Sacrifice. Paul Finch
gear.
She screamed again, futilely. The traitorous vehicle rumbled on along the narrow street as though the brief, terrifying interlude had never occurred.
‘Get stuffed, Heck!’ Shawna McCluskey said. ‘That wasn’t me.’
‘It was,’ Heck assured the bunch of detectives crammed around them in the pub vault. ‘I drive round the back to try and cut these idiots off. I look up, and there’s two uniforms coming down the other side of the pub. One of them’s Shawna. These two lads they’re chasing see me in the panda car, and cut across this patch of grass. Shawna veers over it to intercept. Best rugby tackle you’ve ever seen. She took this big bastard right out, almost killed him.’
There was laughter.
‘That wasn’t me,’ Shawna informed everyone for the umpteenth time.
‘And what had he done again?’ Des Palliser asked.
‘He’d only bitten some bugger’s nose and ear off in a fight in the pub,’ Heck said. ‘The other one had kicked the shit out of the landlord when he objected. Anyway, she takes out Jaws, and then wallops the other one as well. Puts him down with one punch.’
There was more laughter.
‘That wasn’t me either,’ Shawna said tartly. ‘It was Ian Kershaw. “Dreadnought”, we used to call him. He didn’t want the lock-up because it was ten minutes to finishing time and it was his sister’s wedding the next day. I took the prisoners for him.’
‘What did the two scrotes say?’ Gary Quinnell asked.
‘Nothing,’ Heck replied. ‘They were out cold. They didn’t know who’d hit them.’
There were further roars of laughter.
The Chop House was located under the arches on the edge of Borough Market, and was redolent with Victoriana: leaded windows, etched mirrors, elegant hardwood décor, and an open fire. Its various rooms were packed with off-duty police and police civilian staff, the booze was flowing and there was an atmosphere of bonhomie.
Shawna shook her head as though tolerating the boyishness around her, and handed Heck her empty glass. ‘For that, it’s your round.’
Heck nodded and threaded his way through to the bar, taking a rash of orders en route. Bob Hunter was leaning there, a treble scotch in his hand. He looked rumpled and sour-faced; his tie hung in a limp knot.
‘Everyone’s having a good time, I see,’ he said as Heck put the order in.
‘Gotta give Des a send-off, haven’t we?’ Heck replied.
‘No sign of the Lioness yet?’
Heck looked around. ‘Thought she’d be in by now.’
It was possible that Gemma was in one of the other rooms – she always had a lot of flesh to press at police functions – but the bulk of SCU were squashed into this one, so he’d have expected her to come in here first, probably to buy Des Palliser a drink.
‘Second round of interviews this afternoon for the Media Liaison job, wasn’t it?’ Hunter said.
‘Oh yeah, that.’
‘Yeah … that. What a fucking joke, eh? This is the way they repay us for taking nutjobs off the street.’
Heck shrugged. ‘Won’t interfere with our work, will it?’
‘Says who? I’ve been demoted to fucking duty-officer!’
‘It’s only temporary.’
‘How temporary is temporary, Heck?’ Hunter barely acknowledged the double scotch that Heck placed in front of him. ‘Fucking Lioness wants me out, I can tell.’
‘She doesn’t,’ Heck said.
‘Why, has she told you that?’
‘No, but …’
‘Exactly … no.’ Hunter swallowed whisky. ‘Suddenly the way I work doesn’t suit her anymore. I wonder why that is? I’d say it was because some over-decorated twat on the top floor had her by the gonads … but as a bird she hasn’t got any, has she?’
‘Bob … it was a fuck-up. We should never have spoken to the press.’
‘Alright, I accept that.’ Hunter looked surprisingly contrite. ‘But it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Christ’s sake, Heck … we’d just topped and tailed the fucking M1 Maniacs. Some kind of result, that. No wonder we were all a bit excited. I’ll tell you, I’m fed up with this fucking job.’
Heck had heard such a sentiment before, of course; he’d expressed it himself.
‘You may as well know, I’m putting my papers in for a transfer,’ Hunter added.
‘Where to?’
‘I don’t know. Anywhere out of NCG.’ Hunter wrinkled his nose, as though the whole thing literally stank. ‘Could’ve been the best gig in town, this, but now it’s going like everything else. It’s all politics these days. I mean, you of all people ought to be pissed off by that.’
Heck was; he’d had his share of reprimands over the years, and when in his cups he too was inclined to make such comments, though in reality he kept soldiering on.
‘Just don’t do anything hasty, Bob,’ he said. ‘We don’t know how long this duty-officer thing’ll last. At least you’re working nine-till-five again.’
‘Why should that appeal to me? I’ve nothing to go home to. Sal took the kids yonks ago.’ Hunter shook his head as if that was someone else’s fault too. ‘Fucking Lioness! Sorry, Heck, I know you and her were an item.’
‘That was a while ago.’
‘But when she bites …’
‘She’s here,’ Heck said, spotting that Gemma had entered the pub in company with a slim young woman in a smart skirt-suit. ‘Keep it down, eh?’
Hunter took another big swallow. ‘Don’t worry, pal. I’m not stupid enough to give her any more ammo than she needs …’
‘Drink ma’am?’ Heck said, stepping away from the bar to hand out the rest of the round he’d just bought.
‘Perrier please, Heck,’ Gemma said, taking her raincoat off. She turned to the woman beside her. ‘Claire?’
The young woman, who was girlishly pretty – her black hair was cut to shoulder-length in a cute ‘pageboy’ bob, she had a fresh complexion and startling peppermint-green eyes – smiled nervously. ‘Same for me please,’ she said.
Gemma nodded. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Heckenburg, by the way. Heck, this is Claire Moody, our new Media Liaison.’
Heck was caught by surprise. He hadn’t expected a candidate to be selected so quickly. ‘Oh … you got the job then?’
Claire seemed equally amazed. ‘Looks like it.’
‘Congratulations.’
She nodded her thanks.
‘I thought this’d be a good opportunity for Claire to meet the rest of the team,’ Gemma said, eyeing the raucous crowd gathered around Des Palliser, who was sniffing at an exotic-looking cocktail someone had just bought for him. ‘But I’m not so sure now.’
‘We are what we are, ma’am,’ Heck said, adopting his best blokish air.
‘And she must take you or leave you, eh?’ Gemma said.
‘Something like that.’
She turned