Hunted (Detective Mark Heckenburg Book 5)

by Paul Finch

  With a metallic click, a gun was cocked behind him.

  The streaked sweat down the middle of Heck’s back froze.

  ‘Okay, homeboy,’ said a quiet voice. ‘Just relax. The hands … spread ’em.’

  Heck made to turn.

  ‘Don’t look round! Hands!’

  Slowly, Heck lifted his hands.

  ‘Nice.’ Clearly, whoever was behind him had now seen the expensive pair of binoculars. ‘Drop.’

  Heck did so. The binoculars landed with a hefty clunk, which, in other circumstances, would have made him wince.

  ‘I’ll bet some once-proud owner’s still crying about them, eh?’ the voice said.

  Heck made no reply, but his heart was going nineteen to the dozen. He didn’t expect a bullet in the back – not if they weren’t sure who he was. But if he got hauled down to the Roost, it could turn nasty very quickly. They liked to kneecap their rivals as well, Angie Powers had told him, not to mention ‘pan-fry’ their faces in bubbling chip fat, while Julius Manko reportedly collected the fingers and thumbs of those who fell foul of his favourite machete.

  ‘Now you can turn round,’ the voice said. ‘Slowly … very fucking slowly. Keep those hands well in the air.’

  Heck pivoted to face his captor, who was a youngish guy, only in his early twenties, but by the looks of his slick black hair, dark colouring, and handsome, aquiline features was of Mediterranean descent. He was wearing grey joggers and a blue anorak, which hung open on a naked chest and flat, washboard stomach. The gun he held was a shiny black Glock 26. This was in his right hand. With his left, he gestured for Heck to keep his own hands raised. As he did, Heck glimpsed the Snake Head mark on his captor’s palm. There was no option but to act and act fast – but there was still four or five feet between them, and the Glock was trained directly on his forehead. And then something happened that was totally unexpected.

  A third figure came quietly into the room behind the gunman.

  Though she too wore old jeans and trainers, and a ragged, dirty sweat-top, there was no mistaking Gail Honeyford. The gunman saw the expression on Heck’s face as it unavoidably altered. By instinct, he half swung round, but not quickly enough to prevent the karate chop she landed on the back of his neck. He gasped and staggered forward, straight into a right hook from Heck, which sent him tottering sideways, and a short, crisp left, which finished the job. He hit the floor out cold, his gun clattering into a corner. Heck scrambled after it, knocked the safety back on, and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans before throwing himself over the gang-banger’s inert form and checking his vital signs. The guy was still breathing, so Heck rolled him over onto his front and cuffed his hands behind his back.

  Only then did he glance up at Gail, who was watching with fascination. She wasn’t a brand-new cop, but it was probable that down in leafy Surrey she didn’t witness this kind of action every day. Heck moved past her to the bedroom door and glanced down the stair to ensure there were no more surprises in store. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he finally said.

  ‘Well that’s gratitude, I must say,’ she replied. ‘I got your message, didn’t I? You know, the one you left on my desk telling me exactly where you’d be. Brixton filled in the details.’

  Heck dragged the unconscious body into a corner. ‘I’m surprised you even read it.’

  ‘Well … when I heard the boss had loaned you a mobile and one of the CID cars, not to mention his prized pair of opera glasses, I thought that even you might be onto something.’

  ‘Unusually open-minded of you.’ He scooped the binoculars up to see that they weren’t damaged and moved back to the window.

  ‘Look, Heck …’ She sounded awkward. ‘I think I owe you an apology.’

  He barely heard her as he peered towards the Roost. By the looks of it, none of the Snake Eyes hanging around down there had been alerted. Their spotter clearly hadn’t had a chance to report that there were strangers on the patch.

  ‘I’ve not been able to find anything in Harold Lansing’s private affairs to suggest he had enemies or was in any kind of trouble,’ Gail said. ‘Not only that, I went to the blimp crash site yesterday, and well … put it this way, it looks very likely that balloon ruptured because someone shot at it with a rifle.’

  Heck looked round at her. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘There were at least three bullet holes in it.’

  ‘You should’ve told me this straight away!’

  ‘I tried to. I was with the Air Accident team from Aldershot for ages, but I tried to ring you afterwards – several times while I was on the way home. I couldn’t get you.’

  ‘Oh yeah – I lost my own mobile in a river.’

  ‘The main thing, Heck, is that some crazy bastard hung Gus Donaldson upside down from that giant dirigible, let him float over the countryside long enough to catch the nation’s attention, and then shot him down. At least that’s what it seems like. And it’s so bonkers that it kind of matches the other cases, don’t you think?’

  Heck was almost amused by her change of direction. ‘You sure about all this, Gail?’

  ‘No, I’m not sure.’ She looked frustrated. ‘I guess I just can’t understand murder without purpose.’

  ‘Course you can’t; there’s no such thing.’

  She glanced up at him, confused.

  ‘On the surface, these crimes may seem senseless,’ Heck said. ‘But they aren’t to the perpetrators. Look at it from their point of view – try to imagine the joy of pure, unfettered immorality. The pleasure they derive from meticulous planning, from trawling for a suitable victim, the excitement on the day itself as they wait to see if the plan will come together, the sense of fulfilment when it does …’

  ‘You almost make it sound sexual.’

  ‘Hell, it’s more than that. It doesn’t just give them a buzz. It makes them feel mega-powerful, godlike. Especially when they pull off a spectacular stunt like that one with the blimp. Especially when you consider that in normal life they’re flyspecks beneath most other folks’ notice.’

  ‘Flyspecks or not, they clearly have access to high-powered firearms,’ she said. ‘So I’ve asked one of the lads back at the nick to compile a list of everyone in the county who holds a Firearms Certificate. Of course that’s likely to be a lot because Surrey isn’t exactly averse to gun clubs and field sports.’

  ‘And even then it won’t help us if the rifle’s being held illegally.’

  ‘I know, but it’s a start. I’ve also sent a memo to the boss this morning. I think we should mobilise a full murder team on this.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  She shrugged, disappointed. ‘He told me to see what we find in south London first. We’re looking for a grey Bedford van, I understand?’

  ‘That’s right, though it may have been burned and dumped by now.’ Heck gave her as brief an account as he could of the events leading up to the incident at Thornton Farm, and described the vehicle and the suspects he’d seen on the CCTV. ‘Charles Thornton was going to email the file to me. I lost my laptop in the river, but it’ll still be sitting on the server, so we can access it back at the nick.’

  Gail looked surprised. ‘Are you saying they were after you?’

  ‘I don’t know … genuinely. One side of me doesn’t want to believe that, because that would mean they know who I am, and let’s face it, almost no one at Reigate Hall nick knows who I am – so that much insight would be a bit of a worry. On the other hand, it might just be that whoever set old Mervin Thornton up for his own balloon accident noticed the damaged bridge and thought it too good an opportunity to miss.’

  ‘You mean they came back and stage-managed another random accident?’

  ‘Yeah. I just happened to be the first Joe who came along.’

  ‘Or they’re targeting the Thorntons?’ she said.

  ‘But that wouldn’t explain Lansing or the driver who was killed on the A24. It doesn’t explain the car thieves in Leatherhead.’


  ‘Or alternatively, it means those two attacks on the Thorntons are completely unconnected to all the other deaths.’

  ‘That’s possible too,’ Heck conceded. ‘At present, almost anything is possible; which is why I don’t think we can assemble a full Murder Squad just yet.’

  ‘Okay. So what have the Snake Eye Crew got to do with all this?’

  Heck wandered back to the window. ‘Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Angie Powers is a DS at Brixton. She and her mob know this lot better than anyone. They reckon if the van got lifted from round here, the Snake Eyes will either be responsible or will know who did it.’

  ‘Who’s the owner of the van?’

  ‘Asian shopkeeper called Patil. No form whatsoever. He’s totally out of the picture.’

  There was a groan as the handcuffed gang-banger stirred.

  ‘What do we do with this fella?’ Gail said.

  Heck assessed him glumly. ‘Well … we could lock him up for criminal use of a firearm. But that’s hardly going to help us maintain covert surveillance on his mates.’

  ‘Nor is cutting him loose,’ she said.

  ‘But cutting him loose is exactly what you’re going to do,’ someone else butted in.

  They spun to face the doorway – to find that yet another figure had appeared there. This one was older than the previous guy, burly and bearded, and wearing worn, fringed motorbike leathers. He had a pudgy, brutish face, and covered them both with a submachine gun.

  ‘Good to know Brixton’s obbo point is as secret as they said it was,’ Heck muttered, raising his hands again.

  On hearing this, the motorbike guy’s expression changed; he looked puzzled.

  ‘About time you showed up,’ the guy in the cuffs said.

  Heck now noticed the newcomer’s weapon: it was a Heckler & Koch MP5; not the sort of gun that street hoodlums acquired easily. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m asking the questions!’ the newcomer retorted, his accent strong Liverpool. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We’re police officers.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  Slowly, cautiously, Heck reached into his Wrangler – the new guy kept his MP5 rigidly levelled – until Heck drew out his warrant card and tossed it over. The new guy caught it with one hand and examined it.

  ‘Serial Crimes Unit,’ Heck said.

  The new guy glanced at Gail.

  ‘DC Honeyford,’ she told him. ‘Surrey CID.’

  He blew out a long breath, lowered his weapon and chucked Heck’s warrant card back. ‘DS Brogan – Flying Squad.’

  Heck dropped his hands. ‘Always enjoy meeting new colleagues.’

  Brogan snorted. ‘I’m not sure DC Bernetti will see it that way.’

  They glanced at the handcuffed body in the corner. ‘This lad’s Flying Squad too?’ Heck said. He scuttled over there, thumbing his handcuff keys from his pocket. ‘He’s got a Snake Eye tat.’

  ‘Meaning you two haven’t?’ Brogan displayed his own left palm, which also bore the Snake Eye sigil, affiliate status. ‘You might as well have come here naked.’

  Gail helped Bernetti to his feet. He was bloodied around the mouth.

  ‘You all right?’ Heck said, handing him back his weapon.

  ‘Yeah …’

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  The young cop rubbed at the side of his jaw. ‘You’ve got a good right hand.’ Gingerly, he felt at the other side. ‘And a good left.’

  ‘I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘It would have helped us if we’d known you were on the plot,’ Gail said to Brogan. ‘I take it you didn’t bother informing anyone at Brixton?’

  ‘Yeah, we should’ve done that,’ Brogan replied. ‘Then they could’ve sent more people down who aren’t wearing the official insignia.’

  ‘What are you guys doing here anyway?’ Bernetti asked.

  ‘Investigating a couple of murders in Surrey,’ Heck said. ‘There’s a possible Snake Eye connection.’

  Bernetti looked baffled. ‘Surrey?’

  ‘We think it’s part of something bigger,’ Gail explained.

  The Flying Squad men glanced at each other, and then Brogan strode to the door. ‘You’d better come with us.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘Because if you’re following the same leads we are, it is bigger. A lot bigger.’

  Chapter 20

  Once they were well away from the Roost, Heck and Gail were ushered into the rear of an unmarked van. DS Brogan got in with them, while Bernetti climbed behind the wheel after first calling ahead. The engine rumbled to life, the vehicle juddering violently as it navigated its way through a network of trash-filled alleys.

  ‘These come right off when we get home,’ Brogan said, extending his palm again, but smearing the lurid tattoo with his thumb. ‘But it’s better to have a falsie than none at all.’

  ‘And that works?’ Gail said sceptically. ‘Don’t you have to be a known face in this neck of the woods?’

  He shrugged. ‘We don’t move among them freely, if that’s what you mean. We watch them from LUPs like Cooper’s Row. This is just insurance, in case we run into one of them by accident. There are so many of them, they don’t all know each other.’

  ‘What’ve you got on them?’ Heck asked.

  ‘All sorts. But the boss’ll fill you in.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘DI Hunter.’

  ‘Not Bob Hunter?’ Heck said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Brogan glanced over at him, and a light of recollection came into his eyes. ‘That’s right. He used to work in your firm, didn’t he? Got kicked out.’ Brogan smiled to himself and shook his head, as if this situation was getting better and better.

  ‘Is this bad?’ Gail asked quietly.

  ‘No,’ Heck said. ‘Bob’s an okay bloke. He’s not … well, he’s not our biggest fan. SCU’s, I mean. Relations could be better.’

  Bob Hunter had been a detective inspector in the Serial Crimes Unit, and had made impressive contributions to several of their investigations. However, things had gone badly for him during the hunt for a pair of armed rapists known as the M1 Maniacs. During the course of that enquiry he’d overseen the commission of crucial errors, which had led to Gemma Piper downgrading him to duty officer. A former Flying Squad man, Hunter had been so angered by this that he’d sought a transfer and had finished up back with his old mob, where, being a cocky character inclined to corner-cutting and wideboy-ism, he’d found his spiritual home. Despite all this, he and Heck had always got on well enough, though Gemma Piper wasn’t exactly Hunter’s favourite person, and as Heck’s presence might now mean Gemma had an interest in this case too Heck wasn’t sure that Hunter would welcome him with open arms.

  He was reacquainted with his former gaffer in a local Flying Squad safehouse; a three-bedroom flat over a transport café just off the East Dulwich Road. The place was accessible from a central yard, which could only be entered via an arched gateway and an unlit flight of narrow, musty stairs. It was a nondescript building from the outside, and the average punter wouldn’t have cocked a snook at it, but at the top of those stairs it was a fully equipped command post, crammed with TV monitors, computer terminals, and desks covered with forms and coffee cups; its walls were papered with pages and pages of notes, homemade diagrams, and photographs, primarily mugshots.

  Hunter was enthroned in the midst of this chaos in a swivel chair, various of his Flying Squad team busying themselves around him.

  When Brogan came in, leading Heck and Gail, the DI leaped to his feet red-faced. ‘What the hell, Heck? You been punching out my fucking officers?’

  Hunter was a squat, bullish man with granite features and a shock of blond/grey hair. He looked every inch the hard-bitten, time-served detective that he was, but he’d put on weight since Heck had last seen him, particularly around the belly. In an old T-shirt and baggy khaki trousers, he looked unusually slobbish, though like the rest of his team he was armed, a Glock pistol
tucked into a holster at his hip.

  ‘Sorry guv,’ Heck said with a helpless gesture. ‘Blue on blue.’

  ‘If memory serves, you bloody specialise in those.’ Hunter switched his gaze to Gail. ‘This the sweetie from Surrey?’

  Heck sensed Gail’s hackles rising, so quickly intervened. ‘This is DC Honeyford, sir. She’s working a murder case with me. She knows what she’s doing and she’s saved my arse twice already.’

  Hunter continued to eye her as though unconvinced. Eventually he sniffed, and threw himself back into his chair. ‘If you’re working in Surrey, Heck, what’re you doing in south London?’

  ‘Seems we have a mutual interest in the Snake Eyes.’

  ‘Well … so long as you haven’t blown our close target recon. Kicking off with our lot only a stone’s throw from the bastards’ base.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone noticed, sir.’

  ‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Hunter replied, which Heck read to mean that the Squad had someone on the inside.

  Now Gail spoke up. ‘Do you mind me asking what the Flying Squad’s interest in the Snake Eyes is, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I bloody do, DC Honeyford.’ Hunter folded his arms. ‘At least, until one of you jokers can tell me exactly what your interest is.’

  Again Heck explained what they knew about the events in Surrey, leaving nothing out. As he did, other Flying Squad officers stopped what they were doing to listen. When Heck had finished, Hunter shrugged. ‘Doesn’t sound like a Snake Eyes MO to me.’

  ‘Nor me,’ Heck agreed. ‘But the van’s obviously important.’

  Hunter pondered that. ‘If the van got lifted round here, it’s highly possible the Snake Eyes were responsible, or at least knew who was. Still don’t see what they’d have to gain from causing a bunch of fatal accidents.’

  ‘I did wonder if these murders might have an in-house purpose,’ Heck said. ‘Maybe they’re a form of game for gang members to play? Perhaps an initiation for new boys?’