Sacrifice. Paul Finch
he’d first realised. She wasn’t just pretty, she was gracious, well-spoken, innately pleasant … almost genteel. He had a worrying feeling that what Bob Hunter had said might turn out to be true, and that Claire would prove to be too nice for this environment.
‘If nothing else, I can offer you a brew,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing you haven’t got your own tea-making stuff yet?’
‘I hadn’t even thought about it. Thanks, I’d love one.’
He produced a key, unlocked a cupboard near his desk, and took a kettle out, along with a big bottle of water, two mugs, a jar of teabags, a cup of sugar and a sachet of powdered milk. ‘Here’s a tip. Keep this kind of gear secured, because round here it’ll walk … usually upstairs to Organised Crime.’
‘You can’t trust police officers, eh?’
‘Definitely not.’ He filled the kettle and plugged it in. ‘Don’t be scared of us, though; we don’t really bite. Speaking of which, the boss will be in soon. I suppose she’ll brief you on everything you need to know.’
‘She’s fire and brimstone, isn’t she?’
‘See … you know her already.’
Claire glanced around again at the sprawling, open-plan office. Despite its size, the DO bore the usual police hallmarks of organised chaos. There might be nobody else in at present, but desks were strewn with documents, in-trays overloaded, paperwork and photographs hanging in disorderly wads, not just from noticeboards but from those few patches of wall that weren’t already covered with maps, timetables and flow-charts.
‘I was a bit unsure I was doing the right thing when I actually got the job,’ Claire said. ‘I mean, I’ve been in PR all my working life, but this is something totally new.’
‘It’ll probably amount to the same thing you had at the Department of Utilities.’
She looked surprised. ‘You know I was at Utilities?’
‘Not to mention the Ministry for Cultural Affairs,’ he added. ‘Don’t worry … nothing stays quiet round here for long.’
‘Obviously not.’
‘Just do what you did there. Fob the public off with any old crap.’
She gazed at him, uncertain whether to take him seriously.
‘Do that and you’ll fit right in,’ he said mischievously.
‘You’re Detective Sergeant Heckenburg, aren’t you?’
‘Call me “Heck”. How many sugars, by the way?’
‘None please, just milk. If I remember, Superintendent Piper said I should only believe five per cent of anything you told me.’
Heck handed her a steaming mug. ‘That was a bit mean of her. Ten per cent at least. While you’re still a newbie.’
She looked thoughtful as she sipped. ‘Seriously, do we often get crimes where … well, where we have to be economical with the truth?’
‘Seriously? … I couldn’t comment. All I do is investigate them.’
‘Superintendent Piper seems to think you’re very good at that.’
‘Even though I’m a bare-faced liar?’
‘She thinks you’re too opinionated as well. And sometimes pig-headed, and that you try to do everything yourself because you think – wrongly – that you know better than anyone else in the whole police force.’
‘You two had a chat about me, eh?’ Heck feigned suspicion, but inwardly was pleased. He’d just revealed to Claire that he’d researched her, and she was now revealing that she’d researched him. Touché.
‘She also thinks that you enjoy much more leeway in the job than is good for you, or her,’ Claire added. ‘And that you don’t know how lucky you are to have her for a boss.’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘Are you pulling my leg?’
‘She’s still glad you work for her though.’
‘That proves it. If you’re not pulling my leg, she was definitely pulling yours.’
Claire chuckled. ‘So what’s on the agenda for today?’
He indicated the documents and photos on his desk. ‘Well, for me … these.’
Claire glanced down – and almost dropped her tea. ‘Oh my God!’ She promptly turned a milky shade of grey. ‘Are these … real crime scenes?’
Heck eyed her curiously. ‘Well, we don’t deal in movie-stills.’
The first of the two photos displayed a youngish man, possibly in his late twenties, stripped to his underpants and hanging by the hands from a tree branch. His limbs and torso were black and purple as though from a savage and sustained beating – but perhaps the most disturbing thing was his face, which had been painted with clown make-up: a white base, rouged cheeks, a red nose, black cream liner around his glazed, bloodshot eyes. The second picture showed a naked woman lying in a bath; she too had been brutalised, her body battered beyond belief, splintered bones protruding through the pulped, shredded flesh – and she too was wearing clown make-up, the lips green, the eyes and mouth thickly outlined in white, forming a ghoulish smile.
Claire had physically backed away; it had been an involuntary motion, but there was more to it than a nervous flinch.
‘You alright?’ Heck asked.
She nodded, her eyes riveted on the photographic horrors. ‘I will be, yeah. Sorry … that’s the first time I’ve ever seen a real murder.’
‘That’s something you’re going to have to get used to, I’m afraid.’
‘Yes, yes … I realise that, of course. Oh my God, these are awful …’
Heck flipped the photos into a buff folder. ‘Probably a bit much for your first morning.’
‘Probably, but …’ She seemed to steel herself, planting her tea on the desk. ‘As you say, it’s something I’ve got to deal with. So, why don’t you tell me about it?’
‘This case, you mean?’
She nodded.
He regarded her warily. ‘If you’re sure?’
She nodded again, determinedly.
‘Okay …’ He sat down and reopened the folder. ‘The murders of this man and woman occurred last month, about two weeks apart – in Gillingham and Maidstone respectively. The Murder Squad in Kent sent them along for our assessment as a matter of course.’ He glanced up at her. Claire was doing her damnedest to focus on the two images and at the same time maintain a cool, professional demeanour. ‘They obviously look similar,’ Heck said. ‘But my impression is that they aren’t connected.’
‘They aren’t?’
‘Given his own criminal record, I suspect the male was the victim of a gangland vendetta. The brutality is quite excessive, so it may have been a punishment.’
‘They were making an example, you mean?’
‘Correct. My gut feeling about the woman is that she died during a domestic incident. The perp is probably her husband.’
Claire looked at him askance. ‘Are you serious?’
Heck shrugged. ‘He reads about the first homicide in the papers, and he thinks it’s so wild and whacky that it can only be a matter of time before a lunatic capable of doing that will strike again. So he decides here’s his chance to knock off his nagging missus and make it look like someone else. Of course, he doesn’t realise that the first killing is down to organised crime … which illustrates the advantage we gain from only telling the press as much as we have to.’
‘But