Stalkers. Paul Finch
‘Good health.’
The glasses clinked; they both sipped.
‘I’m Lauren,’ she said. ‘I’m from Yorkshire.’
He nodded. Her accent had already given that away – he guessed Huddersfield or Leeds.
‘You’re not a local either, are you?’ she asked. ‘Manchester, is it?’
‘Near there. Bradburn.’
‘You’re a long way from home.’
He swilled more beer. ‘Sometimes it feels like that. But I travel a lot, so it’s as broad as long. My name’s Mark, by the way. But friends call me “Heck”.’
‘I know. The barmaid told me.’
‘She did?’ Now Heck was really puzzled. The girl had been interested enough to ask someone his name? That had to be a first. He had a certain rugged appeal – he was aware of that, but he wasn’t the sort of bloke that lookers like this moved in on. Unless? – abruptly his mood changed. He’d been right to remind himself that this sort of thing never, ever happened – because it wasn’t happening now either.
‘This your local?’ she wondered.
‘Suppose so. I don’t get in too often. What can I do for you, anyway?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, love. You’re not on the pull. If you were, you wouldn’t choose me.’
She folded her arms – an unconsciously defensive gesture, he noted. ‘Maybe I just fancied a chat with someone who looked pleasant.’
‘Same as before. You wouldn’t choose me.’
‘You don’t have a very high opinion of yourself, do you?’
‘My opinion doesn’t count for much, I’m afraid.’
‘Listen, I’m just trying to be friendly.’
‘No you’re not. You’re up to something. Now if I didn’t know better …’ he glanced again at her legs, and then much more closely at her arms, but couldn’t spot any tell-tale needle-tracks, ‘I’d guess you were the sort of lady who Phil Mackintosh doesn’t normally allow into this establishment.’
She stiffened. ‘I’m not a hooker, if that’s what you mean.’
‘So why’re you acting like one?’ He gave her the gaze he normally reserved for the interview room, his eyes boring into her. She became flustered, ill-at-ease.
‘I just wanted some information?’ she finally said.
‘So it’s not my amazing body you’re interested in. Now there’s a surprise.’
‘About your investigation …’
‘Ahhh.’
She now looked very uncomfortable. ‘How – look, how’s it going?’
Heck finished his beer. He shouted across to the bar for another, before turning back to her. ‘So what is this? Mr Ballamara’s decided that, as the rough stuff doesn’t work, he’ll try a gentler touch?’
‘Eh?’
‘Is that the deal? I deliver, and I get a night in the sack with some quality tail?’
She looked totally baffled.
He leaned forward. ‘Go back to your boss and tell him to shove it. Not only do I not take orders from him, I don’t take bribes either. And frankly I’m surprised anyone does. You know why? Because he’s a walking-talking anachronism, a throwback – a gobshite who runs a few South London boozers and thinks he’s Pablo Escobar. Another year and I dare say he’ll be at the beck and call of some sixteen-year-old Romanian, and no doubt he’ll be grateful for it.’
He pushed his chair back and stood up.
‘For someone who doesn’t rate himself, you don’t half like the sound of your own voice,’ she said.
‘For someone who looks as good as you, you keep very trashy company. And just in case he decides to send the heavies round again, tell him not to waste his time. I’m off the case. It’s finished.’
‘Finished?’ She sounded startled. But Heck had gone. He was over at the bar again, paying for his next round, when she reappeared. ‘Finished, did you say?’
‘Yes. It’s been closed down. And if Mr Ballamara doesn’t like that – as I told him before, he can take it up with Commander Laycock at Scotland Yard.’
‘You mean no one’s looking into it at all?’
‘Someone will be somewhere.’ He sipped his fresh pint, leaving froth on his top lip. ‘But only if they haven’t got something much, much more important to do. Like watch some paint dry.’
He tried to move away, but she grabbed his arm tightly. He turned to face her – and was surprised to see that she was livid with rage. Tears were welling in her eyes.
‘I heard good things about you,’ she said. ‘I thought you were going to help me, but now I can see you’re just another FUCKING DICKHEAD!’ She banged money on the bar-top. ‘That’s for the drink I owe you. Stick it up your arse!’
And she stormed out of the pub, stopping only to grab up her handbag and sling it over her shoulder.
‘You coppers really know how to make friends and influence people,’ the barmaid, who happened to be Phil Mackintosh’s eldest daughter, commented.
Heck was equally bemused. ‘I’m guessing I’ve just cost her a decent commission.’
He went back to his seat, shaking his head. The lowlifes he had to deal with. Mind you, hookers didn’t generally scream and cry when johns turned them down. Now that he looked back on it, the entire meeting had been a little surreal – but what the hell, this was London. Nothing should be a surprise here. He put it from his mind and the evening rolled on tediously. He managed a couple more rounds and a few more brief exchanges of mundane chat with other punters before the bell rang for last orders.
Before leaving, he went for a pee, and then stood looking at himself in the greasy toilet mirror. Considering he was now in his late thirties, he’d kept reasonably well. Some might say he was handsome but he was also rumpled; his black hair didn’t have any grey in it yet but seemed to be permanently mussed, and he did look tired. He was unshaved and his normally piercing blue eyes were bloodshot, though that might be due to drink rather than fatigue. The rest of him was in okay shape. He certainly wasn’t overweight, though that was because during the investigation he hadn’t been eating properly or even regularly enough. But he was still reasonably solid and well-built; years of sports activities in his younger police days had served a purpose after all.
He yawned, scratched his grizzled cheek, then ambled back out and shouted his goodbyes to the bar staff. The muggy atmosphere outside did little to help with his semi-inebriated state, and he tottered across the pub car park to his Fiat. Even leaning against it, he had trouble inserting his key into the lock.
‘You’re not seriously thinking of driving in that state?’ someone asked.
Heck turned around. At first he didn’t recognise Gemma Piper. Her white Coupe was parked about twenty yards away. She’d got out and approached without him noticing. She was wearing jeans, trainers and a lilac running top.
‘I, er … no, my jacket’s in the back,’ he said.
‘Really?’
He opened the door and, with a flourish, pulled a lightweight leather jacket from the rear seat, where it had been dumped earlier. She eyed him sceptically, unconvinced.
‘What’s the matter anyway?’ he asked. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Yeah?