Stalkers

by Paul Finch

  But ten minutes later they did.

  Sally descended to the lobby dry-mouthed with worry. It was a different officer from the one yesterday. This one was much younger, and, if he hadn’t looked rather beaten-up, he might’ve been quite handsome. He certainly dressed well. His suit was Armani, his tie by Yves Saint Laurent. He was seated on one of the sofas in the company’s waiting area, alongside a young black woman wearing baggy running gear.

  ‘Hello,’ Sally said. ‘I’m Sally, Mr Blenkinsop’s PA.’

  The male officer stood and extended a hand. ‘Detective Sergeant Heckenburg.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Actually I was hoping to speak to Mr Blenkinsop himself.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s gone abroad.’

  ‘Ah. Whereabouts?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’

  Heck raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘You’re his PA, and you don’t know?’

  ‘Well, he’s on holiday … and it’s a travelling holiday. He likes to tour the continent with his family. He could be anywhere.’

  Sally was rather pleased with that response. She’d come up with it on the spur of the moment, and felt certain it would deflect any further questions. But she was surprised at how frustrated the detective now looked.

  ‘When is he expected back?’ Heck asked.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’

  ‘Miss, you’re aware this is an official enquiry? Anyone deliberately hindering us …’

  ‘No please, you misunderstand.’ She spoke urgently, suddenly frightened. ‘What I mean is I can’t say for sure.’ This part was true. Before leaving, Blenkinsop had suggested rather vaguely that he might be away as long as three weeks, but he’d offered no specific dates on which to expect his return — which, now that she thought about it, did seem rather odd. ‘I would think he’d be three weeks or so.’

  ‘And in the meantime, do you have a contact number for him? A mobile maybe?’

  ‘He has his mobile with him, of course. But all I can do is leave messages, which he’ll pick up from time to time.’

  ‘Maybe if you’d give that number to me, I could leave him a message?’

  Sally shook her head. ‘I can’t do that, I’m sorry. But I’ll help you any other way I can. I’ll ring him every day.’

  Heck regarded her carefully.

  She blushed. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s his private number and he is on holiday.’

  ‘Thanks very much for your help. We’ll be back in three weeks.’

  ‘You’re sure there’s nothing I can tell him in the meantime?’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  Looking more relieved that she probably should have done, Sally turned and walked stiffly back towards the elevators. Heck slumped onto the sofa alongside Lauren.

  ‘You’re surely not buying that bimbo’s story?’ she said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether I do or don’t. As I’m not here in an official capacity, there isn’t much option.’

  ‘Maybe we can blag our way up to his office, give his desk a going over?’

  ‘Let’s keep this on a realistic footing, eh.’

  ‘Okay, we’ve got his home address. If he’s away on holiday, we’ll have all the time we need.’

  ‘You mean to commit burglary again?’ Heck sighed. ‘I’m getting tired of only making progress by committing criminal offences. You know, Lauren, I’ve never been much of a churchgoer — not after what happened to Tom. But it would be nice if, just once or twice, we got a spot of help from Him upstairs.’

  ‘Yeah,’ came a loud Cockney voice from the Reception counter. ‘That’s a taxi for Mr Blenkinsop. London City airport, yeah. Soon as you can, please.’

  They turned to look.

  The concierge, an elderly, ex-military type wearing a green frockcoat with golden braid at the shoulders, was on the telephone. ‘Yeah, he’ll be waiting in Mad Jack’s — you know that place, the pub on Cornhill? Ten minutes, that’s great. I’ll let him know.’

  ‘Ask and it shall be given unto you,’ Heck said quietly.

  They crossed Cornhill side by side. As they entered the pub, they again checked the photo they’d taken from Deke’s file.

  ‘Think you’d recognise him?’ Heck asked.

  ‘I already do,’ Lauren said, stripping off her tracksuit top, regardless of the fact she only had a bloodstained vest underneath. ‘Look.’

  It was only mid-morning, so there weren’t many people in the pub, but one or two men in suits were sitting at tables reading newspapers. One was standing by the bar, with a bag at his feet. He was a dead ringer for the guy in the photo.

  ‘Ian Blenkinsop?’ Heck said, using his best official tone.

  ‘That’s right,’ Blenkinsop said, turning and smiling — only for his smile to fade very quickly when he realised they were people he didn’t know. His smile faded even further when he saw Heck’s warrant card.

  ‘I’m DS Heckenburg from the Serial Crimes Unit. Can you come with me, Sir?’

  Blenkinsop kept a tight grip on his half of bitter. ‘What’s … what’s this about?’

  ‘I assure you it’s very important.’

  ‘Am I being arrested?’

  ‘I’d rather hoped it wouldn’t come to that.’

  Blenkinsop shook his head. ‘If I’m not being arrested, I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Sir …’ Heck spoke quietly, but leaned close, getting right into Blenkinsop’s personal space. ‘I’m assuming that many of the punters in this pub are people you do business with. Do we really want to make a song and dance out of this?’

  Blenkinsop’s face had gone grey and sickly as melted snow. His lips had visibly dried. ‘I … I need to see your identification again.’

  Heck showed his warrant card.

  ‘And hers.’ Blenkinsop nodded at Lauren, belatedly thinking it odd that one of these cops should be a young girl in a vest and running suit.

  ‘Everything alright, folks?’ Andreas the barman asked, leaning over the counter.

  ‘Everything’s fine!’ Lauren snapped. ‘Back off.’

  Heck flashed his warrant card, and Andreas hastily retreated.

  ‘Listen, you piece of shit,’ Lauren hissed, crushing herself against Blenkinsop’s body. ‘Don’t fuck us around. We know exactly the sort of people you’ve been keeping company with and it’s all I can do not to waste you on the fucking spot. Now you walk out of this pub right now, or I’ll blow your fucking guts out.’

  Hardly able to believe what was happening, Blenkinsop glanced down and saw that she’d drawn a firearm. She was doing her best to conceal it with her rolled-up running top, but its steel barrel was pressed hard against his stomach.

  Heck added: ‘Believe it or not, Mr Blenkinsop, this is for your own protection.’

  Unable to do anything else, Blenkinsop allowed them to hustle him from the bar. When he reached down for his bag, Lauren slapped his hand. She picked it up herself, but once they were outside, tossed it into a bin. The bustle of the street suddenly felt ominous. Everywhere they looked the pavements thronged. Log-jammed traffic honked and shunted. The attack, if there was going to be one, could come from anywhere at any time.

  ‘Do you have some wheels near here, Mr Blenkinsop?’ Heck asked.

  ‘Look, whoever you people are …’

  ‘I’ve told you who we are.’

  ‘I’m sure this is a terrible misunderstanding …’

  ‘I said do you have some wheels?’

  ‘Don’t you have some yourself?’

  ‘Answer the frigging question!’ Lauren snarled.

  He nodded, swallowed. ‘My Jaguar’s in the company car park. It’s just down that passage over there.’

  ‘Take us,’ Heck said. ‘Quickly.’

  ‘Try anything cute and you’ll be dead before you hit the ground,’ Lauren added.

  They threaded their way through the traffic, and walked down the side-alley to the multi-storey car park. T
he pedestrian door stood alongside the main entrance, in which a uniformed security man was standing smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Just keep walking,’ Heck advised. ‘Don’t try and signal to anyone — you’ll be getting them in the worst trouble of their lives.’

  ‘Morning Mr Blenkinsop, Sir,’ the security man said.

  ‘Morning Ted,’ Blenkinsop replied as they passed.

  ‘Fancy QPR’s chances this season, Sir?’

  ‘Oh yes, no question.’

  Inside the pedestrian entrance, they jumped into an elevator and closed it behind them. Lauren kept the gun concealed as there’d almost certainly be a camera, but jabbed Blenkinsop with it repeatedly, just to remind him.

  ‘It’s on Level Six,’ he said shakily.

  Heck hit the button, and they ascended — only for the elevator to stop three levels short. Its door slid open. Two parallel rows of parking bays, all empty, stretched about fifty yards in front of them. The only illumination came from electric lighting. This gave a stark glare to the concrete pillars and slick, oily floor. The level appeared to be deserted. On a stanchion opposite, a red number ‘3’ had been stencilled. Heck stabbed the button hard, feeling distinctly uneasy. The only reason why they could have stopped at Three when he’d requested Six was that someone on Three had called them first. Yet now there was nobody there.

  The next time, they stopped on Six. Again, two parallel rows of parking bays stretched away. The lighting up here was dimmer. Heck saw why: though the bulbs were housed in metal cages, quite a few — each alternating one in fact — had been broken. Scatterings of recently smashed glass strewed the floor. Was that normal? he wondered. Wouldn’t a firm like Goldstein amp; Hoff keep things in good working order? Or had the lights been broken recently? Dim shadows now lurked behind every pillar.

  ‘That’s my car down there.’ Blenkinsop pointed thirty yards ahead to where a lone vehicle, a black Jaguar, occupied one of the bays.

  ‘Okay,’ Heck said, ushering him forward.

  They advanced in a tight group.

  ‘Who are you supposed to be protecting me against?’ Blenkinsop asked.

  ‘You’re genuinely telling us you don’t know?’ Heck replied.

  ‘Yes … and I might say you’ve got a strange way of doing it. Would you please take that wretched gun out of my …’

  ‘Shit!’ Lauren halted sharply.

  They all halted sharply.

  The Jaguar’s four tyres had been cut, slashed repeatedly — until they were nothing but shredded rubber and severed ply-cord.

  ‘Shit,’ she said again. ‘They’re already here.’

  Chapter 38

  Ian Blenkinsop’s demeanour had gone through several transformations since they’d taken him from Mad Jack’s. Initially of course he’d been frightened and bewildered. Then, as it had dawned on him that this was something he’d half-expected to happen, he’d become less bewildered and much more frightened. As they’d ascended into the car park, and Heck and Lauren had still refrained from using violence against him, he’d become less frightened and more affronted, almost bolshy. But now that he’d seen what had been done to his forty-thousand-pound car, he was terrified.

  ‘Surely the security people would have seen that someone was in the car park?’ he stammered as they hurried him down the emergency exit steps.

  Heck had opted to use this stairwell rather than the elevator. It was only a precaution, maybe an unnecessary one — he didn’t know if it was possible to sabotage a modern elevator, but he knew that he didn’t want to find out.

  ‘Just keep going,’ he said, urging Blenkinsop down.

  Lauren had pocketed the Glock, as they no longer needed it to convince the errant banker that he’d be safer in their company than out of it. But she was ready to grab it at a moment’s notice.

  ‘Wait!’ Heck held a hand up.

  They stopped, sweating. Heck could have sworn he’d heard the patter of feet somewhere above, perhaps coming down the stairs after them. But now there was nothing. Almost certainly it had been an echo.

  ‘Okay, keep going.’

  They continued to descend, passing the fourth level, and the third. Again there were no windows in this part of the building, and when they reached the second level, the last two flights of stairs had had their lights broken. They halted, teetering on the brink, peering down into menacing blackness.

  ‘This way.’ Heck steered Blenkinsop through the fire door into the car park proper.

  From here, they made it down to the ground floor by the vehicle ramps. The security man who’d been smoking in the entrance was no longer there. Nor was there any sign of him through the portal to his office.

  ‘If we can locate Ted Chadwick,’ Blenkinsop muttered, ‘he can probably help us.’

  ‘Ted Chadwick will be helping himself into an early grave,’ Heck replied. ‘Just follow me.’

  They re-entered the alley. There was a figure at its farthest end. It looked female, and was carrying a briefcase; perfectly normal for this part of London, yet it was standing in the middle of the alley, staring after them. They only just managed to avoid running as they proceeded the other way towards Cornhill. It was a relief to join the teeming crowds, which seemed ludicrous given the vulnerability they’d felt there only a few minutes earlier.

  ‘Who exactly are we looking out for?’ Heck asked Blenkinsop.

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘Don’t mess me around, you understand perfectly! What do they look like?’

  Blenkinsop shook his head. He wore a tortured but helpless expression. ‘I’ve never seen any of them — I’ve never seen their faces, at least.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘I got the impression quite a few.’

  Heck started along the pavement, Lauren and Blenkinsop following. They descended the first stairway they came to, which led to Bank tube station.

  ‘Haven’t you got any more men than this?’ Blenkinsop wondered.

  ‘Just keep moving,’ Heck said.

  ‘We making this up as we go along, or what?’ Lauren asked.

  Heck rounded on her. ‘Got a better idea? These bastards have been one step ahead of us for days. Well, I’ve had enough of it. We’ll take trains at random … try to throw them off the scent.’

  She stood guard while he bought them all a day’s travel pass. After that, he ushered them down to the Waterloo amp; City Line, where they caught the first connection south. At Waterloo they changed to the Bakerloo and headed north. When they reached Paddington, they took the Hammersmith amp; City east, changing to the Victoria at King’s Cross. All the time they watched their fellow passengers, which became increasingly difficult. The ever changing crush of humanity pressed into and out of the confined space of the tube trains; all types were on view — every race, sex, age and creed. On the Victoria, Heck felt concern about a tall black guy standing close to them. He was handsome, dressed in a smart suit and wearing a distinctive pearl earring. He had a briefcase at his feet and was absorbed in a copy of the Financial Times.

  ‘See that dude?’ Heck mumbled to Lauren.

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m pretty sure I saw him riding the Bakerloo in the carriage behind us.’

  ‘There could be a totally normal reason for that.’

  ‘Could be. We’ll know in a sec.’

  At Green Park, they jumped out, Heck virtually shoving Blenkinsop down onto the platform. Rushing straight to the Piccadilly Line, they took an immediate train north, changing again to the Bakerloo at Piccadilly Circus, and back onto the Victoria Line at Oxford Circus.

  ‘Surely … this is unnecessary?’ Blenkinsop gasped. They were again crammed in with hordes of fellow travellers, many of them foreign tourists wearing iPods and backpacks. The air was rank, stifling. ‘No one’s going to try anything down here.’

  ‘No,’ Heck agreed, ‘but we don’t want them following us ’til they get us somewhere where they can.’

  ‘Dear God,
this is ridiculous … utterly bloody ridiculous.’

  ‘Just watch the crowd, Blenkinsop. See if there’s anyone you recognise.’

  Thankfully, they seemed to have lost the black guy with the earring. When they passed Warren Street a large number of passengers disgorged. There was now some breathing space.

  ‘Do you want to tell us exactly what you’ve been up to?’ Heck asked.

  Blenkinsop broke into a puzzled frown. ‘Surely you’re already aware of that?’

  ‘If I was, I wouldn’t be asking.’

  ‘Well if you’re not aware of it, I’m certainly not going to tell you.’

  The sweat was cooling on all their brows. Blenkinsop was breathing deeply, but now regarded Heck and Lauren with distaste and something like suspicion.

  ‘May I remind you,’ Heck said, ‘that I’m a police officer? I’m giving you a chance to explain yourself off the record. But if necessary I’ll take you to the nearest nick and make it official right now.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you’re supposed to have done in the first place?’

  ‘I told you not to give us any shit!’ Lauren warned him.

  ‘Or what? You’re going to shoot me? In front of a trainload of witnesses? What kind of coppers are you two? You drag me out of a pub, you threaten me with a gun … now you’re running around London not even knowing who’s supposed to be chasing you …’

  She grabbed his collar. ‘Listen, fuckhead …’

  He violently struggled free. ‘I don’t have to listen to anything …’

  She switched her hand to his throat, squeezing his larynx. He gagged, eyes bulging.