Stalkers

by Paul Finch

  ‘Do you at least feel we’re getting somewhere?’

  Heck shrugged. ‘O’Hoorigan ran away from us — which likely means he’s got something to hide, so it’s promising. But I’d like to know more about this guy, Deke. Did you notice he never took his gloves off once in that pub?’

  ‘Probably because he didn’t want to bust his knuckles.’

  ‘Or because he didn’t want to leave any prints. It’s August. Why would he be wearing gloves?’

  Lauren pondered. ‘Perhaps he’d been working on a site somewhere?’

  ‘What, and he was still wearing them in the pub? Did he even look like he belonged in that place?’

  ‘Okay, I admit it. Deke’s a mystery man. But he’s not the guy we’re after.’

  ‘True,’ Heck agreed.

  ‘Which means we’ve no choice but to go to Gallows Hill?’

  He nodded, but looked discomforted by the prospect. ‘I hear it’s unoccupied these days, which is probably a good thing.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Just off the M602 motorway. It was built as a series of apartment blocks, but it always looked more like a prison to me. Except …’

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘Except that no prison was ever so bloody grim.’

  Chapter 17

  City of London bars were rarely busy on weekday evenings. The old days, when the City had purely been a place of work, and when tomb-like silence had filled the glass and concrete canyons after nightfall, were long gone. These days there were almost as many wine bars and restaurants as there were financial institutions. But Monday nights were not really the time for socialising, especially late on.

  As such, by half past eleven, Ian Blenkinsop found himself almost alone at the bar in Mad Jack’s. Anyone who knew him would say that he cut a dishevelled, rather mournful figure. He was still in his daytime suit, but over the last few hours it had become crumpled. His tie was loose, his collar undone. His briefcase lay at his feet, while his coat was draped messily over the bar alongside him. He was pale-faced and sweaty, as he ordered yet another large gin and tonic, maybe his eighth of the evening.

  ‘It’s just no good is it,’ he mumbled.

  One of the few bar servers left at this hour was a girl of about eighteen, with short, dark hair and a pretty face. She smiled politely, feigning interest as she placed clean glasses on the shelves.

  ‘Life’s so brief,’ he added, slurring badly. ‘So fragile. You never know when someone’s just gonna come along and snuff it out. You know, love, anything could happen to any one of us at any time.’ He gazed at her, trying to be profound — and in doing so, his eyes almost crossed.

  She continued to feign interest, but said nothing.

  ‘“Out, out brief candle”,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not just talking about death, mind.’ He pointed a long, wavering finger at no one in particular. ‘You can bugger up your life in any number of ways. One moment of stupidity is all it takes, and nothing will ever be the same again. You might as well be fucking dead. Take me, for instance …’

  Another bar server appeared; a youngish, Italian-looking chap. He’d been watching for several minutes, and had now decided to step forward.

  ‘Are you alright, Sir?’ he asked.

  Somewhat relieved, the girl moved further along the bar, to serve another customer.

  ‘Me?’ Blenkinsop said, puzzled. ‘I’m alright. Well … as alright as I can be after what’s happened. You wouldn’t believe the things that are going on in my life.’

  The barman, Andreas, who’d been working here for several years, was not unused to City men staggering in to drown their sorrows after losing their companies a fortune, so he did what he usually did, which was exactly what the girl had been doing: smile and nod, as if interested, and all the while have his mind on more important things, like who Arsenal were playing that coming Saturday.

  ‘Take me,’ Blenkinsop said again, trying to pick up the thread that he’d left hanging a few seconds ago, though to him those seconds seemed like hours. ‘Take me …’

  ‘Do I have to?’ the barman replied with a chuckle, trying to make a joke of it.

  Blenkinsop stared at him, fuddled. As he did, his eyes again shifted out of focus and he swayed, almost falling off his stool. ‘No, I’ll … I’ll have another of these.’ He pushed his empty across the counter.

  ‘You sure about that, Sir?’ Andreas asked.

  ‘Listen, you’re on … you’re on good money working here. Yeah?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Now listen, I’m paying your wages. If I want a drink, there’s no reason why I can’t have one. I’ve earned that right. Understand me? I earned it — it wasn’t my fault the way things worked out.’

  ‘Anything you say, Sir. Double G amp;T is it?’

  ‘Erm … better make it a treble.’

  ‘A treble?’

  ‘That means three.’

  ‘Okay. If that’s what you want, Sir.’ Andreas moved away.

  ‘Take me,’ Blenkinsop said again, loudly. ‘I’ve … I’ve really blown it, you know. I mean … life may get back to normal, but I don’t know when. And all through one crazy moment of uncontrolled … desire.’ He stressed the word ‘desire’, almost growled it. ‘That’s what it’s all about: lust, wanting … course there’s always a fucking woman involved …’

  There was a sudden rattle of paper, so sharp that it even cut through Blenkinsop’s blurred thoughts. He glanced to his right.

  The man the barmaid had gone to serve was sitting on a bar stool a couple of feet away. He had a pint of lager in front of him and was reading a copy of the Standard. He was no one familiar, but Blenkinsop was puzzled that he hadn’t observed the chap before — it was like he’d materialised from nowhere.

  ‘Erm … are we acquainted?’ Blenkinsop asked.

  The man turned to look at him. He was in his late twenties, and of stocky build. His complexion was swarthy, his hair cut very short. His eyes were dark, unblinking. He didn’t say a word.

  ‘I was just saying,’ Blenkinsop mumbled, ‘how easily life can unravel. You know, if you make … bad choices.’

  Slowly and deliberately, the man folded his newspaper, running his thumb and forefinger along the top crease, leaving it razor sharp. He laid the paper down. His eyes never left Blenkinsop’s confused face.

  The barman now returned — thankfully, because for some reason the attitude of the newspaper-reading man had become a little unnerving, even to someone in a semi-stupor. Blenkinsop fumbled for his money and banged it on the counter. He took a big gulp, and sighed with relief. ‘Nectar … believe it or not, I needed that.’

  But the barman had gone again, heading for the till. Blenkinsop glanced to his right — and it was a cold shock to see that the newspaper-reading man was no longer there. One or two punters were still in the pub, small huddles of them in distant corners, but the chap with the paper had vanished.

  For some reason, Blenkinsop found this even spookier than having him at his shoulder. Had he just seen a ghost — one of London’s many pub-dwelling spectres?

  He tried to snigger, but his throat had gone dry. An icy memory was stirring inside his head. A string of words, uttered to him the previous night, were now uttered to him again, this time in a disembodied but equally menacing voice: ‘From now on, we’ll be keeping you under covert surveillance. Not all the time obviously, but you’ll never know when we’re there and when we’re not.’

  Suddenly Blenkinsop’s brow was damp with sweat. He yanked at his collar; another button popped open. He stood up quickly, too quickly — almost overbalancing again.

  ‘I wasn’t …’ he said aloud, his breath coming in short gasps. ‘I wasn’t admitting to anything, I …’

  Of course there was nobody listening. He glanced back across the bar. The barman and barmaid now appeared to be cashing up. He looked at his drink; at least half of it remained, but he no longer had the stomach for it. In fact, he desperately needed fresh a
ir. He grabbed his coat and briefcase and stumbled across the room — only to hesitate before going outside. As befitted the pub’s gin palace origins, the glasswork in the inner door was misted with ornate designs. Beyond it in the porch, a dark shape was waiting.

  Blenkinsop peered at it, his heart knocking on the inside of his tightened chest. ‘I didn’t,’ he whispered, ‘I wasn’t …’

  Fleetingly, he was fixed to the floor; he could go neither forward nor backward. At the same time the effects of intoxication were fading with extraordinary speed. He looked around and behind him. A couple of women seated at a nearby table had stopped their gabbling and watched him curiously. He gave them a feeble half-smile, and slapped around inside his jacket, pretending that he was checking for his wallet. When his hand alighted on it, he nodded to himself, looked again through the patterned portal, and seeing no figure in the porch now, ventured into it.

  The pub’s front door was ajar, and, tentatively, he stepped out through it onto the pavement. Intermittent traffic was moving, but when he glanced left and right, there were no other pedestrians around. Lights were still visible in the upper floors of some of the higher buildings, but the rest of them were in darkness, while down here at street level a mist had formed, creating an eerie sodium-yellow gloom. It wasn’t unusual in this part of London, only a couple of miles from the river, but it was the last thing Blenkinsop wanted. He was still breathing hard and fast. He glanced again left and right, then across the road to Goldstein amp; Hoff’s impressive marble entrance — and to the narrow alley alongside it, which wound off towards the company car park. That alley, a routine cut-through during the day, now looked as dark and sinister as any passage he’d seen. The mist hung in its entrance in twisting, silvery strands. He gazed at it. It was impossible to imagine there wasn’t somebody there, just out of sight, gazing back at him.

  He wasn’t sure how long he remained in this mesmerised state before he was distracted by the sight of a black cab trawling along with its green light showing. He signalled for it, and it pulled up in front of him.

  ‘Hampstead,’ he said, jumping in and closing the door.

  ‘Ohhh …’ the cabbie replied doubtfully. ‘Long way for me, guv, at this time of night.’

  ‘I’ll pay you triple the fare.’

  ‘Triple?’ The cabbie sounded amazed, but quickly put the car in gear. ‘Didn’t want to go to bed yet, anyway.’

  Blenkinsop glanced out through the window. A figure had emerged in the misty entrance to the alleyway; a man. It was difficult to make out who he was, let alone identify him as the man with the newspaper. But as the cab pulled slowly away, the figure stared after it intently.

  Chapter 18

  Lauren gazed dully at the dashboard clock. It wasn’t yet six in the morning, but the Manchester traffic was already swarming around them.

  ‘Dana won’t be pleased that you left without saying goodbye,’ she said.

  ‘She won’t be surprised, either,’ Heck grunted.

  ‘You guys really don’t see eye to eye, uh?’

  ‘We see eye to eye as much as we need to.’

  He was preoccupied with driving, so she said no more on the subject. It was nothing to do with her. And it wasn’t as if they didn’t have other things to think about. Her eyes flicked again to the Manchester A-Z in her lap; they’d almost reached their destination.

  If there was any part of Salford that twenty-first-century modernisation still hadn’t reached, Gallows Hill was surely it. Lauren immediately saw what Heck had meant when he’d described it as looking like a prison. It sat with its back to the deep cutting through which the noisy M602 motorway ran, and was basically a giant horseshoe, consisting of five U-shaped, six-storey tenement blocks, all built from drab grey concrete. To make matters worse, they were now derelict. The vast majority of their windows had been boarded over, though many of these boards had been removed to allow what was presumably nighttime access for vagrants and drug users.

  When they pulled off the motorway and approached it from the front, first having to thread through a network of terraced but equally depressed streets, they saw that the entire plot had been surrounded by a corrugated steel fence, which suggested that everything on the inside was earmarked for demolition. Parking about two hundred yards outside this perimeter, in a narrow alley behind a shop with caged windows, they made their way back on foot. Slipping through one of several gaps broken in the fence, they followed an overgrown footpath, which wound its way around the exterior of the abandoned project, before finally joining an access road leading into the heart of it. Regina Court was down at the farthest end of this road, and they felt increasingly exposed as they walked towards it, having to pass the entries to Hascombe Court, Goodwood Court, Merlin Court and Windermere Court.

  Like Lady Luck Crescent, all of these places belied their attractive sounding names. They were gaunt, empty edifices, covered with filth and graffiti. Regina Court itself lay under a sea of rubbish; and not just household rubbish, real rubbish — as if people had been fly-tipping here. Once in the middle of it, they regarded the high galleries encircling them, the many doorways smashed and gaping like entrances to caves.

  ‘Take you back a bit?’ Heck wondered. ‘To Leeds, I mean?’

  Lauren didn’t reply. She was too tense, and she could tell from his tone that even Heck was feeling subdued by the eeriness of these surroundings.

  ‘No offence intended,’ he added. ‘Just my attempt at levity. Would it be cowardly of me to suggest we stick together while we’re here?’

  ‘Uh-uh. This place has got “ambush” written all over it.’

  ‘Just remember, I’m in charge,’ he said, reiterating the terms she’d agreed to that morning if she was to accompany him today.

  She nodded.

  ‘I mean it, Lauren … you don’t do a damn thing unless I say it’s alright.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Good, because …’ He squinted towards one of the high galleries, where he imagined he’d spotted movement. There was nothing up there now, but had a figure just ducked out of sight? Again, he felt unconsciously at his pockets, where under normal circumstances he’d have a radio. He knew that he shouldn’t be here without support. The incident yesterday had been risky enough; in fact, this whole thing, which had started out as a simple plan to continue asking questions and perusing evidence until something — anything — came to light, had taken a turn for the extremely serious. That Lauren, a civilian, was involved was an even bigger concern, though there was no denying — it was fortunate she’d been there yesterday.

  ‘Once we’re out of here, you’re gone,’ he said quietly. ‘No questions this time. At present, you’re a concerned citizen helping an officer investigate a crime. But I can’t be responsible for your safety indefinitely. So when we’re done here, you’re off back to Yorkshire or London, or wherever you want to go.’

  ‘Heck, you need back-up-’

  ‘I’ll have plenty. As soon as I can speak to O’Hoorigan and get him to tell me everything he knows about Shane Klim … what plans he was making while he was inside, where he intended to hide when he broke out … I’m reporting it in.’

  ‘And suppose he knows nothing? Like you said.’

  Heck’s grimace suggested he didn’t want to consider that possibility. ‘I’m still reporting in. Something tells me I’m getting into this too deep to keep flying solo.’

  Lauren didn’t bother to argue anymore. She could tell he was serious.

  The nearest entrance lay about thirty yards to their left. It was tall and arched, and the numbers etched into its concrete lintel read: 20–80. Once inside, they lurched to an involuntary halt. A tall man in dark clothes, wearing a dark hoodie jacket with the hood pulled up, was standing against the far wall. His hands were in his pockets and his head was bowed forward so that the peak of his hood formed a goblin-like point. However, a second glance revealed that this was merely an optical illusion. Someone had once lit a fire against that wa
ll, creating a human-shaped burn mark. Even so, it had given them both a shock from which they didn’t quickly recover.

  The rest of the small lobby was bare. Dead leaves and used condoms littered the corners. Sometime in the past, a wheelie-bin had been dragged in and knocked over, vomiting a pile of foul refuse, which had now coagulated.

  They ventured forward.

  Beyond a row of bars, a stairway led up. The barred gate that allowed access to this hung from badly oxidised hinges. When Heck pushed the gate open, its protracted creak echoed in the passages above.

  ‘Think O’Hoorigan will have heard that?’ Lauren said. ‘If he really is in sixty-nine.’

  ‘I’d be amazed if O’Hoorigan was anywhere near this place,’ Heck replied. ‘Okay, he’s a scumbag, but who in their right mind would want to doss here … even rent-free?’

  They ascended warily. On the first landing, on the facing wall, someone using blood-red spray paint had slashed the words:

  All we have to sell is fear

  ‘They’re selling it well,’ Heck murmured, glancing to where a door to what might have been a store room or lock-up stood ajar. Dense cobwebs — the sort you’d expect a gigantic spider to weave — filled the darkened recess behind it, fluttering in a breeze that neither of them could feel. Straight passages led off in two opposing directions, lit only intermittently by patches of daylight, though this was sufficient to show strewn rubble. The doors to numerous flats hung open. The silence was palpable.

  ‘As a British copper, do you ever wish you were armed?’ Lauren asked.

  ‘I am armed. I’ve got you.’

  But even Lauren, fearless and efficient as she’d proved to be in the bar fight, was visibly unnerved by this environment. As they proceeded up to the second floor, the front door felt as though it was falling further and further behind them.

  ‘I’m serious,’ Lauren said. ‘What if O’Hoorigan’s pals from the Dog amp; Butcher are waiting up here for round two?’