by Paul Finch
‘Says who?’ Ship asked. ‘You? Just coz you got your itsy bitsy face mucked up.’
‘Is the code.’
‘Not round here.’
Nayka’s angry face twisted further. ‘You let him speak you like that … some pigshit cop? You let him shame you in front your bratva?’
Ship sat back. ‘Far as I could see, Nayk, he was tipping us some kind of wink.’
‘Chto za hoy! One of your dogs died.’
‘Our dogs die all the time, usually in the ring. Am I supposed to cry?’
‘Tony Kemp get hurt.’
Ship eyed him, amused. ‘Tony Kemp fucked up. As did you. You were supposed to bring Heckenburg back here. Not the other way round.’
‘Vic! This son-bitch cop one of Shaughnessy’s rats?’
Ship glanced at Cornish. ‘What do you think?’
The fixer shrugged. ‘If he is part of their crew, why didn’t the rest of them come with him? Start shooting, turn their flamethrower on the whole lot of us?’
Nayka glanced from one to the other, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘You say Shaughnessy not behind this … just because he not come here?’
Cornish stood up. ‘Whoever’s doing this is fucking nuts. Shaughnessy’s crew are a bunch of psychotic kids. They might fit the bill, but … I dunno, shouldn’t tonight have given them an opportunity they couldn’t miss?’ He shrugged again. ‘Their pet cop follows our team here … he finds a lot of us all in the same place. He’s got a phone, guns. Why are we still alive?’
‘That copper really strike you as the sort who’d hang out with a bunch of nutty kids?’ Ship wondered.
‘Hard to tell,’ Cornish said. ‘He’s got balls, I’ll say that for him.’
‘We send them to his family in fucking parcel post,’ Nayka snapped.
‘What exactly do we know about him?’ Ship asked.
Cornish consulted his iPad again. ‘Thus far, name and rank. I can look him up though.’
Ship shook his head. ‘Save that for later.’
‘Later?’ Nayka said. ‘Nothing? No payback?’
Ship stood up. ‘You need to understand something, Nayk … in Britain we don’t kill coppers. Not unless the situation’s very extreme.’
‘And what this – fight in schoolyard?’
‘We need to consider what Heckenburg told us. As you know, I was already halfway there myself. Those two goons of Shaughnessy’s should’ve talked under that much torture … we have to assume there was nothing they could tell us. That’s why I’m not engaging in World War Three. At least not yet. This Incinerator bastard may have nothing to do with Lee Shaughnessy.’
Nayka shook his head. Fresh blood trickled down his cheek. ‘Vic – you no ignore this!’
‘You need to relax more,’ Ship said. ‘Al, we can’t use this place any more. Put the word out.’
Cornish nodded.
‘How this make you look in St Petersburg?’ Nayka asked them. ‘You really kind of guy we do business with?’
Ship had been about to leave – Cornish was holding the office door open for him – but now he turned slowly around.
‘Putin lean on my people,’ Nayka said. ‘Russia not so good for men like us. We need new place. We come here, we could make your life very good … or very bad.’
Ship half-smiled. ‘Are you actually threatening me?’
‘Njet. But is fact, my friend.’ Nayka gave that now familiar but never less than unnerving toothy grin of his. ‘I here to watch you work, how you say – assess. See if you be good friend or easy foe. What you want me to tell, uh?’
Ship’s smile faded. ‘The beast from the east shows his claws at last … and very nasty they are too.’
Cornish closed the door again.
Nayka’s grin broadened. ‘You think to send me home in box. But not cop. How that look?’
Ship regarded him. They weren’t over a barrel with these Russians. They had options, but the crime scene in the UK was changing rapidly. Even the oldest and most deeply rooted firms had to change too, had to evolve if they wanted to survive.
‘I don’t deny that what that bastard Heckenburg did tonight was a right liberty,’ Ship said. ‘Whether he helped us out or not, you’re right, Nayka – he cheeked me. But this isn’t Russia, and we play a bit nicer than you lot do. And if you boys are going to move over here, you’re going to have to play it nicer too. You know why? Because if you think Vladimir Putin’s a rough customer, you haven’t met the Greater Manchester Police. However, yeah … Heckenburg got in my face tonight. And never once did I intend that he was just going to walk away from that. But this is a cop, not some smackhead who owes us a few bob. So we’re not going to cowboy this fucking thing, and I’m not getting involved personally. Nor is anyone else on my network.’
Nayka groaned. ‘Not this fucking freelancer again.’
‘He’s good,’ Ship retorted.
Nayka threw his arms out. ‘Me, I good too. I do it! Say word!’
‘Are you serious?’ Ship asked him. ‘After tonight, they’ll have an all points from here to Land’s End on a dickhead with a Russian accent whose collection of tats stands out even in this age of rebels without causes. No, the job will get done – on my orders, at some point, when the time is right. Not just Heckenburg, but Shaughnessy too. He’s the one who’s really got it coming, because even if he’s not behind these murders, he’s taken what’s ours, and that can never be. So rest assured, it’ll be nasty and messy and horrible enough even for you and the rest of your bloodthirsty rabble over there in the land that time forgot. But as far as the world’s concerned – we’ll be squeaky clean from start to finish.’
Chapter 25
It was almost two in the morning when Heck finally got back to Bradburn.
He’d initially had no clue where he was headed, but gradually his frazzled nerves calmed and his stomach settled. He’d noticed that he was progressing south through Levenshulme and into Heaton Chapel. From here, it was a simple matter of continuing towards the M60, and then following it north again in a clockwise direction.
His first port of call on returning was the town centre side-street where he’d left his Megane. He parked behind it, reclaimed the two firearms from the footwell, tucked them under his jacket and climbed out. The Audi soft-top, which might have cost thirty grand new, was in pretty poor condition, particularly at the rear where it had lost its bumper bar and the bodywork was crumpled. In addition, the bonnet was scored by claw-marks and it would need a new roof. Big deal. Someone would eventually report it as a knocker, the official owner – Ship, or one of his crew – would be informed, and they’d have to arrange for collection and repair. But that was their problem now.
Heck trudged across Westgate Street. There was no one else around. Every bar and club was closed, not so much as a winking on-and-off neon sign to light his way back to the mouth of the alley he’d run along previously. When he walked down there again, the rusted gate still hung open. He entered the pitch-black yard. He slipped Kemp’s phone from his pocket, tapped in his own number and was rewarded by a flashing blue/green pattern in the farthest corner. A sharp electronic buzzing followed.
Heck retrieved his phone, switched Kemp’s off and traipsed tiredly back to his Megane. He climbed in, turned Kemp’s phone off and threw it into his glovebox, and then waited while the interior of the car warmed up. His breath formed a cloud on the inside of the windscreen. He scrubbed it away with the elbow of his jacket, and glanced down at himself. Given the state of his torn and dirty suit, it looked as if he’d be in casuals from tomorrow. Only now, hours later, was he feeling the extent of his physical efforts, his limbs leaden, his joints aching and stiff. He likely had bruises where he didn’t even know he had body-parts.
Wearily, he stripped his tie off and speed-dialled Eric Fisher. It switched immediately to voicemail – hardly surprising at this hour of the morning.
‘Eric, it’s me,’ Heck said. ‘Sorry for calling this late, but
glad I’ve not woken you. Here’s a job for first thing tomorrow morning. I need you to get onto Interpol. Find out anything you can about a Russian mobster called Nayka. That’s all I’ve got on him, I’m afraid, apart from the fact he’s covered all over in spider-web tattoos … get me chapter and verse, if you can, yeah?’
He cut the call, slid his keys into the ignition and brought his vehicle to life.
The drive across town was less complex than usual owing to the absence of traffic – it was now the early hours of Monday morning, so Heck reached his destination swiftly. As he pulled up and parked, his phone began buzzing. Assuming it would be Eric Fisher, who possibly had been woken after all, he put it to his ear, another apology forming on his lips.
‘Heck – what the hell’s going on?’ Gemma asked. She sounded as tired as he felt.
‘Oh, ma’am …’ he said, surprised. ‘Everything all right?’
‘No, it bloody well isn’t! Of course it bloody isn’t! I’ve been trying to get you for the last five minutes. First you don’t answer your own phone, and there’s no answer on that last one you called me from –’
‘Ah, yeah … no one on that line now. Sorry, ma’am, didn’t expect you to call at this hour.’
‘What’s this crap about you going off to Manchester for a meeting with Vic Ship?’
‘I tried to give you a call at the time, to explain,’ he said.
‘Yeah, well, I’ve been busy. MIRWeb video conference with Joe Wullerton. All bloody night. So I’ve literally only just got your messages.’
‘It’s OK. If you were about to send the cavalry to look for me, there’s no need.’
‘Well, that’s good news, I suppose.’ She sounded genuinely relieved, if still a little cross. ‘That would’ve been my next call. So what’s actually been going on? And just the facts if you don’t mind, not the usual embroidery.’
‘It was a bit naughty of me, I admit –’
‘No kidding!’
‘– but an opportunity came my way and I had to take it.’
Her brief silence implied her usual disapproval of such recklessness. ‘So you did go to see Ship?’
‘Kind of.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Heck … did you or didn’t you?’
‘I met him, yeah.’
The silence lingered for so long that Heck thought she’d cut the call.
‘And you’re still in one piece?’ she finally asked.
‘Nearly got turned into dog-chow. That wouldn’t have been much fun.’
‘What happened?’
‘I can forward you the details later, but that address I gave you, that soap-making place – I suspect it gets used for dog-fighting, at the very least. We could do with tipping off GMP Longsight, even if we do it anonymously.’
‘Are you in a secure position now?’
‘Suppose so. I’m in the car park outside your B&B.’
‘What?’ She sounded genuinely startled.
‘You’re in The Blackwood Arms, yeah?’
‘Yeah. What’re you doing here?’
Heck glanced up, and saw a curtain twitch back in one of the pub’s first-floor windows.
‘I’m not totally sure.’ It was as honest an answer as he could give at that moment. He wasn’t exactly agog with tiredness, but he was bone-weary. Even as he tried to ponder the situation, his thinking became steadily fuzzier – probably as much through shock as fatigue. ‘Erm … but I know I didn’t want to do this over the phone.’
She said nothing.
‘Can I come up? Oh – unless you’re not alone, of course.’
‘Wait there.’ She sounded even more irritable than usual. ‘I’ll come down and let you in.’
The Blackwood Arms was a typical town centre Bradburn pub: tall and narrow, built from basic red brick, in every sense an industrial-age structure. The door connecting to its upper rooms was located at the back, facing the cinder car park where Heck was waiting. It opened and Gemma stood there, blonde hair fetchingly tousled, wearing a short, front-tied dressing gown covered in Japanese dragons.
‘Hurry up, it’s cold,’ she said testily.
He walked in, and she shooed him up a steep, narrow, unlit stairway.
‘Before you start shouting, you might as well know the whole story,’ he said, on entering her room, which, unlike the pub’s functional exterior, was rather cosy: a plush carpet, an armchair at the writing desk, a double-sized bed with a plump eiderdown on it. ‘It’s not just Ship. I’ve had a meeting with Lee Shaughnessy too.’
Gemma gazed at him askance as she closed the bedroom door behind them, though this was mainly because only now, in the rosy glow of the bedside light, had she noticed his dirt-encrusted hands and ripped and oily clothing, not to mention the spatters of blood down the front of his shirt. It was several seconds before she actually realised what he’d just said.
‘Sorry … you spoke to Shaughnessy as well?’
‘Yeah.’ He picked up the kettle. ‘On Saturday.’
‘Saturday!’ she exclaimed. ‘That was the day before yesterday. When were you planning to log it? Except, wait – don’t answer that question. It would have been when you’d got round to it, wouldn’t it … when you’d stopped sulking about me taking you off Sagan?’
Heck shrugged. ‘It’s only one day late, ma’am – and we’ve all been busy. Can I have a brew, by the way?’
‘What?’
‘I’m running on empty here.’ He took the kettle through to the en suite bathroom and filled it and, on returning, sorted himself out a mug and a teabag. ‘Do you want one?’
‘Heck!’
‘Thing is … I think there’s more going on here than a straightforward underworld war. No one else does, so it fell to me to chuck some bread on the water. If we get nothing out of it, fine … it’s no big deal, surely?’
She watched him, flabbergasted, perhaps wondering if he wasn’t all here. Heck wondered that himself. He brushed a hand through his damp, tangled hair. Very close calls sometimes had that effect on you: shook you up, blunted your inhibitions, left you feeling a little bit crazy.
‘So you spoke to both Ship and Shaughnessy,’ she said patiently. ‘And let me guess – they’ve denied killing each other’s men? Well, there’s a switch.’
‘No … it is a war.’ He poured the boiling water. ‘But there are question-marks. Ship regards Shaughnessy as the shit on his shoes, and Shaughnessy hates him right back … but both seem, I don’t know, surprised that all this has happened. To Ship, Shaughnessy’s a pipsqueak who would never dare start something like this. He even sent a crew over to nab me, so they could find out exactly what the score is. Meanwhile, Shaughnessy’s trying to be cool about it, like, you know, he doesn’t care, he’s not scared, he’ll fight anyone. But I’m not so sure about that. He’s a player but he’s young, and his lieutenants are even younger. I’ve looked some of them up on the system, and two years ago they were selling weed on the backstreets. Strictly small-time. Not the sort you’d expect to be challenging empires with flamethrower in hand.’
‘So what are you saying – someone else is stirring the pot?’
‘Well, they’ve stirred it now, haven’t they?’ He slumped into the armchair, tea in hand, and slurped some. ‘Got a life of its own now. It’s going to run and run … but basically, yeah. Someone – whoever the Incinerator is, I suspect – has engineered this gangster war.’ He slurped again, desperate to replenish lost reserves of fluid and sugar. ‘I considered the possibility of a vigilante – but seriously, how many private citizens in Bradburn know enough about the underworld to take this kind of direct action, let alone would have the wherewithal? I mean, a flamethrower! That’s heavy. And how would a vigilante feel about collateral damage? Because the Incinerator’s caused an awful lot of that so far. Most likely it’s some kind of underworld malcontent. You know, someone deliberately trying to create discord –’
‘Heck!’ she said sharply, cutting through the meandering ramble. ‘What exactly
did you talk to them about, Ship and Shaughnessy?’
He glanced at her, confused. ‘Erm … this.’
‘This?’
‘Yeah – what I’ve just said. I told them that both their operations are being stalked by a third party, and that it would be in both their interests to find out who.’
Gemma looked aghast. ‘So you’ve basically given them a licence to break some legs?’
‘They’re going to do that anyway, aren’t they? They’re going to take a hard look at everyone they’ve ever pissed off, and that’ll be a pretty long list on both sides of the divide. But if we can actually stop them engaging in open war, we must. Otherwise, we’ll have more and more murders to investigate, more and more suspects, and that’ll cloud any waters that John Sagan happens to be swimming in. Oh, by the way … he’s definitely here.’ Heck finished his tea in a gulp and put the mug down. ‘One of Ship’s goons confirmed it over at Longsight.’
Gemma found herself having to sit down on the bed.
He eyed her, briefly distracted by her bare, toned legs, her red-painted toenails.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Quite a bit to drop in your lap at this hour in the morning.’
She visibly shuddered, and then stood up again and walked to the tea-making table. Instead of getting herself a cuppa, however, she took a small bottle of scotch from the top drawer, and tipped at least three fingers into a glass.
‘Ship’s as verminous as they come,’ Heck said. ‘His normal team are tough enough. But he’s got some very nasty Russians on board too. I know, I met them tonight. I’m thinking they’ve bribed their way in by offering him a shedload of cheap fentanyl –’
‘Heck, just stop!’ She rounded on him, glass in hand. ‘One thing at a time, for God’s sake.’
‘I can’t prove that by the way – about the fentanyl. It’s just a theory –’
‘Yes, all right!’ She knocked at least one finger back and stalked across the room.
‘Probably a good theory, though,’ he said.
‘Of course it is. Why not? Fentanyl! Hooray, that’ll be the next scourge to hit the streets! But we can’t solve all the world’s problems in one night, can we!’ She turned to face him, looking badly flustered as she reappraised his damaged clothing, the dirt, the blood. ‘Just tell me – did you yourself do anything during this trip to Manchester that I need to be worried about?’