by Paul Finch
The hanging rope was only five feet away. Heck knew there was a good chance he’d make it, but he also knew that if he stopped to think about the chasm below – he wouldn’t go any further. So he didn’t think, just launched himself out, diving full-length – and dropping like a stone, maybe ten feet, before managing to catch hold of the rope. Even then, several feet of cold, greasy hemp slid through his fingers before he brought himself to a halt, ripping both his gloves and the flesh of the palms underneath.
Doing his best to ignore the blistering pain, he clambered down, alighting on the garage roof nearest the building. ‘Suspect heading northeast along Bellfield Lane!’ he shouted down to the two uniforms who’d spilled out onto Charlton Court from their patrol car, faces aghast at what they’d just seen. ‘Spread the word!’
Without waiting for a response, Heck ran due north along the flimsy roofs, feet drumming on damp planks covered only in tarpaper, jabbering into his radio again, giving instructions as best he could. At the far end, he skidded to a stop, dropped onto all fours, turned and swung his body over the parapet. He hung full-length, and then dropped the last five feet, before careering downhill through grass and clutter onto the road.
‘Bellfield Lane heading northeast,’ he shouted, hammering along the tarmac. ‘Any units in that direction to respond, over?’ But the airwaves were now jammed with cross-cutting messages. ‘Shit … come on, someone!’
As he ran, the vast concrete shape of a railway gantry loomed towards him. Above it, stroboscopic lights sped back and forth as trains hurtled between East Dulwich and Peckham Rye. Conversely, the shadows beneath the structure were oil-black, barely penetrated by the streetlights. The passage itself had been narrowed by corrugated fences thrown up left and right. In normal times this would be a muggers’ paradise, but Heck was openly armed, and besides the night was now alive with sirens – it was just a pity none were in the immediate vicinity.
Beyond the railway overpass, a sheer brick wall stood on the right, but on the left there was more wire fencing, and behind that another slope angling down to a glass-littered car park. The fence was quivering, as though something heavy had just passed over it or under it. More to the point, its second section was loose in the frame, disconnected along the bottom, giving easy access to the other side. Heck swerved towards it, only to find that his quarry, nicely camouflaged in his all-black garb, had secreted himself flat at the foot of the waiting slope, deep in the shadow of the overpass. The first Heck knew of this was the muzzle-flash, and then the hail of shot that swept the wire mesh.
He threw himself onto the pavement, rolling away fast and landing in the gutter – where he remained, flat on his back, gun trained two-handed on the wall of fencing.
Until he heard feet clattering away again.
He scrambled up to his knees. A dark shape was haring off across the car park below, at the far side of which a concrete ramp led down onto yet another housing estate, this one comprising rows of near-identical maisonettes. Heck slid under the fence and gave chase, stumbling down the slope until he reached the level tarmac, all the time trying to get through on his radio.
‘Is no one fucking listening to me?’ he shouted. ‘For what it’s worth … still in pursuit, suspect still on foot, still armed, opening fire at every opportunity. Heading west onto the Hawkwood estate. Listen … this is a built-up area with lots of civvies. Not many around at present, but someone’s got to get over here fast. Over and fucking out!’
At the foot of the ramp, he vaulted a railing and ran along a boulevard faced on two sides by front doors and ground-level windows. Sagan was still in sight at the far end – a minuscule figure, which abruptly wheeled around, levelled the shotgun at its waist and fired twice. Heck was out of lethal range – Sagan was using buckshot rather than solid slugs – but instinct still sent him scrambling for cover behind a bench. Quickly, he knelt back up – Sagan remained visible, but it went against all the rules to open fire in a residential zone like this. You didn’t even need to be a poor shot; ricochets could go anywhere.
To make matters worse, several doors had opened as curious householders peeked out.
Sagan darted left along a side-street. Heck vaulted the bench and gave chase again, shouting at the onlookers as he did. ‘Police! Lock your doors … stay away from the windows!’
He rounded the corner and descended a flight of steps into a covered area. Sagan was again visible, framed in the exit on the other side of it. He let off two more rounds. Heck dived sideways, smashing through a decayed wooden hoarding and entangling himself in heaps of musty, second-hand furniture. Fighting his way out through a rear door, he sprinted along an alley, hoping to head the bastard off – only to emerge into another car park. Again, Sagan was waiting, shotgun levelled.
Heck ran low, scuttling behind a row of parked vehicles. Sagan blasted each one of them twice, bodywork buckling, safety glass flying, before turning, ascending a flight of steps and dashing down a passage between high, faceless walls. Heck slid over the bonnet of the nearest wreck and charged up the steps. He entered the passage, which was about fifty yards long; at the far end of it, Sagan was rapidly reloading. Before Heck could point his pistol and shout, the bastard fired, worked the slide, fired, worked the slide again; ear-shattering detonations in the narrow space. This time, as Heck pitched himself down, he pegged off three quick shots of his own, which caromed along the passage, missing their target but sending him ducking out of sight.
Heck retreated around his corner, wheezing, sucking in lungfuls of icy air. He risked a glance back. The passage still looked empty, but Sagan could be lying in wait, and once Heck was halfway along he’d be a sitting duck. Instead, he ran back down the steps, along the front of a row of caged-off shops, and around the base of a tower block. He’d expected to find open space on the other side, but instead there was the shell of an industrial building – a former soap-making factory by the scabby signs hanging loose on its outer wall.
Swearing, Heck panted the new directions into the radio as he set off running again. At the end of the factory wall there was a net fence and on the other side of that a deep canyon through which another railway passed. The London Overground, Heck realised, though at present it was a good twenty feet below him. He glanced right. The nearest way across it was an arched steel walkover about fifty yards off. A figure was already traipsing over this, slowly and tiredly.
Sagan. The killer and torturer was an arch-pro. But he was also in early middle-age. His energy reserves were finally flagging.
Heck scrambled in that direction, taking a short cut along a narrow defile between the factory’s north wall and the railway fence. Initially he had to get through barbed wire, and then found himself negotiating thick, leafless scrub entwined with wastepaper and rubbish. Inevitably, cans and bottles clattered around his feet, causing such a racket that the figure on the bridge stopped and looked around – and began to run again. By the time Heck got to the bridge, there was no sign of him. Now exhausted himself, Heck lumbered up the steel staircase and over the top. A train thundered past below; a chaos of light and sound, illuminating the footway clear to its far end. There was a possibility Sagan could reappear over there – while Heck was hemmed between neck-high barriers of riveted steel. But that didn’t happen. Heck made it to the other side, descended the stair to half way and halted, hot breath pluming from his body. Open waste-ground lay ahead, on the far side of which stood a cluster of dingy buildings: workshops, offices and garages, with an old Ford van parked at the front. Sagan was almost over there, moving at a fast but weary trudge – about sixty yards distant.
Heck raised his pistol and took aim, but he wasn’t a good enough marksman to ensure a clean shot from this distance. Especially not at night. He continued down, and inadvertently kicked a beer bottle standing on the bottom step. It cartwheeled forward and smashed.
Sagan twirled around.
Heck ran down the last couple of steps and veered sideways. Sagan held his ground tensel
y – and then he strode back, shooting from the waist, like a character out of a western, working the slide again and again, pumping fire and shot. Heck scuttled and crawled, but found no more cover than bits of rubbish and sprigs of weed.
At which point a third party intervened.
‘Drop it!’ came a fierce female voice. ‘Do it now, or I’ll shoot you, you bastard … I swear!’
Heck glanced up, to see a short, shapely figure in jeans, trainers, a leather jacket and a chequer-banded police cap circling around from behind the van, her Glock trained with both hands on the back of John Sagan’s head. The gunman froze, the shotgun clasped in his right hand, his left held out to the side.
‘I mean it, you dickless wonder!’ the female cop shouted in a ringing northern accent. ‘Drop that weapon now, or I’ll drop you!’
Heck’s mouth crooked into a smile as he rose to his feet. It was Shawna McCluskey. Someone had heard his frantic transmissions after all. And if anyone had, he ought to have realised it would be his old mate Shawna, who’d started off with him all those years ago in the Greater Manchester Police. Sagan remained rigid. From this distance, his face was unreadable. Dots of yellow streetlight glinting from the lenses of his glasses briefly gave him a non-human aura. His right hand opened and the shotgun clattered to the floor.
‘Keep those mitts where I can see ’em!’ Shawna shouted, encroaching from behind. ‘You alright, Heck?’
‘Never better,’ he shouted, dusting himself down.
‘Kick the weapon back towards me,’ Shawna said, addressing Sagan again. ‘Backheel it … don’t turn around. And keep your hands spread, where I can see them … in case you didn’t realise it, you fucking lowlife, you’re under arrest!’
Sagan did exactly as she instructed, the shotgun bouncing past her and vanishing beneath the van. Now Heck could see him more clearly: his black overcoat, a black roll-neck sweater, black leather gloves, black trousers and shoes, his pale face, the thinning fair hair on top, and those gold-rimmed glasses. Yet still the killer was inscrutable, his face a waxen mask.
‘DC McCluskey, on a lorry park off Camberwell Grove,’ Shawna said into her radio. ‘One in custody … repeat, one in custody.’
But only now, as she angled around her captive, did Heck see the possible danger. Her Glock was trained squarely on Sagan’s body, but side-on the target width had reduced, and Sagan’s left hand was suddenly only inches from the muzzle of her weapon – and it was with this hand that he lunged, slapping the gun aside, and in the same motion, spinning and slamming his other hand, now balled into a fist and yet glittering as if encased in steel – a knuckleduster, Heck realised with horror – straight into Shawna’s face.
She dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
‘Shawna!’ Heck bellowed.
But he was still forty yards away. He raised his pistol, but again had to hesitate – Sagan had dropped to a crouch alongside the policewoman’s crumpled form, merging them both into one. Heck ran forward again, shouting as the killer flipped off Shawna’s hat, and smashed his reinforced fist several times more into her head and face. Then he snatched up her Glock and fired once into her chest, before leaping to his feet and bolting back towards the parked van.
Heck slid to a halt and fired. The van’s nearside front window imploded as Sagan scarpered around it, returning fire over his shoulder, and proving uncannily accurate. Nine-millimetre shells ricocheted from the ground just in front of Heck. He fired again, but Sagan was now on the other side of the vehicle and shielded from view. A split-second later, a door slammed somewhere along the frontage of the building. Heck scrambled forward, but kept low. If the bastard was now indoors, he might have any number of concealed vantage points from which to aim.
‘DC McCluskey down with head injuries and a possible gunshot wound,’ he shouted into his radio, skidding to one knee alongside her, still scanning the grimy windows overhead.
The van provided partial protection, but it all depended on whether Sagan’s desire to slot his pursuers was more of a priority than evading them. Shawna lay limp. Heck tore open her jacket and gasped with relief when he saw the slug flattened on her Kevlar vest – it hadn’t penetrated. However, her pretty face was a mass of bloodied pulp, her splayed hair glutinous with gore. He probed for the carotid artery. Her throat was also slick with blood, but at last he found a pulse.
An engine now growled to life somewhere inside. Fresh sweat pinpricked Heck’s brow.
As he leapt to his feet, a pair of double-doors some twenty yards to the left of the van exploded outward in a shower of splinters and rusted hinges, and a powerful SUV came barrelling through. Heck backed away from Shawna’s body to try and get a clear shot at it. But Sagan was already firing through the open passenger window, wildly, blindly. Heck let off one round before diving for cover, aiming at the SUV’s front tyre but missing by centimetres. In the process he caught a fleeting glimpse of the vehicle’s make and model. A Jeep Cherokee, dark in colour with bull bars across the front, but with its headlights switched off it was impossible to make out the registration number. It was towing a gleaming white caravan, which tilted onto one wheel as the car swerved away across the wasteland, finally righting itself again as it accelerated into the darkness. Heck gave chase for several yards. He even got off one final shot, hitting the caravan’s rear door, which judging by the lack of visible damage, was armoured. And then the target was gone, vanishing around the corner of a warehouse, the roar of its engine diminishing.
He got urgently onto the radio, relaying as much info as he could while scrambling back to Shawna. As before, she lay worryingly still, and now the blood had congealed in her hair. When he felt her carotid a second time, there was no pulse.
Want more? Read the rest of
The Burning Man
when it hits the shelves in November 2015.
Click here to buy now.
‘All he had to do was name the woman he wanted. It was that easy. They would do all the hard work.’
Dark, terrifying and unforgettable. Stalkers will keep fans of Stuart MacBride and James Oswald looking over their shoulder.
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A vicious serial killer is holding the country to ransom, publicly – and gruesomely – murdering his victims.
A heart-stopping and unforgettable thriller that you won’t be able to put down, from bestseller Paul Finch.
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DS Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg is used to bloodbaths. But nothing can prepare him for this.
Brace yourself as you turn the pages of a living nightmare.
Welcome to The Killing Club.
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His worst nightmare is back…
The fourth unputdownable book in the DS Mark Heckenburg series. A killer thriller for fans of Stuart MacBride and Luther, from the #1 ebook bestseller.
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About the Author
Paul Finch is a former cop and journalist, now turned full-time writer. He cut his literary teeth penning episodes of the British TV crime drama, The Bill, and has written extensively in the field of children’s animation. However, he is probably best known for his work in thrillers, crime and horror. His first three novels in the DS Heckenburg series all attained official ‘best seller’ status.
Paul lives in Lancashire, UK, with his wife Cathy and his children, Eleanor and Harry. His website can be found at www.paulfinchauthor.com, his blog at www.paulfinch-writer.blogspot.co.uk, and he can be followed on Twitter as @paulfinchauthor.
By the Same Author
Stalkers
Sacrifice
The Killing Club
The Chase: an ebook short story
Dead Man Walking
A Wanted Man: an ebook short story
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