Stalkers

by Paul Finch

  Heck snatched at her hand, yanking it loose.

  ‘I don’t know what you’ve been up to, Mr Blenkinsop,’ he said quietly but intently. ‘But I do know that you are involved with some extremely unpleasant people. Now you listen to me very carefully. This business is not going to end happily. You understand that? You saw what they did to your car. Nice bit of knife-work, wasn’t it? Trust me, that isn’t even a foretaste of what they could do to your flesh.’

  ‘In that case, why don’t you take me to a police station?’ Blenkinsop asked, rubbing at his throat. ‘Surely we’ll all be safer?’

  ‘Heck!’ Lauren hissed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Six yards away, combat fatigues.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Heck didn’t risk looking over his shoulder, but could sense that someone was there now who hadn’t been there a few seconds ago.

  ‘He’s just come in from the next carriage through the emergency door.’

  Heck nodded, understanding her suspicion. Unless you were a high school kid trying to reinforce your cool, moving from carriage to carriage was a big no-no when the Underground trains were in motion. It made even less sense on this particular occasion as both carriages were less than half full.

  The train groaned to another halt. They were at Euston.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Heck said, stepping out, following the signs to the Northern Line. ‘What does this guy look like?’

  ‘Short, stocky, swarthy.’

  ‘You said he was in combat fatigues?’

  ‘Yeah, yellow and brown. You know what that means, don’t you?’

  Heck nodded grimly. It meant they were desert fatigues.

  ‘It could be a coincidence,’ she said.

  ‘We’re not taking any chances.’

  On the Northern Line, they headed south.

  ‘This is insane,’ Blenkinsop muttered. ‘We’re going round and round in circles.’

  ‘We’ll do it as long as we need to,’ Heck replied.

  ‘Can’t we at least go up to the surface? I’ve got to get some air …’

  ‘Forget it.’

  Blenkinsop stuck a shaking hand in his overcoat pocket, and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Heck slapped them from his grasp.

  ‘No smoking on the Underground, Mr Blenkinsop. Surely you’re aware of that?’

  Blenkinsop swallowed a lump of saliva, which, by the grimace on his face, must have tasted like poison. His lips had dried so much that they’d cracked and were beaded with blood. As they headed back into the West End, more and more people piled onto the train, which made them feel less conspicuous, though soon they’d be south of the river and the crowds would dwindle again.

  ‘Where to now?’ Blenkinsop wondered loudly. ‘The southern leg of the Northern Line? That’s bandit country by anyone’s standards!’

  ‘Chill the fuck out,’ Lauren snapped. ‘Panicking won’t get us anywhere.’

  ‘Yeah, okay. Like you lot are acting in a level-headed manner.’

  They passed Tottenham Court Road, Leicester Square and Charing Cross, and, as they’d expected, passengers began to disperse. Soon they were south of Waterloo and feeling alone again.

  Blenkinsop suddenly stiffened, sucked in a tight breath. ‘You said there was a chap in desert fatigues on the previous train?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Lauren replied.

  ‘I can see through into the next carriage. He’s in there.’

  This time Heck did risk a glance around. There was indeed a figure standing just beyond the glass of the emergency door in the next carriage. He had his back turned, but was clearly wearing combat fatigues. Lauren stole a glance too — and almost froze.

  ‘It’s the same guy. Shit, Heck, we’re still being followed.’

  ‘We should go topside,’ Blenkinsop stated flatly. ‘Get a cab.’

  ‘We’re almost in Stockwell,’ Heck argued. ‘There won’t be many cabs around.’

  ‘You pair of bloody fools! What have you done to me?’

  ‘If it wasn’t for us, you’d already be dead,’ Lauren retorted. ‘Heck, I’ll take rearguard.’

  He glanced at her, querying such wisdom.

  She shrugged. ‘It’s the only way to stop the pursuit. Whatever this idiot knows, it’s obviously vital. That means you’ve got to get him away from here. The next station, you two just go for it — I’ll cover your backs.’

  Heck was far from comfortable with this, but the idea made sense in a risky kind of way. They were either being utterly paranoid here, or a team genuinely was tailing them. Either way, the only solution was to engineer a confrontation.

  They pulled slowly into Stockwell station.

  ‘Me and Blenkinsop will go straight across to the northbound, and double back,’ Heck said. ‘You’re absolutely sure about this?’

  She nodded. ‘Don’t wait for me. Just go, full speed.’

  Heck dug Deke’s phone from his pocket and called up its number. ‘Can you remember this?’

  She read it two or three times.

  ‘It’s the only point of contact we’ll have,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all we’ll need,’ she replied.

  ‘Call me as soon as you’re clear.’

  She nodded.

  The doors slid open, and Heck pushed Blenkinsop out. They headed up the nearest tunnel, which led straight to the northbound platform. It was arched and narrow, and most of its cream tiles were in the process of being replaced, which left much exposed brick and loose plaster. The only light came from temporary bulbs strung along the ceiling. They swung in the warm breeze, throwing shadows back and forth. The northbound was twenty yards ahead — as they approached it a train glided in. Heck grabbed Blenkinsop by the back of the collar and propelled him forward so that soon they were running.

  Behind them, Lauren waited alone on the southbound. She peered down the length of the train, which was pulling out again. A couple of people had disembarked further along — an elderly Jewish man, who went straight up the exit staircase, and a short, bullish figure wearing desert fatigues. This latter now ambled towards her, hands in his pockets. He was thickset, with a broad, powerful neck. His hair was cut very short, his face tanned, brutish.

  She waited for him. There was still a chance he was an ordinary commuter. But he came straight on, staring at her with such intensity that he might have been seeing through her. When he was five yards away, he took his hands from his pockets — she saw the tattoos on the inside of each wrist. They were black scorpions.

  Lauren went for the pocket containing the Glock — only for a hand to tap her shoulder.

  She spun around, shocked. She’d been so mesmerised by the approach of the first man that she hadn’t thought to check the two or three carriages behind her. The tall black guy with the pearl earring was there. He smiled at her, the teeth bright in his handsome face. He presented his clenched fist — almost as if he was showing it to her, as if it was something he wanted to sell. It was wrapped in a gold-plated knuckleduster. Lauren made a kick for his groin, but he dodged and she only caught him on the thigh. At which point she was hit in the back of the neck, so hard that nausea engulfed her. She’d convulsed into unconsciousness before she’d even hit the floor.

  Heck and Blenkinsop travelled up the Northern Line to Leicester Square, before ascending to the surface. They still didn’t know if they were being followed, but Heck was now thinking that, with an organised pursuit like this, only the teeming multitudes of the West End could provide an adequate shield. They gulped fresh air as they finally emerged from London’s guts — at which point Deke’s phone trilled.

  Heck snatched it from his pocket and answered. ‘Lauren?’

  ‘I like your style,’ said a soft, gloating voice. ‘Letting a woman do the fighting.’

  ‘You bastards,’ Heck breathed.

  ‘It was a novel plan, but,’ and the voice chuckled, ‘just in case you were wondering … it didn’t work.’

  ‘I’ll get you, I swear it.’


  ‘Gonna send another woman to take care of that for you?’

  ‘I know all about you now.’

  ‘Not as much as we know about you. Or rather … as much as we’ll shortly know. You see, that’s what we do, Detective Sergeant Heckenburg. We find out about people. We make it our business to know them better than they know themselves. So very soon — courtesy of this gift you’ve left us — we’re going to know all your strengths and all your weaknesses. Especially your weaknesses.’

  The voice chuckled again, and hung up.

  Heck had this conversation on the corner of Lisle Street.

  Stiffly, like an automaton, he now pocketed the phone, turned to Blenkinsop, grabbed him, twisted his arm behind his back and frog-marched him to the edge of the pavement. Blenkinsop choked with pain and struggled wildly, but, though he wasn’t a small man, he was helpless in Heck’s street-toughened grasp.

  ‘You’re going to talk to me,’ Heck said. ‘You’re going to tell me everything. Or you’ve got a date with this double-decker.’

  He nodded towards a bus picking up speed as it bore down Charing Cross Road towards them.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ Blenkinsop screamed. ‘Someone help me, please!’

  But the West End crowds, as was their way, only scurried around the bizarre scene, interested to watch it but more interested to mind their own business.

  The bus crashed over a manhole lid. It was twenty yards away and pushing forty.

  ‘You think I’m not serious!’ Heck shouted, shoving Blenkinsop over the kerb and across the first carriageway.

  The bus was almost upon them, the driver staring in amazement, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stop in time.

  ‘YOU THINK I’M NOT FUCKING SERIOUS!’

  Chapter 39

  ‘It’s a rape club,’ Blenkinsop told Heck. ‘The Nice Guys are a criminal gang who organise rapes for money.’

  They were facing each other across a table in the crowded back room of a Covent Garden pub. Both were sallow-faced and nursing treble-whiskies.

  ‘Say that again,’ Heck whispered.

  Blenkinsop, globs of sweat clinging to his brow, stammered out everything he knew: about how the Nice Guys first made contact with him; about how he’d paid them to procure Louise Jennings for him; about how he’d then raped her while she’d lain unconscious. Heck had paled to a deathly milk-grey by the time the story was finished.

  ‘And afterwards? What happened then?’

  ‘They killed her.’ Blenkinsop took a long slurp of whisky, his eyes downcast. ‘Put a wire round her neck … and garrotted her with it.’

  Heck paled even more. ‘You witnessed this?’

  ‘God forgive me … yes.’

  ‘And you didn’t do anything?’

  Blenkinsop’s gaze flirted up. ‘Are you kidding? You haven’t seen these fellas. I was fucking terrified …’

  Heck leaned quickly forward. ‘Well … the law may understand that. But it’s not going to understand why you didn’t go straight to the police afterwards, you stupid fuck!’

  ‘After what I’d just done? I was as much part of it as they were!’

  ‘Are you genuinely telling me this is their full-time business?’

  Blenkinsop shrugged, helpless. ‘I assume so … it must be. They’re totally professional. I mean, everything about them … they had masks on, so I never saw faces. They were so organised. They give you this guarantee beforehand that nothing’s going to come back to you, that you’ll never hear about the incident again …’

  ‘What … you thought they’d pay her off, or something?’ Heck said scornfully.

  By the expression on the banker’s face, this was exactly what he’d thought.

  Heck shook his head. ‘You seriously believed a professional woman like Louise Jennings could get kidnapped and raped and never mention it to anyone just because she’d been bribed to keep her mouth shut? Can you just buy anything in your world, Ian? What did you think, that you’d see Louise every day at work afterwards and she’d never bat an eyelid because the Nice Guys had made it worth her while? Are you bloody stupid, or what!’

  ‘I don’t know what I thought … maybe something like that, maybe that they’d put the fear of God into her, maybe a bit of both. It’s carrot and stick, isn’t it? That’s the way you get people to comply. Look, whatever … they guarantee it won’t mess your life up, and they’re so efficient you believe them!’

  ‘Mess your life up?’ Heck had to struggle to regain his breath. ‘Jesus Christ, I’ve come across some things in this job … I don’t know what sickens me more, the fact that they actually do it, or that there are enough callous bastards out there like you for them to make it pay!’

  ‘Look,’ Blenkinsop pleaded. ‘I genuinely didn’t think it would end like that. I feel terrible about it.’

  ‘Some consolation that’ll be to the Jennings family.’

  ‘I’m an idiot, I accept that.’ Blenkinsop swilled more whisky. ‘But I’m not evil. Look … when I first saw their website, I didn’t even think they were serious. I got in touch with them to see if it was real, and then it was just too late to stop.’

  ‘It’s never too late to stop.’

  ‘I lost control, alright? Look … I really, really fancied Louise. I knew I wouldn’t have a chance to get near her any other way. So I did it. Okay, I didn’t think about her or the consequences, and I know that’s wrong, but I just had to fucking have her …’

  ‘That’s going to sound great in court, Ian. You’re really going to win the judge over with that argument.’

  Blenkinsop hung his head. ‘I just … I just want things to be back to normal again, back the way they were before.’

  ‘The way they were before?’ Of all the things Heck had heard today, this was the peach. ‘Ian, we’re talking kidnap, rape and murder here! So that’s three life sentences you’re facing before we even consider the other women!’

  Blenkinsop’s mouth dropped open. ‘The other women? But I didn’t have anything to do with those.’

  ‘Not taking action to shop these men makes you their accomplice.’

  ‘That’s insane.’

  ‘That’s the law.’

  ‘I … but I …’ Blenkinsop looked as if he was going to be sick; he frantically drained his glass. ‘Some kind of witness protection, or … if I testify. I mean, I can’t face …’

  ‘The only way we can even contemplate that is if you give me something concrete I can use against the Nice Guys.’

  ‘I’ve told you all I know.’

  This was at least partly true. Heck knew that Blenkinsop’s use as a material witness would be limited, even though he’d been present at one of the murders. The same applied to all the others whose personal files resided in that filing cabinet in Deke’s house. Every one of them would have been subjected to the same blindfold treatment.

  ‘How the hell did they get in touch with you in the first place?’

  ‘I told you … they dropped me a card.’

  ‘What, they just pulled your name off a list of porn subscribers? At random? Sounds a bit risky.’

  ‘Not any old list. Somehow or other they know I’ve got money.’

  Heck leaned forward again. ‘It isn’t just about the money, you prat! Not every rich man will indulge in a spot of sexual homicide if he thinks he can get away with it. The Nice Guys will realise that even if you don’t.’

  Blenkinsop shook his head. ‘You’ve got me so wrong …’

  ‘They didn’t, did they!’ Heck’s thoughts were racing. ‘They must pick their prospective clients carefully. There must be something that drew their attention specifically to you.’

  ‘I don’t know …’ Blenkinsop’s brow creased as he pondered. ‘There’s … there’s one possible thing. Only occurred to me this morning. I mean, it’s a long shot …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I go abroad a lot. For the bank, you know.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘All over the
Middle East and North Africa. I’m a director in structured commodity finance. I have to tap up some pretty important people.’

  ‘Very impressive. And what else do you get up to over there? Come on, Ian, you’re obviously dying to tell me …’

  Blenkinsop mopped fresh sweat from his brow. If it was possible, he looked even more embarrassed than he had when admitting his involvement in a rape-murder. ‘There are all kinds of services you can obtain in those countries which are not … well, not widely available over here.’

  ‘And what’s your preference, I wonder?’

  ‘I like a bit of the rough stuff.’

  ‘Well, we’ve already established that, haven’t we? You’re a fucking rapist.’

  ‘No!’ Blenkinsop half-shouted. ‘No, it’s not rape … not over there. It’s consensual. They get paid for it.’

  ‘Yeah … probably in peanuts.’

  ‘That’s not my fault. It’s their living, and it’s their choice.’

  ‘And are any of these girls actually old enough to have made this choice responsibly?’

  ‘Some of them, yeah.’

  ‘Some of them!’

  ‘Look …’ Blenkinsop pointed a shaking finger. ‘I didn’t create the culture of corruption they have in these countries. You know what the Third World sex game’s like. Some girls look older than they are. Some look younger. No one cares about it. No one ever asks. I didn’t either.’

  ‘You’re a real stand-up bloke, Ian. I can’t imagine why the Nice Guys homed in on you. Course … none of this explains how they knew about these predilections of yours, does it?’

  Blenkinsop pawed at his sweaty brow. ‘I was thinking. . the Nice Guys … they’re so competent, so organised. I could be wrong, but … there’s something a bit military about them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, whenever we go abroad … I mean on company business, we use security consultants to put us in touch with bodyguards over there. We have to. Some of these places are pretty dangerous, you need escorting everywhere.’

  ‘Bodyguards?’ Heck said slowly.

  ‘Mercenaries … for want of a better term.’

  ‘Or for want of an even better one, sex-slavers. Is that what you’re saying?’