A Wanted Man [A PC Heckenburg Short Story]. Paul Finch

      PC Mark Heckenburg couldn’t quite remember the name of the road he was parked on. It ran along the top of a sloping, litter-strewn waste ground linking two satellite housing estates together. They weren’t officially designated as ‘satellite estates’, but this was the way he thought of them: small, interwoven clutters of red-brick council houses built far apart from each other to accommodate the rugged, unstable nature of so much of the post-industrial spoil-land that made up Greater Manchester.

      Not that Heckenburg, or ‘Heck’ as his colleagues knew him, was paying much attention to his immediate surroundings. Briefly, he was mesmerised by the blood-red wording of the electronic logo on the distant, square-shouldered structure dominating Quay Street.

       GRANADA TV

      Iconic symbol of the North West it might be, but it was an old and venerable signpost now, erected some time back in the mid-’50s. It was now ’97, so that meant it had been perched up there, what, forty years at least? It probably wasn’t in the best condition. No wonder it didn’t seem as brightly lit as it had on those fun shopping trips into Manchester he used to make with his mum and dad when he was a tot. It might even be flickering, though that could have been an optical illusion created by the four miles lying between here and there; four miles crammed with slate roofs, brick chimneys and spindly television aerials, most of which were only visible in outline at this deathly hour.

      Granada Television, he thought to himself, wondering briefly what job opportunities there might be over there. Did they take on police advisers for their productions?

      It wasn’t a bad idea, that. The problem was, of course, that he’d only been in the job a bit over two years, which would hardly impress anyone, much less a hardnosed TV exec. Anyway, who was he kidding? Heck wasn’t going anywhere. You didn’t vacate a seventeen grand a year gig just because you’d had a run-in with one of your line-managers. Sergeant Crawford was the prize wanker of prize wankers, everyone knew that – he got on all their cases from time to time, though perhaps Heck was more sensitive to it at present because of the problems at home. Either way, you didn’t pack your career in – and that was what Heck had here, not a job, a career! – just because some pompous arse-wipe felt better about himself if he gave out a few needless bollockings now and then.

      The dead air of the force radio hissed incessantly, like wind filtered through decayed brickwork. It was a familiar sound to coppers alone on duty in the wee small hours, but it was never less than eerie. It called to mind a desert, or wilderness, creating a sense of isolation, but at the same time putting you on edge, hinting that things were going on out there just beyond the range of your vision and hearing. This was night in the city. A time and place where bad things happened. That had to be the case, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, would you? You wouldn’t be watching from the shadows, a guardian of the peace, but also the hunter waiting patiently for his prey. Of course, none of that necessarily made you feel strong. You were vulnerable too, out here in the dark on your own, condemned by the nature of who you were, to plunge straight in at the first sign of trouble. Oh no, there was nowhere to hide when you were a copper.

      That said, not everyone wanted to hide. Some were more than comfortable in this environment, even if they were relatively new to it.

      Heck, for one.

      His main complaint about dank, misty nights in late autumn was how cold they were, despite his thermal undies, and the thick, black waterproofs he wore over his uniform. But the restricted visibility, the stillness, the spectral mist – creepy yeah, but all for the good if it lured out the bad ’uns. Who knew, maybe tonight it would lure out the Spider himself?

      That would suit Heck.

      He adjusted the radio’s volume control and sat back, glancing down the slope at the rows of concrete tenements along the bottom. It was so late now that even down there – “Dodge City”, as it was known on the F Division – only one or two lights were still showing; orange and yellow blips in jumbled blackness. Then there was a sharp rat-at-at-tat on the driver’s window.

      Heck whipped around – and saw the pretty, freckle-nosed face of PC Shawna McCluskey grinning through the glass. He slumped back again as she made her way around the front of the police van and climbed into the cab on the passenger side.

      ‘Thought I was about to catch you napping,’ she chuckled, flipping off her chequer-banded hat, shaking out her long, dark ponytail.

      ‘Gotta be quicker than that to catch me, McCluskey,’ he replied.

      ‘Challenge, eh?’ She pulled her gloves off and took a pack of foil-clad sandwiches from her anorak pocket, carefully unwrapping them. ‘Want one of these?’

      ‘What are they?’

      ‘Jam and peanut butter.’

      ‘God almighty …’

      ‘They’re good!’ she protested, her mouth already full.

      ‘Great for the waistline too.’

      ‘Loaded with sugar, yeah. Best thing on nights. Keeps you alert.’