The Burning Man

by Paul Finch

  Hayes and Heck hung behind until everyone else had gone.

  ‘I think we’re making insufficient progress here because we’re spreading ourselves too thinly,’ Gemma said. ‘In trying to concentrate on both underworld factions at the same time, we’re getting nowhere. As from today, and I’ll formalise all this in the briefing, I’m forming two separate investigation teams. One to focus on the landfill murders –’

  ‘You mean the crimes we’re assuming are John Sagan’s?’ Heck interrupted, already suspecting that he knew where this was going.

  ‘Correct. And the other to focus on the Incinerator.’ Gemma headed away down the corridor towards a door marked LADIES. ‘Katie, you’re DSIO Incinerator,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Heck, you’re with her.’

  ‘Ma’am!’ Heck said, but the toilet door swung closed behind her.

  He turned to Hayes but, clearly pleased with what she’d just heard, she strolled cheerfully into the MIR, leaving him alone in the corridor. Unable to help himself, he barged into the Ladies, without knocking.

  Gemma was bent over a basin, dabbing her face with cold water. She glanced at him in the mirror, startled. ‘And what the devil do you think you’re doing now?’

  ‘Ma’am, John Sagan is SCU’s priority,’ he said. ‘Why not just give the Incinerator to GMP?’

  She turned to face him, drying her hands on a paper towel. ‘I’m dividing resources as best I can.’ She spoke slowly but dangerously. ‘The Incinerator has accounted for five lives already, and Sagan – if it is Sagan – only for two. Now you tell me which needs greater emphasis? Not that I need to explain myself to you.’

  She screwed the towel up and threw it into a bin.

  ‘Actually I think you do need to explain it to me.’

  Again, she looked startled.

  ‘If what you’re saying is you need to focus more energy on the Incinerator killings, fine,’ he said. ‘I concur. But why does that need to include me? John Sagan is my case.’

  ‘There is no mine, ours or yours in criminal investigation, Heck. How many times have I had to tell you that?’

  ‘DI Hayes seems more than capable. She’ll catch the Incinerator. Let me go after Sagan.’

  ‘DI Hayes is from South Manchester. She’s not a Bradburn girl. In fact, you are the only specialist investigator in the entire taskforce with local knowledge. That means the higher of the two priorities needs you working on it.’

  Hoping she’d made things clear, she moved to the door.

  ‘I bet Gibbshaw’s still on Sagan, though, isn’t he?’ Heck said.

  When she turned this time, her blue eyes smouldered. ‘Did you not hear a word I just said?’

  ‘I bet he’s DSIO Sagan? Is that bloody right?’

  She jabbed a furious finger into his face. ‘You hit me one more time with that tone, Sergeant, and I swear – I’ll kick you back to London so fast the g-force’ll kill you.’

  ‘Gemma, just promise me that this is not political,’ he said. ‘I mean, I accept that Gibbshaw has to be on this investigation because he’s Organised Crime Division. I can even accept that he needs to be there for the Sagan takedown. But please don’t tell me that the deal also involved me being pushed sideways.’

  ‘Sideways?’

  ‘I get it that because I was there when Reg Cowling died and didn’t manage to save him, it’s given OC a get-out clause, has allowed them to perform just enough mental acrobatics to convince themselves that part of the blame for this lies elsewhere … but please don’t tell me you’re giving that crap some respectability by paying lip-service to it.’

  ‘Heck …’ She made an effort to steady her voice. ‘We came up here to catch a professional murderer, only to find that we are dealing with at least two, one of whom is significantly more active than the other. I don’t know why Sagan’s keeping a low profile or for how long he will, assuming it is Sagan –’

  ‘You don’t need to keep saying that.’

  ‘I will keep saying it, Heck, until we know for an indisputable fact that Sagan is here. And that’s something else you need to think about. If I hadn’t taken this whole case on, we’d be up here now team-handed for no obvious reason. And how long do you think Joe Wullerton would have tolerated that? The main point is that this Incinerator character is running around Bradburn, your hometown, lighting people up like Roman candles. Now, bad guys or not, you tell me if that’s not an SCU case … that it wouldn’t normally have you salivating?’

  He couldn’t really respond to that, so she moved to the door.

  ‘And if DI Hayes and I just happen to turn something up that leads us to Sagan instead of the Incinerator?’ he wondered.

  ‘Share it with me and Gibbshaw,’ she said, exasperated. ‘Or, if the situation allows, lock him up yourself. It’s not a Goddamned competition.’

  ‘Ma’am …’

  She looked back at him again as she opened the door, but her face was set, her expression fixed, her decision made – she was beyond determined to go ahead with this plan.

  He was about to say: ‘This is a personal favour I’m asking for, ma’am, and perhaps that’s out of order. But I don’t see how it could really mess things up. You know I can help you catch Sagan; I’m the one who first discovered his existence. It makes perfect sense to use me – does the politics of the job override all that?’

  But he didn’t. Because she surely ought to know that by now.

  She shrugged, waiting impatiently.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Right. Well, come through to the briefing, please. We’ve wasted enough time already.’

  He followed her out onto the corridor, where Hayes had reappeared from the MIR. Gemma pushed past her as she went into the office. Hayes glanced quizzically at the door to the Ladies, from which they’d both just emerged, and then at Heck.

  ‘You and her really have got something special, haven’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Not any more,’ he replied.

  Chapter 20

  Hi Mark

  I gave you my number a few days ago, but you never called. However, I’m not reading anything into that. I know you’re likely to be pretty busy at the moment. To be honest, I shudder when I think of the work you must be engaged in at present. But let’s not talk shop, eh?

  I’m rather glad you weren’t in when I called at Dana’s house earlier today, because I’m not sure I’d have the guts to do this face to face. That’s why I’d prepared this note in advance. Basically … when I saw you the other night, for the first time in I don’t know how long, something leaped inside me. I know that sounds melodramatic, but it’s completely true. We were close once – more than close actually, and when we stopped seeing each other, we remained friends, didn’t we? Good friends. From my own point of view, Mark, I’ve always felt I had a kind of kinship with you. Something much stronger than the norm. And just seeing you walk into the pub the way you did, and to see that you’d changed so little, that you were still more or less the Mark I remembered – it was an absolute flashback to a much happier time in my life.

  I know things have been rough for you, Mark. Father Pat’s filled me in on all the details since we last spoke, and it’s actually quite appalling the way you were treated. I’m not sure if this is an opportune time to mention it, but things have been pretty messy for me as well. It’s astonishing the way you don’t see horrible things creeping up on you, isn’t it, and then the way they suddenly change your life in the most shocking and irreversible way?

  What I’m trying to say with all this is that we were kindred spirits in the long ago past, Mark … and perhaps we could be kindred spirits again?

  Please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t know what your current ‘situation’ is. So I’m not asking you out or proposing a date or anything so crass. But I wouldn’t at all mind reviving our relationship if that’s possible, just to see where we stand.

  I’m sorry if this sounds terribly bold and forward of me, but
I’ve learned in recent years that you can’t hang around and wait for good things to happen. They invariably don’t. Bad things happen instead. If you want the good stuff, you’ve got to go looking for it, and there’s never any time like the present.

  Feel free not to reply to this message. I didn’t intend to embarrass you by writing it, and I assure you I will not be offended if that’s what you choose. But if you fancy hooking up for a bit of a chinwag, some fond reminiscence about the good times, I’ll be in ‘Eight Till Late’ (which is on King’s Parade) tomorrow night, between seven-thirty and nine.

  I’d love to see you there.

  XXX

  Kayla

  Heck read the letter one more time before shoving it into his pocket and sauntering into the glitzy bar.

  It had been waiting for him on the doormat when he’d returned to Dana’s house the previous evening. His initial thought might once have been to avoid any such further contact like the plague. He was up here in Bradburn to work, not play; that day alone he’d officially been off duty, but had spent it voluntarily sitting in the MIR, ploughing through witness statements for anything they might have missed. Anything to get the case closed quickly and get the hell away. But then, of all his memories connected with this town, Kayla was one of the brightest. On top of that, Heck was as red-blooded as the next man, and it was quite some time since he’d had any meaningful female contact. His long-ago relationship with Gemma had left its mark on him, but his unspoken desire for her now was almost exclusively physical – he felt increasingly distanced from her in emotional terms, simply because their mutual commitment to the job constantly put barriers between them. It hardly felt disloyal to occasionally look elsewhere.

  It could also be pretty rewarding.

  Kayla looked amazing that evening in a green wrap dress and heels, a colour scheme that perfectly matched her violet eyes and raven locks. By comparison, Heck felt a little self-conscious in the same suit, shirt and tie that he’d been wearing on the job. Not having expected any social activity, he hadn’t come up here with a full suitcase.

  She was perched on a high stool next to the bar, and greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. She was drinking a champagne cocktail and offered him one, but he said he’d prefer a light ale.

  The Eight Till Late had the lure of a jazz club, but without the actual jazz: all grainy hardwood surfaces, low-key lighting, low beams, low tables and low sofas exclusively of the plush and crumpled variety. It was divided into numerous rooms, each with its own crackling fireplace, and, this being a Sunday night, it wasn’t especially busy.

  Once served, the twosome moved away from the bar and found themselves an alcove in a corner, a dimly lit recess, where they settled side by side on a springy couch.

  ‘So I hear you started in the Greater Manchester Police, but somehow ended up transferring to London,’ Kayla said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Heck replied. ‘I joined GMP in 1995, when I was eighteen. In that regard I’m probably the last of an ancient breed. No one so young could ever join the cops these days.’

  ‘They must’ve seen something in you they liked.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ Heck sipped his beer. ‘They knew about the miscarriage of justice involving Tom. That had only happened three years earlier. Even though the family had received a big compensation package, I think they felt honour-bound to take me. Would’ve looked bad if they’d rejected my application out of hand.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ she said. ‘They might have seen a young man driven to put the world right.’

  ‘That’s certainly the way I saw myself. A view that wasn’t shared by Mum and Dad … as Uncle Pat’s told you.’

  ‘Well … yeah.’ She sat back, lipstick glinting in the moody lighting.

  ‘They made my life a total misery.’

  He took another sip, not entirely sure why he was telling her all this, but feeling strangely comfortable about it; back in the day, Kayla had been more than just a bit of fun – the problem was that, at the time, he’d possibly been too immature to recognise it.

  ‘I couldn’t really explain to them why I’d joined up,’ he said. ‘They wouldn’t have believed anything I said. Even though it was only a couple of bad-egg coppers who’d been involved in framing Tom, they blamed the entire institution. Folk do that when they’re in despair, don’t they? They strike out. Overnight I became persona non grata. Even Dana wouldn’t talk to me … at first. She only came round after I’d moved down to London, and she thought she was going to lose me too.’

  ‘And after you arrived in London it was all easy,’ Kayla said. And chuckled.

  He chuckled too. ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Like I said, your uncle’s already told me a lot about this. I’m sorry I pried. After I saw you the other night, I couldn’t resist it.’

  ‘I thought you’d have forgotten I existed by now.’

  ‘I sort of had.’ She signalled to the barmaid for a couple more drinks. ‘Don’t get me wrong, you were always there in the back of my mind. All my exes are there …’

  ‘I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.’

  ‘There’re a couple I’d like to forget totally,’ she said, sighing. ‘You remember Rick Toovey?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Heck said. ‘He was at school with us, wasn’t he? Tall guy, studious, reckoned he was destined for great things.’

  ‘Well, I married him.’

  ‘You married him?’ Heck didn’t mean to sound so startled.

  ‘I know.’ She pulled a face. ‘I thought he was destined for great things too.’

  ‘And I’m guessing he ended up not being?’

  ‘On the contrary. He’s now a senior consultant at Preston Royal.’

  The barmaid arrived with their next drinks.

  ‘So why am I talking to Kayla Green this evening?’ Heck asked, after she’d gone. ‘Why am I talking to you at all?’

  She sat back. ‘Rick was a great doctor. All his patients loved him. Apparently his bedside manner was utterly charming … especially if the patient was female.’ She frowned distantly, as though puzzling over something intangible. ‘I maybe wasn’t the best spouse myself. Perhaps I could have done more to win his affection.’ She sighed. ‘Whatever … whoever’s fault it was, in the end it didn’t work out.’

  ‘Well, that happens.’

  ‘He’s married again now. With kids.’ Her frown deepened, her brow creased. ‘That part of it may have been my fault … that I wasn’t able to give him little ones.’

  ‘Come on,’ Heck said. ‘Hardly your fault.’

  ‘Either way, it’s water under the bridge.’

  She made an effort to brighten, but her thoughts were still lost somewhere in the past.

  ‘Sorry to hear all that,’ Heck said, already having what he knew were selfish reservations about this meeting. He had plenty of baggage of his own without taking someone else’s on too. ‘Uncle Pat said you’d had a bad time recently.’

  ‘Oh …’ She tried to make light of it, to wave it away. ‘None of this was a long-lasting problem, if I’m honest. It was ten years ago. I reverted to my maiden name and threw myself into the business with Dad … and then he died too.’ As quickly as it had returned, her humour faded again; her eyes partially glazed. ‘So many people die, don’t they, Mark, just when you need them most.’ She peered at him, unblinking. ‘Jess died, you know.’

  ‘Your younger sister Jess?’

  ‘Who else?’

  Heck was genuinely surprised. Jess Green had been seven years Kayla’s junior. She wouldn’t have been much past thirty.

  ‘About two years ago,’ Kayla said. ‘There was no actual reason why it … Oh, sod it!’ She shook herself, forcing a smile. ‘Listen to the pair of us. How mawkish is this? We’ll end up crying in each other’s arms at this rate. Come on, change of subject, something cheerful! How’s the police business? Must be going well if you finished up at Scotland Yard?’

  ‘I’ve had a few good collars, I suppo
se.’

  ‘I’ll say. I may have forgotten you in the interim period, Mark, but when I saw all that stuff in the paper, it reminded me what a top bloke you are.’

  He smiled awkwardly. ‘I’m not sure about that. But, well, I’ve had some luck.’

  ‘Gimme the details. Come on, leave nothing out.’

  Heck actually spared Kayla many of the details, but he spoke a little about the more high-profile cases he’d been involved with in the last few years. Of course he only referred to aspects of these distressing enquiries that were already out in the public domain.

  Not that Kayla seemed in any way distressed.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘That’s what you call living.’

  ‘Never quite feels that way at the time,’ Heck replied.

  ‘Yeah, but look at the good you’re doing. Chasing these animals all over the country, and putting them in cages – where they belong.’

  Her eyes flashed as she said this, even in the lurid half-light. Her voice was hard with feeling. For the first time, Heck wondered how her sister Jess might have died.

  ‘There’re more than a few animals in Bradburn who need caging, aren’t there?’ she asked him, though it wasn’t really a question.

  ‘Well, things are rougher round here than I remember. Has this high-level crime been going on in town for a while?’

  She gave it some thought. ‘Not so the average guy on the street would notice, but there’ve been more and more addicts around every year. I mean, the church has tried to pick up some of those pieces. Father Pat runs a couple of counselling and rehab groups for local folk who’ve fallen through the cracks: alkies, druggies, prozzies. Usually all three at the same time. But this new thing that’s coming in, this fentanyl … that’s pretty disgusting by any standards.’

  Heck knew all about fentanyl. A synthetic high, about fifty times more potent than pure-grade heroin, vastly more addictive and responsible for many more fatalities, it had originally been used in hospitals and clinics as a strong anaesthetic, but was now in the hands of criminals – and it would make complete sense that it was causing problems here in Bradburn. Bulk orders for fentanyl were being met in Chinese laboratories and then being trafficked into Europe by the Russian mob. That could well be the trade-off that Vic Ship was getting for allowing the Tatarstan Brigade onto his turf: an inexhaustible supply of a very cheap-to-produce and hugely profitable new drug.