place as it appeared on the surface; that there were numerous individuals walking these streets right now who had dark and deadly desires. But how many of them actually converted those desires into reality? How many were so driven by lust that they could destroy the lives of others at a whim?

  Only a small few shared that inclination — a marginalised few, a reviled few.

  But was he really one of them — because of one incident?

  To all intents and purposes, he was normal. He was honest, he worked hard; he engaged in philanthropy when the mood was on him. And yes, alright, there was that other side to his personality, that secret side, but he only unleashed that when he visited foreign shores where such deeds were a form of currency, where they might not be approved but were tolerated so long as they were out of sight and out of mind, where the other participants — if not always willing — were at least prepared to endure it for the sake of their families. It was hardly what you’d call ‘vanilla sex’, quite the opposite in fact, but at least it put money in their pockets and bread on their tables, at least they benefited in the long run.

  But that wasn’t the same thing.

  For all the ‘experiments’ he’d indulged in while overseas, all the taboos he’d broken, all the cruelty and brutality he’d inflicted, there’d always been that all-important factor of consent. And of course, never before — never once — had it ended in murder.

  Murder.

  Once again, the magnitude of that simple word was immense. Rationalise it though he may try, deny it if possible — and he’d tried that too, reminding himself over and over that it had never been his intent to kill — it still haunted his every thought. He’d barely slept a wink last night even though he’d taken tablets to try and knock himself out. When he did manage to sleep, it had filled his dreams. And it would certainly never diminish in this environment. Even as he stood in his office, he heard a snippet of conversation from the next room, where Sally was speaking to someone on the internal phone: ‘No, that’s Louise Jennings’s department. But I don’t think you’ll get her today — apparently she’s off. No, I don’t know whether she’s reported sick or not, I just know she hasn’t come in for work. Strange really, because you know how dependable she is.’

  He continued to gaze down through the window — and his heart almost skipped a beat.

  A City of London police car was prowling along Cornhill. It clearly wasn’t coming here, because it headed off along Leadenhall and vanished from view, but was this now something else he’d always need to be wary of — the law? Would he quake with fear every time he saw a police uniform?

  It still amazed him how, in one fell swoop, the orientation of his entire world had changed around, and how there was nothing he could do to restore it. That was the worst part of it: if he could only have the choice again …

  ‘Mr Blenkinsop,’ Sally said, sticking her head in. ‘I have Mr Rylands from Newline Exports to see you. You’ve an appointment with him at nine-fifteen.’

  Blenkinsop glanced around, and nodded. She regarded him with puzzlement, and he realised that he hadn’t even taken his coat off yet, and was still holding his briefcase.

  ‘Two minutes, Sally.’

  ‘Are you alright? Under the weather maybe?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He stripped his coat off, sat at his desk and forced a smile.

  ‘You work too hard, Ian. Should’ve gone on holiday with your family.’

  ‘Rarely have truer words been spoken.’

  When she closed the door, he had to struggle to fight back tears. That wouldn’t do — someone was about to come in and chat with him. But the tears flowed anyway, and as they were mainly tears of self-pity — for the mess he’d got himself into, and the fear and insecurity he’d ushered into his family’s life — he hated himself all the more for it.

  Chapter 13

  Heck began to suspect the van was following him when he spotted it on the M6 motorway. He’d first observed it on the M1, about sixty miles further south, where it had appeared to be keeping a steady pace a hundred yards behind him. It was a hire van, a transit, high-sided and brown in colour, but so covered in oil and grime that no insignia was visible on its bodywork.

  The first occasion he noticed it,
he thought nothing of it. It was now midday on a Monday, and the traffic flow from south to north was, as usual, heavy and relatively slow moving. In addition, there was nothing in the vehicle’s demeanour to make him suspicious. It was proceeding along the motorway like so many others — what else was there to say? But when he spotted it on the M6 as well, still close behind, having passed numerous slip roads that it could have turned down, he had his first misgiving.

  He pulled into the slow lane and reduced his speed to about forty m.p.h. The transit van cruised slowly past. It was impossible to see who was driving it or how many there were, but soon it was a significant distance ahead. He relaxed and eased his foot back onto the gas. However, ten minutes later, he saw that the van had also pulled into the slow lane — for no apparent reason, as there were open spaces in front of it. Once he’d overtaken it, it slid casually back into the middle lane and began to speed up, as though to keep up with him. Initially, Heck wondered if Gemma had given him a guardian angel. But he soon dismissed that idea. She would have told him; it would serve no purpose for her not to. He picked up his mobile and was about to tap in her number, to enquire — but then decided that if she’d had nothing at all to do with this, she might be panicked to learn that his cover had already been compromised, and pull the plug.

  The next possibility was that Commander Laycock suspected he might be up to something. Heck dismissed this idea too. Laycock would consider that he had far more important things to do than keep tabs on a damned ranker like Heck, and even if he didn’t, had he the slightest inkling that the enquiry might be continuing, he’d have called Heck to his office by now and demanded an explanation.

  Of course, there was still a chance that the brown van was completely innocent. By two o’clock in the afternoon, Heck was in Cheshire, and about forty miles from the junction with the A580, the East Lancashire dual carriageway connecting the motorway with Manchester and Liverpool; the brown van was still an ominous presence at his rear. As the traffic at last began to break up, he got his foot down — he didn’t race away, but accelerated slowly and purposefully. The dingy brown shape fell further and further behind, making no obvious attempt to hurry in pursuit.

  Even after he’d lost sight of it, Heck continued to accelerate. When he reached the A580, he swerved down the exit ramp, gunning the engine hard to get through the traffic lights at the bottom, and circled the large roundabout, finally peeling off and heading east towards Manchester. He still wasn’t sure whether or not somebody had been tailing him, but if they had been he felt that he’d lost them now — not that this incident was something he could dismiss as unimportant. Ten miles later, he pulled into a petrol station to fill up and buy himself a bottle of water. It was only when he’d got back into his Fiat and was inserting his key into the ignition that he glanced across the forecourt and saw the brown van parked near the station entrance.

  Heck was tempted to get out and walk over there, but he resisted. He appraised it. Again, its driving cab was too filled with shadow for him to work out who was in there, though someone was clearly sitting behind the steering wheel.

  Casually as he could, Heck started his engine and pulled back out onto the dual carriageway. He drove at a steady fifty for three miles, but at the next junction pulled off onto a B-road, entering Highworth, one of several Greater Manchester townships he remembered from his youth; former coal-mining districts that were now heavily unemployed and run down. At this time of day, there was still plenty of traffic and Heck was forced to slow down to accommodate it. He continued to watch his rearview mirror, and it wasn’t long before the brown van reappeared. Now he was sure it was following him. He slowed until it was about thirty yards behind. At the next island, he halted, giving way to traffic from his right. When he finally pushed forward into the flow, the brown van followed. They halted at the next ‘give way’ line together, the brown van directly behind him.

  This time vehicles came piling past from the left. Heck would normally have nosed his way out carefully, but he waited until a minuscule gap approached, and suddenly rammed his accelerator to the floor, screeching out into it. A blue Toyota had to break sharply and tooted with annoyance, but the purpose was served. Heck accelerated hard as he swung right the way around the traffic island, and then braked again. Their positions had been neatly reversed; now he was sitting behind the brown van.

  Its reaction pleased him. A split second later it had the opportunity to pull out into the traffic, but it simply sat there, its engine chugging, as if the driver was uncertain about where he was and what he should do next. Heck waited patiently. At length, the van pulled right, taking a town centre road, moving carefully and slowly — too slowly. It stopped at each set of lights, its handbrake applied, and then set off again, always keeping a steady pace, making no attempt to turn — being driven without aim or direction, Heck realised. As the town centre fell gradually behind them, a sixth sense made him check that his seatbelt was secure.

  Up ahead there was open land. Several drab-looking housing estates stood to the left, but on the right lay the grey hummocks of slag heaps. The traffic was thinning quickly. From sheer instinct, Heck felt for his pocket where, under normal circumstances, there would be a police radio by which he could inform Comms that he was about to embark on a chase; finding nothing there was an ugly reminder that he was going it alone. They cruised on for a mile before halting at the next set of lights — and that was when the van suddenly lurched forward, rocketing through the red, causing cars to scream to standstills both from left and right.

  Heck sped after it, following a road that was suddenly open and half empty, which was massively to his advantage. His Fiat, though ancient and battered, was more than a match for a ramshackle old hire van. He hadn’t hit seventy before he was close behind it. Frantic, the other driver swung across the opposing carriageway without indicating — causing yet more vehicles to scream to halts, a couple sliding off the tarmac onto the grass verge — and then bounced and jolted its way down an unmade track, which ran straight as a ribbon across the spoil land.

  Heck wasn’t able to follow immediately. There was a confused blaring of horns as the opposing traffic tried to force its way past. Seconds ticked by while he watched the brown van slowly diminish, drawing a trail of dust behind it. Swearing, he finally worked his way through onto the dirt track, where he too jolted over ruts and potholes, each one a crashing impact beneath his feet. Despite this, he was gaining ground fast. He saw the van spin left onto another unmade track. However, this one was so bad that it was barely distinguishable from the surrounding clinker. The van swayed dangerously, rubble spurting from its wheels. Heck veered after it. Up ahead there was a dead end; what looked like an old car park attached to a row of prefabricated industrial buildings, all derelict and blackened by fire. The van screeched into this area and tried to pull a handbrake turn, in order to double back as Heck came dashing in after it. But if the van had ever been designed for such manoeuvres, it was now way past them. It tipped spectacularly onto its nearside wheels — briefly resembling a stunt vehicle in a Bond movie — and then crashed over onto its roof, rolling twice before coming to rest in a cloud of dust, smoke and debris.

  Heck slammed his brakes to the floor, skidding sideways, a stench of melted rubber filling his nostrils. He leapt out. As he did, a lithe figure wormed its way through the van’s shattered windscreen. It was clad entirely in black — black gloves, black boots, black combat trousers, and a black ‘hoodie’ sweat top with the hood pulled up.

  ‘Police officer!’ Heck shouted, running forward. ‘Stay where you are!’

  The hooded figure tried to dart for the line of derelict buildings, but whoever he was, he was limping and Heck quickly caught up with him, leaping onto his back — only to be flipped forward over the guy’s shoulder and land heavily in the dirt.

  Heck was winded, but still managed to roll away and scramble up into a crouch.

  The hooded figure backed off slowly, but the hood had now come down
to reveal that he was actually a she. In fact, he was the girl from The Raven’s Nest, the dusky-skinned, mini-skirted beauty who’d whupped Heck at pool.

  She was in less sensual mode now, breathing hard, her face shining with sweat as she retreated. When Heck got to his feet, she snapped a flick knife open, its long, slender blade glinting like ice.

  ‘I told you I’m a police officer,’ Heck warned her when he’d recovered from his surprise. ‘You stick that thing in me and I die, you’ll get thirty years minimum.’

  ‘You think I’ve come all this way because I want to kill you?’ she panted.

  ‘Okay … so put the knife down.’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not being arrested.’

  ‘If you knew how many times I hear that in the average day …’

  ‘Just back off! I don’t want to hurt you.’ But she winced as she retreated, her right leg almost folding beneath her.

  Heck shook his head. ‘I knew Bobby Ballamara was way down the list when they were giving out cerebella, but I never thought he’d be stupid enough to hire an amateur like you.’

  ‘I’d have told you last night, if you’d given me a chance … I don’t know anyone called Ballamara.’

  ‘Sorry love, but that won’t cut it. Whatever you say, or don’t say, all they’ll need to do is find evidence that you were on his payroll, and anything that happens to me will come back to haunt him in a big way.’

  ‘Look … I just want to find my sister.’

  Heck stopped. ‘What?’

  ‘If you’d listened in the pub there’d be no need for any of this.’

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘My name’s Lauren Wraxford. Does that ring a bell?’

  ‘Should it?’

  She gave a wry smile. ‘Yeah, it should. But it’s no surprise it doesn’t.’ She was still breathing hard and warding him off with the knife, but she now knuckled at her right cheek. To his surprise, he realised that she was trying to wipe away a tear. ‘If you don’t recognise “Lauren Wraxford”, maybe you recognise “Genene Wraxford”?’