Stalkers. Paul Finch
‘Heck, this is me you’re talking to. Give me some credit, eh!’
Her gaze was suddenly intense. Heck tried to return it, but doubted it would have much effect. He wasn’t just tipsy anymore, he was properly drunk. Which might explain why he suddenly wanted to spill the whole thing, tell her everything about his plans. Not that it was purely because his inhibitions had fled. Partly it was because confiding in someone – anyone – about the worry and uncertainty accrued over so many months of tireless effort and soul-destroying frustration, not to mention the bitterness at the way his gaffers had treated him, would be a kind of release, a burden shared.
Gemma was still talking. ‘You’re planning to continue investigating while you’re on leave, aren’t you?’
‘That would be against every rule in the book and completely unethical.’
‘And you expect me to believe that would make a difference to you?’
‘Do you want a drink yet?’ he asked, reaching for the bottle.
‘No.’ She snatched it away. ‘And you don’t either.’
They stared at each other, Heck having to lean on the kitchen units to stay upright. He rubbed at his face. It was numb, damp with sweat.
‘What’s in that room?’ she asked.
‘Which room?’
‘The room you didn’t want me to look in when we first got here.’
‘Have you come as a friend or a boss, Gemma?’
She looked surprisingly torn by the question. ‘Heck, I can’t be one or the other. Not when the stakes are as high as this.’
He nodded gravely, as if there was no point denying reality any longer, and levered himself upright, beckoning her to follow him out of the kitchen. In the hall, he yanked open the screen door he’d hurried to close on arriving. Again, a mess of heaped paperwork met their gaze. He switched the light on, bringing it into full clarity.
It was, as he’d said, an office. There was a desk, a swivel chair and a computer terminal. All were swamped with documents – official police documents by the looks of them, covered in typing and handwritten notes – but also maps, wanted posters, newspaper clippings. Two of the walls were occupied by noticeboards hung with further paperwork. A closer glance at this revealed witness statements, progress reports, criminal intelligence print-outs. The facing wall was more neatly arrayed with glossy photographs: the blown-up headshots of various different women. Lines and arrows had been drawn between them with a blue marker pen; captions and notations had been scribbled on the wallpaper.
‘Jesus H. Christ,’ Gemma said with slow disbelief. ‘You’ve set up your own incident room.’
‘Sorry boss, but I couldn’t let this go. I don’t care what anyone says.’
She picked a few documents up – gingerly, almost as if she wanted to check they were real but was hoping they weren’t. ‘You haven’t done all this in one evening. I know you haven’t … not when you were in the bloody pub getting wasted.’
Heck shrugged. ‘I had a feeling this was coming. I’ve been making copies of everything and bringing them here for weeks.’
‘You understand what this means, Heck?’ She turned to look at him with an expression that was more fear than anger. ‘This isn’t just a bit of indiscipline, this is an actual crime. This is all Laycock will need to bounce you right out of the job.’
Heck offered her his wrists. ‘You’d better take me in then, hadn’t you?’
Gemma gazed back into the makeshift incident room, at the thirty-eight lovely, smiling faces on its far wall. Even now, after seeing them so many times, their effect on her was physically sobering. Each one didn’t just represent a human life snatched away in its prime, but a devastated family: sorrowing children, tortured parents, a bereft spouse.
‘You may recall I drew up this profile some time ago,’ Heck said. ‘Women who were never likely to go off under their own steam. Career women, graduates, young mothers. Girls who’ve all got a good family life, good prospects, that sort of thing. You’ll notice there are no hookers or drug addicts here …’
‘Heck, I’m familiar with the facts!’ she snapped, sounding furious but still pale with shock. Her voice dropped to an intense whisper. ‘What I’m not familiar with is a level of disrespect for the chain of command that knocks everything else you’ve ever done into a cocked hat! In God’s name, what did you not understand about me telling you this case was closed?’
‘Every part of it,’ he replied brazenly. ‘Every single word.’ He wheeled around and tottered back into the lounge, where he slumped into the armchair. When she reappeared in the doorway, he picked up the telephone. ‘Shall I call for prisoner transport, or will you?’
She shook her head. ‘You have put me in some difficult situations, Mark Heckenburg, but this is …’
‘I’m sorry, Gemma,’ he slurred. ‘But we are where we are.’
‘Oh great. The philosophy of the drunk. That’s all I bloody need.’ She paced back and forth, rubbing at her brow with a carefully manicured finger. ‘You know, Heck, when we were hotshot young DCs at Bethnal Green, you were always three or four steps ahead of the game. You ran rings round the scrotes, the guv’nors. You were a risk-taker, but you so knew what you were doing. That’s what made it exciting to work with you. The angles and tangents we went off at – we never knew where we were going to finish up. It was like living in a high-octane cop movie. And then one day, DCI Jewson – remember him, fat belly, shaggy beard – we used to call him Grizzly Adams? A real old-stager, he was. He took me to one side and said: “Darling, you’ve got a great future. But you’re too close to young Heckenburg for your own good. That lad’s running before he can walk and he’s got way too many tricks up his sleeve. Mark my words, when he goes down – and he will – he’s going to take a chunk of the service with him.” Those were his exact words, Heck. I’ve never forgotten them. How could I? Because that’s when I decided that enough was as good as a feast, and that maybe me and you should cool things a little …’
A gentle snore from the other side of the room interrupted her.
She turned, to find Heck asleep in the armchair. She regarded him for several anguished moments, before shaking her head, taking him by the armpits and lugging him out of his seat, across his lounge and down the hall. Finally, with no little grunting and struggling, she deposited him on his bed, where she stared at him again for several long seconds. ‘Damn it, Heck, why do you always do this to me?’
He didn’t respond. So she switched the light out, before leaving the room.
Ian Blenkinsop sat in silence as he was driven down what he presumed were dark and empty roads. He presumed, because he couldn’t actually see. He was wearing a blindfold, a leather strap pulled tightly around his head, but with a cotton wool pad fitted over each of his eyes to prevent any possible chink of vision. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was unnerving, as was the presence of the two men who sat one on either side of him.
They never spoke, except to make the odd laconic comment about other road users, or the state of the towns and villages they passed through. Noticeably, they never once put a name to any of these places. Neither did they name each other. They were clearly aware that Blenkinsop was listening.
Not that he had much interest in their conversation at present.
He was physically weak, drained of energy and emotion. He was also nauseous; his gut tightened progressively until soon the muscles in his back and sides were tense and aching. His mouth had gone dry; his throat was constricted, and chill sweat bathed his cheeks.