Paul Finch studied History at Goldsmiths, London, before becoming a cop in the northwest of England. He then let his passion for writing allow him to follow a career in journalism. Now a full-time writer, he first cut his literary teeth penning episodes of the British TV crime drama, The Bill, and has written extensively in the field of children’s animation. However, he is probably best known for his work in crime thrillers.

His first three novels in the Detective Sergeant Heckenburg series all attained ‘best-seller’ status, while his first Detective Constable Lucy Clayburn novel became an official Sunday Times top 10 bestseller in this first month of publication.

By the same author:

DS Heckenburg

Stalkers

Sacrifice

The Killing Club

Dead Man Walking

Hunted

Ashes to Ashes

Kiss of Death

Rogue

DC Clayburn

Strangers

Shadows

Stolen

Stand Alones

One Eye Open

Never Seen Again

NO QUARTER

Paul Finch

Copyright © 2025 by Paul Finch

Paul Finch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

The story, all names, characters and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings or products is intended or should be inferred.

Cover design and interior layout by WHITEspace

www.white-space.uk

www.paulfinch-writer.blogspot.co.uk

For my Mum

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 72

PROLOGUE

Between 1864 and 1866, the Hobhall Tunnel was constructed so that an offshoot of the Manchester and Wigan Railway, the so-called Atherton Branch Line, might be extended five miles southeast, allowing the transportation of virgin coal from the Howe Bridge, Gibfield and Trencherbone collieries to the West Manchester Coalfield’s primary coke ovens at Hobhall, in Crowley. The line was diverted underground out of necessity to avoid infringing on an already sprawling industrial conurbation, and as always in that era of effort and ingenuity, it proved its worth, the Crowley coking plant eventually producing four million tons of coke a year. Over the decades that followed, extra tunnels were added, some for the purpose of maintenance, others to allow for the conveyance of different types of freight. As a result, the Hobhall Tunnel, which ran for one and a half miles, soon sat at the heart of a network of subterranean passageways, all servicing the vital industries that fuelled, not just the commerce of northwest England, but the whole of Victorian-age Britain, and beyond that, the Empire.

But that profitable age of muck and brass was now long over, the collieries and coke ovens no more than dim memories. In the twenty-first century, the tunnels lay misty and silent, filled with rubble and water, their doughty architecture thick with moss. The only movement was the scurrying of rats, or the occasional twist of wastepaper skipping on some intangible breeze. Though not always. Not on the early-April evening when two flash cars drove into the Hobhall Tunnel, one from either end, progressing slowly through the fallen masonry and slime-green pools, until they spied each other’s headlights.

This was an unusual event, though not inexplicable. The Hobhall Tunnel had innumerable access points. Stone stairways led up to vaults and basements now forming the under-crofts to shopping malls or civic buildings; narrow footways connected with sewer systems or air raid shelters. In several places, track-beds diverged from the main line and opened out in abandoned sidings or alongside railways that were still in use.

There were many ways to intrude into the derelict labyrinth if one knew how.

Perhaps the strange thing here was the quality of the intrusion.

A blood-red Jaguar F-Type and a metallic black Porsche Cayman, the two cars represented over a hundred grand’s worth of expenditure, and yet still they penetrated into the subterranean gloom, jolting, bouncing, already spattered with the drippings of the underworld.

Forty yards apart, they slid to their respective halts.

In a Hollywood movie, car doors would now bang open and both the two black guys who emerged from the Cayman and the two whites from the F-Type would face off with firearms, eyebrows twitchy with sweat. Tense words would be exchanged as neither side agreed to relinquish its valuables first. And this wouldn’t just be brinkmanship. Inevitably, one of the two sides would be looking to get the drop on the other. No one ever paid for shipments of narcotics. You always stole them if possible, and if that could only be achieved through gunfire, so be it. Likewise, if you had illegal drugs to sell, you used them to lure numb-nuts into bringing you large batches of cash, which you fully intended to walk away with having exchanged nothing in return.

Well… no. That wasn’t the way it worked in real life.

Okay, in real life, firms attended these meetings armed, because you could never be totally sure that a curveball wouldn’t be thrown. But the hardware rarely needed to come out. Even if you did get the better of your opponents, what would your name be worth afterwards?

There was hardly ever a stand-off when drugs were bought and sold. The main emphasis was on speed. Granted, merchandise needed to be checked, cash to be counted. But much of it was done on trust because there was no time for anything else. And this wasn’t always a risk; many of the active firms knew each other’s members on sight, and even if they didn’t like each other, business was preferable to war.

It was the same story that April evening.

Once the two pairs advanced into the glow of their headlamps, the two whites, Holly and Crockpot, easily recognised Shonky and Screech, the two blacks, and vice versa. They weren’t friends, but protracted mutual acquaintance had created a degree of familiarity.

Two sports bags were exchanged, Holly squatting down to rifle through the multiple sachets of cocaine, while Screech placed his bag on the boot of the Cayman and flick-counted the wads of elastic-banded twenties. Crockpot and Shonky looked on, only springing to life when a crunch-crunch of approaching footfalls sounded from the darkness beyond the Cayman. Shonky spun. Crockpot took a step forward. Both reached for their pieces, though they didn’t pull them. Holly and Screech watched the darkness with bugged-out eyes.

Cherry-red in the Cayman’s tail-lights, they saw a foursquare grandfatherly type. Balding, in late middle-age, with a hefty but sagging build. He wore a thick overcoat and leaned on a stick as he trudged, using a scrunched handkerchief to dab at his pudgy face.

‘Yo, Grandpa, this is private!’ Shonky shouted. ‘Go another way, yeah?’

‘Forgive me… gentlemen,’ the elderly man puffed, hobbling forward. ‘I appear to be lost.’

‘You got that right. Go the other way. Last time I’m telling you, Pops.’

Pops halted by the Cayman, tilting against his stick, visibly exhausted. ‘I’m… I’m afraid I’m lost.’

‘You seen nothing, bro!’ Holly shouted, rising to his feet. ‘Go the other way. It’s a piece of piss… take you straight out.’

The man coughed into his handkerchief, before balling it up.

‘Fuckhead.’ Shonky fingered the grip of the Beretta M9 stowed under his jacket.

Screech, who was younger and in his own opinion, way cooler, elbowed his buddy and stepped forward. ‘Where you trying to get to, man?’

‘I… erm…’ The elderly chap cleared his throat. ‘I think…’ He thrust the handkerchief into his overcoat pocket. ‘I believe…’ His thoughts were clearly muddled. ‘I was looking for the… Emporia Subways…’

‘You’re well past that,’ Screech replied. ‘You need to go back the way you came. Ten minutes. That’s all. First passage on the left, yeah?’

The elderly man’s brow furrowed. ‘Ten minutes? That far?’

‘Yeah. Sorry, Gramps?’

‘So am I.’ The aged man’s left hand slid back into view.

It wasn’t holding a handkerchief now, but a long-barrelled revolver.

To Lyndon ‘Screech’ Creech’s fleeting incredulity, it was a Taurus Raging Bull. Which famously packed the wallop of all time, and which he felt for himself, twice, when the first slug took him clean in the chest, the second in the forehead.

Shonky was too stupefied to respond quickly. He’d half drawn his Beretta when he too found himself gazing into the Taurus’s smoking muzzle.

Two more flashes, two more bangs. Chest and throat.

Even as Shonky fell, Holly and Crockpot stood rigid before going for their own weapons, only to realise that a second stranger had emerged from the shadows at their rear and now sidled between them. They couldn’t see her entirely, but it was a ‘she’.

Same age as the man, squat and dumpy, black plastic mac, hair cut short, chubby features lurid with make-up. Before Holly could turn, the Ruger Redhawk in her right hand punched a .44 Special through the side of his head. As he crashed against the Porsche, she swung it on Crockpot, who couldn’t even speak, let alone pull his own weapon.

The first round hit his throat, the second just under his hairline.

The smoke cleared, the elderly couple reloading as they hobbled into the crosshatch glare of the headlights. They put another couple each into the four prone figures, just to be on the safe side. And for the fun, of course.

The fun could never be discounted.

After that, they put their weapons away, the woman collecting the bag of cocaine, the man the bag of money. He rustled about inside. ‘Everything seems to be here.’

‘How much?’ she enquired. ‘At a guess.’

‘Three hundred. Maybe more.’

‘These youngsters… they don’t know the value of anything.’ She groped through her own bag’s contents, just to ensure that it wasn’t a layer of sachets with a lump of old laundry underneath. ‘So casual when there’s so much to be had, and so much to lose.’

They zipped the bags closed.

And heard a faint, muffled cough.

They twirled back to the corpses.

All four lay motionless in their blood and brains.

Another cough followed, and a frantic ‘Shhhh!’

Their attention skirted the tunnel to its far side, where, because their eyes at last were attuning to the murk beyond the headlights, a recess once used to shelter maintenance men was now in use by someone else. A small clutch of ragged, dirt-grey figures sat against its rear wall, huddled under sheets of old newspaper.

‘Shame,’ the man muttered.

They’d be addled in some way. Vagrants always were. But why take a chance?

The duo lumbered over there. At a distance of six feet or so, ignoring a single whimper of terror, they raised their revolvers to the level, took aim, and pumped the triggers. For several seconds, fire and lightning filled that dank underground space, terrible roars echoing from the brickwork. The cordite stench alone could have knocked an army on its back.

1

‘Mark… Mark!’

Mark Heckenburg had just locked his Ford Puma and was halfway across the rest home car park when he heard the woman calling. A familiar figure approached from a white SUV.

He’d have thought that recent events might have reduced Melanie Piper to a shadow of the loud, personable lady she’d previously been, but not so. If anything, the bright May sunshine glimmered in her ‘lion’s mane’ mass of blonde hair, all of which was natural (she was sixty now, but as she often informed people, not a streak of it was actual grey). She was also in fine shape physically, walking tall in her three-inch heels, her statuesque figure enhanced by her strappy summer dress. She carried her bag at her shoulder, her cardigan folded over one arm.

‘Mel?’ he said.

She smiled, but it was polite rather than warm. ‘You’ve heard what the Medical Enquiry Board said?’

‘Let me guess. There’s a job waiting for her so long as it’s behind a desk?’

She nodded and sighed. ‘It doesn’t surprise me… she’s far too experienced an officer just to cut her loose. But she can’t go into the field anymore as part of live investigations.’

‘So, what job have they said they’ll invent for her?’

‘They haven’t, not yet.’ Melanie, or Mel, as she preferred to be called, looked worried. ‘I’m dreading that it’ll be something like keyholder to the evidence locker.’

‘If they’ve stressed they don’t want to lose her experience…’

She waved that away. ‘I know what you’re thinking. Some senior level crime analyst. But be honest, Mark… they’ve got civies doing jobs like that these days. Gemma’s twenty years a cop. She’ll think it counts for nothing.’

‘Be fair, Mel… she was shot through the heart.’

Mel bit her bottom lip. ‘Maybe she’s not thinking clearly. I know I’m not.’

Heckenburg, who was better known (to both friends and foes) as ‘Heck’, wondered if his initial assessment had been off. Up close, Mel Piper seemed shaky. She was still a commanding presence, but thinner than he remembered, her complexion ghost-pale.

‘It’s good to see you, though.’ She looked him over. ‘You must have gone through hell?’

‘I’d like to say it’s all in a day’s work, but at present it isn’t.’

‘You’ve still not been reinstated?’

‘No, and if you want my opinion, it’s unlikely I will be. Maybe me coming to visit Gemma today of all days isn’t the best idea.’

‘Give it a rest, Mark. Any time is a good time to see you.’

‘You must be one of the few people on Earth who believes that.’

‘Well… I won’t pretend that I haven’t got a vested interest.’ She frowned. ‘If that girl of mine’s career is over, she needs a ring on her finger.’

Heck had to work to keep a straight face. Mel Piper, for two decades a policeman’s widow and even longer a policewoman’s mother, a well-heeled occupant of Surrey, England’s richest county, and a bastion of conservative propriety, was very set in her views. She’d never been comfortable with her daughter Gemma’s chosen career (mainly because her own husband had died on duty), but she’d tolerated it because, like her mother, Gemma would never be told what to do. Deep down though, Mel had never given up on the old-fashioned idea that at some point, Gemma would put her vocation behind her, meet a good guy and settle down.

‘Not sure I can help with that,’ Heck said.

‘How sure were you that you could take down those Russians?’

‘That was different. They were only physical obstacles.’

She gave him a level stare. ‘My understanding is that you and Gemma had been on the verge of getting back together?’

‘Rather a lot’s happened since then. Anyway, who told you?’

‘Gail Honeyford was here yesterday. She’s under threat of suspension too.’

Heck shook his head. When he’d been a serving detective sergeant at the Serial Crimes Unit, part of Scotland Yard’s National Crime Group, the ever-energised, ever-headstrong Gail Honeyford had worked under him as a detective constable. A relative newcomer to the department, she’d injected herself into every case with a recklessness that reminded him of himself, which he’d never been able to persuade her was not a good thing. In their last investigation though, when he’d risked everything, including his life, to drop off the grid and hunt a pack of killers far into the wilderness of the Scottish Highlands, Gail had been near enough the only cop in the UK prepared to believe he was on the right track and provide every bit of back-up she could.

‘She’s fine, by the way, so don’t worry,’ Mel added. ‘She’s told your disciplinary people that if you don’t get reinstated, she’ll go to the press with the whole story about how you were left on your own to tackle not just the Black Chapel death cult, but also a Russian Mafia hit squad. About how the only officers arriving as support were actually there to investigate you rather than to assist.’

‘That’s Gail. She always likes to play hardball.’

‘As I say, she’ll be fine.’ Mel edged towards her car. ‘As will you… and Gemma, if you get yourself in there and remind her why you’re the only bloke she was ever interested in.’

Heck watched her climb into the SUV. He waved as the vehicle drove out of the car park.

She’d seemed relieved to see him. Of course, now that she knew her daughter was going to recover from what at the time had seemed like a fatal gunshot wound, she was probably glad deep down that though Gemma would remain a police officer, she’d never be allowed into the firing line again. In Mel’s mind, there was nothing at all now to stop him, Gemma’s ex-boyfriend after all (though many years ago), from inveigling his way back in, so that he and her daughter could form a happy little family unit, and maybe even make Mel a grandma.

‘If only life was that easy.’ He headed up the footpath towards the main building.

2

‘Well, I didn’t think I was going to enjoy it, but I can’t complain so far,’ Chris said. ‘The weather’s helping, of course.’

Of the five lads, only two were natives of England’s northwest, and Chris was one of them, though as a Liverpudlian he didn’t consider Blackpool his home patch, so maybe his reticence about coming along on this weekend had been understandable. In addition, at twenty-eight, he was far too young to remember the famous old Lancashire resort in its heyday, when the sun had blistered the golden sands, the prom was lined with deckchairs, and the piers and Pleasure Beach crammed with excited visitors in their summer best. These days, Blackpool was more a byword for everything that had gone wrong with the British seaside: empty arcades, clapped-out rides, boarding houses ‘For Sale’. Though if that was the image in most people’s minds, it was a little unfair, because Blackpool at least had diversified, pushing itself to the pub-crawl crowd. As such, there were people here today and money was changing hands, and as it was sunny and the May Day weekend, lots of other groups were adding to the mix.

‘The talent helps too,’ David said, as two eye-catching ladies strutted into the pub.

The one advantage of sunny days in Britain was the way so many girls responded by dressing near enough in beachwear. These two were a case in point. One was a redhead, one a blonde, and both were made up like movie stars, wearing four or five-inch heels and parading hourglass figures decked in (firstly) spray-on denim shorts and a pink vest (the lower half cut away to expose a flat tummy and silver-studded navel), and (secondly) a leather miniskirt and sleeveless white blouse (unbuttoned on a spectacular cleavage).

‘Sweet Jesus!’ David muttered into his lager. ‘And then God created woman!’

‘Leave it to me, boys.’ With his usual unfounded confidence, Trevor laced his fingers and pushed them forward till the knuckles cracked. ‘Your Uncle Trev’s got this one covered.’

Tony groaned. As the sole guy among them married, this weekend’s plan had never been to get laid. It had rarely ever been in his case. Though he loved his mates’ company, he’d always been the quiet one back at uni, lacking confidence when it came to approaching girls. In truth, he’d started to wonder if that was the reason why he was the first one to find himself a wife. When he’d met Briony during his initial week in the Civil Service and she’d actually shown interest in him, he couldn’t believe his luck. No wonder he’d latched onto her and refused to let go. Not that the others weren’t now fixed up one way or another, though this being David’s stag party, they’d all been allowed off the leash for the weekend.

‘How you girls doing?’ Trevor wondered in his cheeky-chappie manner. Having slithered several feet along the bar to get close to the two beauties, he couldn’t have made his intentions plainer if he’d been wearing a t-shirt emblazoned ON THE TAP.

And yet surprisingly, certainly to Chris, who never expected anything other than the worst outcome, and to Shaun, who considered himself a much smoother talker than Trevor, the two girls rewarded the clumsy approach with delightful smiles.

‘Great, thank you,’ the blonde replied chirpily. ‘I’m Natalie. This is Ginger.’

Her eyes were bright green, her lashes flecked with sparkle. In contrast, Ginger was tanned and sultry. Her eyes were golden-brown, rimmed with kohl. More importantly, Natalie was a Cockney, just like Trevor, which was all the encouragement he needed.

‘What you doing up here in the barbarous north?’ he asked.

‘Hey!’ Ginger said. ‘We’re not all southern softies.’ Her accent was solid northeast.

But the good humour remained, and better still, this pair of luscious babes, these absolute belters, appeared happy to chat and even accepted Trevor’s offer to buy them drinks. By this time, Shaun, not wanting to be outshone by his normally bumbling buddy, had moved in. He was a Manchester lad, a graduate like the others, but a wideboy too, born with plenty of gab. He filled the girls in on who everyone was and what they were doing here. The girls were intrigued to hear that this was David’s stag weekend. They said that they thought he looked a studious sort, to which Trevor only winked and warned them about wolves in sheep’s clothing. The girls glanced at each other and smiled. David, who was indeed something of a ladies’ man despite his homely appearance, blushed.

The one person not enjoying himself was Tony, who’d been hoping all along that the lads’ promise to help David ‘get his rocks off one last time’ had been a metaphor for a fun weekend generally. He hadn’t thought there was any serious chance of amorous entanglements. A gang of raucous lads kitted out in beach shorts and Hawaiian shirts, slugging beer and shouting, had seemed unlikely to attract a positive response from passing females. Now though, he wasn’t so sure.

‘You sticking with us today, ladies, or what?’ Shaun asked. ‘We’re hitting a few bars this afternoon. We’ve got a curry booked for seven. After that, it’s the Flamingo.’

Ginger and Natalie eyed each other, as if weighing the option.

‘The Flamingo sounds good,’ Ginger said, ‘but we’ve got another offer this afternoon. A party, just outside of town.’

Groans and boos responded. Trevor waved it away. ‘You can party with us.’

‘We’d like that,’ Natalie said. ‘So, why don’t you tag along?’

‘Us?’ Chris’s problem-detector started twitching. ‘Why would you invite us to a party? You don’t even know us.’

‘You don’t know us either, darling,’ Natalie replied, ‘but you just made the same offer.’

‘We invited you to have a few drinks here, in the pub. That’s not too weird, is it?’

‘Bloody hell… no pressure, boys.’ Ginger sounded disappointed. ‘You don’t need to come if you don’t want to. We thought you might enjoy it.’

‘What kind of party is it?’ Trevor asked.

‘A party party,’ Natalie laughed. ‘Bunch of us girls getting together.’

‘A bunch?’ Trevor arched an eyebrow.

‘Tabby’s rich daddy’s away,’ Ginger explained. ‘Nice house in the country. Swimming pool. Outdoor bar, well-stocked.’

Trevor bit his bottom lip with undisguised yearning.

‘And what will Tabby say?’ Chris wondered. ‘When we show up?’

‘Tabby’s Tabby,’ Natalie said with a shrug.

‘Number One party girl,’ Ginger explained.

‘She’ll be pleased, yeah?’ Shaun asked.

‘All the lasses will,’ Ginger replied.

‘You may have noticed by now…’ Natalie pulled Shaun close and pecked him on the cheek. ‘But we like fellas.’

‘That’s my next question,’ Chris replied. ‘Surely, you’ll already have blokes there? We don’t want to cause any hassle.’

That possibility was a downer. Trevor frowned at the mere thought.

‘Boys’ weekend to Newcastle.’ Ginger rolled her eyes. ‘God knows why. There isn’t much to recommend it.’

‘And while the cats are away,’ Natalie added, ‘the sexy little mice can play.’

‘Even…’ Ginger nodded to a distant table, where a bunch of Neanderthals with shaven heads and tats grunted at each other as they sucked through straws at fishbowl-sized glasses filled with every spirit from the top shelf, ‘… if we have to cast our net a little wider.’

This was all the impetus the lads needed. Even Tony, who, wary of this arrangement as he was, had no intention of being left behind in the pub on his own.

‘That lot would’ve given you a rougher ride than you’d have liked,’ Shaun said as Ginger and Natalie led them across the pub’s car park.

Natalie eyed him. ‘How do you know what sort of rides we like?’

A minibus waited in a quiet backstreet, the girls’ heels clacking on the cobblestones as they sashayed towards it.

‘This is too good to be true,’ Chris muttered to David.

‘Yeah.’ But David, for all that he was getting married within the week, had a dreamy look in his eyes. ‘Miracles happen though, you know.’

Inside, Natalie slid behind the wheel, hit the ignition and put the bus in gear.

‘How far is it?’ Chris asked.

‘Not far.’ Ginger pulled down a seat facing them and sat herself prettily on it.

From the footwell next to her, she produced what looked like a backpack, but when she unbuckled it at the top and unzipped it down the middle, it opened into one of those posh picnic hampers containing bottles of bubbly, napkins and gleaming tableware.

‘Half a sec, darling!’ Natalie rounded a few corners as she navigated the Bank Holiday Saturday traffic.

Ginger waited, winking at Tony, and when they hit an open stretch, placed a silver tea-tray on her thighs, and from out of the hamper took a tower of plastic goblets. Deftly, as if she’d done this many times before, she set the goblets out.

‘Champers to start?’ Trevor shouted, eyes goggling as one of the few buttons still fastened on her blouse popped open while she leaned over to uncork a bottle of fizz.

‘Better than that.’ She poured them each a generous measure but then unscrewed another cap and added significant dollops of vodka. ‘Our own special cocktail.’ She handed them a goblet each. ‘We call it You Won’t Believe What Happens Next.’

‘Now, that I like!’ Trevor downed his in one.

The others drank quickly and eagerly, eyes rivetted on Ginger’s exposed décolletage.

‘Shittt…’ David breathed, though even that single expletive already sounded slurred.

It was Trevor’s goblet that dropped to the floor first. But David’s followed in short order. And then the others, one by one, as the five guys succumbed to the toxin-tainted liquor.

3

‘You’re looking one hundred percent better,’ Heck said. ‘And I only saw you last week.’

Gemma Piper glanced up from her iPad. She was seated in a wheelchair in a shady corner of the rest home’s extensive rear garden. Even though the sun was out, insects lazing from one spring flower to the next, she wore a dressing gown over her pyjamas.

‘I’m doing really well,’ she replied, but she didn’t return his smile. That was one of the most painful aspects of this business. The woman who’d previously used her smile so sparingly that when she did, she could light up a room, now never used it at all.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ She clutched the pole of the drip alongside her. ‘I can’t stand up unaided, let alone walk. I’m so weak I get breathless just bending down to take my slippers off. I’m thirty-five pounds underweight and counting. I’m on daily cocktails of life-preserving drugs, most of which I’ve never heard of before…’

‘Gemma!’ He squatted. ‘Last time I had you in my arms, a hole had been punched clean through your vascular system. It’s a miracle you’re here at all.’

She looked away, either hurt by that memory or embarrassed that she looked every bit the mess she’d just described. Her ash-blonde hair was hacked short and scraggy, her face thin and pale, her hands scrawny, the whole of her body emaciated even beneath her pyjamas and the thick layers of surgical wrappings. She’d been hazy and listless the previous week, much less easy to converse with, but today she seemed to have traded incoherence for rattiness.

‘On top of all that,’ she said, ‘I’ve lost my job.’

‘Well… that’s not strictly true.’

‘What am I going to do, Mark? Whatever they’ve got lined up for me, it’s going to be so challenging they haven’t even been able to think of a name for it yet.’

‘Give them a chance, eh? Joe Wullerton’s a good guy…’

‘Joe’s looking to leave NCG.’

‘He is?’

Heck was surprised. Through all his years in the Serial Crimes Unit, Joe Wullerton, as Director of the National Crime Group, had been his supreme commander. It might have been Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper, who, as head of SCU, had had Heck’s back most often, but it was Joe Wullerton who’d had Gemma’s.

‘He wants to return to Hampshire Constabulary,’ she added.

‘For real? Hampshire?’

‘There’s a Chief Constable vacancy coming up.’ She shifted position; the effort seemed enormous. ‘And Hampshire aren’t likely to get chopped as part of the cuts.’

Heck considered. This was the big problem at present: the ongoing police cost reductions. As a small but expensive department, SCU had lived under the shadow of disbandment for several years. Recently, at least according to canteen gossip, that threat had expanded to the National Crime Group as a whole, who, as a kind of British version of the FBI, had long been regarded by certain members of the National Police Chiefs’ Council as a luxury the trimmed-down job couldn’t afford.

‘They’ve got to give you a job,’ he said. ‘You’re the heroic survivor of the Ace of Diamonds, and they’ll look like a bunch of total shit-heels if they don’t.’

‘I can’t be a paper-pusher, Mark. That can’t be my only role in life.’

‘How about a font of all knowledge? The person in the corner everyone goes to when they’ve got a real problem?’

‘Like who?’ She glanced up. ‘A Staples Corner version of Mystic Meg?’

‘No, like Eric Fisher.’

That was a big call, Heck realised. Eric Fisher had been SCU’s senior intelligence officer. For family reasons, he hadn’t attended the fateful SCU party at the Ace of Diamonds pub the previous September, which had subsequently been sprayed with machine-gun fire courtesy of two assassins working under coercion by the Russian mob. As such, he was one of the few members of the original unit left alive and well, and though he’d now been seconded elsewhere, it wasn’t impossible that he might want his old job back.

‘Eric was a DS… and nearly sixty,’ Gemma said. ‘Sitting around all day managing HOLMES was perfect for him. I’m a DSU though, and I’m not even forty.’

Heck took her hand. ‘Gemma, come on…’

She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Mark. I must seem very self-centred. There’s you, who busted a gut bringing these bastards in, and now you’re looking at getting slung out altogether…’

Her head drooped onto her chest. Her breathing sounded slow and awkward.

Feeling as if his mere presence was tiring her out, Heck said nothing, making a show of appraising the verdant grounds. More figures in wheelchairs were seated here and there, while others hobbled about on crutches. Nurses busied themselves back and forth. Redwood Court was a private hospital and nursing home dedicated to the care of injured emergency services workers, and one of the few of its kind in the UK. Its atmosphere was certainly restful. He took in the lawns and flowerbeds, the lush greenery; it was difficult to imagine anyone considering this place the end of the line, though that was Gemma’s apparent attitude. Not that he could blame her. She’d lain in a lengthy coma after almost the entirety of the team she’d worked with so closely for so many years was mown down in front of her eyes. He himself had had plenty time now to adjust to the loss. Perhaps she was only at the start of that uphill curve.

‘Have they given you any indication?’ he heard her ask.

‘Erm, no,’ he replied. ‘The only contacts I’ve had are from the Federation.’

‘What about Gwen?’

‘Gwen’s new head of the Serial Crimes Unit. You know that, I take it?’

Gemma nodded but frowned. Detective Chief Superintendent Gwen Straker had been a mentor to both Heck and Gemma during their early days as detective constables in the Metropolitan Police. But it wouldn’t rest easy with Gemma that, having finally attained the position of her dreams, she’d now been side-lined while her old teacher took charge of it.

‘I can’t stand the thought,’ she admitted. ‘But if it can’t be me… I can’t think of anyone better. It’s a bit of a choker that she can’t help you, though.’

‘Like you say, SCU’s seen as a luxury. She’s had to fight hard to get it up and running again. She’s re-staffing as we speak, and meeting lots of opposition. To go chasing after me too… when I’m still on a Grade A disciplinary, that’d be pushing her luck.’

‘I don’t suppose it helped that you took Mike Garrickson’s feet from under him?’

‘You mean solving the Ace of Diamonds case before he did?’ Heck shrugged. ‘He was surprisingly okay about it. Not that there was much else he could be. But I can’t feel too cocky about that. If I’d shown him the bracelet that led me to the Hellstroms, he’d have got there before me.’

Gemma glanced up again. ‘You withheld evidence?’

‘All bets were off, Gemma. You were in a coma, everyone else was dead, I was out of a job whatever happened… I was going to kill them. I mean that. I didn’t go to Scotland intent on arresting anyone. I’d acquired an illegal firearm, and I was going to use it.’

They locked gazes for long seconds, before she broke away. ‘See what I mean? You wouldn’t be telling me all this if you thought I had a future in the job.’

‘I wouldn’t be telling you this if you were anyone other than my next favourite person on Earth after me… and the girl I thought I’d lost forever.’

She refused to meet his gaze.

‘Gemma… do you remember anything about the Ace of Diamonds incident?’

‘It’s a blur. We were in the car park when the shooting started. The chase… darkened roads, woods. After that, nothing.’

‘Well… that’s not bad considering you’ve been unconscious for three months.’

‘They tell me I’ll recollect more in time.’

She still didn’t look at him, and he couldn’t help wondering if she actually did remember the kiss they’d shared just before the attack on the pub but didn’t want to mention it.

‘Your mum was here earlier,’ he said.

‘Yeah, I noticed.’

‘She’s always glad to see me.’

‘She thought you were the one.’

‘She still looking to get you fixed up at every opportunity?’

‘There’re a couple of nice young doctors here. Single men. She’s told me that at least twice. Her new next door neighbour’s got a son. He’s a senior accountant for some asset manager in the City. Apparently, he’s loaded, and a looker. I should meet him.’

‘She said that?’

Gemma glanced up. ‘Yeah, why?’

Heck struggled. Was he not the only prospect then, where Mel Piper was concerned? ‘It doesn’t matter. Except… yeah, it does actually. You’re bloody infuriating!’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Just get better, yeah?’ He edged away. ‘I’ll be back in a few days. I’ve got stuff on.’

It was a bare-faced lie, of course. He had nothing ‘on’. He was going back to his half-empty flat as usual.

‘Mark!’ she called after him. ‘I’m not interested in any of them.’ He stopped and came back a couple of yards. ‘Do I look like the sort of woman who’s got room in her life for romance?’ she asked. ‘With anyone?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t.’

‘What happened at the Ace of Diamonds was life-changing for both of us. You realise that, don’t you? The past is gone. The future’s going to be very different.’

4

One by one, the lads found themselves gazing blurrily at a low concrete ceiling. When they tried to move, they were stiff, as though they’d been beaten up, and nauseated, as if from food poisoning. Then the headaches set in, crunching inside their skulls.

Trevor clamped a hand to his face as he levered himself up onto his backside. ‘What the actual…?’

‘What happened?’ Tony wondered, slumped against a wall, peering at nothing.

‘What do you think, Doofus?’ Chris replied. ‘We got drugged.’

‘Shit…’ Tony said, as things swam into focus.

It wasn’t just the ceiling. The whole of the room, which was square in shape, about fourteen feet by fourteen, was made from rough, functional concrete. There was no furniture, but two doors, one on the right and one on the left. Both were made from heavy, unpainted steel and had no visible handles or locks, but given their breadth – they were about two-men-wide each – they were slide-doors. Again, they added to the utilitarian feel of the place.

‘We’ve been robbed too,’ Chris said.

Tony felt for his wallet and phone, to find both missing. ‘Bitches!’ he spat. ‘Why would they do this?’

‘Perhaps, I mean it’s just possible… they wanted the money.’ Chris, who’d tried to stand up, slid back down the wall. ‘On the prowl looking for stag parties, weren’t they? They knew we’d all be pissed, they knew we’d have cash in our pockets.’

Minutes passed as they got painfully to their feet, flexed deadened limbs, rubbed at aching crania.

‘I knew it couldn’t be,’ Trevor mumbled. ‘Babes like that showing an interest in us.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ Shaun replied irritably. ‘You thought we were in. That it was a big score for Uncle Trev. How fucking dumb were you?’

‘All right, fellas,’ David said. ‘We’re all in the same boat, remember?’

‘Yeah, but it was his fucking fault.’ Shaun nodded at Trevor.

‘Fuck you,’ Trevor retorted.

‘We were all up for it,’ Tony cut in. ‘Should have known.’ He shook his head. ‘We just should have.’

Chris tried the two doors. First on the right, then on the left, pushing and tugging as best he could considering they had no grips, but they wouldn’t budge.

‘Why’ve they locked us in?’ he said. ‘Why not dump us by the roadside?’

‘Risk of being seen?’ Shaun suggested.

‘I don’t know.’ David looked uneasy. ‘They could have found somewhere quiet.’

‘You don’t think they’re just going to leave us here?’ Tony asked.

David pointed to a corner of the ceiling, where a single flickery bulb sat behind a rusty cage. ‘If they were going to do that, why give us a light?’

‘Fucking hope that thing doesn’t go out,’ Tony whimpered. ‘Jesus, what if it does?’

It did.

Right at that moment.

As though on cue.

As though someone was listening.

They plunged into obsidian darkness, but before anyone could protest, another light came on. A different bulb at the opposite side of the room, also behind a cage, but this one was blood-red in colour, bathing them in a garish crimson glow.

‘Fuck…’ Chris whispered.

‘It’s someone fucking around,’ Trevor said, his voice weak and juddery. ‘It’s a game, yeah? They’re just having a laugh?’

‘Some fucking laugh,’ Shaun breathed.

Then, with a grunting and grinding of cogs, and a dull vibration under their feet, the door on the right commenced sliding open. The lads bunched together, fists clenched as they awaited whatever was about to come through.

But nothing did.

The door stood fully open on darkness. So impenetrable that the red light leached into it no more than a foot.

‘Feels like an invitation,’ Trevor said.

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Chris whispered.

‘Whatever happens,’ David said. ‘Whatever… we don’t go through there.’

‘What if it’s the way out?’ Tony asked.

‘Yeah, because they’d have gone to all this trouble just to let us go,’ Chris replied.

With a further grinding and clunking, the door behind them also started to open.

The lads spun to face it, knotting together. Firelight glimmered from the widening gap. And they heard a low guttural snarl.

‘Oh shit,’ Tony whimpered again.

This next corridor facing them was lit by writhing flames and built from metal cage-work. It led away for maybe forty yards. At the far end, there was a barred gate, behind which several pairs of pinprick eyes revealed the presence of a whole bunch of four-footed brutes.

Another blood-curdling snarl.

The lads’ eyes were now attuning, and four black, heavily muscled Dobermann Pinschers stood just behind the gate, ears pricked, bared fangs hanging with ropes of drool.

The next thing, a progression of loud metallic clunks signified the inevitable, as, one by one, the heavy bolts holding the barred gate were mechanically withdrawn. Even before that gate creaked open, the lads had started running, a stumbling, tumbling mass of men, shouting hoarsely as they penetrated the darkness beyond the right-side doorway. A couple fell, grazing their bare knees on splintery floorboards, but the yelping and barking of the unleashed pack was all the encouragement they needed to blunder on.

Tony glanced back. The dogs, their eyes blots of flame-red hate, were just entering the concrete room. And yet, salvation came unexpectedly, for the massive steel door that had admitted the lads into this passage was now closing again. The canines fell over each other as they slip-slid to a halt, their savage yelps turning to yowls of confusion.

‘It’s okay!’ Tony shouted. ‘Lads, it’s okay… look!’

They glanced back to see the crimson gap narrowing until it was nothing more than a sliver. And then closing with a reverberating clang.

Plunging them again into abyssal darkness.

The lads’ momentum pushed them on. They were slower now, David shouting for some kind of order, Chris calling someone a ‘thick twat’ for blundering into him so hard that he’d been knocked to the floor. They didn’t know where they were, of course. Couldn’t see hands in front of faces. But they had the sensation they were following a corridor. Broad enough to accommodate maybe three men standing side-by-side. When Shaun reached left, he felt upright bars. He tried to tell the others, but no one was listening. On the right, David had discovered the same. Again, he tried to call them to order.

‘The dogs have been penned… lads, listen! For fuck’s sake, we can’t just go blindly on!’

At which point, the first blow landed.

From someone the other side of those bars.

Delivered by what felt like a wrench.

David snatched his hand back. The smashing impact had struck the back of it. The unseen figure beyond the bars struck again, catching his shoulder, knocking the wind from him. At the same time, a fusillade of blows landed on the others.

‘Shit!’ Trevor squealed as what felt like a spanner hit the bridge of his nose.

Tony, struck on the upper back, spasmed in pain. As he ducked away, he headbutted David in the face. ‘Fuck!’ David gasped.

The lads stumbled as brutish steel implements slashed at them. Shaun was hit in the left eye with such force that he thought the socket had fractured. Trevor smacked on top of the head. Chris in the mouth, whacked so hard his upper front teeth cracked backward.

They’d travelled thirty yards, running a gauntlet of this horror, everyone bruised and bloodied, before the attacks ceased. When David felt to his right, the wall comprised brickwork. ‘Looth!’ Chris shouted, voice slushy with blood. ‘Lighth!’

They scrambled on, a clump of injured bodies clinging to each other. The light shone through a doorway on their left. It was functional and overlarge, like the entrance to a factory gangway. As they shouldered through it, the light went out again.

Trevor, blood trickling down his face, ventured ahead with arms outstretched. The air was better in here. ‘Think…’ he stuttered. ‘Fuck, think this might be the way out…’

He stepped over a precipice, dropping downward with a scream.

‘Trev!’ Shaun lunged through the darkness after him, though someone managed to catch him by the collar, and it was only this that saved him. As the light came back on, Shaun was teetering on the edge of an horrific pit.

It occupied the centre of another utilitarian space, a large, enclosed chamber that might once have been a machine room or loading bay, for the walls were breezeblock, the overhead roof braced by colossal steel girders. The pit, which was circular, sat in the middle of an open concrete floor. It was about fifteen feet across, but when they looked down, at least twenty feet deep. Its bottom comprised heaped broken bricks, in the middle of which lay the unmoving form of Trevor.

A couple of the lads wept as they circled the pit’s edge. It was David who spotted the steel ladder clamped to the wall of the pit on the opposite side. It didn’t come right to the top, commencing its descent about a foot lower, but it ran all the way to the bottom, and was clearly the only way they could reach the casualty. No one stopped to debate whether or not this was a good idea. Even from up here, Trevor’s head was a mass of blood. It caked his hair, spattered his pink and yellow shirt. He still wasn’t moving.

David went first. The other lads lowered him till he found a perch on the ladder, and from there cautiously descended.

‘It’s flimsy,’ he shouted. Many of the bolts holding the ladder to the wall were loose and corroded. The ladder jerked and rattled, but a mate was a mate. When David reached the bottom, Shaun followed him down.

‘Rest of you stay up there!’ David shouted, clambering over bricks to Trevor’s crumpled form. ‘See if you can get help. Tell these bastards this thing just got serious. That someone’s badly hurt.’

Tony and Chris turned bemused glances on each other. Shaun, meanwhile, reached the bottom. He crossed the bricks on all fours as they shifted constantly. And then there came a grunt and grinding of aged wheels and gears. The lads up top panicked. They ran about, but there was nothing they could do, because, from a half-hidden slot ringing the pit about two inches below its top, a solid steel lid was sliding into view.

‘Hey, no, no!’ David shouted from below.

Relentlessly, unstoppably, the lid rolled out, covering the entire opening.

When it clanged shut, the echoes went on for seconds.

5

As Heck drove home along the A243, he felt wretched to his guts. The complexities of his relationship with Gemma Piper seemed never-ending. Though to term the events of the last couple of years ‘complex’ would only be one of many staggering understatements.

It had all begun so well.

They’d joined the job at roughly the same time, twenty years ago now, and the moment they’d seen each other, they’d both been smitten. As young CID officers, working together out of Bethnal Green Police Station under the tutelage and mentorship of the then thief-taker extraordinaire, DI Gwen Straker, they’d worked and played together with all the energy and excitement of youth. In due course, they’d become an item, setting up home together. On the surface at least, it had all been hunky dory, and yet, deep down, Heck and Gemma were not a natural match. To start with, they’d both entered the job with different goals: Gemma to continue a proud family tradition, Heck to punish a police-hating father whom he felt had betrayed him. As such, their respective approaches to policework were also at variance. Gemma played it straight, while Heck bent rules and cut corners. Both got results, and it’s often said that opposites attract, so perhaps the relationship could have gone on unhindered had Gemma’s determination to be as good a cop as possible not put her into risky situations that Heck found discomforting, and had her more conscientious approach not seen her marked for rapid and regular promotion, a sharp contrast with him, whose constant scrapes with supervision looked likely to doom him to a career at street-level.

Only after several years though had Heck realised the extent of his own fault in all this.

In respect of the first of these issues, and in a demonstration of pre-woke era chauvinism that Regan and Carter would have been proud of, he’d allowed his ‘male protective instinct’ to take charge. Though even now he felt that, as Gemma’s prospective life partner, he’d been right to exercise some degree of concern, for example when she’d volunteered to be the bait in the hunt for a demented sex killer called the Stranger. But that was the job. And women were in the job as much as the men. They knew the risks and accepted them. You had to respect that.

More problematic had been Gemma’s meteoric rise through the ranks.

Okay, so she was headed to the top floor while his destiny was to remain a grunt. Other similar partnerships in the job had made it work, but Heck had never believed he could. It wasn’t just that he felt slighted (yet more of that ridiculous pig-headed arrogance that Gemma had once said convinced him he was the only cop in Britain who kept the ship afloat) but he held it as inconceivable that they could come home each evening and compare their daily experiences and feel there was any kind of parity.

Much later, he’d tried to console himself with the idea that it would have been a problem for Gemma too. A posterchild for the modern police: female, attractive, intelligent, so highly rated that she’d made rank within the notoriously male-dominated world of CID. And then being seen with him on her arm. A ‘blunt instrument’, as someone had once referred to him (Heck couldn’t remember now whether it had been a criminal or a fellow cop). A ‘meathead’. An ‘ape in a collar and tie’.

And yet it still seemed incredible to Heck even now that he’d had the gall to dump someone like Gemma. In a lifetime of what felt like critical mistakes, that had been the absolute doozy.

They’d forged separate career paths after that, avoiding contact, occasionally reading each other’s names in force bulletins, though never in any capacity that might influence one or the other to pick up the phone. And then, by complete accident, a decade ago now, Heck, looking for something different, applied for reassignment from the Metropolitan Police to the National Crime Group, in particular the Serial Crimes Unit, who were in need of a seasoned detective sergeant – only to find out that Gemma, now Detective Superintendent Piper, had recently been appointed head of that department.

The rest, as they say, was history.

Unexpectedly, they were back on the same team. The key difference this time: they weren’t DCs. Gemma was the boss, Heck the underling. Whether she liked it or not, she was forced to rein him in, and that had led to some issues for sure. To say they were fire and water would be another of the many euphemisms that sprinkled their mutual history, but while there might have been tensions between them, these lessened as time wore on and they both attuned to the new arrangement, specifically as Gemma became increasingly aware how effective a weapon Heck could be in the no-holds-barred war against serious crime. And so, while she was always on his case, she played to his strengths too, utilising him where he was most adept.

As such, they didn’t just close a number of complicated, high-profile enquiries, but contributed significantly to the closure of similar cases being dealt with by other police forces in England and Wales (which, after all, was the National Crime Group’s remit).

Then had come Operation Sledgehammer…

Heck slowed down on the A3, which, at this time on a sun-soaked Bank Holiday Saturday afternoon, was milling with traffic. He barely saw it though, his thoughts lost in the tumultuous events that had followed on from Sledgehammer.

Gemma had accepted the case because of the threat posed to her unit by the cost-cutting heavyweights at Scotland Yard. In short, it had seen them handed a shopping list of high priority fugitives, mass murderers all, currently on the run from justice. Heck and DC Gail Honeyford had closed their strand of the investigation efficiently, though not without some close calls, but such had been the urgency to make Operation Sledgehammer a success that Heck, for one, had been unable to complete his previous enquiry into the so-called Black Chapel, an Odinist death cult looking to murder priests, vicars and other religious people on special days sacred to the old Viking belief system. He’d long been convinced that the Black Chapel crimes had been inspired by the lyrics of a Norwegian father and son black metal group, Varulv, by that time living in retirement in the Scottish Highlands.

When, on September 6 last year – Heck stiffened as he navigated the river of cars thronging into Surbiton – SCU were celebrating the triumph that was Operation Sledgehammer at a north London pub called the Ace of Diamonds, two masked assassins had attacked them with automatic weapons, killing twenty-six in the process, and critically wounding eight more. Heck and Gemma had only survived because they’d been out in the car park, trying to make real the secret yearning they’d both felt to rekindle their relationship. That long-awaited kiss that he’d wanted to mention to Gemma back at Redwood Court, which she’d either forgotten or had chosen to blot out, had occurred as the attack on the pub took place. They’d subsequently pursued the assassins in Heck’s car but were ambushed on a wooded road on the northern outskirts of the city, where Gemma was shot in the chest.

She’d spent the following autumn lost in a limbo between life and death, while Heck, under suspicion as sole survivor and because he’d been earlier overheard to make a remark about the future of the Serial Crimes Unit that had been grossly misconstrued, and subsequently suspended from all duties, had gone AWOL in his pursuit of Karl and Eric Hellstrom, the father and son black metallers whom evidence implied were the gunmen. Driven like a man possessed, the hunt had taken Heck far into the Western Highlands, where he’d uncovered the real evil behind the Ace of Diamonds massacre: a splinter-group of the Tatarstan Brigade of the Russian Mafia, under the control of one Vasily Tarasov, a former Bratva commander whose nephew, Nayka, had died in a confrontation with SCU officers (in other words, Heck!) several years before any of this had happened.

With more than a little help from Gail Honeyford, Heck had finally got the better of the Russian kill-team but had used tools and methods so far beyond acceptability in British police terms that even now, four months later, and seven months after he was originally suspended, he remained non-operational, awaiting an uncertain fate.

He crossed the Thames at Putney Bridge. Even for the Spring Bank Holiday it was a warm day. His air conditioner was at full tilt, his windows wide open.

He had no expectation that he’d be reinstated. He’d broken every regulation in the book in his pursuit of Tarasov. Even with a friend like Gwen Straker, now a detective chief superintendent, the outlook was gloomy. The police couldn’t afford to be sentimental. Yes, he’d nabbed the villains who’d killed his colleagues, but senior supervisors occupied a world of factual analysis, of careful clinical assessment… not romance.

To start with, the optics would be appalling: the generous rehabilitation of an officer like DS Mark Heckenburg, who in his last case had behaved like an out-of-control vigilante?

It would be at spectacular odds with the image the new liberal-trending police were aiming for. And it wasn’t as if there’d be no one to exploit it. Law enforcement already had legions of enemies out there who’d create an uproar.

That wouldn’t be the sole consideration, of course. The fact that, after the recent swingeing cuts, the Police Service of England and Wales was expertise-light was in Heck’s favour. They’d need good reason to dismiss a detective with his skills and experience. But they’d have to be pragmatic too. Which senior officers would want such a loose cannon on their deck? How could he ever be taken seriously in court? Any defence team worth its salt would have a hundred things to go at if Heck was ever to bring a case against one of their clients.

That said, none of this had mattered when Heck hadn’t thought Gemma would make it. Convinced she was braindead and that in due course her mother would agree to have her life-support switched off, he’d already accepted that he had no future, that he lived only to get even on her behalf. But even now, with Gemma officially on the mend, he was unsure. It struck him that no one ever really recovered from catastrophic injuries.

She would get better physically. Gemma had always looked after herself. She’d always been fit, trim. She’d possessed strength of spirit too. The iron will to get well. But something was now missing. Some hint of feeling.

Even during their tensest moments in SCU, at times when she’d been so cross with him that she could barely speak, he’d detected the deep-down affection. The odd lingering glance, the unconscious body language, the occasional softening of her tone. They’d all given her away. But this morning had been different. A casual observer would have disagreed. Told him to relax. She was just being curt with him, they’d say, because she was Gemma and he was Heck, and that was the way of things.

But Heck knew differently.

She’d survived that terrible gunshot wound, but her spark had gone out.

That hadn’t been Gemma back at Redwood Court.

Only her shell.

6

They’d stomped and thumped on the steel slab till the balls of their feet ached and their knuckles bled. But Chris and Tony had heard only dim cries from the pit underneath it, voices so muffled that no words were intelligible. In due course, those voices fell quiet. And that had seemingly been it.

Chris and Tony had been sitting alongside the pit now for what seemed like ages, ragged, bloody and despairing. Despite the early summer warmth outside, in this place the air was dank and cold, the silence intense. Whatever vast industrial-age structure this was, inside, it was a world apart.

‘Why’re they doing this?’ Tony sniffled, smearing tears and grime across his face.

‘Becauth they’re enjoying it,’ Chris lisped through his loosened teeth. ‘Can’t think there’th any other reason.’

‘You mean like… they’re watching us? We’re some kind of show?’

‘Don’t know, mate. But thith ithn’t thome thtag-do joke.’

‘So, what is it?’

Chris shrugged, more preoccupied with what they were going to do next. Half an hour ago, they’d made a vow not to budge from the side of this pit. Wherever they’d gone previously, they’d been menaced or injured. Sitting here next to the steel lid, but on a solid concrete floor in a spacious chamber, the whole geometry of which was now visible to them, they were unlikely to be harmed further. But for how long could they just sit?

‘If thith ith some kind of tetht,’ Chris said, ‘there may be a way out.’

‘A test?’ Tony looked angry. ‘Jesus Christ, for what? Super-soldier training?’

‘A tetht as to whether we detherve to live or die.’

Tony grabbed his elbow. ‘Die?’

‘Tony, get real!’ Chris’s temper broke; his buddy’s unashamed weakness was becoming unbearable. ‘For all we know, Trev could be dead already. You thaw the thtate he wath in?’

Fresh tears welled onto Tony’s cheeks. ‘In Christ’s name, what do we do?’

Chris tried to think it through. ‘By thith time tomorrow, we’ll be mithed. By tomorrow night, they’ll thtart looking…’

‘The people in the pub will have seen those girls!’ Tony sounded hopeful. ‘No one could’ve missed them two!’

‘You reckon? Two painted tartth who without their thlap on, and their push-up brath, will probably look jutht like you and me?’

‘What about the minibus then? The police have roadside cameras.’

‘If anyone even thaw it and thought it was odd enough to make a note of itth regithtration.’

‘But if someone did, they’ll be able to track it.’

‘And even then, it could’ve been travelling under falthe plateth.’

‘Why would they go to all that trouble?’ Tony wailed.

‘Chritht’s thake, Tone!’ Chris gestured around. ‘They went to all thith trouble, didn’t they? You think they juth found thith place?’

‘You mean they built it?’

‘Or renovated it. Put in all the extra bitth and piethes. Jethus wept, mate! Get with the programme! We’re in real fucking trouble here!’ Chris got to his feet. ‘Obviouthly, no one’th going to walk in and thave us. Tho, we’ve got to be proactive. We can’t juth thit around.’

‘But if we stay here, in this spot, no one’s going to hurt us. We’ve already agreed that.’

‘No one’th going to feed us either or give uth a cup of water. And by tomorrow that’ll be a problem.’

Wearily, Tony clambered to his feet. ‘So, what do we do?’

Chris pointed across the chamber to the light filtering through an arched doorway. ‘Firth, we find where that’th coming from.’

‘We’ve already looked. It’s just another corridor. You said it’s obviously a trap.’

Chris shook his head. ‘What elth can we do? We can’t go back.’

Before leaving, Chris lay down on his front, put his mouth to the steel covering the pit and shouted through that they were going for help. There was no audible response. He got back to his feet and the pair of them trudged across the chamber. At the next open door, as they’d seen earlier, a long breezeblock corridor awaited them, with weak, pale light shining around the corner at its farthest end.

‘Suppose the walls start closing in?’ Tony said. ‘Like in one of them old adventure films.’

Chris didn’t reply. Again, it seemed obvious that they were being lured towards their next ordeal, but again they had no choice. Bracing himself, he strode forward, Tony stumbling behind. Anything could have come around that corner up ahead, but rather to both their surprise, they reached it unmolested. Peeking around it, they saw a shorter second corridor, which led for about twenty yards into another open space. Whatever that space was, the light emanated from a point at the far end of it.

‘Is that… is that a window?’ Tony said.

‘All right, eathy.’ Chris moved forward slowly.

‘But that’s a way out!’

‘Don’t know that yet.’

‘If nothing else, we can break the glass and shout.’

They halted. The chamber was rectangular, perhaps twenty yards across and thirty long. And yes, at its far end there were two steps and then a wall with a narrow window in the middle. The glass was frosted and grimy, but what appeared to be daylight shafted through.

Tony tried to barge forward, but Chris blocked his way with a straight arm. ‘Wait.’

He scrutinised the larger chamber. It looked to be empty, the floor and ceiling made from basic concrete, the walls again built from breezeblocks. Aside from the window, there was no other light, but their eyes had adjusted well.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But thlowly.’

They ventured in side by side, Chris on the right, Tony on the left.

In that respect, what happened next was neither of their fault. And both their fault.

Together, they tripped a semi-invisible wire pulled taut at shin-level. It twanged as it snapped, and with a series of whistling thuds, six crossbow bolt-sized missiles projected at speed from a series of tiny circular openings concealed amid the right-side breezeblocks.

Three missed entirely, but three struck Chris.

He sagged to his knees, choking in shock. For a second, he could hardly speak. The first bolt had sunk to its feathers in his right thigh. The second jutted several inches from his right hip, while the third had caught him in the right side of his ribs, and had penetrated to half its length, deep into whichever vital organs lay beneath.

‘Tony…’ he croaked, grabbing the bolt that skewered his ribs. Its shaft was aluminium; he could probably bend it, but it was lodged firmly. When he turned his face to his mate, it was white.

Tony could only back away, before galloping on towards the window. ‘I’m getting help!’ he yelled over his shoulder.

Another wire twanged.

It was Tony who’d tripped it. But he was now out of the way, though he heard the new whistles and thuds. He tottered as he turned back to where Chris lay on his left side, his right side literally bristling with bolts, though one had penetrated his neck, transfixing it, while another stood in his right temple.

Screaming, Tony ran up the steps and threw himself at the pane of dirty glass. He beat on it with his elbows and fists, knocking it through in a clattering deluge. And found himself gazing into a brick-built cubby hole containing only a small shelf on which an unshaded bulb created the impression of daylight.

The last thing he heard before sinking to his knees was distant, discordant laughter.

7

When Heck opened the front door, he’d been working out and so was dressed only in shorts and a T-shirt. A star athlete and rugby league player during his teenage years, he was no stranger to training, though he’d been going at it much harder over the last few months, primarily thanks to his having nothing else to do. As well as running, he’d bought himself some weights, and this too was paying off. He didn’t think he’d been this ripped since his early twenties.

‘Afternoon, Mark,’ DCS Gwen Straker said. ‘If nothing else, you’re looking good.’

The other cop with her seemed less impressed, but then DSU Mike Garrickson had had more than a few run-ins with Heck over the years.

‘Ma’am?’ Heck said. ‘Sir?’

‘Can we come in?’ Gwen asked.

Expecting the worst but remaining cool, he led them upstairs.

The flat, which he’d bought after splitting up with Gemma well over a decade ago, wasn’t at its best. Small and pokey anyway, he hadn’t tidied it in several weeks. Not that there was a great deal in there. Entering the lounge, he kicked a towel out of the way and scooped up his various weights, humping them to a corner, before bidding his visitors sit on the couch. They did so, while Heck sank on one knee onto a shabby armchair.

‘How are you?’ Gwen asked in a neutral voice.

She was an eye-catching copper for all kinds of reasons. Still handsome well into her fifties, she’d been one of the first black women in the Met to make high rank in CID, and with a record since then that was second to none, you might have assumed this meant she’d be a tough cookie. And she could be. She could be many things. But she’d always preferred the maternal approach. That had certainly been the case where Heck and Gemma Piper had been concerned, particularly Heck, who hadn’t long transferred into the Met from the Greater Manchester Police when he’d been assigned to her unit at Bethnal Green, and who, Gwen having recognised him as a stranger in a strange land, she’d taken under her wing.

That had been a long time ago now, of course.

‘Pressure, ma’am,’ he said, attempting nonchalance. ‘All this waiting. But that’s nothing I’m not used to.’

‘Federation looking after you?’ she asked.

‘Sure.’

‘Been getting a lot of practice with you, haven’t they?’ Garrickson said.

Compared to Gwen, who wore her usual summer ensemble of jeans, blouse and lightweight jacket, Garrickson, a native Eastender and proud of it, was in full ‘diamond geezer’ mode, wearing a pristine three-piece suit, a pink silk handkerchief to match his pink silk shirt and tie poking from his breast pocket.

‘They believe in looking after their own, sir,’ Heck said. ‘Not hanging them out to dry.’

Garrickson nodded and smiled to himself. He had mean, hard-bitten features and a thatch of stiff red hair, which finally was running to grey.

Heck stood up. ‘Can I get you folks some tea?’

‘Got any fruit teas?’ Gwen asked.

‘No.’

‘In that case, don’t bother on my account.’

Garrickson had also got to his feet, and now glanced down from the lounge window onto an open-air stretch of the District Line and the car-breaker’s yard beyond it. ‘What do they pay you, Heck? You’re a DS… you’ve got twenty years in. Sixty grand, isn’t it? Ish?’

Heck shrugged.

‘And yet you live here?’

‘It serves. In normal times I’m not in very much.’

‘I can’t help wondering what normal times are to someone like you…’

‘Can we cut to the chase?’ Heck said. They looked surprised. ‘Sorry to be blunt, but I’d like to know what’s going on? I mean, I was expecting to be contacted at some point. But I wasn’t expecting you two.’

Garrickson smiled again. ‘You think we bin our long-serving detectives by post?’

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ Heck replied. ‘But something tells me this isn’t the way.’

‘You’re quite right, Mark,’ Gwen said, clipped and business-like. ‘Sit down.’

He sank onto the armchair again.

‘At mid-morning tomorrow,’ she said, ‘the Press Office of the National Crime Group will issue a press release to the effect that, at the conclusion of a protracted disciplinary procedure, Detective Sergeant Mark Heckenburg of the Serial Crimes Unit has been formally dismissed from the Police Service of England and Wales, effective immediately.’

Heck had suspected it, of course, but to actually hear it…

‘And it’ll be fake news,’ she added.

He frowned.

‘Something’s come up,’ Garrickson said. ‘A job. An important one.’

Slowly, Heck joined the dots. ‘And it can only be done by someone the world thinks is an ex-copper?’

‘It can only be done by you,’ Gwen said. ‘The situation is…’

‘Whoooaaa!’ Heck got to his feet. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but hold your horses.’ He paused. ‘You two come waltzing in here, tell me you’re kicking my arse out… except no, not really. But only because you need something from me?’

‘I understand this has been a worrying time, Mark,’ Gwen put in placatingly, ‘and I’m sorry about that. I’m also sorry that it’s not a simple case of us reinstating you. But it’s all dependent on how you respond to the offer we’re about to make you.’

Heck sat down again. ‘So… it’s not really an offer? It’s coercion?’

‘It’s not even that,’ Garrickson said. ‘It’s a simple fact. You’ll need to be a serving police officer to make this thing happen. So, whether we like it or not, there’ll be no choice but to reinstate you.’

‘Even though everyone I ever knew will now think I’m just another civvy?’

‘Only for a short time,’ Gwen replied.

‘How short is short?’

‘Depends how long it takes you to get the job done,’ Garrickson said.

‘And it won’t be everyone either,’ Gwen added. ‘We’ll know you’re back on duty. As will a few select members of the NPCC Crime Committee. And one officer up in the northwest. Your point of contact will be a single member of Greater Manchester Police… a Detective Constable Lucy Clayburn. Ever heard of her?’

Heck shrugged, wondering why he should have.

‘That’s funny,’ Garrickson said. ‘Because during your Mad Max antics on the way to Scotland last December, you busted up one of her ex-boyfriends.’

Heck frowned again, even more baffled.

‘Kyle Armstrong,’ Gwen said. ‘Surely that name rings a bell?’

Heck nodded. ‘President of the Low Riders, yeah? Manchester-based biker gang.’

‘That’s the one,’ Garrickson replied.

Heck snickered. ‘He was shagging one of ours?’

Gwen remained stern. ‘A long time ago. Before she was one of ours.’

‘As it happens, he’s got nothing to do with this case,’ Garrickson put in. ‘But it’s good to know we’ve got mutual friends, eh?’

Heck snickered again. ‘This Clayburn bird’s going to be a great liaison, if she’s made choices like that in her life.’

‘Her ability to do the job is neither here nor there,’ Gwen said. ‘She isn’t on board with this because we picked her. It’s more the case that she picked us. You’ve heard of the Crew?’

Heck nodded, at last getting an inkling why Garrickson, who was from NCG’s Organised Crime Division, was involved in this. ‘Serious outfit,’ he said. ‘Also Manchester-based. They’re into just about everything, but as usual we can never prove it.’

‘This time we might be able to,’ Gwen said. ‘Lucy Clayburn has what you might call an unusual degree of insight where the Crew are concerned.’

‘Okay…?’

‘Their top dog is a guy called Frank McCracken.’

‘He’s running the whole show now?’ Heck said. ‘I knew he was a big beast.’

‘As well as being the Crew’s new Chairman of the Board,’ Gwen replied, ‘McCracken is also Lucy Clayburn’s father.’

Heck guffawed. ‘For real? She used to bang a drug-dealing biker scrote, and now her old fella’s boss of the syndicate?’

‘All of this predates her service,’ Gwen said. ‘Don’t start judging her before you’ve even met her.’

‘How the hell did she get in the job?’

‘No one knew about any of this back then.’

‘Great work by the HR team, though,’ Garrickson opined.

‘And what does she want with us?’ Heck asked.

Gwen sat forward. ‘Seems she was going about her everyday duties when your Scottish adventure hit the headlines. She studied up and learned that you’re an experienced DS with a good arrest record, who by this time was facing the sack.’

‘And let me guess, it’s because of this Lucy Clayburn that I’ve not been sacked?’

‘She got on the blower straight away,’ Garrickson said. ‘And then came to see us.’

‘And she made quite an impression,’ Gwen added.

‘In what way?’ Heck asked. ‘Wait, don’t tell me… her mum’s a baby-farmer and her brother’s a serial killer, and thanks to this Lucy you’re going to solve hundreds and hundreds of cases that have so far eluded you?’

‘This is no time for levity, Mark,’ Gwen said.

‘You reckon?’ He allowed low-key anger into his voice. ‘I unmasked the Ace of Diamonds shooters single-handed, and then caught the Russian outfit behind it, and now I learn I’m only still in the job because some dodgy-sounding Manc detective thinks I can help her with a case?’

‘You’ve every right to be frustrated…’

‘Just don’t display too much of it,’ Garrickson warned him. ‘We haven’t got the time for histrionics.’

Heck stood up and walked into the kitchen. ‘Give me the details, and I’ll decide if the job’s a goer.’

Garrickson bared his teeth. ‘Told you he was an incorrigible little shit…’

Gwen also went into the kitchen. ‘Mark, we know you’ve had to deal with some rubbish. But listen to me…’ She kept her voice level, but it was the motherly tone again, not the chief officer’s. ‘No one in the history of British policing has done the things you’ve done and stayed in the job. You must recognise that? This isn’t just a big opportunity for you. It’s the only opportunity. So please don’t try to persuade me that it’s a bad idea.’

Heck was making tea for himself. He’d have loved to feed her the usual blarney about him not caring, ‘why should I stay in this crap job?’ etc. But none of that would have been true. Now that Gemma was okay, it wasn’t simply that he wanted his job back. He needed it.

‘Perhaps you can ease off on the hard sell, ma’am, and just give me the basic info?’

She beckoned him back into the lounge. He followed sullenly.

‘According to Lucy Clayburn,’ she said, ‘Frank McCracken’s putting together an internal investigations department.’

Even on a day of bizarre revelations, Heck thought he’d misheard that. ‘Come again?’

‘Rich, isn’t it?’ Garrickson said. ‘Even the underworld’s top-heavy with bureaucracy.’

‘He’s in the market for an ex-copper,’ Gwen explained. ‘Someone who’s bent as a five-bob note but good at what he does. Whoever that is, they’ll be his personal internal investigator.’

‘Doesn’t he already have fifty muscle-bound goons to do that for him?’

‘By all accounts,’ Garrickson said, ‘this guy McCracken’s different from your average mob yob. He takes a subtler approach. But he’s still not going to tolerate anyone in his outfit who breaks the rules. His rules. Not the rules the rest of civilised society abides by.’

Heck pondered. ‘And he genuinely thinks an ex-copper is good for that work?’

‘Sounds like the Crew is somewhat Machiavellian,’ Gwen said. ‘Lots of players pushing their own agendas, all kinds of unofficial rackets on the side.’

‘According to Clayburn, McCracken wants an end to all that,’ Garrickson said. ‘He wants to streamline the entire organisation… else he might go the same way his forerunner did. You heard of Bill Pentecost, aka Wild Bill?’

Heck nodded. ‘Go the same way… how?’

‘Vanish off the face of the Earth.’

Heck rubbed his jaw. ‘And this Lucy Clayburn thinks I’m the man for the job?’

Garrickson grinned. ‘You must admit, it’s an amusing idea.’

Heck glanced at Gwen. ‘And if I catch people doing what they shouldn’t, and serve them up to Frank McCracken, what happens to them? I’m guessing they won’t be going to court and having to pay fines… and I’ll be complicit.’

She looked troubled by that. ‘There are lots of uncertainties at present. We won’t really know how viable it is until we get up there and speak to Lucy Clayburn about how much she knows and what her plan is.’

‘What’s she after? She must have told you that much?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Garrickson said. ‘She wants someone on the inside. Someone closer even to McCracken than she is.’

‘It’s as open-ended as that?’ Heck replied. ‘Jesus, it could go on forever.’

‘I doubt it,’ Gwen said. ‘Clayburn thinks there’s something big coming down the track that you can move on. She hasn’t got the full skinny yet. But even without that, all you need do is make some good cases. There are a lot of faces work under the umbrella of that firm. And there’s plenty unmentionable stuff going on. Play the cards right, we could send a lot of nasty people down for very long stretches.’

Heck glanced at Garrickson. ‘Which would be great for the Organised Crime Division, wouldn’t it?’

Garrickson frowned. ‘What do you expect, Heck? I’m going to say don’t bother, I’ll send one of my own officers instead? Even though he won’t actually have been sacked, and these Crew bastards will find that out on day one?’

‘Mark…’ Gwen said, ‘you’re not Organised Crime Division… we’re all aware of that. But even you can’t deny that you’re perfectly placed to help us with this. You won’t even need to interview for the job. McCracken will have read about you in the red-tops.’

‘Doesn’t mean he’ll like the sound of me.’

‘You kidding?’ Garrickson snorted. ‘With an iffy record like yours? And a dishonourable discharge to boot? What’s there for any self-respecting gangster not to love?’

8

Dealing with Trevor’s limp form was difficult enough in the pitch darkness of the pit, but when water began chugging in, David and Shaun struggled to fight off panic.

They weren’t even aware of it until it gurgled up beneath them, ice-cold through the heaped, sharp-edged bricks. Shouts and arguments followed as they scrabbled in the blackness, attempting to manhandle the casualty to a higher point. Only to find the inrush of water accelerating as what sounded like a second source, somewhere up on the wall to their left, where David thought he remembered glimpsing a jutting stump of rusted pipe, also began spouting.

‘Christ!’ Shaun shouted. ‘Christ almighty! Where’s that bleeding ladder?’

‘We can’t get Trevor up the ladder,’ David replied. ‘Even if we could, how do we get through that roof?’

Again, they attempted to shift their mate onto dryer, sturdier ground, but he remained insensible, the hair on his lolling head a gluey mop, his body a dead-weight.

‘Shit!’ Shaun hissed. ‘Oh, shit!’

The water rose inexorably. They weren’t just wet now; they were splashing about.

‘Stay here!’ David said.

‘Where the fuck are you…?’

‘Stay with Trev! Keep his head above water!’

David lunged away, cursing as he clattered his knees and shins on rugged edges, but made it to the wall, which he hurriedly worked his way around, probing with his fingertips.

‘The fuck are you doing?’ Shaun shouted.

‘There has to be a way out.’

‘Why? They’re trying to fucking drown us.’

‘Found it!’ David’s hands had encountered flat metal. His fingers roved its edges; it was square. ‘Hatch of some sort.’ His left forefinger hooked into a ring-pull. He yanked, and the hatch opened. ‘Shaun… get him over here, now!’

‘On my own?’

‘Shit!’ David battled his way back. The water, which was stinking and foul as well as freezing, was up to his thighs. ‘Quickly!’

They pushed and tugged on Trevor’s inert form as the rising tide sloshed around them. When they reached the wall again, they were just left of the hatch.

David went in feet-first, pushing further and further into what he realised was a cylindrical steel pipe. There was enough room for an adult to travel along it lying flat, but it was claustrophobic as hell, plus he’d have to go backward, which wouldn’t be easy.

Strenuous efforts followed on both their parts, David lugging Trevor along with him, Shaun pushing from the rear, after first having pulled the hatch door closed behind him, ensuring it had snicked into place. It was wearisome work, both men bleeding from their elbows and knees, which they barked again and again on the rugged, rivetted steel, and all the while praying the hatch would prove adequately watertight.

*

Tony had never felt so alone.

From the fake window, he’d taken a side passage, which almost had the feel of a backstage area in a theatre. It was intermittently lit by weak bulbs, and he’d had to step over diagonal wooden props and trailing cables. But there were no stage-flats here, no flimsy bits of scenery. Everything was brick or tempered steel.

He trudged, weary, emotionally drained. But then heard a canine yowl somewhere in the labyrinth behind him and walked faster. When he heard another yowl, he broke into a jog, turning corners blindly, a couple of times banging into dead-ends of sheer brick or caroming off upright girders serving as pillars. And then he blundered onto what felt like a timber platform. Immediately, the left side of it dropped, tilting it steeply. Tony fell, turning over and over, somersaulting by the time he struck the bottom some twenty feet below, where he lay groaning in a foot of cold, slimy water.

‘Bastards,’ he whined, struggling back to his feet.

At which point the smell hit him.

He froze, horrified.

Petrol?

He reached down, touching the rippling surface. It was silky, greasy.

‘Oh Christ!’ he whispered.

He turned back to the timber ramp, only for some spring-mechanism to activate and the whole thing to swing back upward, its heavy wooden lower end barely missing his jaw, which would surely have shattered, and clunking back into place far over his head.

Behind it, a brick recess was revealed, in which a cobweb-clustered chandelier hung about ten feet up, a single lit candle sitting in one of its brackets, though there was a second glimmer of light just above this. Tony waded closer, zeroing in on the cord from which the chandelier was suspended, seeing that this too was alight, a blue, matchlike flame eating its way through, thread by glowing thread.

In no time, that chandelier and its single candle would drop.

Tony gazed again at the shin-deep liquid, which, in the candlelight, shimmered with multiple translucent colours. Squealing, he floundered away.

The dim light indicated a space of passage-like dimensions, brick walls to left and right rising into shadow, though flooded with fuel. He sloshed along it, fumes filling his nostrils.

With a dull whump, an explosive glare embraced him from behind. He spun to look back, seeing a curtain of fire racing towards him. Screeching, he stumbled on, and just ahead, saw that the tunnel was blocked by a fence of some sort, but a lattice rather than bars.

Which meant he could climb.

Tony all but flew the final furlong, leaping onto the steel structure and clambering upward. Normally, he wasn’t great with heights (he wasn’t great with much), but being flambéd alive for the entertainment of whoever the lunatics were who’d constructed this hellhole was not on his radar. So he kept going, refusing to look down.

He paused to rest after thirty feet, seared by the rising heat, finding it hard to breathe. Overhead, the latticework continued ascending, but he was now wreathed in foul, black smoke. He hung there, coughing. The heat intensified, fresh sweat breaking all over him. He climbed on, assuming the muck that coated him was the reason the bars felt slippery. He’d guessed that a residue was coming off his own hands. But now, as the light from below brightened, he focussed on the metal grips in front of him. These too were smeared with some dark slime. He sniffed at it, and a new tremor shook him.

Diesel oil. He peered down again. The fire wasn’t ballooning with speed, as it had when fed on petrol, but it was climbing nevertheless, tier after tier of oil-drenched framework catching aflame.

Tony hauled himself upward. What seemed like minutes of torture but was probably only seconds passed before he looked up and saw a flat concrete ceiling. He blinked, wiping grubby sweat from his eyes.

A ceiling, definitely. About fifteen feet above him.

Another wail of horror tore from his chest.

The fire below was still climbing. And here he was, trapped, slick with petrol.

*

It was ridiculous to even think about opening the metal box. But again, the lads appeared to be facing a do-or-die scenario.

With efforts beyond anything they’d thought they were capable of, David and Shaun had shinned their way along fifty-odd yards of pipe, lugging Trevor between them, before emerging from an opening at the foot of a steep flight of cement steps. A light at the top came from a single unshaded bulb hanging from a webwork of coaxial cable at the junction of two breezeblock passageways. Also at that junction had been the metal box.

It was the size and shape of a small travel trunk, painted green, with a white cross in the middle. It would be ludicrous of the lads’ captors to genuinely believe they’d consider this a first aid supply. But could they afford not to look?

At least in the stronger light, David and Shaun could check Trevor over, though all three were so bloodied and dirtied that it would be difficult to discern which of the casualty’s wounds were the most serious. In the end, they discovered a jagged laceration in his scalp that looked like a fissure in a rockface. It ran for seven or eight inches and was so deep that a hint of bare skull was visible at the base.

‘He’s barely clinging on,’ David said. ‘Pull him over here a couple of yards.’

‘What you going to do?’ Shaun asked

‘The only thing I can.’

Shaun dragged Trevor’s inert form five or six yards to the left.

‘Here goes nothing.’ David positioned himself to the right of the box. ‘Sorry we didn’t get to make the next generation, Sarah.’

He reached down, got a finger under the lid, flipped it open and jumped back.

Nothing happened.

He and Shaun exchanged glances.

David stepped forward. The box was filled with medicants: jars of pills, tubes of ointment and antiseptic cream, swabs, disposable gloves, rolls of bandages. He could have wept for joy, but it was as he reached down that he saw the layer of goodies stir of its own accord. He leapt back again, and with a violent muscular motion, whatever was under there rose up a foot or so and whipped around to face them. A shout both of fright and incredulity burst from Shaun’s throat.

From only four or five feet away, he was facing a hooded cobra.

David, who was closer, was almost paralysed. It swayed, hissing, its black tongue flickering, dull light gleaming on its brown and caramel scales.

Shaun covered his eyes. He’d heard on National Geographic that some of this demonic species spat their venom. This one hadn’t yet, but at this range it scarcely needed to. It launched itself out of the box.

David tripped as he threw himself aside, the monster veering towards him. He scuttled backward, and it side-wound after him, rearing up again, fixing him with its hypnotic gaze. And then, of its own volition, it appeared to relent, spying the open passage on the left, and slithering off along it at astonishing speed.

Seconds passed while David remained on the floor, eyes wide as coins.

Shaun sank to his knees, chest heaving. ‘This place…’

‘At least…’ David fought to breathe as he crawled towards the right-hand passage. ‘At least we now know which way we’re going.’

*

It was by fluke chance that Tony discovered the rope hanging alongside the lattice.

Bathed in firelight, it wasn’t as if he had restricted vision. But the rope was as black and oily as the metal and had adhered to a single upright. Tony, seething with sweat as he ascended through the smoke, only realised it was there when his hand closed on it. It came loose, pulling taut from some anchor-point above.

With the ceiling roughly eight feet overhead, he saw that the rope was knotted to a steel hook. More importantly, when he glanced around, he spied sheer brickwork about ten feet behind him, but a wooden ladder was fixed to it, and when his eyes tracked upward, the ladder connected with a doorway-sized aperture.

Would the rope hold him?

Would he be able to swing all the way over there?

Would the ladder be sturdy?

With flames licking at the soles of his deck-shoes, these fears dwindled. Gripping the rope, he pitched himself outward.

He covered the distance easily and was able to catch hold of a rung on the ladder. He glanced back as the fire crept past him. Much of the flame below had now gone out, the fuel exhausted. That meant the smoke was ebbing. Tony recommenced climbing. The ladder was secure all the way to the foot of the aperture. There was even an iron ring set into the aperture’s lower left-side, a handhold that he used to pull himself up and over the step.

There, he sat slumped, shuddering.

What remained of the smoke eddied past him, being sucked through an extractor fan on the other side of the shaft, no doubt to be pumped into some sealed part of the building where it would settle as soot (he couldn’t imagine their captors would want it escaping into public view). He got wearily to his feet and prowled along a bare corridor, passing doorways to left and right, which either led down other derelict corridors or into rooms that looked as if they’d once been offices, though now were filled with trashed furniture and fallen plasterboard. Despite this, he increasingly thought he could smell fresh air.

Encouraged, he hastened forward, rounding a corner, and a few yards in front another aperture faced him. Again, it was doorway-sized but missing a door. Cool air blew in. An exit for sure, though a voice of common sense forbade that he dash out through it.

He decelerated, stopping in the doorway and peering down into precipitous darkness. He squinted hard. Nothing was visible down there, but he could sense a terrifying drop. Facing him, meanwhile, maybe five feet away, another sheer wall ascended. Perhaps twenty feet overhead, he saw a strip of night sky, dark but speckled with stars.

Tony’s eyes were now adjusting. From what he could see, he’d emerged from one of the higher floors of some colossal building. Another such structure stood close by. He was facing it now. But it was out of reach.

And this time there was no rope by which he might swing across.

9

Heck arrived at Staples Corner, SCU’s HQ, at mid-morning. It was as drab a building as you could hope to find in Brent Cross, which was certainly saying something, but its very nondescript nature made it the ideal base for a specialist police unit. On top of that, its location, at the heart of the north London transport network, worked well given SCU’s nationwide remit. The M1 motorway flew virtually over the top of it.

The security man on the gate had been expecting him and issued him with a visitor’s tag. Heck stuffed it in his pocket rather than hung it around his neck. Whatever happened today, he would never regard himself as a visitor to this place. Even so, when he got to the top floor, it surprised him how eerie it felt to walk down the central corridor, passing offices now filled with faces he didn’t know, seeing strangers at desks where once there’d been long-standing friends and colleagues. A few indifferent glances were cast his way because no one knew who he was. But then, when he stopped by a section of wall bearing a memorial plaque and, over the top of that, framed photographs of all those SCU officers killed during the Ace of Diamonds attack, it seemed to spark curiosity. Belatedly, the penny dropped about who this nameless new arrival, who hadn’t required a secretary to escort him, might be.

‘Now then,’ a friendly voice said. ‘What’s a bloke like you doing in a place like this?’

Heck turned as Gail Honeyford, looking smart as hell in a skirt-suit and blouse, advanced along a side-passage towards him.

He half-smiled. ‘That’s what I’m wondering.’

She took in his trainers, jeans and plaid shirt. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Honest answer, I genuinely don’t know.’

She looked thoughtful and maybe a little worried. ‘I’ve told them that if you…’

‘I know. And you should withdraw that threat.’

‘Heck, if they can you, it’s the biggest injustice I’ve ever come across. I’m not staying in a minute longer, myself.’

‘I appreciate the support, Gail, but don’t put your neck on the line for me.’ He edged towards the door to the office that had once been Gemma Piper’s. ‘I’m not worth it.’

By now, there wasn’t a doorway or an internal window where someone wasn’t standing watching. They’d heard so much about him, of course. Not all of it good, but most of it interesting. This was the cop who’d concealed a vital witness from a bunch of gun-toting bikers on the top of a moving car-transporter, and who’d tackled Vasily Tarasov, the Tatarstan Bear, hand-to-hand on the lantern gallery of a Scottish lighthouse.

That said, Heck hated gawkers.

‘No work to do?’ he shouted. ‘You should have. You’ve got bloody big boots to fill!’

They averted their gazes, bustling back to their desks and computers.

He winked at Gail, then pressed on towards the command office. He knocked and was bidden enter. Inside, Gwen Straker leaned over the desk, going through some paperwork with one of her admin assistants, while Mike Garrickson stood in a corner, sipping from a stained mug. The Organised Crime boss eyed him but said nothing.

‘Not be a second, Heck,’ Gwen said.

His eyes met Garrickson’s again. Still no words were exchanged. Once the secretary had left, Gwen shuffled the paperwork and slipped it into a leather wallet, all bar one document, a single sheet that had nothing on it aside from what looked like a mobile phone number scribbled in biro, and sat herself in the chair that had once been Gemma’s.

‘I’m guessing the press release hasn’t gone out yet?’ Heck said.

‘Not yet,’ Gwen replied. ‘Not until you’ve left this building.’

‘Just to avoid any awkward commiserations on the shopfloor,’ Garrickson explained.

‘Well, no one offering commiserations is nothing new,’ Heck said. ‘But let’s talk about important stuff. This Manchester thing… the answer’s no.’

Garrickson looked as if he’d been punched.

Gwen blinked at him. ‘Excuse me?’

Heck shrugged. ‘Why the hell should I put my head on the block? After the way I’ve been treated?’ Their expressions were priceless. ‘There’s got to be something in this for me.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ Gwen said. ‘You’ll be getting your job back. Against all the odds.’

‘National Crime Group?’

‘Of course.’

‘Serial Crimes Unit?’

She gave him a level stare, and he couldn’t help wondering if he was asking her to promise something that was beyond her power. ‘Where else?’ she said.

‘DS?’

‘It’ll be like nothing’s changed.’

‘I take it there’s been no suggestion of promotion?’ he asked.

Garrickson snorted coffee. ‘Don’t be a dick. Joe Wullerton had to fight with certain members of the Crime Committee just to secure this. Your so-called heroics in Scotland aside, you could still be prosecuted for half a dozen infractions…’

‘Promotion for someone else.’

The DSU clamped his mouth shut, puzzled.

‘What’s on your mind?’ Gwen asked.

‘Gemma Piper.’

‘Gemma’s on long-term sick leave.’

‘But she’ll have a real job to come back to.’

‘A job, yeah. How real, I’m not so sure.’

He shook his head. ‘That wasn’t a question, ma’am. More a statement. She’ll have a real job to come back to.’

‘And that job’s going to involve a promotion?’ Gwen enquired.

‘Why not? Gemma has an unblemished record. She’s a first-rate detective and an excellent supervisor. So she has to ride a desk for the rest of her career. Doesn’t mean she won’t be an asset.’

‘What rank do you suggest we promote her to?’ Garrickson wondered.

‘How about… Director of the National Crime Group?’

‘You’ve got to be bloody kidding!’

‘Joe Wullerton’s moving to Hampshire, or so I’m told.’

‘That hasn’t been decided yet either,’ Gwen said.

‘Then decide it.’

‘It’s not in our power.’

Heck shrugged. ‘It’s in someone’s power. Have a word with them… let them know how important to the Organised Crime Division this mission to Manchester is. Look, I don’t mean to put you in a difficult position, ma’am. But I owe you people zilch. And Gemma’s in the same boat. I’m only not dead because of me. She’s only not dead because of the surgical staff at St Thomas’s Hospital. Our top brass have yet to do anything. So, if they want a favour, they’ve got to give something first.’

‘Mark,’ Gwen said, ‘are you seriously trying to blackmail the Home Office?’

‘It’s hardly blackmail. It’s not even a bad idea. You know Gemma runs a tidy ship. Plus, she’d never need to go into the field. She could do that job from her desk.’

The two supervisors regarded each other with bewilderment. Gwen at least would be sympathetic to Heck’s request. She loved Gemma like a daughter. If Heck had been a wayward son, Gemma had been the good student, the real success. Even Garrickson would probably have been okay with the idea. He and Gemma had got on together well enough in the past. It was not within their remit to grant a request like this, of course. But they’d have more chance influencing the brass than he would.

‘You understand that we can’t give any guarantees about this?’ Gwen said.

‘Then neither can I,’ Heck replied.

‘So help me, Heckenburg!’ Garrickson snarled. ‘If we didn’t fucking need you…’

‘But you do, don’t you. You need me to find a way into the Crew for you. You need me to make the Organised Crime Division look good. Again.’

‘Alright, enough,’ Gwen snapped. ‘You’re right, Heck…’ She glared at him. ‘Maybe we do owe you. Maybe we owe Gemma too. But you’ve only got so much elastic, even with me. So you can kick this impudent little shithead act into touch right now. Do you hear?’ She leaned forward. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’ve got us over some kind of barrel. Because no one does that. Ever.’

Heck backed away with palms raised.

‘Now, we’ve laid things out for you,’ she said. ‘I’ll take your request under consideration. That’s the most I can give you at this stage.’ She nailed the sheet of paper to the desk with her index finger. ‘It’s up to you whether you ring this number and arrange a meeting with Lucy Clayburn, or bin it. We can’t force you. But be sure that that press release about your dismissal from the service is going out later today. Whether it’s the item of fake news I mentioned, or the plain honest truth… that’s up to you.’

10

As it happened, the right-hand passage had been a good choice. The previous night, David had only ventured a few yards along it to check out the lie of the land, when he’d found an old hospital trolley, a wheeled gurney. Thinking it too good to be true, he’d assessed it carefully, to ensure there were no nasty surprises, but in the end had taken it back and they’d loaded Trevor on top. They’d then helped themselves to the first-aid kit, having checked first that there was nothing else horrific concealed underneath.

Once all three were swaddled with bandages and other dressings, their cuts and bruises smeared with balm, they’d decided they were too tired to proceed any further. Thus, with Trevor lying unconscious on the trolley, and the other two slumped side-by-side against a wall, an insulated blanket from the box rolled up as their pillow, they’d fallen asleep. It hadn’t been their intention to sleep all night; in truth they’d lost track of time and hadn’t realised it was so late, but when David woke up abruptly, having dreamed the cobra was encroaching on them again, a beam of weak daylight speared down from a niche somewhere overhead, suggesting that it was morning.

Trevor was still unconscious, his head-dressing soaked with blood, but at least he was mumbling, which meant that he was alive.

They were hungry and thirsty, but the sight of daylight was reassuring. When they rummaged in the first-aid box again, they found a couple of bottles of Lucozade, which helped. In addition, there was now relief that they no longer had to carry their unconscious pal. They proceeded along the right-hand passage, wheeling Trevor between them, daring to hypothesise that they might have been left alone during the night because their opponents had finally abandoned their game.

When they approached what at first had looked like a T-junction, it turned out to be an internal roadway, a broad concrete avenue passing under an arched brick ceiling: the sort of route that forklift trucks might once have taken.

‘Left or right?’ Shaun wondered.

David sniffed. ‘I’ve always been left in my politics. So, let’s go left.’

‘That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,’ Shaun said.

But he complied, and they followed the roadway, still pushing the gurney.

‘So much for our hosts having legged it.’ Shaun nodded up at the electric bulbs occasionally hanging from knots of cable. ‘You don’t think they’d have switched the lights off first? Mind you, looks like vehicles once came along here. Does that mean it’ll connect with the outside?’

Before David could answer, they heard an engine revving to life.

Shaun pivoted around. ‘What the…?’

David barged forward, pushing the wheeled cart. Shaun hurried alongside him, just as a massive vehicle came crashing around the bend at their rear.

From quick, frantic glances, it was difficult to work out its actual dimensions, mainly because of the glaring headlamps, but it was big. Something like an HGV, it filled almost the entire width of the roadway. Though it was a hundred yards behind them, it was apparent that they weren’t going to make it if they remained encumbered by Trevor. It wasn’t even a difficult decision. They didn’t discuss it, just abandoned him, the trolley turning sideways as they broke away, running full pelt. Shaun, who’d played football for uni, was faster, fitter and taller. He accelerated ahead of David, so he was the one who spotted the narrow entrance on the right. He shouted and pointed, voice drowned out by the siren-like horn of the pursuing lorry. They looked back, goggling as the speeding juggernaut collided with Trevor’s gurney, flipping it in a blur of movement, both the wheeled framework and the sprawling body vanishing underneath, the monster barely even jolting as they were pulverised beneath it.

The lads flung themselves through the side entrance together. As they cowered sweat-soaked in a dismal black passage, the mechanical leviathan thundered past. With a deafening Creeee!!!, it’s brakes bit.

‘Jeeesus!’ Shaun sagged against the bricks.

David stuck his head out and stared after the vehicle. It had decelerated sharply, but that was because some forty yards in front, a heavy metal door had lifted so that it could pass through. Even as David watched, that door was descending again, the vehicle’s tail-lights winking out as it vanished, leaving a swirl of exhaust.

The clang of the exit door closing reverberated for seconds.

‘Do we go back to check on Trev?’ Shaun asked in a choked whisper.

‘What good do you think it’ll do?’

‘So, what now?’

‘Keep going.’ David lurched along the passage. ‘There’s a door down here.’

Shaun followed. The door at the end looked innocent enough. It was made from wood, with an ordinary, everyday handle.

David listened first. There was no sound beyond. He pushed the handle, the door cracking open. ‘Get ready,’ he whispered.

‘I’ll never not be ready again.’

But when they flung the door wide, neither were ready to see what looked like a huge floorboarded chamber, something like a larger-than-usual church hall, though without any tables or chairs. And occupying it, row after row after row of silent, motionless figures, each one of them draped with a dingy sheet.

*

Tony woke to the sound of yelping dogs.

At first, he barely noticed, assuming it was a dream. His battered body was too exhausted, his tortured thoughts too immersed in sleep. And then it struck him, and he leapt out of the office chair, staggering to the doorway.

The passage that had brought him here was filled with daylight. The aperture leading outside stood ten yards to his left. To his right, the corridor cut back into the heart of this network of rooms and passages that he’d stumbled through after climbing off the burning lattice. There must be another way up here, an easier way now that they’d sent the dogs up. He strained his ears trying to work out exactly where the animals were, but the hullaballoo was tremendous. They were clearly close.

He went back to the aperture and gazed down. In the morning light, it was a distance of ninety feet at least. At the bottom, the narrow footway between the two gigantic buildings was jammed with refuse: bin-liners packed with rubbish, old bedframes.

He glanced back.

The dogs sounded nearer. He could picture them scampering back and forth, trying to pick up his spoor. He peered downward again, wondering if he could clamber down a few feet, just to get out of their reach. But the brickwork below was sheer. He glanced across to the facing wall. More eroded, this one was more rugged; in fact, some of the bricks there had rotted and fallen out, creating potential hand and footholds. Tony’s gaze tracked up the damaged brickwork to the roof. It was virtually a ladder.

But it was still the other side of that perilous drop.

An even more intense yowl spoke of sudden excitement, of the chase being on.

Tony stared at the facing wall. Five feet, that’s all…

In his own back garden, the distance from the rockery to the edge of the flowerbed. He’d think nothing of jumping that. To do it here though, he’d need a run-up at the very least.

He felt sick. Swallowed bile.

Behind him, another dog yowled. And another. The entire pack had taken up the scent.

Tony retreated along the passage until he’d given himself an approach of maybe fifteen yards. His back was cold with sweat. Even if he made the jump, how could he be sure to catch hold at the other side? He knew that he couldn’t do this.

Drool-filled snarls sounded at his rear.

He dashed forward. Never breaking stride as he reached the aperture, hurling himself out and across that terrible chasm. Slamming with force into the wall on the other side, the wind driven from his body, his head clattering the bricks.

Dizziness became dazedness, and yet somehow, he wasn’t falling.

By some miracle, his right hand had latched onto one of the holes in the brickwork. His body swung pendulum-like. He wasn’t a big guy, but immediately his weight became unendurable, elbow hyperextended, shoulder straining from its socket. He scrabbled with his other hand and found a second hold. When he felt with his feet, they too secured perches.

He’d made it, and yet even now his position was ghastly. The side of his face and whole front of his body pressed tight against the bricks, the weight of gravity tugging at him. He didn’t dare look down or behind, though he could hear what sounded like half a dozen frenzied beasts slashing and snarling in the aperture. When he looked up, the flat brickwork teetered to the sky.

He climbed, though it was the most horrendous thing he’d ever done, sliding over rugged bricks, each time hanging by one hand until the other was lodged in a niche, constantly aware of the drop and the stiffening breeze.

When he’d ascended several yards, he tried to look up again. He still couldn’t see the top from this angle, but he knew it was there somewhere. He continued, calling on reserves of strength he’d never known. He would manage this, he told himself.

And then pain dug into his left hand.

Deep and sharp, agonising, cutting him to the knucklebone. He gagged on a scream.

And saw a rat.

A damn, blasted rat occupied the hole into which he’d thrust his left paw, and now it was chewing on his digits. Even as Tony stared, fresh blood welled out. He tried to extricate his hand, but the rodent had locked on. He flapped the arm but couldn’t loosen it.

‘God… help me!’ he screamed.

One of the toes on his right foot snagged on something. But no, it wasn’t that.

He’d been bitten again, another rat’s buckteeth piercing the canvas tip of his deck-shoe, puncturing his big toenail. Tony squealed, pain like white noise shooting through his foot. But it was only when a third rat emerged, this time from a hole in front of his face, and took a huge chunk out of his nose, that he realised his time was up.

The last thing Tony Lingard saw was another hole in the wall, just above and to the right, and what looked distinctly like the glazed eye of a camera lens.

It watched him as he fell.

*

David and Shaun moved stealthily between the sheet-covered figures.

They’d already checked underneath several and had been relieved but also creeped out to see life-size wax models. The first three they’d laid eyes on, Elvis, King Henry VIII and Liberace, were grim relics, their once garish clothes raddled with mildew, their faces yellowed and misshaped, their soulless eyes like tarnished jewels sunk in putty.

‘What fucking lunacy is this?’ Shaun wondered as they edged through.

David shook his head, constantly looking left or right. It was easy to convince yourself that this forest of shrouded, motionless forms wasn’t motionless at all, that you kept on glimpsing movement. Again, daylight filtered in from somewhere, but it wasn’t strong, and so they had to rely on their own vision attuning to the gloom, which would certainly account for optical illusions. A couple of times though, when they stopped and looked hard, they actually did see the odd dust cover stirring slightly.

The first time this happened, they lifted a grimy cover, and were confronted by Jimmy Savile, though the figure had again shrivelled through age, its cigar drooping mid-stem, the once shiny tracksuit ragged and dusty. One of its eyeballs had fallen out, leaving an empty socket, from which a cockroach emerged and scurried down its face.

‘Breeze,’ David muttered. ‘That’s all.’

They proceeded, not quite sure which direction was which, though as all the figures appeared to be facing one end of the chamber, that seemed like as good a way to go as any.

‘Okay,’ Shaun said. ‘This place is fucking us up. I’m shit-scared, I’ll admit. But if this is all they’ve got left to offer, I can hack it. The question is… is it. There’s got to be something else.’

At which point, a woman screamed.

Only once. Stillness and silence then followed.

‘Where did that come from?’ Shaun hissed, standing rigid.

David shook his head. ‘Maybe they’ve got more prisoners here.’

Another scream rang out. This one lasted several seconds longer, sufficient for them to target the source: the front of the room. As they advanced through the final three rows of figures, the screaming started again, though this time there were two voices, both female, and they weren’t screaming as much as bellowing in unbelievable, visceral pain.

‘Jesus, Mary and Jo…’ Shaun stuttered.

A reddish light had come on in the middle of the wall now facing them. It looked like the entrance to a tunnel, though a tunnel with a fine mesh across it. Thirty yards along that tunnel, what looked like a large, cast-iron tank sat on top of red-hot coals. What was more, the tank had no top, and two naked women were standing inside it, arms chained above their heads, bodies submerged to their waists in some kind of liquid, which steamed and bubbled as it boiled.

The men tottered forward, lifeless figures toppling like skittles. They stopped when they’d passed the first row, staggered by what they saw.

Smoke enveloped the two women as they twisted and turned in their shackles, the agonised shrieks tearing at David and Shaun’s ears. The worst thing though was that these latest victims were people they already knew.

A blonde and a redhead named Natalie and Ginger.

‘Oh my godfathers!’ Shaun screamed. David lurched forward. Shaun caught him by the collar. ‘Don’t be a dickhead!’

David tore loose, dashing forward, clawing at the mesh with both hands.

And all but vanished in a dazzling blue flash as, with a sound like a cannon-shot, the electric cables connected to it detonated all at once.

Shaun was engulfed by stinking smoke.

He wafted it aside. And saw the sheet of mesh hanging as it sizzled. Much closer lay David Cartwright, or rather the charcoal travesty that remained of him. Shaun tottered backward, acrid tears blurring his eyes. Until he collided with the nearest sheeted figure, which jerked to life, wrapping its cloth-covered arms around him. He shouted and swore but was no match for the brawn of his new captor, as it swung him over to where another of the shrouded figures had also woken up. With a single blow from the second one’s left foot, an upward-projecting lever changed angle, and with a clunk-clang, a rectangular section of the boarded floor swung down in the shape of a huge trapdoor.

The four sheeted forms on top of it dropped stiffly into a clear pool which, even as the pinioned Shaun stared down, seethed and frothed, the figures losing shape, swiftly dissolving. He screamed one last time, hoarsely, hysterically, but his muscular abductor hefted him to the great oblong hole and dropped him through it as well.

With another nudge of the second figure’s boot, the lever swung back, and the trapdoor reascended on its reverse spring, clunking back into place.

In the tunnel, the vat boiled on, though Natalie and Ginger ceased their screaming and commenced cackling instead, slowly transforming from supple, naked beauties into cartoon harridans covered in warts, with slobbering mouths, gap-filled teeth and eyes on stalks. As they did, they hooted and shrilled, and clapped their flipper-like hands, and then, in puffs of smoke, vanished – to be replaced on the high-definition screen by empty blackness, across which, in big multicoloured letters, in a comical font, a simple message appeared:

THAT’S IT FOR NOW

SEE YOU ALL SOON

11

It always fascinated Heck that when summer was approaching and the weather improving, Britain’s motorways appeared to sprout new sets of roadworks on principle.

There were always roadworks of course. The UK’s motorway network was never actually ‘finished’. But the warm, sunny months were clearly the preferred time, regardless that there was usually more traffic on the road then. As such, even though this was a Friday morning, not yet the busiest time of day, Heck’s route north to Manchester was beset by hold-ups. The moment he merged onto the M1, he found himself enmeshed in a network of contraflows and speed restrictions, having to negotiate forests of cones and signposts, and when he hit the occasional open stretch, logjams of slow-moving vehicles.

Not that he was in a rush to reach his destination. From what he’d seen online, 31 Taylor Street, the Crowley B&B where he’d booked himself a room, didn’t promise much. In addition, as a National Crime Group officer, it wasn’t as if Heck was unused to this sort of thing. He’d long ago found ways to pass the time while sitting in motionless traffic. Shortly before Keele services, having been stationary for ten minutes, he reached out from his window and stroked the snout of the Alsatian in the rear of the car to his right, which, having spotted him first, was straining its way forward, forepaws on the window ledge.

Eventually though, it was the radio again.

Unable to stomach the usual banalities of Radio One, he settled on Radio Four, where he was just in time to catch a late-morning news bulletin.

‘Police in Lancashire have expressed concern for the safety of five young men who appear to have gone missing over the Bank Holiday weekend. David Cartwright, Trevor Howton, Shaun Fairbrass, Christopher Hapwood and Anthony Lingard were last seen around midday in The Drunken Sailor pub in Blackpool on Bank Holiday Saturday. The five men, who first became friends at Loughborough University, come from different parts of the country and were in Blackpool together to celebrate a stag party. None of them returned to their hotel afterwards, and since then they have all failed to contact either friends or family or respond to efforts to contact them made via telephone or on social media. Police have refused to speculate on a rumour that the five men were last seen leaving the pub in the company of two unidentified young women…’

Heck’s thoughts wandered. Five guys dropping out of sight. At one time that would have been part and parcel of jolly boys’ outings. Rugby tours, weekends away, stag-dos. He’d been on them himself, and you never knew where you were going to finish up. At the end of the day, it was all good clean fun, or dirty fun depending on your viewpoint.

But that had been during his youth. Not so much now.

Despite the very real concerns for the safety of women and children in twenty-first century Britain, it was still young men who were murdered the most. Granted, that was often because they put themselves in harm’s way. Getting drunk in rough bars, staying out till all hours, accepting lifts from strangers to avoid having to pay taxi fares. And yes, maybe occasions like this, going pub-crawling around towns they didn’t know, maybe sniffing after the local skirt unconcerned about whether it was already spoken for. The really worrying thing was that if it was red-blooded young men being victimised, who on Earth were the victimisers?

Still, it wasn’t a matter for him. He wasn’t even going as far as Lancashire. Some twelve miles south of its southern border, he’d be turning east along the A580, bound for the first place he’d ever plied his trade as a police officer: Manchester. Probably his least favourite town in Britain, while Crowley, Greater Manchester Police’s infamous ‘November Division’, was one of its least congenial corners.

As a young copper who’d started out in GMP, Heck had spent his first two years in Salford, or Foxtrot Division, Crowley’s western neighbour, and many times had found cause to cross the boundary. It often made him laugh that Salford itself was a byword for deprivation and villainy, when in reality, thanks to recent regeneration schemes, Salford’s problems were relatively minor compared to those next door. Crowley boasted no dockside mass redevelopment projects that now incorporated the headquarters of a dozen major media organisations, no swanky new riverside hotels or luxury shopping plazas. It had one or two decent areas, as everywhere did, but was mostly a tale of soulless tower blocks, rows of substandard terraced housing, and swathes of wasteland. Little wonder it was one of GMP’s busiest divisions.

One thing had impressed him, though. During his recent research, he’d learned that this DC Lucy Clayburn, while stationed in Crowley’s central CID office at Robber’s Row Police Station, had lived locally all her life. It wasn’t every cop who was prepared to work their home patch. He’d heard other things about Clayburn too, which, now that he pondered them, he found odd but intriguing.

Apparently, her first week in CID, a few years ago now, went belly-up when, thanks to a big error she made, her DI was shot and wounded. Heck couldn’t resist a smirk. Even by the standards of the most blundersome, accident-prone coppers he’d known throughout his career, that would have been something of a faux pas. She’d subsequently been catapulted back into uniform, where she remained for several more years, until she seized the opportunity to go undercover as a prostitute to catch a female killer called Jill the Ripper.

Seized the opportunity. That was interesting too.

It took real mettle for a policewoman to don some scanties and parade down the backstreets of a town so Godforsaken that the sex-workers themselves were likely to be a problem, never mind the pimps, the johns, and the maniac you were actually tracking. That was why SIOs usually asked for volunteers. The Serial Crimes Unit had been kept appraised of the Jill the Ripper enquiry but had never been called in because GMP had been on top of it. But that investigation had been particularly unusual, the target assumed to be a deranged prostitute who was sexually murdering her male clients. On the face of it, Heck couldn’t conceive of a dirtier or more dangerous assignment. And yet, Lucy Clayburn had seized the opportunity.

As well as raw courage, that showed real determination to prove that she could do the job. If that hadn’t been enough, she’d been instrumental in resolving the case.

If only it hadn’t been for the company she kept.

The Kyle Armstrong connection had been straightforwardly dismissed. Clayburn had been a teenager back then and easily wowed by tough guys riding motorbikes. She rode a motorbike herself even now, a Ducati M900, but the story was that she’d severed all ties with Kyle Armstrong’s biker chapter, the Low Riders, long before joining the police, which was completely believable given that, thanks to Heck, Armstrong was now doing ten years for a series of shootings and an attempted lorry hijack, and this hadn’t prevented her seeking Heck out when a chance came to get a man into the Crew.

But it was the Crew who were the real difficulty. Or rather, its chairman was.

Frank McCracken was a top-dog gangster personally suspected of committing a dozen or more murders, while at the same time ordering countless others. His organisation occupied similar status to the Corporation, London’s pre-eminent syndicate, dominating drugs, violent crime and general racketeering all across the north of England.

And yet this guy was Lucy Clayburn’s biological father.

Okay, Heck had asked Gwen Straker to dig a little deeper into that back-story, and it seemed that Clayburn had been born and raised the child of a single parent, Cora Clayburn (a former stripper and table-dancer, no less), having never known who her father was. At the time of her conception, McCracken had been no one, a low-level enforcer whom it had been easy for Cora to dump and forget about when she decided to turn respectable. Only in later years, with Lucy now a serving police officer, had it transpired that McCracken had risen to prominence in the Crew. Once the news came out about his blood relations with a cop, a detective in fact, it had caused ructions on both sides of the fence, McCracken having to kill his overboss and take charge of the whole operation to avoid the chop himself, Clayburn plunging her colleagues and supervisors into renewed doubt about her reliability.

But then, if it was ever going to be possible in any universe to get a known ex-copper into the rotten heart of a major organised crime group like the Crew, Lucy Clayburn, with her unique set of associations, would be the one to do it. Even though it wouldn’t be her neck in the noose if it all went pear-shaped.

Speaking of the devil, he then received a phone-call, the number on his dashboard screen newly familiar as he’d left a brief message on it earlier. He answered. ‘Mark Heckenburg.’

The voice was female and northern. ‘This is Lucy Clayburn. You heading north yet?’

‘Well, good afternoon to you too, DC Clayburn.’

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t got time for pleasantries. I just need to know if you’re on the road.’

‘I’m on the M6 now. Approaching Keele.’

‘Traffic heavy?’

‘Breaking up.’

‘That gives you an ETA to Crowley of… shall we say one and a half hours?’

‘Hold your horses. I might stop for something to eat yet.’

‘Sergeant Heckenburg, this is not a joke, I assure you.’

‘It had better bloody not be. Not now I’ve come a hundred and sixty miles.’

‘I need an accurate ETA.’

If nothing else, she was all business. ‘I’ve not even seen the bed and breakfast I’ve booked yet,’ he said, ‘let alone checked in and had a cup of tea.’

‘What’s the address?’

‘31 Taylor Street.’

There was a brief silence. ‘So, you’re not too bothered about living in style?’

‘That bad, is it?’

‘There are probably worse. Somewhere. But it’s the middle of Crowley. You’ll have to work your way in… its three o’clock now, so it’ll be rush-hour when you get here.’ She paused to think. ‘Can we meet around seven?’

‘You don’t believe in wasting time, do you?’

‘We can’t afford to.’

‘Seven might be pushing it. Can’t we leave it till a little later this evening?’

‘No can do, I’m afraid.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Yeah. Work. I’m on nights.’

Heck sighed. ‘Seven it is. Where?’

‘I’ll send you a text when I’ve figured that out.’

With a click, the line went dead.

12

‘Can’t park there, love.’

Heck glanced over his Puma’s roof. He’d just been getting his grab-bag from the front passenger seat. ‘No?’

A woman stood in the doorway to No. 31. ‘Residents only.’

‘You don’t have a tag to show I’m a guest?’ he asked.

‘Oh…’ Her expression changed. ‘Mr Heckenburg, is it?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Oh… right.’

She came out, arms folded. She was about forty, her bottle-blonde hair pinned up messily, tresses hanging loose. She was heavyset but shapely, wearing a t-shirt with a fuzzy pink cardigan over the top, a tartan miniskirt, dark tights and slippers.

‘Parking tag?’ he asked.

She was giving him the once over. ‘I don’t have a car, so I’m not registered.’

‘You don’t have any access to the space in front of your own house?’

Heck had never heard of that, even in Bradburn, where it cost an arm and a leg just to visit a relative dying in hospital.

‘Don’t blame me, love, it’s the Council. Time was you could park any free space in Crowley. Then some bright spark decided: “Personal freedoms? What bloody personal freedoms? There’s money to be made from fines.”’

This was clearly Heck’s landlady-to-be, Cyndi White. Her Manchester accent was strong, her voice hard, but she didn’t look unfriendly.

‘Can I just bring my bag in?’ he said.

‘Ready to move in straight away, are you?’

‘Well… yeah. I’ve travelled up from London.’

‘You don’t want to see the room first?’

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

Her response to that was uncertainty, as though she didn’t know whether to be pleased or suspicious, but she turned and led the way. Leaving his bag in the hall, which was dim but smelled vaguely of violets, Heck went back to his car and got in.

The neighbourhood was much as he’d expected. Parallel rows of redbrick houses, two-up-two-downs, many in a state of visible disrepair, the backs between them filled with weeds and overflowing bins. It reminded him of the place he’d grown up, the Old Town in Bradburn, though that was on the northwest edge of the Greater Manchester conurbation, more a township in its own right. Here in the heart of the city there was something less grimly picturesque about it. The only people he saw included a dishevelled man stumbling drunk, and occasional packs of teens watching from street-corners, perhaps wondering if this new guy was here to infringe on their business. But it would all serve if it helped him keep the lowest profile possible. He’d even dressed down for the occasion, wearing faded jeans, a paint-stained hoodie top and scruffy trainers. When he got back to 31 Taylor Street, this time on foot, Cyndi White was still waiting in her doorway.

‘I managed to find somewhere on Clarkson Street,’ he said.

‘Hang on.’ She halted him with a palm in his chest. ‘Need to check you out first.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You get to look the room over, I get to look you over. It’s only fair. You’re stopping in my house, after all.’ They went inside, where she indicated he should give her a twirl.

Amused, Heck complied. ‘Do I pass?’

‘Oh, you pass all right. My main question is why do you want to stay here?’

‘Pardon?’

She eyed him suspiciously. ‘I have to know something about the folk who’re stopping under my roof. Believe me, I’ve made the mistake of not asking in the past, and I’ve had some rum buggers.’

Heck picked up his grab-bag. ‘Isn’t your pad as good as any?’

‘It’s cheaper than most, but I don’t get the feeling cost would normally be a problem for you.’

‘I’m not a rich man, Mrs White. Or is it Miss…?’

‘Cyndi, though my mates call me “Cyn”.’

There was no inflection in the way she’d said this. No hint of suggestion. But up close her eyes were a startling blue-grey.

‘In that case,’ he replied, ‘call me Mark.’

‘You may not be rich, Mark… but I’m not fooled by them scruffs. And even if I was, you’d still strike me as someone who wouldn’t normally stay here.’

For all her blowsy appearance, this lady was more observant than most.

‘Looks can be deceptive,’ he said.

‘Professional type, are you?’

‘Yeah, sure. I’m a… a consultant.’

‘Oh yeah.’ She pushed aside an errant peroxide-blonde strand. Clearly, she didn’t believe him. Either that or she didn’t know what he’d meant. Probably the latter, because it hadn’t meant anything.

‘Well…’ She stepped aside, opening the way to a steep stairway. ‘The room’s upstairs on the right. You can’t miss it. There’s only two, and mine’s the other one. Shared bathroom facilities, I’m afraid.’

‘Not a problem.’ Heck headed up.

The room was small, but it would do. Furnished only with a double-bed (World War Two era, judging by the creaking of its springs), a freestanding wardrobe, a desk with a kettle and a tray of tea-things, and a wing-backed armchair, it nevertheless felt cluttered. The window looked down on the depressing street out front, while the carpet had been hoovered but was so old and worn that the flower patterns on it were indiscernible, though from the look of the bed at least, that had been made up today, while two folded towels had been left on top of it, alongside a range of fresh toiletries.

‘Everything do up there?’ Cyndi White called from below.

‘All good,’ Heck replied, slinging his bag into a corner.

‘When you rang me, you said you didn’t know how long you’d be staying for…?’

‘Still the case.’

‘Your rent-book’s down here whenever you’re ready.’

‘Cheers.’

He glanced at his watch. It was just past five-thirty. That ought to give him a chance to rest, and no sooner had he settled in the chair than torpor crept over him, his eyelids flickering closed. Almost immediately, his phone gave a sleep-shattering ping.

He fumbled it from the armrest.

It woke him properly when he saw that an hour had already passed.

The text was from Lucy Clayburn.

Crowley Bus Station. 7pm

I know what you look like, but to be sure,

wear a white top

Heck struggled to his feet, thinking it fortunate that he had a white T-shirt with him. He replaced his hoodie with this, then tied the hoodie over his shoulders by its sleeves. As he descended, he heard pots clattering in a kitchen. On a shelf in the hall, he found the small rent-book his hostess had promised him, and a keyring with two keys on it: a yale for the front door, and a mortice for the bedroom. He pocketed everything and headed outside. It would have been polite to let his landlady know what he was doing, but time was draining away fast.

As it was, Taylor Street was fifteen minutes from the centre of Crowley, the focal point of which was an expansive shopping centre called the Emporia, though this early on a Friday evening the place was already deserted. The bus station was just north of there, and when Heck entered it through an arched brick passageway, this too was quieter than it would have been an hour earlier. Only one or two buses sat juddering at their designated start-points, while those passengers present were already onboard. Several human relics were slumped on benches or meandered bleary-eyed in no particular direction.

Heck checked his watch. It was close to seven.

Bang on cue, a black Nissan Micra slid to a halt next to him, the front passenger door swinging open. ‘Time’s of the essence,’ a female voice said.

Heck climbed in, the car accelerating away before he’d shut the door.

The Nissan’s interior was basic but pristine, not a scrap of anything in sight to imply personalised ownership. It even smelled sterile.

‘Hire-car?’ he asked.

The woman driving gave a quick nod. ‘Best way.’

She was about ten years his junior but exuded an air of experience. She wore jeans and a sweater with the sleeves pushed back, had a mop of black hair tied loosely at the back, feline good looks and sharp green eyes, which remained fixed on the road. She slowed as they approached a red light, about to say something else, only for a stocky character in a pink and purple Paisley shirt to saunter onto the crossing in front of them.

‘Shit!’ She ducked her head.

Pink Shirt ignored them, his feral gaze spearing ahead.

‘Barry Coyle,’ she muttered in explanation. ‘One of our regulars.’

The light changed to green, and they drove on. Heck shrugged. ‘Is all this cloak and dagger stuff necessary?’

‘That depends. How much do you trust your lot?’

‘You mean the National Crime Group?’

‘Who else?’

‘If you mean what’re the chances any of them work for the Crew, I’d say vanishingly small.’

She pursed her lips. ‘But I suppose only a handful of them know you’re still a copper?’

‘Well, that’s true.’

‘Good. It’s bloody important we keep it that way.’

‘Fair enough.’ He offered a hand. ‘Mark Heckenburg.’

She didn’t take it, but nodded, still focussed on the road. ‘Lucy Clayburn.’

13

Lucy said that she’d drive them out of Manchester, so they could sit down and talk somewhere there was no chance anyone might recognise either of them. They thus left the smoke along the A580, then diverted onto the M61, which ultimately led into Lancashire itself. It was now mid-evening, so the traffic flow was light, and they made good speed.

‘What time you on tonight?’ Heck asked.

‘Ten,’ she replied.

‘We can’t go too far north then.’

‘It’s okay, I’ve got somewhere in mind.’

They drove on, the Mancunian suburbs blending into farmland, the vast ridge of the West Pennine Moors rising on their right, the glimmering cherry dots of the Winter Hill telecommunications mast clearly visible as dusk drew down.

‘So?’ she asked. ‘How much do you know?’

Heck outlined everything he’d been told. And was done in less than a minute.

‘How about me?’ she asked.

‘I know you’ve had your ups and downs,’ he said. ‘I also know about your dad.’

She gazed dead ahead. ‘And how do you feel about that?’

‘Well, seeing as mine was nothing to write home about either, not much.’

She didn’t speak for a moment or two, and then: ‘I need to be clear with you, Sergeant Heckenburg. Frank McCracken has helped me out in the past.’

‘You mean with investigations?’

‘It’s not like we’re bosom buddies. But our interests have sometimes aligned.’

‘You mean his interests and yours… or his interests and the interests of the Greater Manchester Police?’

‘Solely the latter.’ She chewed a lip. ‘I’ve been the conduit; I can’t deny it. But the only relationship I have with him is professional. He’s my biological father, but he’s not my dad. He’s still sweet on my mum… unbelievably, after decades of taking his pick of all the most gorgeous floozies in the northwest, but he’s not part of our family. He might be a blood-relative, but he’s not a friend. So, when you get into the Crew, if you get in… if I can get you in, you’ll have free rein to take him down. Don’t worry about me. We’re the cops, he’s the gangster. Not that it’s going to be problem-free.’

‘Okay…?’

‘As I see it, there are two main issues. Firstly, Frank’s good at what he does. He came up through a load of shit and he’s a violent, psychopathic bastard, so never turn your back on him. But he’s got subtler skills too. He’s clever, cunning, charming… he could charm the knickers off a nun, and probably has done in his time. He’s also an arch control-freak. I mean, the Crew’s a massive, unwieldy operation. But while Frank’s officially Chairman of a Board of Directors, in reality he’s in charge of everything. At least, that’s his ambition.’

Heck was thoughtful. ‘If it was never meant to be a one-man band, that could also be his weakness.’

‘Very possibly,’ she agreed.

‘You said there were two issues. What’s the other one?’

‘Yeah, well… the other one is it’s because of Frank that you’re still alive.’

‘Okay… do tell.’

‘This Incinerator business in Bradburn. This guy you killed… Nayka? He was some kind of Russian mob enforcer, yeah?’

‘That’s correct. But Nayka, real name Grigori Kalylyn, died in a shootout that he’d engineered himself.’

‘Whatever… fine.’ She looked frustrated. ‘Keep it to yourself if you want. The fact is the mere suspicion that you were involved would normally be enough for an outfit like the Tatarstan Brigade. That’d be the end of it for you and everyone else who was there.’

‘It nearly was,’ Heck said.

‘But not completely. Am I right?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘That’s because it wasn’t officially sanctioned. If the top brass in St Petersburg had green-lit that hit, they’d have sent team after team until there was nothing left of you. You wouldn’t have been able to hide anywhere.’

Heck mused. ‘And it wasn’t greenlit because of this guy, Frank McCracken?’

‘Trust me, there’s no love lost between him and us. When you took this Nayka out, it led indirectly to the arrest and conviction of a certain Vic Ship?’

‘Yeah, I know about that.’

‘And the collapse of an international trade deal he was setting up with the Tatarstans to flood the UK with cheap fentanyl.’

‘So?’

‘So, that deal was worth millions,’ she said. ‘And it had been underwritten at this end by the Crew, for whom Vic Ship was a serving lieutenant. Trust me, they had every reason to let the Russians drop you.’

‘But…?’

‘But things have changed. The previous Chairman of the Crew’s Board was a deranged tyrant called Bill Pentecost.’

‘The legendary Wild Bill. Hasn’t been seen much recently.’

‘That’s because he’s dead.’

Heck looked around again. ‘You sure of that?’

‘I can’t produce a body if that’s what you’re asking, but you’re going to have to trust me… he’s dead. He got whacked.’

‘And let me guess, the one responsible was Frank McCracken?’

‘In this case he may even have pulled the trigger himself. Anyway, that’s why he’s currently sitting pretty at the top. But understand this… the reason you’re still alive is not because he’s soft-hearted. It’s because he’s smart. The Russians wanted that deal. Everywhere you go these days, it’s “the Russians this”, “the Russians that”. But the truth is, thanks to Putin’s invasion of Ukraine, they’re now only peripherally involved in the UK. They’re nothing like the dominant power they were, and now what little they have down south is being pressurised by the Albanians. The only way any of this is going to change is if the UK’s two top firms, the Crew and the Corporation, say it can.’

Heck thought about the Corporation again, London’s overarching underworld power.

‘And that’s not going to happen,’ Lucy said, ‘or so Frank McCracken, as new boss of the Crew, has allegedly told them, if they treat this country like the Wild West. Slowly, he’s been getting it through to the Ruskies that you don’t solve every problem by shooting bullets at it. Especially not when the problem is a public official. Like you.’

Heck mused again. ‘I suppose in some ways it’s a load off.’

‘When’s this Vasily Tarasov on trial?’ she asked.

‘Next October.’

‘Is he going down?’

‘I think it’s fair to say that.’

‘In that case, the next person getting whacked will be him. At least until we take the Crew down.’

‘Take the Crew down?’ Heck knew what he was doing here, but to hear it stated so baldly felt surreal.

‘Know anything about astrology, DS Heckenburg?’

‘Sure. You read imaginary patterns in the stars and draw meaning from them.’

‘Whoa, mister!’ She threw him an amazed stare. ‘The patterns are real. They’re cycles of naturally occurring events.’

‘Okay…?’

‘Whether you should draw meaning from them or not, that’s another matter.’ She veered onto a slip-road. ‘But basically, big stuff happens when lots of things all come together at the same time.’

‘I’m still listening.’

‘Well, that’s what’s happened here,’ she said. ‘You’re where you are, I’m where I am, and Frank McCracken’s where he is. It’s the perfect storm.’

14

The Yarrow Arms was a country pub off the A6. Heck found a table in an empty corner, while Lucy went to the bar. The pub was pleasant enough in a rustic sort of way. Low beams, horse brasses, an ambience only slightly spoiled by the large-screen TVs that seemed to occupy every room. Unavoidably, Heck found himself watching the latest news bulletin.

The faces of five young men filled the screen. An interview with a concerned-looking senior detective from Lancashire Constabulary followed. It was the same story he’d heard on the radio. It didn’t look as if the investigation had made much ground.

Lucy reappeared with a beer for him and a lemonade spritzer for herself.

‘Lancashire are getting spooked,’ he said, nodding at the screen.

She sat. ‘Bunch of stag party pissheads, isn’t it? Probably be waking up just around now on a container ship bound for Indonesia.’ The news story switched, the screen depicting what looked like a derelict railway tunnel, an on-the-spot reporter unable to advance any further thanks to horizontal bands of blue and white incident tape. ‘This is the talk of the town in Crowley.’

Heck watched, but the television wasn’t loud enough for him to hear.

‘Happened a couple of months ago,’ she said. ‘Hobhall Tunnel. Bunch of dealers got popped during a drugs drop-off. Seven fatalities in total, counting three deadbeats who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘Heard about it,’ Heck said. ‘Never be an innocent bystander, eh? Talk about a bad world.’

Lucy sipped her spritzer. ‘If it wasn’t, there’d be no work for you and me.’

‘One way to look at it.’

She placed her glass down. ‘So… what’s on your mind?’

‘Uh?’

‘You’re Serial Crimes Unit. I’m sure our latest crimewave isn’t upsetting you. But something is…?’

‘Okay.’ Heck took a breath. ‘You sure you’re not letting this business get too personal?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Done some digging on you, Lucy… I can call you Lucy?’

She shrugged.

‘You’re a very efficient detective. Highly thought-of. Or you were… until it came out that your old fella’s this Frank McCracken. Now, you can’t get half the people in the job to talk to you, never mind trust you. I mean, your chances of promotion have got to be zero.’

‘All right.’ She slouched back in her chair. ‘When the truth got out, I was embarrassed. That what you want to hear?’

‘That’s not what I’m saying. You might be better than well thought-of. You might be the best detective in Manchester, but people are still going to be wary around you.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘The only way you can bring that to an end is by tearing down Frank McCracken. Your own father.’

‘You don’t think that’s a worthwhile cause anyway?’

‘I’m just not sure it’s possible. Even if I can get on the inside, who’s to say anything will lead back to him? You know what these OCGs are like. The top floor’s whiter than white. We can’t get near them.’

‘We can damage them, though… yeah? I mean, we can really hurt them?’

‘Just so you can save face in the office?’

‘What’s your problem, Heckenburg?’ Her eyes flashed. ‘I was told you were a hardass. Someone who goes after these bastards in his spare time because there’s nothing he enjoys more.’

‘First of all,’ he said, ‘my friends call me “Heck”, not “Heckenburg”, and I’m hoping you’re going to be one of them. Secondly, where’s this breakneck urgency come from? The Crew spared my life, or so you said. They don’t kill coppers…’

‘Only if they don’t need to. It’s not a matter of ethics.’

‘We still need to see the bigger picture…’

‘Okay, the Crew are not the Cartel,’ she interrupted. ‘So, no… we’re not going to find people hanging from railway bridges each morning, or footballs with informers’ faces stitched onto them. They want peaceful streets and an orderly business, but let’s not forget that business involves the sale and distribution of narcotics, trafficking vulnerable women, illegally supplying firearms, taxing every criminal gang from here to the West Midlands, so that whenever a crime is committed, no matter how vile, the Crew take their cut.’

‘I’m not saying these people deserve to flourish,’ he said.

‘Well, that’s a start.’

‘But if the Crew aren’t here, if, like you say, we take them down, someone else will replace them. But maybe after years of internecine warfare.’

She looked bemused. ‘So, in case these animals start killing each other, we should step back and let them do whatever they want?’

‘I’m playing devil’s advocate.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘My concern, Lucy, is how clear-headed you’re being.’

‘Look, I’ve been told that something big’s underway,’ she said. ‘Something so big, and frankly, so nasty that one of my Crew snouts doesn’t want any part of it. And apparently, he’s not the only one.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know that yet. But look… if I can get you in there, it’ll give us an opportunity to link I don’t know how many rackets to the Crew’s top men. I mean, it won’t be easy for you… I’d never claim otherwise. But they told me you don’t do easy.’

Heck pondered.

‘You can try and convince yourself this is all about me wanting to get even with my dad,’ she said. ‘But even if that was true, this is still a chance we can’t afford to miss.’

‘You just want to get me in as Frank McCracken’s personal detective?’ Heck asked. ‘There’s no other plan?’

‘God save us,’ she sighed. ‘First of all, that will be difficult enough. Frank hasn’t lasted this long by trusting people he’s just met, no matter what their rep. But whatever level you do get in at, if you do a job for them, he’ll hear about it. Secondly, they have a hundred rackets going at any one time. And we only need one. Just one, so long as it’s juicy… and the whole stack comes tumbling down.’

He pondered again. She was right, it wasn’t going to be easy. But every way he looked at it, she was also right that it was an opening. And openings into major crime syndicates did not come along every day.

‘How do we do it?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. But I know a man who does.’

15

It was nine-thirty, and they were rolling back into Crowley, when Lucy received a call from Crowley Comms. ‘Sorry, Lucy,’ came the voice over Bluetooth. ‘I know you’re not on for another thirty minutes… are you on your way in?’

‘Good as,’ Lucy replied.

‘Can you look at a robbery and ABH first? Everyone else is busy.’

‘Give us the details.’

‘Long Acre. One AP, attacked after using the cashpoint. Sustained a nose injury. Uniform have escorted him to hospital. They’ve also cordoned the scene.’

Lucy glanced at the dashboard clock. ‘ETA… twenty.’

‘Thanks for that.’ The operator cut the call.

‘I’ll need to drop you off somewhere around here,’ Lucy told Heck.

‘No problem.’

‘I’m working a lot of CID Night Cover at present. Best way not to interact with people.’

He nodded. She pulled up alongside a row of shops, confirmed the arrangements they’d made for the next day, and then Heck set off alone, roaming towards the town centre.

He pulled his hoodie on, contemplating the days ahead. One of the legacies of the Ace of Diamonds massacre and his AWOL pursuit of the mobsters responsible had been its revelation to him that heavily regulated policing, and in fact law-enforcement the way most people understood it, could so easily be outflanked, outfoxed, whatever you wanted to call it, but definitely outgunned by opponents to whom rules meant nothing. He’d only got close to that Tatarstan Brigade splinter-group up in Scotland by throwing his own rulebook in the bin, by going it completely alone, seeking no support from colleagues, no authorisation, certain he was on a one-way ticket and unconcerned by that because he’d known there’d be no way back for him afterwards.

Miracles did happen, of course, and bewilderingly, there had been a way back.

The irony was that Heck still wasn’t sure if any of it was worthwhile. The job’s reputation for being fair and even-handed had not prevented the Ace of Diamonds massacre, while its ineffective response to it, and to the presence in their midst of a Russian gang who were prepared to kill, maim and torture ruthlessly for only the slightest gain, had not left him annoyed and frustrated with policework as much as disheartened.

There was a common phrase among old sweats: ‘The job’s fucked’. And a common feeling that the last few intakes of coppers were the softest yet, and therefore unsuitable for the hands-on approach that street-policing required. They worried that there was a lack of ex-army personnel involved these days, men and women who were used to the rough stuff. It frustrated them that many forces were too concerned about being modern and progressive to actually fight crime, or that the endless new rules and regulations prevented officers applying common sense solutions, tying their hands.

But even if all that was true (and a lot of it was debatable), it didn’t matter. If there were criminal groups out there so empowered that they could cock their snooks at society any way they wished, flaunting their ill-gotten wealth, buying political influence, assuming the guise of respectability while at the same time everyone knew who and what they were, it was soul-destroying from the start.

In that regard, it was a titillating notion that he might help bring down a monolithic criminal power like the Crew, but again, he wasn’t going to. Heck knew that already, as he’d tried to impart to Lucy Clayburn. The best they could hope for was to dent it, and even then it would cost a fortune. Whereas if they just discarded the does and don’ts, and simply went to war with the bastards…

But no. He’d done that once before and knew that he couldn’t do it again.

He wouldn’t be given another chance. And it was morally questionable anyway – and that was the thing, wasn’t it? Minus morality, what did it matter which side of the fence you stood? At no stage during that trip to Scotland had Heck felt good about what he was doing. Only the mistaken idea that he’d lost Gemma had kept him on the killers’ tail.

Unfortunately, that still begged the question: what use were the cops in a lawless age like today? And as he walked, he wondered if Crowley, this infamous division, might show him.

Many stories of inner Manchester criminality had long been exaggerated. Not least by the hoodlums themselves, who hadn’t liked the way the media thought everything newsworthy happened in London. That said, the arrival of OCGs from overseas had led many smaller homegrown outfits to club together for protection, and gradually, major crime networks like the Crew had formed. So, despite this being the twenty-first century, with better security on vehicles and properties, crime was prospering in Britain as never before. Especially in the bowels of its cities.

Almost on cue, a pub window on the other side of the road exploded as a table was thrown through it. From inside, Heck heard screams and shouts.

Friday night, he thought, stopping to watch. In Crowley.

The combatants spilled outside, eight or nine of them swinging wild punches at each other, the usual clutch of shrieking women in barely-there dresses trying to insinuate themselves into the heart of it. A few other members of the Crowley nightlife also stopped to watch, laughing, shouting encouragement. One got his phone out to film it. The one right next to Heck, a Shaggy type with a goatee, was openly smoking a long, twisted reefer.

‘Hey mate,’ Heck said, ‘put your foot on that.’

Shaggy gave him a contemptuous look. ‘Says fucking who?’

‘Coppers’ll be coming.’

A shrug. ‘What do they fucking care?’

And indeed, Heck remained where he was, and when a patrol car arrived, and a couple of uniforms jumped out and tried to separate the warring factions, Shaggy smoked on.

Heck cut down a side-street and emerged onto the next road, where another mass brawl was raging. On this occasion, a couple of police cars were already in attendance, along with a prisoner transport. The two or three uniforms, one of whom was a woman, were having none of it, slinging prisoners into the back of the van with angry abandon.

Heck watched again, hands in his hoodie pouch. Even if he’d felt he needed to assist, which he didn’t, he couldn’t have. That would have undermined his new status as ex-copper before they’d even got this operation off the ground.

As a young bobby, he’d made dozens of drunk and disorderly arrests. Every time you worked a weekend it was easy pickings. In terms of brownie points they were hardly worth the effort, but they were a good way to let troublemakers know there was a price to pay for ruining everyone else’s night. Across the road, meanwhile, the belligerent crowd, still shouting and threatening each other, were dispersing. With six or seven of their mates in the back of the van, they’d got the message. Wasn’t a bad haul, actually.

If nothing else, this bunch of uniforms were doing their job.

16

After dropping her passenger off, Lucy Clayburn drove first to the Saltbridge district in the north end of town, rather than to the scene of the robbery on Long Acre. The explanation was simple: she couldn’t risk attending a crime scene in the same hire-car she’d used to collect Mark Heckenburg. From Lucy’s perspective, it was vital that as long as Heckenburg was in Crowley as himself (they were looking to embed him as an asset, but he wouldn’t be undercover), he was not to be seen by anyone in the company of serving police officers, least of all her. For that reason, she had to pick up another vehicle before she could go on duty. Her own car, a blue Suzuki Jimny, was currently parked at her bungalow on Cuthbertson Court. But that was farther away than her mother’s house on Ravencroft Road in Saltbridge, where Lucy’s Ducati lived in the shed at the back. As she drove over there, she wondered about this guy she was now hanging so much on, because if this plan went belly-up, she was finished as a cop, while at the same time Frank McCracken, if for no other reason than to save his own skin, would likely do nothing to prevent his accomplices from disposing of her once and for all. As she’d said earlier, the Crew balked at killing police officers. But not if they considered it necessary.

But Heck, as he preferred to be called, had been a contrast to what she’d expected. Considering the fire and water he’d been through in recent times, she’d been anticipating a burn-out, someone sad-eyed and dishevelled. But while Heck seemed a little beaten up, he looked younger than his years and was certainly leaner. He possessed a rugged aura and virile air. Looks-wise, he wasn’t bad either: tousled black hair; chiselled features, though with nicks and scars aplenty. However, his manner had been the real surprise. After the ordeal he went through to get justice for his murdered colleagues in the Serial Crimes Unit, to then find his suspension extended while the nameless omnipotents on the top floor debated for weeks and weeks about whether or not to dispense with his services, it would have been no shock if he’d come north a bitter man, sneery, sarcastic, uninterested in tackling the Crew, who were likely to confront him with the same overwhelming threat as the Tatarstan Brigade. On top of that, he’d already twigged that she had a personal dog in this fight, so why the hell would he risk his life again?

It had transpired, though, that while he’d been wary, which in itself was good as it showed that he had common sense, he’d still been enthused about going after the main prize. Of course, on one hand it made her nervous. To an extent, she was winging this whole thing. She’d glimpsed an opening in the Crew’s armour, but it was a minor opening and the potential cost of going through it was high, and yet she’d sent Heck through it ahead of her. Setting him up to face an awesome criminal power. She hoped Heck’s aura of confident competence wasn’t just a charade, and that he was aware what he was getting into.

She reached her destination. Ravencroft Road sounded very suburban, but in fact it was a terraced street quite close to Crowley’s border with Bolton. This was another old mill district, but it wasn’t run-down the way the neighbourhood surrounding Taylor Street was.

Cora Clayburn, Lucy’s mum, was an archetypal resident. While she had a colourful past, these days she was a pillar of local respectability. She’d never approved of Lucy’s career choice for several reasons. Firstly, because she considered it unladylike. Secondly, because she worried that it was dangerous. And thirdly, because she’d long anticipated a serious conflict of interests once Lucy found out who her father was. It wasn’t as if Cora maintained an ongoing relationship with Frank McCracken, but given that she was trim, petite, blonde and unfeasibly glam for a lady in her mid-fifties, the gangster still harboured affection for her as a one-time girlfriend he’d never been able to forget. In fact, as Lucy had intimated to Heck, the older he got, the more he seemed to be getting interested in her again.

‘Sorry, I can’t stop,’ Lucy said, rushing through the house.

Cora, who was sitting in front of the TV in her dressing gown, sporting a snazzy new hair-do and waiting for her toe and fingernails to dry, looked unsurprised.

‘Can you ever?’ she asked loudly.

Lucy dashed into the back yard, unlocked the coal bunker-turned-bike shed and clambered in alongside ‘Il Monstro’, as she called it, her glimmering red Ducati Monster M900. She grabbed her crimson helmet from the shelf, and her black leather jacket and gauntlets from the hook, and wheeled the machine into the yard. Her mother had put some slippers on and come outside and now stood with hands in her dressing gown pockets.

‘What’s the hurry?’ she asked.

‘Rush job on,’ Lucy replied, kitting out, then wheeling the beast into the backs.

Cora tutted as she followed her. ‘I hope it’s important.’

Lucy mounted up and lifted her visor. ‘It’s always important, Mum… if it’ll help me make my mark.’

‘You’ve made plenty marks already, darling. And how are they working out for you?’

Lucy kicked the Ducati to life, its engine rumbling.

Cora backed into the gateway. ‘All these nights you work, all these risks you run… d’you ever think you’re going to achieve anything worthwhile in this job?’

‘I don’t know.’ Lucy thought about it. ‘This time… maybe.’

She flipped her visor down, the Ducati surging forward.

*

She was close to the town centre, though not yet at the actual crime scene, when something caught her attention. Barry Coyle again, on the corner of Pearlman Road and Brunton Way, chatting with two girls. And wearing a plain shirt as opposed to the pink and purple Paisley special of earlier. It was only when Lucy drew up by the pavement and removed her helmet that she saw the label hanging down at the back, indicating that he’d turned the shirt inside out.

Coyle, a solid guy just under six feet, his head shaved at the back and sides, leaving a small cap of white-blond hair on top, attempted to maintain nonchalance but was visibly agitated.

‘What’s up, Bazzer?’ Lucy asked. ‘Was he a bleeder?’

Coyle feigned puzzlement. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Clayburn.’

‘The bloke at the cashpoint. Same one who spattered blood all over that lovely shirt of yours.’

There was a fleeting silence as he tried to stare her out. Then he broke and ran. The two girls squealed as he barged between them, veering across the road at full speed. Lucy jumped back onto her bike, grabbing her phone and calling Crowley Comms.

She’d made a guess that Coyle was the one responsible, but an informed guess. Fights were breaking out all over Crowley, even as Lucy pulled a roaring, rubber-melting U-turn to pursue, and Coyle could have been in any one of them. But as well as a general-purpose yob, he was also an instinctive thief who’d willingly use violence. From past form, he was just the sort to see someone with a handful of cash and go flying at them. And by the looks of it, that was exactly what had happened. Most likely having ducked out of sight afterwards, he’d now felt the coast was sufficiently clear to head home to get changed, but in so doing he’d encountered two cute young things whom he couldn’t resist swaggering up to.

Of course, he wasn’t heading home now.

He sprinted across the next road and down an alley, Lucy blistering after him. He was twenty yards ahead when he cut left, taking a narrow passage between rows of back gates. Lucy pulled up. It was wide enough for the bike but dotted all the way along with wheelie-bins, which would cost her valuable time. Instead, she continued along the first alley, emerging into the next side-street and swinging left at speed. Some forty yards ahead, Coyle ran back into view and seemed startled to see her.

He accelerated across the next road, vaulting over someone’s back wall. Lucy throttled to the end of the street, swung right and then right again. The target had already crossed to the far side of the next street and now was inserting himself through a set of railings. Lucy cursed. On the other side of those, about ten feet down, was the Bakerfield Lorry Park. That was a vast open space, but the only access to it by road was on the far side, on Bakerfield Lane itself, which was several minutes from here. If that wasn’t enough, just peering through the bars, she could see the dark outlines of numerous parked wagons. The little bastard could take his pick of hiding places.

Unless…

If Lucy remembered, there was another entrance on this very road, Hawker Avenue, though it was narrow and led down into the park via a steep flight of steps. It might have made sense to give up the chase at this point and report the situation. The police already knew where Coyle and his friends and associates lived. He wouldn’t be able to vanish. But Lucy wanted him. Robbery was a nasty offence, so it was always a good collar. And she’d like nothing better than to walk a body in for this one straight away. Recent events might have called Lucy’s trustworthiness into question, but she’d still show them she could do the job.

She skidded to a halt in front of the narrower entrance.

The flight of steps dropped at a steep gradient, unlit and covered in moss.

She throttled forward, jolting wildly as she descended. The lorry park swam into view. It was dark, but a diminutive black shape was visible, streaking towards the entrance on Bakerfield Lane. Engine revving, she hit the bottom hard and though she wobbled, stayed upright. Speeding across the cindery waste, she had the satisfaction of seeing the fleeing figure stop and look around. As he did, she hit a low hummock, though instead of sending her cartwheeling, it acted like a ramp, the Ducati arcing through the air, landing upright again.

Coyle bolted through the gate at top speed.

Lucy followed and found herself dodging and swerving through roadworks. Coyle wasn’t too far ahead, because he’d stopped to peg a traffic cone at her. It struck her chest, but she held. He fled again, leaping over a line of visi-flashers and a huge trench. Lucy had to veer around it, a barrier disintegrating under her wheels, but then straightened onto another side-road, pulling a wheelie as she accelerated. She’d have caught him had he not cut down another convenient entry. Lucy followed, but slowly, as it was a tight passage. The trouble with not having signed on at the nick yet was that she didn’t have a radio, and she couldn’t keep up a running commentary by mobile phone at the same time as riding her Ducati. This meant that though she could now hear sirens, they were looking for her, but not necessarily closing in.

She spun left, the route ahead cluttered with rubbish bags. One by one, they burst, disgorging foulness. Then she was into the open again, Coyle haring down the next street, though at last she could see that he was flagging. He was strongly built and no more than twenty-six, but he drank a lot and smoked. Plus, she was riding a V2 engine. He staggered across a Council tennis court, then up some steps and along a concrete gantry at the back of a row of flats. Lucy slowed before entering the courts. He couldn’t get through that way as the gantry ended at a brick wall. So he’d likely try to climb over the barrier and drop into the flats’ under-croft. She revved around the outside of the courts. The gantry was now above her, and sure enough, the shape of Barry Coyle dropped down directly into her headlight. He ran left into a wide-open basement area filled with concrete pillars. There was an exit at the far end and Coyle was already pelting towards it, only for a patrol car, its blues spinning, to pull up there. Panting, clutching his side, the fugitive tried to double back. Lucy bore towards him. He veered left, but she copied the manoeuvre, blocking his path and braking, affecting a controlled crash, rolling away as her machine slithered into a great mountain of rubbish bags.

Coyle tottered to a standstill as Lucy jumped up to confront him.

He aimed a kung fu kick at her but was now sweat-soaked and exhausted. The kick went nowhere, she caught his ankle and turned it. He flipped and fell onto his face, and then she was on his back, applying a gooseneck to his left wrist. He squawked.

She knocked her visor up. ‘You’re arrested on suspicion of robbery, Barry. You don’t have to say anything, but it may…’

‘Fuck you, you bolshy cow!’ He spat over his shoulder. ‘You’re only a slip of a lass.’

He struggled, but Lucy drew new strength from the uniforms hurrying towards them. She pinned him with one knee between his shoulder-blades and one on the right side of his head, compressing its left temple into the concrete floor.

‘Bitch!’ he screamed. ‘You’re crushing my skull.’

‘Nah,’ she retorted. ‘I’m only a slip of a lass.’

*

When Lucy rode into the personnel car park at the back of Robber’s Row, it was busy. The entrance to the Custody Suite was located here, and thanks to the ongoing fracas that was Friday night, various uniforms were frogmarching their own catches in. At the same time, several unmarked cars had arrived, disgorging a large bunch of detectives attached to Operation Main Event, which was the Hobhall Tunnel enquiry.

With Robber’s Row the November Division HQ, their Major Incident Room, or MIR, had been set up on the top floor. While they were piling in through the personnel door, the arrival of the Ducati, a beautiful bike to those who cared, and the dismounting from it of a shapely rider in tight jeans and a leather jacket, who then took off her helmet to shake out a mass of glossy black hair, caught more than a few stares. Then, just as quickly, the word clearly passed among them that this was Detective Constable Lucy Clayburn, who might be on the Crew’s payroll. Lucy ignored their curious but hostile faces, and waited while her own prisoner transport backed in, the rear doors swung open, and a uniform manhandled Barry Coyle onto the car park.

The prisoner winced with exaggerated pain. His hands were cuffed at his back, but he was insisting that she’d injured his head by kneeling on it, and that those were the grounds by which his solicitor was going to ‘rip the fuck out of her in court’.

‘Enjoy this while it’s happening, Miss Clayburn,’ Coyle jeered as two uniforms steered him towards the Custody door. ‘In a few days it’s going to be you wearing these bracelets.’

Lucy tucked her gauntlets into her helmet and followed.

‘Lucy…?’

She turned. A shortish, barrel-shaped figure in a shabby mac was approaching.

It was the famously acerbic Detective Super-intendent Priya Nehwal, at present SIO on Main Event, and not just someone Lucy would at one time have sought favour with in order to get in on it, but someone who, thanks to their having worked together successfully in the past, would likely have asked for Lucy anyway. More recently, thanks to the revelation about Frank McCracken, their relationship had cooled.

‘Cashpoint robber?’ Nehwal asked, watching as Coyle vanished into the station.

‘That’s him,’ Lucy said.

‘Listened on the radio. Sounded like he was running you all around town.’

‘Nothing I couldn’t handle, ma’am.’

‘Nice pinch, considering you weren’t even on duty when you took the call.’

‘No inside info.’ Lucy headed for the Custody door. ‘You don’t need to worry.’

17

‘You’re looking fit and raring to go,’ Heck said, climbing into the hire-car. ‘Considering it’s only ten and you’ve just finished night-turn.’

He’d been surprised to wake up early that morning and find a text from Lucy saying that she’d arranged a meeting for him with her informant at eleven o’clock.

‘No worries,’ she replied.

‘Don’t need much sack-time, eh?’

She yawned as she drove. ‘Grabbed a couple of hours at the nick.’

‘Armchair in the rec room job?’

‘Done it yourself?’

‘A few times.’

‘How about last night?’ she asked. ‘Get any zeds in that strange house in this strange place?’

‘The bed’s a bit special, but I did okay.’

‘Feeling better that you’re back on the job?’

Heck shook his head. ‘Not sure I feel like I’m back on it yet. Where we going, anyway?’

‘West side of town,’ she said. ‘The old Bleachworks. It’s a ruin sat in the middle of some derelict pit-land we call “the Aggies”. It’s out of eye and earshot from just about anywhere.’ She caught a smirk on his lips. ‘Excuse me, what’re you smiling about?’

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘If you think we need that level of precaution, let’s take it.’

‘This isn’t my precaution, it’s Benny B’s.’

‘Benny B?’

‘Full name Benjamin Bartholomew.’

‘Your grass?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Tell me about him.’

‘Benny B’s a colossal lump of what was once muscle but is now mostly lard. He used to be Head of Security when Wild Bill ran the Crew. Not everyone thought that was a great idea. Benny B was pretty good at clobbering the living daylights out of someone standing in front of him, but if it required a bit of planning, you know… a bit of nous, he was somewhat less effective, even though he had a whole cadre of roughnecks at his beck and call.’

‘And this is the guy we’re relying on?’

‘Whether he’s reliable or not will always be open to question. But this is the guy from whom this whole scheme originated. Benny was a Wild Bill loyalist from way back. They were scrote kids together on a council estate in Moston when it all started.’

‘Otherwise Benny B would never have risen so high?’

‘Got it in one. That wasn’t the reason Frank McCracken sacked him. Mostly, I reckon, it was because while Frank doesn’t want people around who are as clever as he is, he wants people who are a bit cleverer than the average moose.’

‘And let me guess,’ Heck said, ‘Benny didn’t like that… because though he’s quite dumb, he’s also pretty ambitious?’

‘He knows his career’s over as long as Frank’s there. He also feels humiliated. I mean, no one thought he should have a seat at the top table, but he did have… and now he doesn’t.’

‘But this idea I’ve come north for was his idea… this man who couldn’t organise a wank in a warm bath?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Benny got in touch to tell me Frank was looking for a Crew cop. It was me who put the rest of it together.’

‘With no help from supervision, I’m guessing? I mean, you haven’t mentioned anyone else yet.’ She said nothing. ‘Why’ve you left your gaffers out, Lucy? They dirty?’

‘No. But I’ve already told you that I get all the shit work because of my dad. Even if I took this lead to the brass, they’d investigate but they’d push me out.’

‘And that’s the most important thing? That you have to be there for the takedown?’

‘Yes! The same way it was important that you had to be the one to pull the trigger on the gunmen who levelled your team.’

Heck pondered. ‘Okay, I hear that. But keeping the brass out doesn’t work for me. Not long-term. Once we know this thing’s a goer, I’ll get my boss to ring yours. From that point on we have to make it official. I know we’re worried about people talking, but I can’t do this without backup.’

‘Fair enough. But they won’t be able to kick me off the job if you specifically ask for me to be your handler.’

Heck nodded. ‘I dare say we can manage that.’

*

The Aggies was the kind of post-industrial moonscape that also occupied large areas of Heck’s hometown. It was nothing new for him to drive down a little-used road, seeing only grey waste, the odd clutch of stunted brush, the occasional brick wall now standing alone after the rest of whatever it had once been had collapsed into dust.

‘There’s a loop in the River Irwell out here,’ Lucy explained. ‘The Bleachworks sits in the middle of it.’

‘Benny B wants isolation, he’s got it,’ Heck said. ‘Haven’t seen a soul for ten minutes.’

They descended downhill a little. At the bottom, the track turned muddy, the wiry bushes on either side morphing into straggly trees. In front, a sheet of corrugated metal barred further access. It stood to the height of two men one on top of the other and was about forty yards across. In the middle hung a hand-painted wooden notice:

Bridge Unsafe

Lucy braked.

‘Wonder why his car’s not here?’ She checked the clock.

‘Could he have parked around the other side?’ Heck said.

‘There is no other side. The landward road sank into the marsh years ago.’

They got out of the car.

‘How do we get through this?’ Heck asked.

Lucy approached the metal, pulling on a leather glove. ‘This part of what he told me is true at least.’

Heck saw that the corrugated sheet was actually two sheets divided down the middle. One overlapped the other and they’d been screwed together, though the lower six feet was loose. Lucy fitted her gloved hand between and pried them apart. Turning sideways, she slid through. Heck, who was larger, had more difficulty, but eventually managed it. On the other side, a smallish cantilever bridge with a concrete roadway laid over it spanned the river.

They stood and surveyed it, only birds twittering to break the silence.

‘Looks safe enough,’ Heck said.

‘Probably put that sign up to keep stupid kids away,’ Lucy replied.

They pressed on. The Irwell glided by below, smooth as black glass. Its two banks were overgrown with thorns and other scummy herbage. Beyond that, bogs and pools were visible in every direction, while northward, Heck saw the grey humps of the Aggies. Directly in front, of course, stood what remained of the Bleachworks. Its façade was a towering structure of mouldering brickwork, much of it seared black. It was filled with zigzagging fissures, plus gaping apertures where windows had once been.

‘Big fire?’ Heck said.

‘A couple of years after it closed,’ Lucy confirmed. ‘Access was so difficult for the Fire Brigade that it burned most of the night.’

‘Why’s it still here?’

‘Arguments about whether this area should be developed for housing. It’s brownfield land, which means it’d cost a bloody fortune, which means builders aren’t queuing up. On top of that, parts of the main buildings are listed, would you believe?’

Heck nodded. In this day and age, he would.

They reached the end of the bridge and stood facing the entrance. There was no actual door, but a tall, rectangular portal led through into a roofless interior, which at first glance was carpeted with rubble: broken bricks, fallen concrete.

‘Benny B was supposed to meet us here?’ Heck said.

‘Yeah.’ Lucy sounded subdued. ‘Perhaps I should have asked him to be specific.’

From what they could see, though the Bleachworks was a shell, its interior was still divided into rooms and passages. This main entrance area was spacious, but plenty of doorways and other avenues led off it. There was evidence of burning everywhere.

They picked their way forward. Despite Lucy’s assurances about this guy, Benny, Heck’s senses were tingling. He halted, listening. From somewhere above came the scrape of a footfall. Dust spiralled down on their left. And two gunshots rang out.

18

Pigeons rocketed from their roosts, dust fell in abundance. The two slugs ricocheted from the cluttered debris where the cops had just been standing. If Heck hadn’t pushed Lucy right and gone left himself, they’d both have been potted clean.

For seconds it was pure instinct, the pair of them stumbling for the nearest cover, veering back together as they focussed on the stump of an internal wall, perhaps twenty yards in length, four feet in height, the relics of broken window-frames on top. As they vaulted it side-by-side, two more shots were fired, the double-blast reverberating in the hollowed-out factory, the bullets caroming from the rotted brickwork they ducked behind.

‘That’s a big bloody pistol,’ Heck panted.

Lucy looked shocked. ‘Came from somewhere overhead.’

She fished her phone out and feverishly tapped at it.

He grabbed her arm. ‘You’re calling back-up… when we’re not supposed to be here?’

She looked confused, then shook her head. ‘Sorry. Force of habit.’

‘How long would it take them to scramble a Trojan anyway? And get all the way out here?’ Before she could reply, he motioned for them to listen. They did, hearing nothing. ‘Whoever it is, they’re going to move,’ he whispered. ‘Try to get a better angle on us.’

They glanced around.

The area behind them stretched away towards the broken-open shells of what might once have been workshops, their interiors almost entirely visible from this low-level position, never mind from a sniper’s perch higher up.

New scuffling sounds came to their ears.

They peeked over the bulwark. Away on their right, fresh dust plumed down from where a hulking figure was lumbering away along the top of one of the higher internal walls. It seemed ridiculous. The gunman was hardly sylphlike and yet he was a good twenty feet above the ground. How he was balancing along such a narrow footway and moving at speed was bewildering. More importantly though, his back was turned.

Lucy tried to jump up. Again, Heck grabbed her arm.

‘We don’t know how many there are,’ he hissed. ‘Someone could still have a bead on us.’

‘Heck, we can’t just sit here. He’s looking for better vantage.’

She was correct. But they couldn’t simply dash out. Heck glanced along the wall shielding them. It led to the entrance to a room that looked less bombed-out than the others.

He pointed at it. She nodded.

They set off one in front of the other, keeping low, ducking through the first room and then through a second. Again, these gutted holes looked like former workshops, though their ceilings were missing rather than their encircling partitions.

They emerged from the second into a spacious wreckage-strewn area, where high up on their left they saw the other side of the internal wall the gunman had run along. He was no longer in sight, but on this side of it, a catwalk made from rickety, rusted metal ran just beneath the parapet. That explained his nimble escape.

‘Where the hell is he?’ Lucy muttered.

Heck’s eyes roved the catwalk. At its far end, it connected with a narrow doorway in a huge section of largely intact inner building-work, a vast perpendicular structure, like a keep inside a castle. It was impossible to work out what it had ever been, but a massive tier of it, mostly the section above the catwalk, had long ago collapsed. That left the lower section.

His gaze fixed on its ground-floor entrance, which was filled with inky shadow. And spotted a flicker of movement inside.

Again, he pushed Lucy sideways.

Flame flashed and another shot boomed.

But they were already running, scrabbling over fallen masonry. Heck wasn’t sure which way Lucy had gone this time but he found himself out in the open. With half an eye on the doorway behind, he sensed a large, cumbersome figure emerge from it.

Sensed a barrel levelling in his direction.

He threw himself through another internal doorway and diverted sideways, sliding along more charred, rugged stonework, and bumping shoulder-first into a glassless window about three feet up from the floor. He leaned through it, peering down a slope covered with dense brambles to another curve of the river, where a small motorboat was tethered to a clump of vegetation. Soaked with sweat, he sidled back to the doorway and risked a glance.

The hollow spaces of the Bleachworks loomed empty. Nothing moved. It now seemed evident they were dealing with a solo gunman, otherwise the bastards would be all over the place, shouting. More to the point, the mystery of how the shooter had got here was also explained. Heck straddled the sill and slid outside, taking a clockwise route along the narrow, muddy footway circling the factory’s exterior. It was extensive, but within a minute he came to a mesh fence on his left, on the other side of which lay an open yard where drums were stacked. On the far side of that, a whole section of external wall had collapsed.

Heck peered through and saw a steel stairway leading up to another high catwalk.

Testing the fence, he found that it was loose along the bottom. He squatted down and slipped underneath, then hurried across the yard to the crevasse in the wall.

Stopping dead at a clanking and clattering of flimsy metal.

Looking up, he spied an ungainly figure approaching along the catwalk. Heck only had seconds but took in as much of his opponent as he could. He was massive of body, but small of head, daylight glimmering on a pair of circular glasses. The guy wasn’t looking in Heck’s direction, but was scanning the spaces below, his pistol aimed downward, ready to shoot at the first sign of movement.

Heck retreated and crouched behind the stack of drums.

He dug his phone out.

Would Lucy bother looking at a text in these circumstances? He wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t risk placing a call. If it rang out, he’d be directing the would-be assassin right onto her. He texted.

Put your phone on silent

Half a second later, to his relief, the response came back.

Done

He made the call but kept it to a whisper. ‘Where are you?’

‘Not sure. Moving through an old suite of offices.’

‘Do they offer proper protection? I mean ceilings as well as walls.’

‘They’re gutted by fire, but for the most part, yeah.’

‘Good. Stay there.’

‘Hey… you don’t need to worry about me.’

‘I mean stay there so I can find you!’

‘Okay, sorry… oh shit!’

‘What?’

Another volley of shots barked out, amplified to thunderous volume by the factory’s acoustics. Heck dashed back to the gap in the wall and saw that the hefty gunman had descended from the staircase and was crossing the ground-floor, firing repeatedly at an internal window, behind which Heck glimpsed the top of Lucy’s head. Shot after shot struck the window-frame, fragments of stone and wood flying.

‘Hey!’ Heck shouted.

The bastard spun and fired. Heck dodged, but a leaden hornet missed his head by millimetres. For half a second, the gunman was indecisive about which target to go for next. Heck bobbed back into view. The gunman fired again. As before, he missed by a hair’s breadth. On the third shot, the gun clicked harmlessly.

Heck leapt through the gap and hit the ground running.

The ungainly figure, who was wearing gloves, a grey hoodie top, black tracksuit pants and white trainers, all giant-size, rummaged in his capacious pockets. Heck had forty yards to cover, but again the bricks and rubble made it difficult. The big man glanced up as he produced another magazine. He was about to snap it into the pistol’s grip when Lucy appeared from the burned-out office and flung a length of pipe. It flickered as it spun, clattering the side of the shooter’s head with an impact that echoed through the factory. He yelped, the magazine dropping. As the pipe twirled away, bent double, the gunman wobbled, blood glittering in his short-cropped hair, his glasses hanging askew. But he still reached down, trying to scoop up the magazine. And Heck hit him full-on.

Heck, a rugby league player in his youth, thought the impact was massive. It certainly sent shudders through the big guy, both pistol and magazine flirting out of his grasp. But he remained standing and responded by smashing a ham-shank forearm into Heck’s face, grabbing his throat with a hand the size of a shovel, and slamming a mallet of a right hook into his ribs. Heck retaliated with a left and a right, but even though his opponent’s head was small, it was hard and heavy as a bowling ball. The glasses flew off in pieces, but there was no impact on their wearer. A second thundering punch crashed into Heck’s torso. Then he was flung to the ground. The big man puffed like an animal. His brutish face, twisted into a myopic squint, was pink and sweaty. He wasn’t healthy, but he was strong as an ox.

Heck tried to back-slide away as the bastard bent down and, with both hands, grabbed up an immense slab of concrete, raising it above his head. He turned to Heck again, all set to smash it down. But now Lucy had arrived, snatching up the pistol and the magazine. In one motion, she snapped the latter into the former and clicked a round into the chamber.

‘Drop it!’ She pointed the weapon with both hands.

The gunman froze, the hunk of concrete raised above his head.

‘Drop it now!’ she said again. ‘Or I’ll kill you.’

He breathed long and slow, still pink, still streaming sweat. For half a second, both Lucy and Heck, who continued to slither backward, thought that he was going to call her bluff. But then he pivoted to the right and cast the concrete down.

It was so heavy that it shattered the stone paving it landed on.

‘You know,’ Lucy said, breathless, ‘I had a sneaking suspicion you were going to turn out to be a disappointment, Benny.’

19

‘Bit of a dumb cluck, aren’t you, Benny?’ Heck said. He wore disposable latex gloves, but that didn’t hinder him working the slide on the pistol. It was stiff, which implied that it hadn’t been well maintained. ‘This is a SIG 226. You realise you had it on double-action instead of single? Harder to get a clean shot away because the trigger’s heavier. This the way you always use it?’

Benny B, sitting with his back to a concrete pillar, his arms bent behind it, wrists clamped in Heck’s handcuffs, said nothing.

‘Let me guess, you’ve got a rep in the business for not being able to hit the side of a fucking barn?’ Heck said, hunkering down. ‘That the case, Ben?’

The gangster spat on the floor. ‘Stop making like we know each other, flatfoot.’

‘How about you stop making like a tough guy. If you were any good at this, me and DC Clayburn would be dead right now.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure you know all about it.’

‘Well, I know about your gun. While you apparently don’t. I know you didn’t have a back-up weapon…’

‘You got lucky, that’s all. Fucking piss-ant.’

Heck levered himself upright by pressing the muzzle into the bloody gash on the side of Benny’s head. The prisoner’s yowl echoed around the Bleachworks.

‘You’re not kidding anyone, Benny,’ Lucy said. ‘There’s an elephant in this room, and for once it isn’t you. We had a deal, which, if I remember, didn’t involve you leaving our two corpses in a ruined building.’

‘Forget the deal, okay? The deal’s off. It was never even on.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says me.’ Benny smirked. ‘And as you can’t do it without me, that’s the end of the fucking matter.’ He stared stubbornly in front of him.

Heck indicated to Lucy that they needed to talk. They walked away.

‘Could this whole thing have been an elaborate hit?’ he asked quietly. ‘The gang boss finally looking to get rid of his awkward daughter?’

‘No,’ Lucy replied. ‘Benny’s an enthusiastic amateur. If Frank wanted to off someone, he’d send a pro.’

They strode back.

‘After everything that’s happened here, Benny,’ Lucy said, ‘you think we’re just going to walk away?’

‘I don’t give a fuck what you do.’

‘You know I’ve staked everything on this?’

‘Your problem, not mine.’

‘That’s a funny way of looking at it,’ Heck said, ‘when you’re the one chained up.’

The prisoner snorted.

‘Look, mate,’ Lucy said, ‘we can’t just walk away. Something’s obviously changed, and we need to know what.’

‘What you don’t know won’t hurt you,’ the prisoner replied. ‘Or me.’

‘Benny,’ Heck said, ‘after the few months I’ve just had, buggering me about is not the best idea.’ He kicked him a good one in the ribs.

Benny cringed with pain and surprise, but kept his mouth clamped shut.

‘All right,’ Lucy cautioned, ‘easy, yeah?’

‘Easy?’ Heck said. ‘I’ve not been dragged two hundred miles to be shot at, punched around and then have this overgrown orangutan act as if it doesn’t matter.’ He rounded on Benny again. ‘I can go at this all day.’ He kicked him a second time, harder. ‘Can you?’

The hoodlum gasped in pain. ‘Look, you stupid twat! They’ve already got their bent cop. Someone came out of nowhere. I didn’t see it coming… I’ve been out of the loop, haven’t I. But apparently he’s well settled. You try to force your way into the Crew now, they’ll go looking for the person who tipped you off. They’ll put their new guy on it. My life won’t be worth living.’

The two cops glanced at each other. Lucy looked dismayed. Heck turned back to the prisoner. ‘You still have to talk to us, Benny. And you have to get me into the Crew whether there’s room or not. And if that means I have to frogmarch you to Frank McCracken’s office and tell him you hired me to whack him, so be it.’

‘What difference would it make?’ For the first time the crim looked beaten. ‘I’m dead either way.’

‘Not if we follow the original plan,’ Heck said. ‘I’ve got informants all over the country. And I don’t drop dimes on them. Frank McCracken will know that if he’s half the gangster he’s supposed to be. I go and ask for a job, they ask where I learned about the vacancy, I say a little bird told me… and that’s the end of it. But you already knew that. Otherwise, you’d never have started this ball rolling. So… what’s the real problem? Why the change of heart?’

Benny stared at nothing. The cogs in his head turned slowly, but they were visibly turning. ‘I thought it through,’ he said, ‘and…’

‘Bollocks!’ Heck interrupted. ‘You thought it through and decided you preferred Wild Bill to the new guy. You knew full well that screwing things up for Frank McCracken could go badly for you, but you got in touch with DC Clayburn anyway. You’re not telling us that you suddenly realised it might be dangerous now.’

‘It’s just… I get confused.’

Heck brandished the sidearm. ‘One thing you shouldn’t be confused about is how many times this 226 has been used to take someone out. Because while it might not have your dabs on it, I just made sure it’s got your DNA. And if it turns up at some police lab somewhere, where there might already be several open-ended ballistics reports connected to it, guess who cops for it.’

Benny gawped. ‘You’re stitching me up?’

‘You just tried to kill us,’ Lucy said. ‘Why wouldn’t we?’

‘But we won’t if we don’t need to,’ Heck added. ‘You get us into Frank McCracken’s inner sanctum, and you can even have this weapon back.’

Lucy glanced at him, surprised.

‘But first,’ Heck said, ‘I want to know why you’ve got cold feet.’

‘Look…’ Benny seemed distraught. ‘Look, the word is something bad’s going down. Some real rough, nasty thing. I don’t know what it is, before you ask.’ He glanced at Lucy. ‘It’s the same thing I enticed you with. It’s pretty hush-hush and a real money-spinner. But it’s supposed to be bad stuff. Really bad.’

‘Something to do with Hobhall Tunnel?’ Lucy asked.

Benny snickered. ‘I hope you’re joking. That’s small potatoes. I mean apart from the fuckheads responsible not paying the Crew their cut. Not yet anyway, or so the word on the street has it. That’d be a bad policy for anyone. But this other thing, this is miles fucking worse.’

That was quite a statement, Heck thought, even for an underworld guy. That whatever this bad thing was, it was miles worse than seven homicides. ‘Tell us about it,’ he said.

Benny struggled with his cuffs. ‘I can’t even if I wanted to. All I know is that even some of our lot are worried. They said, “Benny… get the fuck out, lad. You don’t want a piece of this fucking cake. It’ll poison your fucking soul. Be with you for the rest of your life…” And that’s good enough for me. Our lot don’t say stuff like that for nothing.’

‘By “our lot”, you mean other members of the Crew’s security operation?’ Lucy asked.

‘Ex-members,’ he replied. ‘Like me. None of this is official. It’s just stuff they’ve overheard. Doesn’t matter, though. I’m still out. Totally. No payback, no shitting on people because they shat on me. I’m just out.’

Heck chuckled. ‘Shooting coppers is your idea of getting out of crime?’

‘I had to close some doors behind me.’

‘Perhaps you are as dumb as you look.’

‘That’s me,’ Benny scowled. ‘I’m stupid, fucking clueless.’

‘Whatever, you’re still getting me into Frank McCracken’s office.’

‘I said I’m walking away…’

‘You’re walking nowhere. Except to jail.’ Heck showed him the gun again.

Benny looked bewildered. ‘If they’ve already got their crooked cop, what’s the point?’

‘Leave me to worry about that,’ Heck said. ‘What was the plan? You must have had one.’

The prisoner glanced from one to the other, perhaps wondering how much leeway he had, if any. ‘After that you let me walk?’ he asked.

‘Maybe,’ Lucy replied. ‘If it works out.’

‘And you don’t fit me up with that piece?’

‘Again, maybe. Now what’s the plan… and stop pissing us around?’

‘It’s going to involve you letting me go,’ he said. ‘Now. I hook up with you again later on.’

She snorted. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘So long as you’ve got the SIG, I’m trapped, aren’t I?’

‘Where you going to, Benny?’

‘Gotta make some arrangements.’

Heck assessed him. For once, the big guy’s body language wasn’t evasive. He met their suspicious stares without flinching.

‘When do we hook up with you?’ Heck asked.

‘Tonight, nine o’clock.’

‘Where?’

‘Town centre. Pick me up at the corner of Crossland Road and Rimmer Avenue.’

He watched them intently. They glanced at each other again. It went against all gut instinct to let the bastard walk, but they had him over a barrel to a certain extent.

Heck handed the pistol to Lucy. She kept it trained on the prisoner while he squatted behind the pillar and unfastened the cuffs. Benny B might be a globular monstrosity to look at, but he’d also proved that he had formidable strength.

The crim groaned as he got back to his feet, rubbing the welts on his fat wrists.

‘You understand we’re not playing games here?’ Heck told him. ‘You don’t show, the message goes out that you tried to kill DC Clayburn here. Your face will be everywhere, and the gun, with your DNA on it, will be bagged and tagged in an evidence locker, just waiting for them to bring you in. And when you’re remanded into custody, which you will be – you know you will be – someone’s going to let it out that you weren’t just looking to grass up the Crew, but that you were offering to assist an undercover operation against them…’

‘I said I’ll be there!’ Benny butted in.

If nothing else at least, that last threat had turned him pale.

20

‘You seriously planning to give Benny his illegal firearm back?’ Lucy asked, as she drove.

Heck patted his hoodie’s pouch, where the SIG was safely stored. ‘Unless you object.’

‘The same gun he tried to kill us both with?’

‘We should keep our options open… depending what we get a sniff of. If he can get us through the door, we don’t need to hang onto that weapon… and trust has to be a two-way thing.’

‘Trust? With these people?’

Heck considered. ‘In my experience, these people will eat each other all day. And that can be very useful to the likes of us. If we can get some of them onside. And that doesn’t come easy. Sometimes it requires sacrifice.’

Lucy frowned as she pulled up around the corner from Taylor Street. ‘They told me you like to play fast and loose with the rules. I never knew how much. But I’ll be honest…’ she looked around at him. ‘For a minute back there, I thought you were going to kick the shit out of our friend, Benny.’

Heck undid his seatbelt. ‘That’s half the battle. If you let them think you’re a lunatic, you don’t actually need to be one.’

‘It was all show? If Benny hadn’t started talking, you wouldn’t have kept laying into him?’

Heck opened the door and climbed out.

‘Heck?’ she called after him. ‘I need to know who I’m working with?’

‘Bit late for that,’ he said.

*

He let himself in through the front door. The terraced house was quiet, so he went upstairs. He was filthy of course: hands, face, clothing. So when he saw the bathroom door standing ajar, he went in to wash up.

The heat and mugginess struck him straight away, but he was already inside.

Cyndi White sat naked in the bubble-filled bath, her back to him, her blonde hair streaked fetchingly over her smooth, tanned shoulders.

‘Damn lock!’ She didn’t look at him. ‘Been meaning to get it fixed. Sorry, Mr Heckenburg’.

‘Mark,’ he said, loitering.

‘Sorry, Mark. Won’t be a minute… unless you want to stay and scrub my back?’

Heck was just retreating. He halted.

He felt heat in his skin. It was so long since he’d been with a woman that he’d bypassed the point where love or even emotional connection was a requirement. It was nothing more now than a stark, physical need. But he’d learned harsh lessons over the years: about how, just because it felt that way to him, it wasn’t necessarily the same with others.

He went back in anyway.

Cyndi, or Cyn, as she preferred to be called, now lay flat in the tub, her fulsome breasts bobbing on the soapy surface, the curve of her hips and dark hair of her pubic triangle clearly visible. The shamelessness of the manner in which she left herself on display only added to the allure.

‘Cyndi,’ he said, ‘you don’t know anything about me.’

‘So? You don’t know anything about me.’

He glanced at the plump, red-fingernailed hand draped over the side of the bath. ‘I can tell from that white band around your ring finger that you once were married.’

‘That’s long past. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Got the house out of it, mind. Not a bad reward for black eyes and loose teeth. Besides, you’ve no mark on your finger.’

‘I’ve never been married,’ Heck replied.

‘I guessed that. But who’s Gemma?’

‘Excuse me?’

She adjusted position, breasts bobbing again. ‘You had a nightmare last night. I wasn’t eavesdropping but the walls in this place are like paper.’

‘She’s… forget it, it doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Neither would this.’

He wanted to say that he agreed, but he didn’t. He wasn’t just some passing bit of rough. If things went wrong up here, it was anyone’s guess who might get caught in the fallout.

‘I’m sorry, Cyndi. It’s not a good idea. And I mean that for your sake.’

She said nothing. He turned to leave.

‘Mark.’ He glanced back; she still wasn’t facing him. ‘I’m not a slut. But… I get lonely.’

‘Me too,’ he said.

‘So, you know where I am. Breakfast’s at eight, by the way.’ The abrupt change of direction threw him. ‘You’re paying for it. You might as well eat it.’

*

‘Looking smart,’ Gwen Straker said via Zoom.

Heck had just finished knotting his tie and was in the process of straightening the lapels of his suit jacket. Somehow it had survived the journey north in his grab-bag without creasing. He had no idea what lay ahead of him that evening, but for once it felt like a plan not to resemble one of the hoi polloi.

‘Thanking you, ma’am.’

‘You’re not going clubbing on our dollar, I hope?’

‘Nope. Just calling to let you know that wheels are turning, and that I’ll be logging my first full report tonight.’

‘Any reason why you’re speaking so quietly?’

‘These walls are… erm, like paper.’

She considered. By the looks of the dim light and file-packed shelves behind her, she was in the stationary cupboard that passed for the office at her home in Greenwich. ‘You made contact with Clayburn yet?’

‘I made contact last night, but things have moved on since then. Earlier today, I met the guy who’s going to open the door into the Crew. Manc gangster called Benny Bartholomew, also known as Benny B.’

‘That’s fast work.’

‘I’m meeting him again later. Any updates at your end?’

‘Well… this Hobhall Tunnel incident looks like it’s going to muddy the waters. According to GMP contacts, three-hundred grand was lifted, along with three hundred grand’s worth of nose candy. That’s a sizeable chunk. The Crew are wanting their cut, and if they don’t get it, they’ll be going to war.’

‘Anything about the perps?’ Heck asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Couldn’t have been the Crew themselves? Eliminating some competition?’

‘If it was, the competition won’t like it, so that could be another reason for war.’

‘Is there anyone up here big enough to take the Crew on?’

‘On paper no, but who can say? Either way, GMP are gearing up. Organised Crime Division are on their way up there too.’

‘Shit,’ he said, louder than he’d intended.

As a former member of Greater Manchester Police, there’d always been a chance that some officer somewhere around town would recognise Heck and ask questions. But he’d transferred from GMP eighteen years ago, so the risk of that was negligible. Much more recently, he’d been in the National Crime Group, which, as well as the Serial Crimes Unit, also incorporated the Organised Crime Division. And in Heck’s mind, at least, that was one department that wasn’t watertight when it came to intel.

‘All I need,’ he muttered. ‘If one of that lot clocks me… I mean, I know I’m here as Mark Heckenburg, solid cop who went to the bad. Superficially it’s all legit. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be here. But Organised Crime… I dunno. Some of that lot would make trouble for me over nothing if they got the chance.’

‘The Crew will be gearing up too,’ Gwen said. ‘If hostilities are declared between them and some other outfit, they’ll be doubly suspicious of any strangers trying to elbow their way in. You’re going to have to play this carefully, Mark.’

‘You’re not thinking of pulling me out?’

She gave him a long stare. ‘You really want this?’

‘I want what comes after. Normality again.’

‘You’ll deserve more than normality.’

‘Not just for me, remember? For Gemma too.’

She nodded. ‘I remember. So long as you remember that I’m no miracle worker.’

‘Someone had better be. Bye for now, ma’am.’

21

‘Very swish,’ Lucy said, as Heck climbed into the Micra’s back seat.

‘Thought a shell-suit and bling might be a bit on the nose,’ he replied.

She set off driving. ‘Listen, are we sure this is a good idea?’

Neither of them knew exactly what Benny B’s plan was. Primarily, because when they’d dropped him off in Crowley earlier that afternoon, he still hadn’t formulated it, though he’d said he was close.

‘Whether it is or not, it’s happening now,’ Heck said.

‘I’ll stay as nearby as I can.’ Lucy glanced at the clock. It wasn’t long before nine. ‘But I’ll be on duty again in one hour, so I won’t be available all the time.’

‘Like we’ve said all along, too much back-up would look suspicious.’

She nodded and drove towards the town centre.

‘What’s he like?’ Heck asked.

‘Who?’

‘Frank McCracken. I could be face-to-face with him in fifteen minutes.’

‘Smoothie. When he wants to be. Charming rogue, you know. But you don’t get to be Chairman of the Crew unless you’re ready to crack heads on an epic scale. You realise he’s suspected of a number of murders?’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘If it suits him, he won’t think twice.’ She pondered. ‘But he’s not a maniac. He likes an orderly ship.’

‘That’s what this hiring his own cop to investigate crimes in-house is all about?’

‘Well, that and strict control. Frank’s not happy unless he’s in charge of everything. I mean, he doesn’t micromanage, but he likes to know what’s going on in every corner of his empire. He was always going to take Bill Pentecost down. Not just for personal gain, but because Wild Bill was too unstable. The Crew first came together to resist incursions by foreign syndicates. Pick any you want. The Russians, the Albanians… the Crew are the equal of them all. But only as long as they stand together. Under Bill that brotherhood was crumbling. But not so much now, I suspect.’

Heck mused. ‘So, does he rule by loyalty or fear?’

‘The usual… both. Don’t underestimate him, though. If you meet him tonight, he’ll likely be all things to all men. But remember, underneath that pleasing façade there’s a sociopath just aching to rip you a new one.’

As Lucy pulled up at the designated meet-point, Benny B, now in a new pair of specs and wearing a smart suit himself, even if it had used up more material than the sails of a Spanish galleon, emerged from the recessed doorway at the back of a working men’s club. It was turning dark, and he checked left and right before lumbering across the road towards them.

Heck watched him with mixed feelings.

Firstly, he was relieved that Benny had even shown. The murderous buffoon had tried to shoot them, after all. It was Benny’s fear of Crew retribution should Heck send him to jail that was keeping him onside at present, but any man who expended bullets the way Benny had down at the Bleachworks had to be a little dodgy. Secondly, he was nervous because Benny was here. However he planned to introduce Heck to the most dangerous crime syndicate in the north of England, it would be happening very soon.

Benny climbed into the back seat, the entire car creaking sideways. Lucy pulled away from the kerb, while Heck patted the newcomer down.

‘What’re you looking for?’ Benny asked.

‘What d’you think?’ Heck said. ‘You didn’t have a back-up weapon earlier. Nothing to say you haven’t got one now.’ Satisfied the guy was unarmed, he moved to his own end of the seat but stuck a hand meaningfully into his own jacket pocket. ‘And just in case you’re thinking of directing us into an ambush, you presumably know what this is?’

‘Hardly likely to broadcast that I’ve been making deals with coppers, am I?’

‘Because if something bad happens,’ Heck said, ‘and we don’t walk out of this, I can guarantee that you won’t either.’

‘Told you, I’m done with the Crew. Soon as they’re gone, I’ll be happy as Larry.’

Heck felt like asking how Benny B thought this was going to play out. If they were successful – or perhaps very successful – the Crew would collapse from within. Break up into its various constituent parts, which no doubt would all start fighting again, and become much easier meat for law enforcement. But evidently Benny didn’t see it that way. He perhaps thought that taking Frank McCracken out would clear room at the top for him. Would be an effortless transition, with minimal problems. Heck didn’t say anything though. Why spoil the big lunk’s ridiculous delusions if they kept him on board?

‘So, where am I going?’ Lucy asked.

‘Sycamore Road,’ Benny replied.

‘Okay… well, that’s a complete non-event of a location.’

‘You should know by now, Miss Clayburn. It’s the quiet places where bad stuff goes on.’

‘How we going to make this thing happen, Benny?’ Heck wondered.

‘Well…’ Benny mulled it over, ‘this job you want. Crew Cop. You can’t just interview like it’s a normal job. But you’ll have to impress someone.’

Lucy watched him through the rearview mirror. ‘And we do that at Sycamore Road?’

Heck didn’t know where Sycamore Road was, but from her tone he judged that it wasn’t the heart of gangland. ‘Let me guess, I have to impress Mr McCracken?’

Benny snorted with piglike laughter. ‘Give over! McCracken? The cop job was Frank’s idea, but he never puts his own hands on anything. Not now he’s top dog. Nah, you’re going to have to impress that bitch.’

‘Humour us, Benny?’ Heck said. ‘Which bitch are we talking about?’

‘That cold, evil bitch. The one they replaced me with.’

‘You mean Zara Ballantyne?’ Lucy said.

‘Zara…?’ Heck said.

‘New Head of Security after they kicked me out,’ Benny added. ‘Fucking bitch, I’ll tell you.’

Heck was intrigued. ‘The Head of Crew Security is a woman?’

‘No ordinary woman,’ Lucy replied. ‘Prozzie in her early teens. By the time she was twenty, she was managing her own cathouses, card schools, drug dens. Natural talent, I suppose you’d say…’

‘Sucked the right cocks, that’s all!’ Benny cut in.

‘GMP Serious reckon she’s carried out several hits personally,’ Lucy added.

‘Made her bones the old-fashioned way, eh?’ Heck said.

‘Her street name’s “Satana”,’ Lucy said. ‘And not for nothing.’

‘She sucked cocks!’ Benny insisted.

He’d reddened at the mere mention of Zara Ballantyne. It seemed safe to assume there weren’t going to be any hidden catches here. The guy was helping them because they had him in a bind, but he also wanted revenge, and Heck was going to be his weapon.

‘Now she’s running the whole security squad,’ Benny said, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. ‘She got rid of nearly all my lads. Brought her own people in. I made her an offer about two months ago. We were all pissed up at a do, and I said: “Tell you what. We’ll find a quiet car park somewhere. You bring ten of your best lads and I’ll bring ten of mine, and we’ll see who’s standing at the end”.’

‘And let me guess,’ Heck replied, ‘they didn’t show up?’

‘Nah, they did. But they had Saul fucking Baylock with them.’

‘They would,’ Lucy said. ‘He’s Zara’s main enforcer.’

Heck was still listening. ‘Saul Baylock sounds like someone I should know.’

‘Saul the Maul,’ Lucy explained. ‘He’s just about the most dangerous hoodlum in Manchester, after Frank McCracken himself.’

‘Out-and-out fucking madman,’ Benny grunted. ‘Anyway, it’s him you’re going to have to impress. Him and her.’

‘And how are we going to do that?’ Heck asked.

‘Not so much how as where. And the answer to that…’ Benny pointed, ‘is there.’

Heck saw a nondescript pub passing by on the right. Its sign depicted a goat’s head with a paper crown tangled around its horns.

‘The King Billy?’ he said, nonplussed.

‘Better boozer than it looks.’

Lucy slowed down and parked. She too looked bemused.

Heck glanced further around. Sycamore Road was your archetypical average street. Part of a residential inner suburb. Not exactly a ghetto, but a long way from being affluent. The houses were semis, but the front gardens were small, the cars on the drives nothing special. Beyond the pub, he saw open ground, and on the far side of that, a row of scruffy garages.

Lucy looked at The King Billy again. ‘This your local?’

‘I’m an Iron Pig man, myself,’ Benny replied. ‘But this is one of a dozen pubs in East Crowley that the Crew protect. Don’t let that bother you. Go in, have a drink. Make yourself comfy. In an hour, I’m sending a pair of drunken reprobates to cause an uproar.’

Heck and Lucy glanced at their passenger.

‘Define uproar,’ Lucy said.

‘Smash the place up, hit people.’

‘Shit!’

‘Exactly,’ he grinned. ‘But they won’t call the cops, they’ll call their contact in the Crew.’ He glanced at Heck. ‘Thing is, if you can flex your muscles before the Crew need to, they’ll like that. And they’ll probably like you.’ Benny sat back. ‘Best opening I can give you.’

Lucy looked shaken. ‘Your nutters know Heck’s going to be in there, though?’

‘Obviously not. You want it to look real, don’t you?’

‘Benny,’ she said, ‘you’re an absolute dickhead!’

‘You think there’s a form he can fill in instead? Think there’s an office where he can drop his CV off?’

‘You total pillock! You said…’

‘A pair of reprobates?’ Heck interrupted.

‘Can you handle that?’ Benny asked.

‘Should be able to. So long as they’re drunk and I’m sober.’

‘Heck, come on!’ Lucy protested.

‘If it’s not the only way in, it’s a good way.’ He glanced at Benny again. ‘Tell them to make it bad.’

Benny looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Think about it. I’m not a gangster… I’m an undercover police officer.’

‘But no one in The King Billy will know that.’

‘Doesn’t matter. I’m bound by the same rules. I can only use such force as is deemed necessary. So, get these lads of yours to put on a real show. Make it so no one will question a violent response.’

‘If that’s what you want.’

‘And what if someone does call the police?’ Lucy said. ‘One of the other punters?’

‘I’d be fucking amazed if that happened,’ Benny countered. ‘But it’s a chance you’ll have to take. I’ve done my bit.’

Heck mused. ‘A sacked copper gets arrested for brawling in a bar. Would anyone think it weird?’

‘Not me,’ Benny snickered. ‘I’d piss my sides, though.’

Lucy looked unimpressed. When Heck got out of the car, she got out with him.

‘I don’t like this,’ she said. ‘What if these two lads are serious opposition?’

Heck straightened his suit. ‘The more bloodied up I get, the better it looks.’

‘Yeah, if they don’t kill you.’

‘Let’s not be too pessimistic, eh?’

‘I’m glad you’re carrying, even if it’s an illegal weapon.’

‘Carrying? That shooter’s back in my room.’ He pointed his index finger and middle finger. ‘The only thing I had in that pocket were these perfectly formed digits here.’

‘For God’s sake, Heck!’

‘You want me to take a gun in there? What would happen if it went off? That’s just the kind of bad PR your dad likes to steer clear of, isn’t it? Never mind the fact I’m job.’

She could hardly argue with that, and he set off along the pavement.

‘Look, I sign on in one hour’s time.’ She hurried to catch up. ‘I’ll try to work it so I’m in this neighbourhood. That way I can keep my eye on the place. If it gets too tasty I can…’

‘What?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘I can do what coppers do when there’s trouble and strife.’

‘Call for support units? Start locking up? You’ll have to take me, and that’ll be fine at first… except that already you and me will be getting mentioned in the same breath.’ He stopped at the corner of the pub. ‘It’s better if there’s no contact between us at all.’

Lucy glanced at the nearest window, the lower half of which was frosted in the old-fashioned style. In the bright light she looked pale and worried.

‘Look, Lucy… you started this thing.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Just… what if it gets out of hand?’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve done this before.’

But as he went inside, he couldn’t pretend that, under the smart suit and air of swaggering blue-collar confidence he’d always been so good at portraying when working the streets, pubs and dives where scumbags hung out, his own legs weren’t shaking just a little.

22

If nothing else, Lucy Clayburn had seemed genuinely concerned about his safety. Given that she’d once got a colleague shot, that might have become pathological with her, though it still made a refreshing change in Heck’s experience. Aside from that, she’d shown herself so far to be competent and serious-minded, and lacking any of that politically correct primness that so irritated him in coppers younger than he was (yes, he’d admit he was a dinosaur, but he’d also point to his arrest record).

Not that this evening was going to be anything like as simple as making arrests.

The interior of the pub was standard: polished tables, plush chairs, low-key lighting, the walls adorned with the usual framed but ageing sports photos. It was quiet for a Saturday night, a young, well-dressed couple seated just right of the main entrance, an elderly man in a well-worn suit perched on one of the bar stools. This was the suburbs of course, and maybe more customers were expected later. The landlord and his wife, a mid-forties black couple, also looking their best – he in a shirt and tie, she in a tight dress that showed her figure off – waited behind the bar.

‘Not be a sec, folks,’ Heck told them as he took a door left of the glasses-collection point. ‘Quick visit.’

He didn’t need to pee, but it was important to view the lay of the land.

Beyond the door, there was a short corridor connecting on the right with a pool room, the two tables in there standing empty, and on the left with the lavatories. Dead ahead, a back door stood open on a small parking area. Everything was much as he’d expected. Before going back into the main snug, he took a cue ball from one of the pool tables and stowed it in his jacket pocket. He’d wasted no words telling Lucy what a bad idea he thought it was to bring a firearm into this situation, but that didn’t mean he’d be completely unarmed.

Back at the bar, not wanting anything as weighty as a pint of beer sloshing in his gut, he ordered a double malt with ice, then found himself a table and chair in a far corner. Benny B had said that his hoodlums would arrive in approximately one hour’s time. And that had already been quarter of an hour ago. Heck glanced at the clock on the pub wall. It read 9.15. So, he could expect them around ten.

It was surreal, in truth. There were all kinds of statutory obligations governing the activities of a CHIS, aka an undercover cop, and a whole list of things you weren’t supposed to do. You were prohibited, for example, from using your undercover status to encourage an offender to commit any crime that he wasn’t already planning. Likewise, you couldn’t create any kind of entrapment scenario, while actual evidence for prosecution could only be gathered within the strictures of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. Yet none of those regulations seemed practical when you were out there doing it. With regard to the first one, they were already in a grey area thanks to this proposed pub invasion.

Contrary to the way the media portrayed it, law officers did not go undercover willy-nilly. Firstly, special training was required; Heck had passed the course earlier in his career, but much time had elapsed since then and he was almost certainly rusty; only the current unique circumstances made him the man for this job. Secondly, the deployment of covert human intelligence sources happened for a variety of reasons, but mainly for the prevention and/or detection of crime, and usually when there was no alternative.

He glanced at the clock. 9.19.

He raised his glass to his lips… but almost dropped it when the entrance door banged open. Two men came in, talking and laughing. They were rugged looking sorts, both carrying jackets but wearing short-sleeved shirts, and showing brawny arms covered in tattoos. Heck relaxed as they sauntered across the interior, loudly greeting the landlord, who responded in kind.

But he only relaxed a little.

What if these two guys were Crew? They could be; this was a Crew-protected establishment. If they were, and then Benny’s yobs came in and started causing trouble, these two might resolve it without needing any help from Heck. Another consideration was that they might know Heck. His photo had been in the press recently, and he wasn’t here under disguise or even pretending to be someone else. If they spotted him and reported back or, even worse, gave him some hassle, forcing him to defend himself against the wrong people – that would throw everything out of synch. Another ugly possibility was that, even if these new guys were not Crew, were just ordinary customers, what was to say they wouldn’t turf the hooligans out anyway?

Heck remained at his table.

The clock on the wall read 9.24.

Interference by members of the public was one thing he hadn’t thought about, and that irritated him because it wouldn’t have been the first time. Back during his uniform days, a few miles from here in Salford, he recalled an armed robbery at a street-corner Post Office, and an entire Open Age rugby team pouring out of the pub opposite to intercept (and beat the living crap out of) the two robbers before the police had even arrived. Then there’d been the martial artist milkman, who’d chased down two burglars he’d seen running from a crime in the early hours, pursuing and overhauling them and then showing them some of his best kick-bag techniques.

Occasionally, the general public did intervene, and sometimes they were up to the job.

He glanced across the room at the young couple. They were evidently in that first flush, deeply engrossed in each other. Maybe having guys here to assist wouldn’t be such a bad thing. There was no guarantee he’d be able to protect these innocents on his own. He ran a hand through his uncharacteristically neat hair.

The door banged open again.

But it was a third member of the party who’d already arrived, older than the other two, balding and tubby, yet he crossed the pub with gales of laughter, pointing at the landlord, who pointed back, shouting.

The clock read 9.30.

The first two men were nursing pints that were still three-quarters full, while the new arrival’s hadn’t yet touched his lips.

Heck wondered if he should ring Lucy, asking her to call this damn thing off. If all three of these fellas piled in on the yobs, he wasn’t going to get a look in. His hand stole to his pocket, caressing his phone, but he hesitated. The real problem was, what else could he do? How did you break into a firm like the Crew? He withdrew his hand. According to the clock on the wall, there was still twenty-five minutes to go. A lot could happen in that time.

One of the first two lumbered off through the door connecting with the rear. Heck hoped he wasn’t looking to set up a game of pool. That was all they needed now: if the missing cue ball was detected, and the landlord started looking for it.

The seconds ticked by as Heck waited for him to return. His eyes flickered to the clock several times: 9.40, 9.44, 9.48.

It seemed unlikely that Benny’s boys would be here precisely on ten. They could be late, or they could be early. Heck sipped more malt and wondered what Benny had told these two lunatics about The King Billy. They didn’t know they were doing the cops a solid, and they evidently didn’t realise this was a Crew pub, otherwise they wouldn’t come near. Most likely Benny had told them the landlord owed him money or had been disrespectful in some way.

The guy who’d left the snug came back but thankfully was in the process of zipping up his flies; he hadn’t visited the pool room.

The clock read: 9.53.

If the margin of error existed, they were well into it.

There was an increase in volume at the bar. The two guys who’d arrived first were drinking up. Though it had been nice to think he might have some assistance in the forthcoming fight, Heck decided their departure was for the best.

Bellowing their farewells, the twosome grabbed their jackets and swaggered out, the door swinging closed. Heck glanced at the clock: 10.00.

He straightened in his chair, fingers galloping on the tabletop.

He wasn’t unused to violence. He’d grown up in Bradburn, a Lancashire coal-mining town where fists spoke louder than words. He’d played rugby league to Colts level. As a cop, he’d worked the toughest beats in both Manchester and London. No one with a background like that couldn’t mix it if they had to, but that didn’t mean you enjoyed it.

At the bar, the third character who’d arrived, the rotund one with the balding pate, was also drinking up. He didn’t look as if he’d be especially handy, but it was unnerving to realise that, once this one had left, only Heck and the nice people would remain.

And then the front door to The King Billy exploded inward…

23

At first glance, they were the sort of walking nightmares that anyone in any pub anywhere would have flinched to see come through the door.

The one on the right was in his late thirties, about six-two and burly, with a red beard and moustache, close-cropped red hair and a crucifix tattooed in the middle of his forehead. He wore work-boots, military-style tactical trousers with pockets down the sides, a vest and an open-fronted, lumberjack-style plaid jacket. The one on the left was younger, in his late twenties, about the same height but leaner. He wore black jeans, black cowboy boots with tapered toecaps (bang-on for kicking someone in the teeth, Heck thought), a tasselled black leather jacket over a T-shirt imprinted with Elvis’s head, and a greasy blond mop with a huge quiff at the front. He was clean-shaven, even handsome, but there was raw cruelty in his smile.

Heck held his seat but moved his phone to an inside pocket. He couldn’t intervene until damage had been done.

The duo didn’t disappoint.

Their first victims were the young couple, who only woke to the apparent threat when Lumberjack scooped the girl’s glass of Prosecco from the table-top and downed it in one. ‘Ta, love,’ he said, belching. ‘I’ll shag you later.’

Elvis meanwhile was already halfway across the pub, face to face with the third of the earlier drinkers, who was now on his way out. ‘Where you going, fat chops?’ he laughed.

Before the customer could respond, Elvis swung a left hook into his jaw. The guy went down in a heap, but that didn’t stop Elvis landing a right foot, pointy toecap first, into his unprotected groin. Behind the bar, the landlord had already shouted a semi-incoherent warning and now pulled a phone out.

‘Drop that, or we’ll level this fucking place!’ Lumberjack bellowed.

He grabbed up a chair and hurled it, so that both the landlord and his wife were forced to duck, the shelves of glassware behind them collapsing in a deluge. The old man at the bar stumbled from his stool, hobbling quickly towards the rear door. A second chair was flung after him but missed. Roars of scornful laughter chased him out back.

‘Drinks on the house, you sexy bitch!’ Lumberjack shouted at the landlady, waggling his right arm so that a steel rod, about twelve inches in length, shook from his sleeve. As he crossed the pub, he swept out with it, smashing one framed picture on the wall after another.

Heck had spent the last hour preparing himself but had still been surprised by the whirlwind of destruction. However, he was now on his feet. The customer who’d been felled lay groaning, one hand clapped to a mouth flowing with blood. He needed medical attention quickly, but first the threat had to be contained.

Heck stepped over him, encroaching on the intruders, both now at the bar.

‘Yo!’ he shouted.

It was always a scary moment, even when you’d done it a hundred times. But the only way when confronting criminal violence was to meet it head-on, your eyes focussed on your opponent’s, not taking a backward step. It was amazing how many of them bottled it at that moment. But these two didn’t. They looked amused as they turned to face him, as if hoping someone would have made the mistake of opposing them.

Heck chose Lumberjack first, throwing the cue ball into his kisser from point-blank range. The yob’s head jerked back with the impact, the steel rod flirting from his grasp as his knees buckled. Elvis looked stunned. Then, he snatched a bottle from the bar, smashed it and lunged.

Heck had time to dodge, but two more savage swipes of the gleaming shard put him on the backfoot. He grabbed a chair as a shield. When the bottle came again, he deflected it and threw a right, lamping the side of Elvis’s head, sending him tottering.

Behind the bar, the landlord was talking animatedly on his phone, only for Lumberjack to rise up in front of him like some brutal, bloodstained monster, snatch the device and fling it away. He grabbed the landlord’s collar and tie, intent on yanking him downward, smacking his face on the glass-covered bar-top, but the landlord was strong enough to pull free. Lumberjack, who now lacked teeth in the front of his mouth and was spewing a crimson stream, looked dazedly around.

Elvis had lost his weapon but was still proving adept. One vicious kick sent the chair spinning away, while a second caught Heck’s left knee. A low hard punch slammed into Heck’s tender left side, where only that morning Benny B had landed a boot of his own. Heck’s response was two left jabs to fend the bastard off, and then a right uppercut, which connected sweetly with his jaw.

Elvis grabbed at another chair and swung it. Heck blocked it with his body, before ramming his head into the guy’s face, knocking him sideways into the fruit machine. Elvis clung onto it to keep his balance but was bleeding now from the lip and left eyebrow. For half a second, he looked groggy, and that was all it should have taken. Heck could have picked his spot, if a swiping blow from behind hadn’t smacked him full in the face, courtesy of Lumberjack. It cracked him right on the nose, filling his eyes with tears and dropping him onto his back. He remained conscious and was able to roll away to avoid the steel-segged sole of an enormous work-boot as it jackhammered down.

The red-headed psycho came after him, or would have, had the young guy whose girlfriend he’d insulted not jumped onto him. It bought Heck the seconds he needed, though he wished it hadn’t, Lumberjack driving an elbow back, knocking the wind from the kid, then turning and slamming him with a massive belly-punch. The kid grunted. His girlfriend screamed. Heck was back on his feet, but not before the errant cue ball rolled across the floor in front of him. He grabbed it up and spun around. Lumberjack was backpedalling the kid across the room, hitting him head and body. The girl screamed again. But Elvis was closer, levering himself away from the fruit machine. Heck went for him first, and this time when he hit him, it was with the cue ball. He avoided the guy’s temple, going instead for the cheekbone, which caved like cardboard.

When Elvis went down this time, he was out.

Heck advanced after the other. ‘Hey, bonehead!’

Lumberjack looked around, a hideous, gory hole where his choppers had once been. He released the kid, who flopped onto a table.

‘Get him out of here, love,’ Heck called to the girl. ‘Quickly.’

Lumberjack came in with a sweeping overarm punch. Heck ducked, clouting the bastard’s shoulder-blade with the cue ball. Lumberjack gave a strangled cry but steadied himself by gripping a table-top with both hands. He wheeled around again and, even though the table was wrought iron underneath, raised it two-handed and threw it. Heck ducked as it destroyed several other bits of furniture. Next, Lumberjack grabbed a chair, twirling it around his head. The landlord had now circled out from behind the counter, though he looked reluctant to get involved. At least it distracted Lumberjack, who broke away from Heck, throwing the chair towards the bar. The landlord managed to catch it. Behind him, his wife was on her own phone, jabbering.

‘What’s up?’ Heck said. ‘Thought all you’d have to do was show up?’

Lumberjack made a grab, and Heck unleashed the cue ball. It clattered the bastard’s nose, bursting it like ripe fruit. Heck followed with a knee to the groin, a hard left to the jaw, and the brute was staggering. He made a last flailing grasp as he doubled over, but Heck slapped the hand away and karate chopped the back of his neck. The hoodlum landed face-first and lay motionless.

Heck stepped back, shoulders heaving. He glanced at the other lout, but he too lay cold.

‘Here, please…’ a querulous voice said.

Heck saw the landlady approaching, offering him a wad of paper towels. Only then did he realise that his own nose was trickling blood. He took the towels and dabbed at his face. His nose smarted but otherwise felt intact.

He pointed at the plump guy the intruders had first decked. The landlady hurried over, crouching down to assist.

‘Thanks for your help, mister,’ the landlord said, also approaching. ‘But… look, I don’t want to seem rude, you’ve got to get out.’

Heck pretended to be more fuddled than he was. ‘Gimme a sec, yeah?’

‘Why’d you do that?’ The landlord looked bewildered.

‘Looked like you needed help.’

The landlord seemed torn, perhaps wondering if attempting to shoo this courageous stranger out would be outrageous ingratitude even by twenty-first century standards.

‘Can I just sit?’ Heck pulled up a chair.

The landlord looked uneasy but nodded. ‘Sure.’

Somewhere outside, what sounded like a couple of sets of tyres scrunched off the road onto the open space at the side of the pub, and then into the parking area at the back. The landlord cast another uncomfortable glance at Heck, before heading to the bar.

Heck blotted his nose and mouth with towels.

The other casualty was allowing himself to be half-ushered and half-carried to the front door by the landlady, who steered him through it with a gentle hand and closed it behind him. She turned a key in the lock, before hurrying over and engaging her other half in a frantic conversation. Heck hung his head, feigning grogginess.

‘For the best,’ her husband replied in a hushed voice. ‘They’ll want to know who did it. They won’t believe it’s me.’

Maybe a dozen heavy feet sounded from the rear corridor, and one by one, a bunch of men came in from the door by the glasses-collection area.

Heck straightened where he sat.

All wore suits, though they also looked rumpled, collars open, ties loose. They were different races and every shape and size, but all boasted thick jaws, neck tats and brutal faces. The one who came in at the front was the most notable. He was white and stood to about 6ft3, with a strong build. He wore his suit better than the others, but was shaven-headed and sunken-eyed, a combo that was almost ghoulish. Add to that the single old razor scar, an ugly fleshy stripe that diagonally bisected his features, knocking them out of kilter from each other, and you had a figure from Frankenstein’s laboratory. Heck remembered hearing about Saul ‘the Maul’ Baylock, and Benny B’s assertion that he was an ‘out-and-out fucking madman’.

The newcomers surveyed the wreckage as the landlord scampered forward to speak to them. This time Heck wasn’t able to earwig, but clearly he himself was the subject of conversation, as Baylock – he wasn’t sure this was the guy, but it felt likely – threw a couple of glances in his direction, then came over, reaching under his jacket.

Heck jumped up. But relaxed again when the big guy produced a wallet. The two figures on the floor were moving and groaning, but the guy ignored them, counting out a chunk of tens and twenties.

‘Whoever you are,’ he said, ‘the management of this establishment appreciate your assistance.’ He didn’t hand the cash over straight away. Instead, he put an arm around Heck’s shoulders and guided him towards the pub’s entrance. ‘Now it’s time to scoot.’

They reached the door and Baylock turned the key, at the same time trying to poke the cash into Heck’s jacket pocket.

Heck jerked away. ‘Hey, pal… do I look as if I need money?’

The bigger guy’s scar-severed mouth crooked into an amused smirk. ‘Well, it’s your choice. Fighting someone else’s battle for them, for nothing. I call it fucking dumb, but it’s your shout.’

He looked Heck over. Then turned and strode back across the pub, restoring the cash to his wallet. Heck stared after him. It was a jolt to see that the sidekicks had already gone, along with the two felled hooligans, though meandering smears of blood leading across the pub floor and into the back corridor showed where they’d been dragged.

He lurched in pursuit, only for the landlord to step into his path.

‘You don’t want to, mate.’

‘What’s going on?’ Heck demanded.

‘You don’t ask questions either, okay?’ He pointed at the front door. ‘Get on your way, like the man said.’

The landlady, behind the bar again, was written with visible fear.

Heck backed off. As he did, his right shoe touched something. He glanced down. It was a dog-eared wallet. He swooped it up. Inside, there was a bit of cash, various credit cards, and a battered old driving license belonging to someone called Jordan Floyd and carrying a photo-image not dissimilar to the guy in the Elvis T-shirt. He then spotted something else. The steel rod that Lumberjack had brought. Heck scooped that up too, turning and running for the front door. As he exited, a sleek black BMW screeched out from the side of the pub, pulling away at speed, a black high-sided van following.

Heck swore. He wasn’t even the Crew Cop yet, and he’d already handed over two guys to a fate that might be worse than death.

24

Although Saturday was one of the busiest police nights of the week, there wasn’t a whole lot extra for CID officers to do. From Lucy Clayburn’s perspective, Night Crime, or CID night cover, was a lesser prospect tonight than it would be most weekdays. Occasionally, of course, idiots would get pulled in for other offences than those related to drunkenness, and there might be some investigative back-up required, but mostly it was an opportunity to crack on with paperwork and progress any pre-existing enquiries.

There were one or two additional bodies in the detectives’ office tonight, paying lip service to the fact that weekends were technically busier, but no one who was interested in her movements. It was no trouble, once she’d signed on and checked her in-box, to grab her anorak, get back into her Jimny and head off to the vicinity of The King Billy.

It was ten minutes past ten when she arrived, and events were already underway. The pub’s front door stood ajar, and the flickering shadows of wild movement were visible.

Lucy slowed down as she passed, struggling with indecision. What to do? Let things play out as planned, or by-the-book it, dashing in there to assist while calling for support units? It went against every instinct to leave a fellow cop facing violence on his own, but Heck would be furious if they diverted from the plan at this stage.

She parked up forty yards down from the pub, but in a position from where she could see the front door and the small access road at the side. She’d no sooner switched off her headlamps than the pub’s front door was dragged open and a couple, youngish by the looks of them, staggered out. The boy, who was about twenty, was in a battered, bloodied state and leaning on the girl, who was crying. Lucy watched, agonised, as they staggered away.

A few seconds later, two vehicles pulled up, a black BMW and behind it, a black van, both braking with shrieking tyres, veering onto the side-road and then around to the pub’s rear. Fear clutched at her, but she stayed where she was. Her dashboard clock said that it was 10.13. If this affray had kicked off at ten, the landlord might only have got around to reporting it a couple of minutes later. So that was some response time. Quicker than a mobile police unit. Of course, along with everything else, the Crew were the most prolific and efficient protection racketeers in the north of England. It was a reputation Frank McCracken wouldn’t want to lose.

Another figure emerged from the pub’s front door. A balding, heavy-set man, bent over a little and being helped outside by an attractively dressed black lady. He too lurched away. The pub’s front door banged closed.

Lucy sat tight, wondering who would have been assigned to deal with this outrage. A Stockport gangster called Al Reed was in charge of Crew protection, but neither he nor his team would have got over to this side of the city so quickly. More likely, they’d have made a phone-call, and the Crew’s security mob would have been unleashed. They were in charge of enforcement and punishment, so it might have landed in their laps anyway. That would mean Zara Ballantyne or her deputy, Saul Baylock, a stone killer who’d earned his Crew stripes as Security No. 2 through his innate sadism. He was a rare beast even in the underworld; he actually enjoyed hurting people.

Lucy bit her lip to the point where blood almost ran.

A renewed revving of engines sounded from The King Billy’s rear. She hit the ignition, putting the little car in gear. Somehow, she just knew that BMW was about to reappear with the van behind it, and if so, she’d follow. She wasn’t letting them take Heck as well as Benny B’s goons.

But then several things happened at the same time.

The BMW and the van spun back into view. But simultaneously, the pub’s front door swung inward, and a besuited figure emerged at speed. It was Heck. He veered right, running hard after the two vehicles.

They were ahead of him, though, and getting away.

Lucy pulled into the BMW’s path, bringing the entire cavalcade to a screeching halt. She yanked the Jimny out of gear, its engine juddering and stalling. Then made a great play of powering her window down and offering a palm of apology. Just the kind of incompetent woman driver that men like this no doubt believed occupied every other vehicle on the road.

*

Heck didn’t chase the Crew security men purely for the wellbeing of Benny B’s idiots. A more practical concern was that the idiots might talk. If they gave it away that Benny B had paid them to wreck The King Billy, and the Crew then grabbed Benny, who’d talked to the cops after only a couple of kicks in the ribs, what were the chances he’d keep schtum with Saul Baylock leaning on him?

At first it looked like pure good fortune, that small Jimny impeding Baylock’s BMW, causing him to slam on, and the van almost shunting him from behind. Then Heck recognised Lucy in the Jimny’s driving seat and could have sung her praises to the heavens, though they weren’t out of this mess yet.

He encroached on the back of the van, hoping to God the steel rod would be all he’d need. Lucy couldn’t afford to delay them ridiculously; if she got into a slanging match with them, it was a near certainty one of them would recognise her. And indeed, as he reached the back of the stationary van, he heard the BMW’s doors banging open, but also Lucy’s Jimny coughing back to life, thudding into gear and rumbling away along the street.

Sweating hard, he examined the padlock and chain on the van’s two rear doors. The lock itself was solid, but the chain might give. Conscious of footfalls coming his way, he slid the rod through one of the chain’s links and twisted it like a tourniquet. It required maximum effort. Fresh sweat broke on his brow, but with a clank, the chain broke, and he was able to yank it loose and open the van’s rear doors.

Inside, the two terrified faces staring at him were white, puffy and stained with blood.

‘You dickheads beat it!’ Heck shouted, stepping aside.

They clambered out together, shadows of the swaggering bully boys they’d been in the pub, tottering along the road. The Crew could have chased them down, but that would have involved having to pull three-point turns in the narrow, double-parked residential street.

Besides, they now had a different target.

They came to the rear of the van from both sides, faces cold with fury. At least five of them, including Saul Baylock. Heck backed away, the steel rod at his shoulder in the on-guard position all cops were trained to use when wielding their ASPs.

Baylock’s misaligned eyes narrowed. ‘What’s your fucking game?’

Heck’s gaze flickered from one to the other. ‘I’ll pay for the van’s lock, but I’m not paying for those two… their bodies turn up somewhere, my DNA’s going to be all over them. And every punter in that shithole will remember me… I’ll be screwed, while you fuckers drive off into the night.’

One of them stepped forward, a particularly brutish character with longish black hair greased to his collar. When he spoke, he was East End Glaswegian. ‘We were taking them to hospital, you wee shite!’

‘Yeah,’ Heck replied. ‘And I’ve got a girlfriend fitter than Margot Robbie.’

For the first time, Baylock – the shaven-headed scar-face just had to be him – looked Heck over properly, taking in the smart suit.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘I was a cop,’ Heck replied. ‘The name’s Mark Heckenburg.’ He pulled a wallet from his jacket, flipping it open on his last-but-one warrant card. ‘This one got cancelled because I thought I’d lost it, but you can see it’s the real thing. Had to surrender the replacement when I got sacked.’

‘Heckenburg?’ one of them said. ‘Sounds familiar.’

Baylock didn’t comment. Neither did he look at the card.

‘You’re wondering what I’m doing here?’ Heck said. ‘You’re thinking this can’t be an accident? Well, it isn’t. I went to The King Billy because I heard it was a Crew boozer.’

Silence greeted this. Baylock glanced at his henchmen. ‘Anyone ever heard of an outfit called the Crew?’

Grunts followed in the negative.

‘That’s a pity,’ Heck said, ‘because I’m about to make them an offer they can’t refuse.’

‘I’ll make you one instead,’ Baylock replied. ‘Get your dodgy arse out of our sight right now, or we’ll kick the absolute fuck out of it!’

*

‘So what are you saying?’ Lucy asked. ‘They didn’t bite?’

‘Not straight away.’ Heck’s phone was tucked into his breast pocket as he walked, so as not to make it too obvious.’

‘So… all that for nothing?’

‘No. They’re intrigued. At least, this Saul Baylock character is. I assume that was him I’ve just been dealing with.’

He described the scar-faced psychotic with the shaven head.

‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘Saul the Maul.’

‘He’s put a tail on me.’ Heck half-glanced over his shoulder at the darkened street. The headlights of a vehicle speared into view about a hundred yards behind. ‘They obviously want to know who I am, and what I’m doing here.’

‘But they didn’t offer you a job?’

‘I didn’t expect them to. Not straight away. But we can’t wait forever, so now we’ll have to force their hand again.’

‘And how are we going to do that?’

‘I’m working on it.’

‘At least you’re okay,’ she said. ‘I assume you’re okay?’

‘Well, there’ve been some days in the job when I haven’t been used as a football. Today wasn’t one of them, but it might still be worth it.’ He glanced over his shoulder again. The vehicle was gliding along about eighty yards behind. ‘I’ll lead them back to my digs.’

‘They’ll sit outside all night.’

‘I’m counting on it. Listen, you still on night turn?’

‘Always. Remember?’

‘Good, because I’m going to need you tomorrow during the day. Here’s what I intend to do…’

25

Heck only felt the full weight of his exertions when he woke up the following morning. His entire torso was stiff, his ribs aching and mottled with bruising. At least his nose had stopped bleeding, though late in the night, so his best shirt, which he’d dabbed it with, was now a crimson rag. Not that this was the time for self-pity.

He bagged the shirt, and climbing into his jeans, a T-shirt and hoodie, moved to the window, peeking around the edge of the curtain. He hadn’t been here more than a couple of days, so he wasn’t familiar yet with the cars that regularly parked on Taylor Street, but he was pretty sure that, about forty yards down on the right, the grey Volvo V40 waiting in an entry was one he hadn’t seen before.

‘So far so good,’ he muttered to himself.

He went first into the bathroom, where, if he stood on the toilet lid and stuck his head through the upper panel of the window, he could see down the length of the backs to the neighbouring road, where he’d been parking his Puma. It wasn’t there anymore. Pleased, he went back to his room and checked the time, seeing that it wasn’t yet seven-thirty. Thankfully, the hire-car firm that Lucy had put him onto was already open. He contacted them online, booked a metallic green Vauxhall Corsa, emailing through any relevant paperwork and bank details, then texted Lucy that it was ready for her to collect.

After that, he pulled his trainers on and went out onto the landing.

All being well, Lucy would have come off duty about half an hour ago. She’d be dog-tired, but she’d promised to stay perky long enough to ‘sort him out’.

Downstairs, he could hear Cyndi White cooking breakfast. He couldn’t just hear it, he could smell it: bacon, eggs and sausage. Well, like the lady herself had said: he’d paid for it.

‘Good morning,’ she said, when he ventured into the dining room.

It connected to the tiny kitchen by a single door, which currently stood open. Cyndi was on the other side, wearing a short dressing gown and fluffy slippers, as she busied herself at the range.

‘Too late for brekky?’ Heck asked.

‘Not at all. Full English?’

‘Sounds great.’ He pulled out a chair and sat at the small table.

‘Couple of pancakes ready, if you want them.’

‘Erm, yeah… cheers.’

She came in, frying pan in hand, and served a couple of hot, freshly cooked pancakes onto the plate in front of him. They looked and smelled delicious. She also brought in butter, sugar, a squeezer of lemon juice and a jar of maple syrup.

Heck, whose normal breakfast was a slurp of lukewarm tea and a couple of bits of toast crammed down at the crack of dawn, tucked in. No sooner had he finished the pancakes than bacon, eggs, beans, sausage, the works, also appeared in front of him.

‘Don’t think I’ve eaten this well in a long time,’ he said.

‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ she asked from the kitchen.

‘I’m hungry.’

‘Okay.’

‘And even if I hadn’t been, it smells too good to resist.’

‘What do you do all day?’ she asked.

‘Sorry?’

‘Go out first thing… never see or hear you again until, I don’t know, midnight last night.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve got a few things on.’

‘Must’ve been something special yesterday, the way you were all suited up.’

Heck didn’t immediately reply. He hoped she’d spotted him going out, and not when he was coming back in, looking battered.

‘All work and no play, you know,’ he said.

‘Last bloke I knew who wore a suit was my dad.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Nothing.’ She washed up. ‘Him and my mum’s tenth wedding anniversary. Don’t have any memories of him after that. Before you ask, he legged it. I don’t know why or where to… could never be bothered asking.’

‘Sounds like a great guy.’

‘You’d better eat up, or them eggs’ll get cold.’

When he’d finished, he carried his plate and cutlery into the kitchen. She took it off him with a grateful smile.

‘You know, Cyndi,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to be lonely.’

She glanced at him, saying nothing.

‘You’re a very fine lady.’

She burst into laughter. ‘Give it a rest.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘You had the option yesterday. You blew it, mister. Don’t start trying to schmooze me now.’ She laughed again as she went back to her washing-up.

‘About yesterday,’ he tried to explain. ‘I’m not saying I wasn’t tempted. I just don’t want you to get hurt.’

‘I know. You said that, and I believed you. So, let’s leave it there, eh?’

There didn’t seem to be any point in arguing that calling her a fine lady hadn’t been an attempted schmooze, or even just a compliment. It hadn’t been either of those. He’d meant it sincerely. But sincerity was in such short supply these days that it was often an intangible concept. He headed back upstairs for his anorak and his bits and pieces, departing the house bang on eight-thirty.

That ought to have been enough time for Lucy to get things in motion.

Immediately, an engine stuttered to life. A backward glance as he walked showed the grey Volvo on the move. He rounded the next corner, where the green Corsa was waiting. It was unlocked and he climbed in, finding the key tucked down the back of the driving seat as Lucy had promised. He hit the ignition and drove from the kerb, one eye on the rearview mirror, where the Volvo wallowed into view.

When he called Lucy, she answered straight away.

‘Puma in place?’ he asked.

‘Last night. As requested.’

‘Excellent. Was worried you might not have found the time.’

‘Had a busy shift.’ She yawned. ‘Locked up for burglary. Damien Featherwood. Stupid squirt of a kid. Anyway, he coughed to four others.’

‘Good night’s work overall, then.’

‘Locking up burglars is not what I’m supposed to be doing, though, is it?’

‘I’d hate to see what you’re capable of when your mind’s not focussed somewhere else.’

‘You might do yet.’ She yawned again. ‘If this thing goes pear-shaped, you and me’ll be giving out parking tickets together. Forever.’

‘You sound tired.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Once we’ve swapped the cars, you can get home and grab some kip.’

‘Supposed to be your handler, aren’t I?’

‘It’s not official yet.’

‘I’m not leaving you on your own out there again.’

‘Just keep your phone by the bedside. If I need you, I’ll shout. What’s your ETA?’

‘Two minutes,’ she said. ‘You’ve still got your tail, I suppose?’

He glanced at his rearview mirror. The grey Volvo was a couple of cars back. ‘Yeah, but he’s not doing a great job of concealing his presence.’

‘It’s the Crew, Heck. Those who rule by fear don’t tend to be good at stealth. Mainly because they don’t need to.’

He glanced at the sat-nav on his phone. ‘According to this, I’m seven minutes away.’

‘I’m almost there.’

‘Cool.’ He cut the call, following the street map as he bypassed the town centre and entered a part of inner Crowley called St Clement’s. There were stacks of old industrial premises here. Some were derelict, but plenty were still occupied, the roads narrow and grubby. He glanced at his sat-nav again, seeing that he was one minute from his destination. He checked his mirror. The Volvo was a hundred yards behind. He looked to his front.

And got his foot down.

The Corsa leapt ahead. Fifty yards further on, he pulled a sharp right, wheels skidding in trash as he accelerated along a straight but narrow service road, which, somewhat incongruously, was called Daffodil Lane. It wasn’t easy; the narrow route was narrowed further by skips and dumpsters along its left side, while on the right an eight-foot wall separated it from open land where extensive demolition had occurred. He watched his rearview mirror; everything depended on the Volvo driver having been taken by surprise. Just ahead, a heap of wooden crates stood on the right, creating a chokepoint. Heck jammed his anchors on as he sped into it, the Corsa screeching to a halt.

Still throwing glances rearward, the road still empty, he stuffed the key down the back of the seat, jumped out, slammed the driver’s door, mounted the crates and vaulted over the wall. It was more of a drop on the other side, ten feet rather than eight. But he’d expected it and landed lithely, before scampering away across broken ground to a row of other parked cars. The one on the end was his own Puma. Lucy had been as good as her word. He’d opened it for her the previous night by pointing his fob from the bathroom window, and she’d used the spare key that he kept under the foot-mat on the driver’s side. It was locked again now, but he had his own key of course, and jumped in behind the wheel, slithering down until he was out of sight.

Seconds later, another set of tyres squealed to a halt on Daffodil Lane. He lay still, tense, before risking a swift peek – and seeing a man wearing shades, doubtless the Volvo driver, appear at the top of the crates, gazing over the wall in bewilderment and seeing only a row of nondescript vehicles, none of which carried registration numbers that meant a damn thing to him. Whoever the guy was, he dropped back out of sight. Heck stayed low, not moving until he heard the Volvo reversing back along Daffodil Lane.

Manoeuvring himself into the driver’s seat, he hit the ignition and drove away across the demolition site to a broken-down gateway, spinning out onto the road in the direction of Crowley town centre, and picking up the Volvo just ahead, at which point he decelerated.

If things were going to plan, Lucy Clayburn would now have emerged from behind one of the skips on Daffodil Lane, climbed into the Corsa, retrieved the key from its hiding place, started it up and be reversing back towards civilisation. Right on cue, she called his mobile.

‘Superb,’ he said when she confirmed all this.

‘I’ll take the Corsa back to my place on Cuthbertson Court,’ she replied. ‘I won’t park it on my drive. I’ll just leave it nearby. No one should think there’s anything odd.’

‘Sounds good.’ He watched the Volvo, which was about four vehicles ahead.

‘I assume you’ve got eyes on the target?’

‘I have indeed. Now, go home and grab some shuteye. You sound tuckered.’

‘Wilco.’ She cut the call.

Heck refocussed on his quarry. They were now on Turvey Road, heading towards the M60. On the open spaces of a motorway, he’d have to hang back a little more. But even though it was a Sunday, it was another sunny day, and so when they joined the M60, it hummed with traffic. Not that it was imperative the Volvo driver remained unaware of his tail. Heck was in the unusual position of trying to find a way into this criminal gang, so at some point they were bound to sus him. Of course, what he didn’t want was to be led into an ambush, so he still kept a significant distance.

Normally, a successful covert pursuit would require an entire team of undercover officers. Yet again, Heck was breaking rules trying to do this on his own, but bringing in Lucy wouldn’t have helped. She was too well-known to the Crew, and if someone spotted her, McCracken would never believe that Heck was seeking legitimate work with them.

In due course, the Volvo left the M60, merging onto the M602. Heck wasn’t surprised. For some reason, he’d expected to be travelling into central Manchester. He closed the distance between them but still stayed four cars behind. Greater Manchester was a massive urban sprawl, but thankfully the motorway network encircling it allowed quick and easy transit from one corner to the next. Thus, about fifteen minutes later, having left the M602 via Regent Road and then Edgerton Street, he found himself travelling south along Chorlton Road. Hulme and Moss Side lay to his left, Old Trafford on his right. Past those, he entered Whalley Range.

It was increasingly difficult now to stay on the Volvo’s tail without a chance of being clocked. When they pulled off the main drag together, Heck feared that it would become all too obvious. They were back among side streets and shopping precincts. It was now midday and busier than earlier, which allowed him a little cover, but having taken a left, another left, a right and then a left again, Heck felt ridiculously conspicuous. He was almost relieved when the Volvo made another sharp right, pulling into an access road behind a row of commercial buildings constructed from soulless grey concrete. It looked as though they’d finally got there, wherever ‘there’ was. He drove past, taking the next right along a parallel street, before parking in an empty bay, and running on foot along a cut-through.

It emerged into the access road, where at first glance there was no movement.

He held back, eyeballing the quiet street, and noting the Volvo parked at the rear of one of the ugly concrete buildings, a back door to which stood wide open.

He waited. He’d been fearing an ambush, so he wasn’t going to stroll blithely in there.

Instead, he cut left, walking down an entry towards the main road and the front of the buildings. Now he saw them more clearly. Their upper sections were either being used as offices or flats, while on the ground floor they were dingy shops: a pawnbroker, cycle repairs, kebabs & pizzas, and then a somewhat glitzier entrance, which corresponded roughly with the open exit at the rear. A steel grille was folded back on a plush-carpeted entrance hall.

Written in blue neon over the top:

KITTEN CLUB

Down the left side of the entrance, a glass case contained framed photographs of women on stage wearing thigh boots, corsets and the like. It was a lap-dancing bar, and according to the timings listed next to the photos, its opening hours were 11am til 3am.

Heck glanced at his watch. It was several minutes past eleven. He considered. At this early hour on a Sunday, there wouldn’t be too many customers with whom he could blend in, but it wasn’t as though he had much choice. He headed inside, paying the requisite fiver to the uninterested looking strawberry blonde in the fish tank pay-booth. It might have seemed cheap to the average punter if it gave him access to a strip show where all kinds of personals were no doubt available in curtained-off alcoves, but the average punter would be knocked for six when he saw his bar bill at the end.

He passed through an open internal door, where a burly black bouncer who looked even more bored than the girl stood guard. Beyond that, he entered the main bar, which, as he might have expected, was lit with red and blue lights and echoing with sleazy music. On a central stage, a sinuous blonde in a leopard skin bikini and high heels entwined herself around the upright pole, while scantily clad waitresses paraded with trays between the half-moon seating bays arranged around the stage in concentric waves.

If nothing else, Heck had been correct about the attendance. There was room in there for three hundred at least, but no more than thirty or so heads dotted the seating. Realising that he’d better sit down to avoid looking obvious, Heck chose a seat about twenty yards from the stage. Almost immediately, someone said: ‘Get you a drink, sir?’

A slim Oriental girl in shiny blue hotpants and a transparent blouse stood with a tray.

‘How much for a bottle of lager?’ he asked.

‘Any queries regarding prices need to go to the bar manager.’

He glanced towards the bar, where a guy wearing a black vest, who looked as if he weight-trained with railway sleepers, was glowering in their direction.

‘And let me guess,’ Heck said, ‘whatever outrageous price he quotes, that’ll be for a half, not a pint?’

The girl looked bored. ‘Do you want a drink or not? Makes no difference to me.’

‘I’ll have it, cheers.’

He looked back to the front. The blonde girl on stage had divested herself of her bikini, though the audience were strangely quiet, as if they’d seen it all before. Which, most likely, they had. Probably the night before, and the night before that.

Heck glanced around, checking if anyone aside from the bar manager was paying undue attention to him. But no one seemed interested. Likewise, there was no one he recognised, not even the guy from Daffodil Lane, which was frustrating. The next thing after this would be to go outside and wait by the Volvo, though the devil only knew how long that would take.

The waitress reappeared, carrying a glass and a half-sized bottle on a tray.

‘It’s all right, darling,’ someone else said. ‘He won’t be needing that.’

Heck froze as he recognised the voice. The next time it spoke, it was right in his ear, whoever it was squatting directly behind him.

‘When I heard Mark Heckenburg was on the case, I laughed… I said he’d never be so stupid as to come here. And now look.’

Heck spun around.

The face behind him was lean-featured and hook-nosed, with an unruly mop of flaxen blond hair over the top.

It was also someone Heck had known for a long time.

Detective Inspector Ray Marciano had been a Flying Squad legend, who in due course had proved to be bent as they came, and who when Heck had last seen him had been in the process of falling two-hundred feet from the battlements of a Cornish castle into a raging, rock-filled sea.

Heck couldn’t help jumping up.

‘Don’t do anything hasty, Heck,’ Marciano said, smiling as he too rose to his feet. ‘Not when you’re in the belly of the beast.’

Heck glanced around.

The blonde stripper had departed the stage, and no one else had replaced her. What was more, the head of every punter in there, all thirty-odd of them, was turned in his direction.

And in their case, there wasn’t a smile among them.

26

‘I’m assuming that was you in the grey Volvo?’ Heck said, as Marciano frogmarched him towards the front of the club.

‘Assume away.’

Those seated had made no move to assist, but they didn’t need to. No sooner had Heck lurched to his feet than Marciano had drawn a short-barrel Colt Anaconda and was now prodding Heck’s back with it.

‘For a southerner, you know your way around Manchester,’ Heck commented.

‘I’m a quick learner when I need to be. Nice switch with the Puma, by the way. Who’s helping you?’

‘No one. The Puma’s my own motor. You can check. The Corsa’s a hire-car. You can check that too. I thought I could use two sets of wheels just in case there was a problem.’

They went through a side-door into a corridor with walls made from bare bricks and a tacky carpet underfoot. Already there was a smell of sweat and cheap perfume.

‘And you were happy to abandon that Corsa back there?’ Marciano said. ‘With your name on the rental?’

‘I called them up, told them where to find it. Go and look, you’ll see it gone. If they want to sue me for breach of contract, that’s my problem.’

‘You sure you haven’t got a mate somewhere close by, Heck, who I should know about?’

They passed doorways to left and right. Beyond these lay small dressing rooms. Women wearing elaborate hairstyles and make-up, and in most cases very little else, moved back and forth, chattering and laughing.

‘I know we have a rep for being pally up here…’ Heck said. They reached the end of the corridor, where a door stood closed. Saul Baylock hovered in front of it, his misaligned face inscrutable. ‘But if I’m honest, the north was never that good to me.’

‘Guess what?’ Marciano shoved him forward. ‘Nothing’s changed.’

Baylock hit Heck in the stomach. It was probably the most brutal punch he’d ever taken. He doubled over, sinking to his knees, thinking he was about to see his fried breakfast again.

‘That’s for fucking us about,’ Baylock said. ‘And that’s just a taste of it.’

It took several seconds for Heck to sway back to his feet. The door was opened, and Ray Marciano grabbed the collar of his hoodie, forcing him through.

It was difficult to work out what the room beyond might once have been. There were no windows and only one light on, a single bulb at the far end, beneath which a woman in red sat perched on a high stool.

Heck was marched forward, aware of hulking figures in the shadows, and was halted just short of her. She was somewhere in her early forties, with bright blonde hair hanging past her shoulders, a pale complexion, blood-red lipstick and pale brown shadow to enhance the greenness of her eyes. She wore a short, tight skirt-suit made from crimson leather, red silky tights and crimson spike heels with straps around the ankles. She sat provocatively, one shapely leg crossed over the other, and in a hand adorned with tapered scarlet fingernails, held a bowl of pip-sized cherries, popping them into her mouth one after another.

They weren’t formally introduced, but Heck had no doubt that he was in the presence of the Crew’s new Head of Security, Zara ‘Satana’ Ballantyne.

She didn’t look at him, just continued to eat. Baylock circled around to stand alongside her, while Ray Marciano kept his Anaconda trained on the side of Heck’s head. This particular model of Colt was chambered for .44 Magnum ammunition. From that range, it would blow half his skull away.

‘Apparently,’ Marciano said, ‘you wanted to make an offer to some outfit called the Crew?’

Heck stood rigid. ‘That’s right.’

‘Okay. Because none of us have ever heard of this firm. But Ms Ballantyne here represents the interests of several businessmen and women across the northwest. She wonders if there’s anything you’d like to say to her instead?’

Ms Ballantyne didn’t look but popped another cherry.

‘Before you open your mouth, Heck,’ Marciano added. ‘Quick word of advice. Smartarsery doesn’t travel in this company. Also, the only reason your jaw isn’t so badly smashed that you can’t even blubber your explanation is because I’ve kind of vouched for you. And that’s the only reason. So perhaps don’t let me down, eh? Because I can be someone you don’t want to piss off as well.’

‘Okay,’ Heck nodded. ‘Mrs Ballantyne… or sorry, is it Miss?’

Briefly, she deigned to look at him. And popped another cherry.

‘My name’s Mark Heckenburg,’ he said. ‘I’m an ex-murder detective and I used to work for the National Crime Group, in which capacity I resolved a number of complex high-level cases. And yet now, almost on a whim, they’ve thrown me out. I should add straight away that this isn’t because I made mistakes or was incompetent or…’

‘Ms Ballantyne knows why they kicked your arse out,’ Marciano interrupted. ‘And she doesn’t give a fuck one way or the other.’

‘Okay…’ Heck kept his eyes fixed on his hostess. ‘But does she know what impact this had on me? All those years of great work discarded as if they didn’t mean squat.’

Marciano snorted. ‘Coppers don’t get jobs for life these days, mate. Everyone knows that.’

‘This was different.’

‘It’d bloody need to be, to bring a crusader like you onto premises like these.’

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ Heck said. ‘Ms Ballantyne, I want to work for you. I’ve heard that you, or some of the gentlemen you represent, have been in the market for your own personal investigator.’ He glanced at Baylock. ‘Someone who’s good for a bit more than smashing down doors with his head.’

Baylock curled his lip, but Zara Ballantyne popped another cherry.

‘And how,’ Marciano wondered, ‘did you hear about that?’

‘You think my snouts won’t talk to me just because I’m out on my ear?’ Heck said. ‘It took years to build up those relationships. I’m sure you’re still in touch with most of yours. And no, I can’t and won’t give you any names.’

‘So, what you’re saying is you’re not being open and honest with us…’

‘Come on, Ray… when we were in the job, we didn’t even rat our grasses out to other departments. You know that.’

Zara Ballantyne licked at her fingertips. She still didn’t speak.

‘As we stand, there’s two things in your favour, Heck,’ Marciano said. ‘Firstly, I know personally what kind of copper you were. You got results, and you didn’t always mind how. That would certainly make you our kind of detective. Secondly, you really are out of a job, aren’t you? I mean, any bloody fool who took that news story at face value would have come to the same conclusion, but that isn’t me, is it? So, I made a few phone-calls. In fact, I’ve made a lot of phone-calls since you introduced yourself to Saul yesterday. And everyone’s told me the same thing. Heckenburg’s gone for real. This was one infraction too many. But while there are two things going for you, there are two things going against. This new role you fancy taking on… as you may have noticed, it’s already been filled. That wouldn’t necessarily be the end of the matter. I could use a sidekick. But the other thing is more worrying. And it comes back to what I said before. What the actual fuck would push someone like you into joining us? Yeah, you were a trickster. You were a roughneck. But there were lines you wouldn’t cross… there was a line you wouldn’t cross at The King Billy yesterday, wasn’t there?’

Heck shrugged. ‘That’s because it would have seen me get pinched for murder. On top of that, I’ve heard your new boss, the top man, I mean – no disrespect intended, Ms Ballantyne – is older school than the last one. He doesn’t like mayhem. Doesn’t punch tickets for the fun of it. I thought that was someone I could work for… maybe.’

‘Heck, you were a copper through and through. You lived for it. You enjoyed it…’

‘I enjoyed hunting men because I was good at it. Won’t this be more of the same?’

‘So, no moral qualms?’ Marciano said. ‘No concerns at all?’

‘The truth is… everything changed with the Ace of Diamonds shootings.’

‘It was a nasty business, I’ll give you that.’

‘Yeah, it was. And yet everyone in the job decided I was involved.’

‘Not everyone, surely?’

‘Enough did. I don’t know why you ditched the cop life, Ray… did they give you the fourth degree the first time you walked in here? You can’t have been the likeliest candidate either given that the last thing you did was serve up a load of die-hard villains so that vigilante queen Milena Masanyan could get off watching them die slowly. The point is the job fucked me over. After all those years of service.’

‘What about Gemma Piper? You giving up on her too?’

‘Gemma’s a crippled shadow,’ Heck replied. ‘She barely knows me, and she’ll never recover. And now I’m out on my ear. After going it alone to bring in the bastards responsible. How would you react? How would you react, Ms Ballantyne?’

The Head of Security regarded him. And popped another cherry.

‘You know I can do a job for you, Ray,’ Heck said. ‘I think you know it too, Ms Ballantyne. Otherwise, I wouldn’t even be here, would I?’

*

Lucy was on her way to the CID office at Robber’s Row that evening when she was called from the far end of the corridor. Priya Nehwal bustled towards her, distinctive as ever for the shapeless, baggy jumper under her scruffy raincoat, and the chunky rope of long grey hair draped over her shoulder.

The DSU nodded through the glass doors. ‘How many on Night Crime?’

Lucy shrugged. ‘Couple, apart from me. Why?’

Nehwal glanced across the corridor. ‘In that case, we’ll go into Admin.’ She led the way into the office where during daytime hours the CID secretaries prepared court files and the like, and switched the lights on. Once Lucy joined her, she closed the door. Then rounded on the DC, fiery-cheeked. ‘Nice of you to copy me in on Circuit-Breaker.’

Lucy frowned. ‘Circuit-Breaker?’

‘An operation the National Crime Group are running. Right here, on our patch… thanks to intel received from you. I understand they’ve already embedded an undercover asset.’

Lucy half-sank into one of the swivel chairs. ‘It’s official then?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘He’s in.’ Lucy glanced up. ‘That was quicker than I expected.’

‘Quicker?’ Nehwal looked even more vexed. ‘So Greater Manchester Police would have been kept out of the loop even longer if it was necessary? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘Ma’am… you were a bit busy. Plus, it was an absolute shot in the dark. I spoke directly to NCG because with this thief-taker of theirs, Mark Heckenburg, facing imminent dismissal, it was an opportunity I couldn’t miss.’

Nehwal remained irate but was keeping a lid on it. ‘I don’t blame you for that, Lucy. We’ve all struck while the iron was hot. But most of us would then have pushed it up the chain of command.’

‘It was only a day or so, ma’am, and NCG had agreed to get in touch with you as soon as we were in business.’

‘Seems this DCS Straker got in touch with me specifically because you requested that?’

Lucy felt flustered. One person in the job you didn’t take for granted was Priya Nehwal.

‘Ma’am, this is an awkward situation. The only way Heck can infiltrate the Crew is if the rest of the world thinks he’s been sacked. A bare minimum of police officers can know that he hasn’t been, and I’m talking officers the length of the country. Because the Crew will check. So, yes… I asked DCS Straker at NCG to contact you personally because I knew you’d understand the seriousness of that. And because I knew you wouldn’t blab. I’ll be honest, ma’am, I trust you more than any other copper in Manchester.’

Nehwal eyed her. ‘And you think flattery will get you somewhere?’

‘It’s needs must.’

The DSU walked to the window. ‘You think I need this, Lucy? I’m trying to run a multiple murder enquiry upstairs.’

‘But that’s partly what this is about?’

Nehwal glanced around, eyebrows arched.

‘Something big’s happening in the world of the Crew. Or it’s about to. We don’t know what it is yet. But even if it turns out to be nothing, Hobhall Tunnel’s a big deal, yeah? And we already have it from various sources that the Crew haven’t had their cut yet. That means they’ll retaliate. Either way, this is the perfect time for us to have someone inside. Someone who, when the kill orders come through, can trace those orders back to the top floor.’

‘Hobhall is my case, Lucy!’ Nehwal raised her voice. ‘Mine. You should have come to me first!’

‘Why?’

Nehwal looked like she’d misheard.

‘Why should I have gone to you?’ Lucy said. ‘Last year, I gave you the Crew’s number one hitman. I also gave you his two daughters, who were training in the family business. We must have cleared up two-dozen unsolved murders. And yet I’m still persona non grata. Even my own team, Crowley CID, don’t want to know me. I’ve written to you personally, asking about vacancies in Serious Crimes. You’ve not even replied…’

‘You know why…’

‘No, I don’t.’ Lucy’s own blood was now up. ‘At least, I don’t know why you would do that, ma’am. I thought you trusted me.’

Nehwal still looked angry, but perhaps also felt that an explanation for this was overdue. ‘At the end of the day, Lucy, I’m a functionary too. I can’t change the way things are.’

‘I’ve changed the way things are for you. I’ve put an asset inside the Crew… at a time when you needed one.’

‘An asset I don’t even know…’

‘Better than no one at all.’

‘You know I could still have this Heckenburg brought in. I could advise him that from this point on, he reports to me only. And that you are off the case.’

‘Yeah, but you’re busy, aren’t you, ma’am.’ Lucy was being bold, but she risked it. ‘You’re running a multiple murder enquiry.’

‘I’ll still have to assign you someone else. You can’t handle this alone.’

‘We’ll have to make sure it’s someone we trust,’ Lucy said. ‘Because if we get it wrong, Mark Heckenburg’s feet won’t touch the ground.’

27

‘How does this work for you?’ Ray Marciano asked. ‘Starting the same time as everyone else, instead of four hours earlier?’

Heck straightened his tie and lapels and checked the clock on the Volvo V40’s dashboard. It was just past nine in the morning. ‘I could get used to it. Where we going?’

Marciano handed a buff folder over as he drove out of Taylor Street. ‘Today’s target.’

Heck opened it, finding several stapled-together sheets arrayed with mugshots and text, which looked disturbingly as if they could be an actual police intelligence print-out.

‘Seamus Hoag?’ he read aloud, assessing the thin, spotty faced twenty-something in the picture. ‘Doesn’t look like much.’

‘Crowley boy,’ Marciano said. ‘Thief, swindler, small-time dealer. Exists on the margins of the operation. Problem is he likes little ’uns. And that’s a no-no these days.’

Heck pondered. ‘Only these days?’

Marciano, looking flash in a Hawes & Curtis suit, negotiated the rush-hour traffic. ‘One of these things you don’t consider till it happens, I suppose. Couple of years back, there was a Crew brothel in Cheetham Hill. Turned out it had connections to a child abuse operation down the road. Caused a lot of problems when GMP took it down. Course, Head Office claimed they didn’t know about the kiddie fiddler stuff. Who knows, maybe they didn’t. But now that Frank McCracken’s in charge, there’s a strict prohibition order on anything underage.’

‘A mob boss with scruples. Who’d have thought?’

‘No one can stomach that stuff, mate. No one who’s right in the head.’

‘And Seamus Hoag isn’t?’

Marciano donned his shades. It wasn’t as sunny as the previous day, but he too was a fugitive, and Manchester wasn’t so far from London that he could expect to wander it willy-nilly with no chance of being recognised.

‘Hoag’s been inside for it a couple of times,’ he explained. ‘From the Crew’s POV, he’s had a stern warning. But there are whispers he’s back at it.’

‘Whispers? That’s the extent of our evidence?’

‘Evidence?’ Marciano snickered. ‘Don’t think of this lot as citizens with rights, Heck. We deal exclusively in crims. Real crims, you get it? Speaking of which, you carrying?’

‘Nope.’

Marciano dug into the pocket inside his door, and handed over a black steel semiautomatic, a Walther .380. ‘You are now. I can get you a shoulder-holster for it later.’

He passed over a couple of spare clips.

‘We get pulled for a traffic offence,’ Heck said, ‘with this Walther and your Magnum, that’s five years each.’

Marciano snorted with laughter.

‘And we’re ex-job, remember?’ Heck added. ‘It won’t be like five years for the rest of your new mates.’

‘It won’t be five years at all, pal. Surely you weren’t one of these naïve coppers who thinks our Great British judiciary can’t be bought? Trust me, twenty-first century Britain’s every bit as much a banana republic as Timbuk-fucking-tu. Pocket that, though. We don’t pull ’em unless we need ’em.’

Heck slipped the gun under his suit jacket. As a member of the National Crime Group, it was essential that he be an authorised firearms officer, though that meant he’d only carried on duty occasionally. He knew guns because it had been part of his job, but he didn’t like them, which was a symptom of British police firearms training, wherein it was force-fed to you that whenever you were in possession of a loaded firearm you were carrying a potential life sentence in your hand. The previous year, when he’d been AWOL and armed unofficially, that had been a particularly harrowing feeling, but then he’d assumed he was on a one-way ticket anyway. Now that he was hoping to stay in the job, there was an added concern about the man-stopper in his pocket, especially as today would be the day when the Crew tested him.

‘I may as well tell you, Ray,’ he said, ‘I’m not killing anyone.’

Marciano smiled again. ‘We don’t kill people, Heck. All we do is find them. Sometimes it’s grasses or idiots who owe us money… and those might be harder days for someone like you. But often it’s underserving bastards like this lad, Seamus. Either way, all we do is make arrests.’

‘Make arrests?’ It almost hurt Heck to hear such glib bastardisation of one of the most important of all police powers.

‘Then we hand them over.’

‘To Saul the Maul and his mates?’

‘If you don’t like that idea, you shouldn’t be here. Personally, I deal with it by not asking what happens to them. So long as I get paid, why should I worry?’

‘As I recall, you didn’t worry about delivering victims to Milena Masanyan either.’

Marciano didn’t initially reply.

He’d left the Metropolitan Police after years of productive service as a DI in the Flying Squad. But he’d also used that skill to earn a lot more money from one Milena Masanyan, an Armenian tycoon and organised crime figure, who secretly was so deranged by the rape, torture and murder of her two younger sisters that she’d made a hobby out of catching ultra-violent offenders and making them fight to the death in brutal gladiatorial tournaments. It had been Ray Marciano’s role to hunt these men down for her, a task he’d performed admirably, two dozen of them dying before Heck and Operation Sledgehammer had broken the vigilante ring.

‘It was no pleasure,’ Marciano said. ‘There were times when I had to watch those combats from beginning to end… and that psychotic bitch stood alongside me, getting ever wetter-lipped the more blood got spilled.’

‘What’s most interesting to me is how you survived the fall,’ Heck said.

In truth, Ray Marciano’s night-time leap from the battlements of Trevallick Hall, on Martyr’s Rock, an island just off the Cornish coast, had been one of the most incredible and horrific things Heck had ever witnessed. And yet he’d stood there and allowed it to happen. He could have tried to take Marciano into custody at that moment. Milena Masanyan’s operation was blown open, she herself was dead, Marciano cornered on the roof of a semi-reconstructed medieval castle. But rather than face a lifetime in prison with so many of the animalistic brutes he’d put there himself, the former DI had tried to bargain with Heck, offering him Morgan Robbins, the high-powered solicitor who’d masterminded so many of the crime queen’s illegal successes in England, organised her hunt for the UK’s most dangerous criminals in order to fuel her demented hobby, and more importantly, kept detailed records on the so-called Spartacus file, part of an external hard-drive, the whereabouts of which Marciano had offered to reveal to Heck in exchange for no pursuit should he manage to escape. Heck had accepted the info – of course he had. For one thing, a gun had been trained on him at the time, but it would also have enabled them to round up everyone else involved in the scandal, the only cost the apparent suicide of Ray Marciano.

And yet, here he was. Somehow, that terrifying plunge into the Atlantic, not just from a castle wall, but down a rugged cliff face, into pounding waves from which crags of granite protruded like saurian teeth, had failed to kill him.

In response to the question, Marciano shrugged. ‘How did you deal with those Russian nutters up in Scotland? Are you the toughest guy in town, Heck? Are you like… the heavyweight champion of the world, so tasty that no one can stand against you?’

‘Not exactly,’ Heck replied.

‘Same here. But we can find it in ourselves to survive if we want to. Some of us. That’s one reason I went upstairs last night to ensure you got a shot at this job.’

‘Upstairs?’

Marciano nodded. ‘Zara Ballantyne’s Head of Security. The goon squad belongs to her. Technically, I do too… but not really. Whoever grassed us to you knew their stuff. When the top floor head-hunted me they weren’t looking for another thug. They wanted their own detective.’

‘Detective to the underworld.’ Heck pondered. ‘It’s a novel idea.’

‘You never know, it might catch on. Someone who can go about their job quietly, craftily, not just by breaking arms. You must admit, there are positives.’

‘But Zara Ballantyne doesn’t see them?’

Marciano chuckled again. ‘She’s like most underbosses… she’s got half an idea what goes on. But she never sees the bigger picture.’

‘The top floor do?’

‘They do now McCracken’s running things.’

‘So… how much can I expect to earn?’

‘Aha. Wondered when we’d get to that.’

‘So I’ve given up on the UK.’ Heck shrugged. ‘That doesn’t mean I’m not arsed about getting paid.’

‘Well, you always knew today was going to be a test.’ Marciano drove on into what appeared to be a crumbier part of town, stopping at a red light where a bag-lady sat on the kerb as she swigged from a bottle of cheap wine. ‘I’ll be frank, Heck. When I went upstairs last night, they loved the idea of a gung-ho copper changing sides. I mean, they liked it when I came over, but I was a bad egg all along. You though… you were one of the good guys. You’d be a real catch. But you’ve still got to pull your weight.’

‘Okay… so?’

‘So I told them we’d know if you will by the end of today.’

28

For a brief time, Heck might have been back in CID in Bethnal Green or on the Robbery Squad in Tower Hamlets, as he and Ray Marciano prowled the run-down corners of town on the trail of their suspect. They wore smart suits and, having swapped mobile numbers, were in constant contact. They could have been regular detectives, though in reality they were using stronger-arm tactics than Heck would ever have conceived of during his days as a genuine copper.

On Hatchwood Green, for example, Crowley’s largest and most deprived council estate, when they didn’t get an answer at the downstairs door of a maisonette they’d been directed to, they went around to the rear and kicked down the backdoor. The guy inside, a pathetic specimen who’d first come to the Crew’s attention when he’d tried to sell them a lorry-load of family photograph albums filled with indecent images of children, wailed aloud as Marciano knocked him around his squalid kitchen, pleading his innocence, insisting that he didn’t know where Hoag was, the ex-cop only finally believing the guy when he ripped his slippers off, grabbed a meat-tenderizer and had Heck hold him down on the filthy, lino-covered kitchen floor, while threatening to hammer his feet to pulp.

A few streets away, Heck found himself taking even tougher action. They shouldered their way into a heroin kitchen (Seamus Hoag being a user as well as a nonce), and when a skeletal individual in the hallway threatened them with a used needle, he was forced to pull his Walther and point it at the guy’s face. Marciano took the same approach, the two or three other walking cadavers in that litter-strewn place of no return forced to drop all sharps at gunpoint and then to strip naked and stand with hands spread against the living room wall. Marciano was only content that they knew nothing after pretending to empty five bullets out of his Anaconda, when actually it was all six, and playing Russian roulette with them for several minutes.

And so it went. They visited several more addresses, slapping, punching, breaking what few items they found that weren’t already broken. Heck had a strange hollow feeling inside as lunchtime approached and they’d still made no ground on Seamus Hoag.

‘Take you back, does it?’ Marciano asked as they drove again. ‘To the good old days?’

‘If you mean kicking people’s heads in with no comeback,’ Heck replied, ‘I only joined the job twenty years ago, not forty. And the same goes for you.’

‘That’s the way the old sweats did it, though, isn’t it? That’s how they got results.’

‘Yeah, results which, years later, got knocked back as miscarriages of justice. Even the bastards who’d done it walked on the grounds that investigations weren’t conducted properly.’

Marciano looked amused. ‘You can’t fool me. You pulled every trick in the book during your own service.’

‘Slamming heads into mantelpieces wasn’t always the first option.’

‘It was an option, though, eh? You trying to tell me you work the Serial Crimes Unit, and you don’t meet twats who need a kicking?’

‘Not every day.’

‘The fact we can do it, pal, means we don’t need to.’

Heck felt a brief chill. He’d made a similar rationalisation to Lucy two days ago.

‘It’s not working so far,’ he said.

‘We’ll see. Fancy a drink?’

Heck nodded. It was early yet, but anything was better than this.

They drove back through Crowley, and into central Manchester, parking in a side-street in the Northern Quarter. There, Marciano led Heck through a shabby back door and, at the top of a simple stone stair, into what seemed to be a private club. Wood-panelled rooms led off from each other, spacious and lushly carpeted, filled with stylish, comfortable furniture, each one with its own well-stocked bar. Waiters in black trousers, shirts and gold waistcoats paraded back and forth, carrying trays of drinks. The few windows were stained-glass, the lighting low-key, so the atmosphere was relaxed. People sipped cocktails or champagne as they stood or sat in groups, chatting. Marciano, who only now took his sunglasses off, chose a high, circular table, where two stools were free. He clicked his fingers and a waiter appeared with an empty tray. He asked Heck what he’d have, and Heck, thinking it would be churlish to request beer, said that he’d have Glenfiddich with ice. A single.

‘Make it a double, Marcus,’ Marciano told the waiter. ‘He’s had a stressful morning. I’ll have a double JD. Also on the rocks. Both on my tab, by the way.’

The waiter nodded and walked away.

‘This as good as it gets for middle-management?’ Heck asked.

‘You cheeky whelp. This is a quality place. Check out the clientele.’

Now that Heck’s eyes were adjusting to the low lamplight, he glanced through the entrance to an adjoining room and spotted Zara Ballantyne, this time in electric-blue rather than blood-red, seated on a sofa but holding court amongst several of her heavies. If he’d needed further confirmation that this was a Crew hang-out, another familiar face struck him, this individual standing at the bar a few feet away.

‘That’s Luke Haynes, isn’t it?’ he whispered. ‘I remember him from when I was in GMP. That’s eighteen years ago. Is he still mugging hotdog vendors outside football grounds?’

‘He’s come up in the world since then.’ Marciano nodded as their drinks were delivered. ‘Anyone else?’

Heck looked again, and one by one, recognisable faces slid into view. Most belonged to middle-aged guys who, despite the usual plethora of scars and misplaced tats, looked better-heeled these days than they had in their past.

‘Never had dealings with Adam Gilcrist,’ Heck said, nodding at one overly dandified bloke. ‘But I know him from the papers.’

‘That business with his wife and the badminton coach was a tad unfortunate,’ Marciano replied. ‘Frank doesn’t believe in unnecessary attention.’

‘There wouldn’t have been as much if the badminton coach hadn’t broken both his arms and legs in an incredibly unlikely fall down three flights of stairs.’

‘What can I say? Some relationships are never going to work.’

‘And who’s this cool customer?’

Another character had emerged from the back stair, who, to Heck’s eye, looked completely wrong for this place. Somewhere in his mid-twenties, with a mop of curly brown hair. He was also tall, lean and unshaved, and wore a yellow T-shirt under a tight, blue-and-red tartan suit, the trousers to which were short enough to show that he wore no socks under his red leather Brogues. He’d have been more at home in a hipster bar, but he walked in here with a confident swagger.

‘That,’ Marciano said quietly, ‘is Zak O’Calligan. A genuine whizzkid.’

Heck watched as O’Calligan spotted Zara Ballantyne in the adjoining room and sauntered through, space clearing on the sofa alongside her, where he plonked himself down and greeted her with a hug and a peck on the cheek.

‘Isn’t he a bit young for our Head of Security?’ Heck said.

‘He would be… if he wasn’t her son.’

Heck raised an eyebrow.

‘Shock horror,’ Marciano grinned. ‘Criminals have families too. They’re more like us than we care to imagine. Well, not like us two. Who do we have who gives a shit?’

In the other room, O’Calligan was laying something out in detail for his mother.

‘But O’Calligan’s not just here because he’s family,’ Marciano said. ‘Nepotism’s alive and well in the underworld, Heck, but you’ve still got to be good at what you do. All that dough Madame Satana’s generated from her nefarious activities, though… it helped him out a little. Secured him playboy status at Imperial College, London. When he finished there, he knew everyone who mattered and had a Masters in Computer Science to boot. Now he’s head of our cybercrime department. Since he arrived armed with all the latest intel, profits on that front have trebled. He’s going places, that one.’

Heck stared again at the mother and son act. A third party stood close by, occasionally exchanging words with them. He was overweight and rather shabby, fair hair thinning and uncombed, features sallow. He wore an ill-fitting three-piece suit, which hadn’t seen an iron in quite some time. He constantly dabbed sweat from his forehead and wore round-lensed glasses, perched on his nose at a lopsided angle.

He looked familiar, but Heck couldn’t place him. He said as much.

‘Gordon Kramer,’ Marciano replied. ‘London bookie who ran an online gambling ring, but it was all a scam. Cover for money laundering. He organised private tournaments, which allowed London crims to use their online gambling accounts to transfer ill-gotten funds between each other. In the end, the Organised Crime Division took him down. The Corporation might have whacked him, but he was smart enough to keep his gob shut. In the end he got ten and served seven. Inside, he met one of Zara’s goons, who brought him north on his release. The Corporation leave him alone now he’s with us.’

The object of their attention dabbed his forehead again, offering another opinion to Madame Satana and her son, which they appeared to consider.

‘He looks a nervous wreck,’ Heck opined.

‘Prison didn’t suit him. But he set up our cybercrime department. Young Zak runs it now, like I say, and a lot more imaginatively. But Kramer’s still involved. Happy to be Zak’s number two, I suppose. Less pressure on him to make decisions.’

Heck looked further afield, his gaze roving over Haynes and Gilcrist and others like them: Ned Diamond, whose flamboyant lifestyle masked a criminal career that included widespread distribution of narcotics, plus the recruitment of kids to sell inside their own schools; Rocco Smith, a purse-snatcher and house-breaker as a youngster, an armed robber as an adult, though he’d incurred his most recent jail term for beating an elderly man with a spanner during a road rage incident that he himself had provoked.

‘What’s up?’ Marciano said. ‘Tormented? All these villains and all you have to do is reach out and grab them?’ He glanced around to ensure no one was earwigging. ‘It takes some acclimatising to, being one of this lot, I won’t pretend otherwise. But you make deals with the Devil, Heck, and there are perks. We’re up to our elbows in human smegma every day. This morning was only a taste of that. But that’s what we always did. The difference now is you can let off steam in swanky places like this. The difference now is you’re associating with people who are completely worthless in any sense that normal folk would understand, and yet it’s still only spare change to them to make their kids the shining stars of Britain’s most prestigious universities… and that’s a largesse they can be generous with.’ He sat back. ‘The difference this time is your efforts will bring you respect. Not just from the fuckheads on the street-corners who now know for a fact you’ll give them a fat lip if the mood’s on you, but from the fuckheads upstairs… who unlike the last lot who lorded it over you, won’t swan around all day with tea and biscuits while you’re up to your neck in blood and bullets, who won’t hit every politically correct tick-box there is when they’re on telly, and then act like raging tyrants when they’re off it, and who won’t automatically drop people like you and me into the depths of the shitter just to avoid taking any flak themselves.’

‘The Crew are absolute angels,’ Heck replied. ‘That what you’re saying, Ray?’

‘It’s all about being a good soldier, mate. Do your job well, keep your head down, follow orders, and you can have a life you never dreamed of.’

Heck gave it some thought. ‘Don’t they say that when you make deals with the Devil, the ultimate price is your soul?’

Marciano chuckled. ‘You sure you’ve got one to lose, oh expert hunter of men?’

‘That was the job.’

‘Even the ones who died?’

‘Each in the line of duty.’

‘Line of duty… leave it out. The bastards were asking for it and you fucking zapped them. Don’t worry, I’ve done it myself. But while every one of them was a black mark on your record, now it’s a gold star.’

‘We won’t get many of those for today’s work.’ Heck said. ‘You might have forgotten, but we’ve still got an outstanding problem.’

‘Problem?’ Marciano laughed. ‘Get that down your neck and I’ll show you how we solve problems.’

29

‘You fancy driving?’

‘Sure.’ Heck climbed in behind the Volvo’s wheel, Marciano into the front passenger seat. Heck brought the car to life. ‘Where we headed?’

‘Back to Crowley.’

‘If this Seamus guy’s lying low…’

‘That’s his home patch. That’s where we find out where he is.’

As Heck navigated back across the city, Marciano made a phone-call. It was answered swiftly, but he didn’t put it on speaker, so Heck heard nothing of the voice on the other end.

‘Got any of those vehicle recognition camera results I was asking for?’ Marciano said. He tucked the phone under his chin, pulled a pen from his inside pocket and grabbed up the buff folder, scribbling on it. ‘Cheers, matey. That’ll do.’

He cut the call, shoving the phone back inside his jacket.

‘Was that a police officer you were just talking to?’ Heck asked.

Marciano glanced at him. ‘Don’t look surprised. There are more bent buggers in the job than even you might realise. But this one’s particularly useful. A grouchy old git in Salford CID. Some fuckup way back in his past means he’s been overlooked for promotion ever since. Now he’s ours for the asking… so long as the pay’s good and regular.’

Heck said nothing.

In some cases, he understood what had led dirty cops up the path they’d eventually chosen: families they no longer saw, bills they couldn’t pay, supervisors they loathed and detested. But only at this moment did it strike him hard just how quickly and easily bent coppers could make the lives of criminals less complicated.

They re-entered Crowley, and on Marciano’s instruction headed towards the outlying estate of Bullwood. It stood beyond the Aggies, in an isolated corner of town. If anywhere in Crowley brought back memories of those dystopian 1960s/70s misjudgements when blocks of flats were all flung up together, made from substandard concrete, lacking both amenities and bus routes, and with an over-preponderance of problem families, Heck supposed this was the place. They drove in via an underpass wherein almost none of the overhead lights worked, litter and graffiti covering everything.

‘Up the north end of this shithole, there are some playing fields,’ Marciano said. ‘Local charity paid for them, but gangs of scrotes turned up on the first day, looking for fights rather than games of footy. And that’s been the story ever since. There’s no grass there now. Just bricks, bottles and a few scruffy caravans. There’s a local fence, Sid Springburn, lives in one of them. He’s an old guy, seventy odd, specialises in used car parts. He’s also one of young Seamus’s associates.’

‘An old guy in his seventies and a kid in his twenties?’

‘I don’t ask what their relationship is.’ Marciano tucked the buff folder alongside his seat. ‘We’d have got around to him eventually, but thanks to info received, we might as well get up there now. Seems that one of the VRMs I was checking belongs to a knackered old Ford van. Seamus Hoag’s van.’

Back in daylight, Heck slowed down while a bunch of children trickled across the road.

‘Fucking gremlins,’ Marciano said.

‘Shouldn’t they be at school?’ Heck asked.

‘You think anyone around here gives a shit? They want to grow up to be jobless, like daddy before them, and granddaddy before him. That’s if they even know their fucking daddies.’

Heck drove on. ‘You’re a pretty judgemental guy, Ray.’

‘So will you learn to be. You’re not a copper anymore, Heck. Sometime soon you may have to deliver one of these kids to someone who’s going to whack him.’

*

Like Marciano had said, the playing fields, which were accessible up a short flight of steps, were just beaten earth, rubbish and patches of scrub vegetation. Five static caravans were dotted across them.

The one they were looking for was a lopsided box on corroded legs, its windows thick with grime. As they walked over to it, a figure came into view on the left. A paunchy old black guy wearing slippers, trackie bottoms and a stained T-shirt. He was lost in his own world as he lumbered towards the caravan.

‘Perfect timing.’ Marciano veered towards him, and as the guy pulled a key from his pocket, clamped the back of his neck with a hand like a steel claw. ‘How you doing, Sid?’

Springburn twirled, eyes bugging in his pock-marked face. ‘Who are you?’

‘You know who we are. Open the door. Let’s not do this in public, eh?’

Inside, with the exception of a narrow, curtained booth, which presumably contained a toilet, or bucket, the caravan comprised a single room, its dingy, cluttered space boasting a bed, a table and chair, a sideboard with a portable telly on it, a sink and a draining board. The little other space was occupied by clear plastic bags bulging with chop-shop cast offs.

‘I’d like to make this quick.’ Marciano pushed Springburn into the chair. ‘Firstly, because it smells like a marsupial’s armpit in here. Secondly, because you see this guy here? He’s starting to think I’m not very good at my job. And I can’t have that.’

Heck did his best to present a silent, stony façade. It was discomforting to see the terror on the fence’s haggard face, but he was long enough in the tooth to know that this could be deceptive. These old lags were often good actors. They could also be stubborn. Put those two together, and you had an effective pantomime.

‘It’s dead simple,’ Marciano said. ‘Where’s Seamus?’

Springburn gawked, his teeth like yellow, misaligned spades. ‘I don’t know any Seamus.’ He spoke in a nasty smoker’s rasp.

‘Don’t insult us,’ Marciano said. ‘We know you know Seamus, and you know we know.’

‘I don’t… erm, I mean, I… why do you want him?’

‘You know why we want him, Sid. Because he’s been noncing again. You a nonce too?’

Springburn’s eyebrows arched with genuine affront. ‘What you talking about?’

‘Are you a fucking nonce? Or should we go around your neighbours and ask them?’

‘That’s not my line. You know me…’

‘Where’s your little mate?’

‘I swear I don’t know.’

Marciano sighed. ‘Well, someone has to come, Sid. If it’s not going to be your noncey pal, it might as well be you. Be the same punishment of course.’

‘Come on, please…’

Marciano rammed his elbow into the small television screen, smashing it. ‘Don’t give me “please”! We’re after a very bad man. You’re the only one who knows where he is, so that makes you as bad as him.’ He kicked at the doors under the sink, and then even more energetically at the twists of plastic piping, breaking sections of it loose.

‘Stop, please,’ Springburn begged.

Marciano grabbed his T-shirt and lugged him to his feet. ‘Talk to us, you evil old twat!’

‘Alright…’

30

‘Just the kind of place that little shit’d be pulling his next nasty trick,’ Marciano said.

They’d crossed the border into Salford and parked in an unassuming terraced street at the back of a derelict horseshoe of medium-rise flats called Hascombe Court. Heck knew it well. It had once been part of a much larger complex, the Gallows Hill flats. Located on the south side of the M602, quite close to the Bridgewater Canal, the flats, when empty, had been notorious as shooting galleries for smackheads. The bulk of the project had now been bulldozed, and demolition rubble lay in its wake, but Hascombe Court, for some reason, remained. Possibly it hadn’t been as decayed as the rest, and city developers had maybe thought they could renovate it rather than rip it down. It still stood empty and closed up, surrounded by steel fencing, but it didn’t look quite as bad as it had done when it was part of a vast and desolate concrete jungle.

The real problem it posed was its proximity to Gallows Hill Community High.

‘Sizeable middle school like that just the other side of the main road,’ Marciano explained as he locked the car. ‘Perfect plot for him to be doing what he was doing before, back in Crowley.’

They followed a ginnel through to the steel fencing, working their way along this for a hundred yards before coming to the first break. It was clearly manmade; a hacksaw had been used to slice the bolts holding two sections of fence together. They slid through and crossed cinders and dust to the concrete edifice. Entering through a side-door, they ascended a switchback stair. The place was surprisingly clean; there was plenty of graffiti on show, but the last time Heck had been here, near enough every stairwell had been jammed with rubbish bags, while needles and crack vials had strewn the landings. Clearly, the developers had started work.

‘Which flat did Springburn say he was using?’ Marciano asked.

’49,’ Heck replied.

‘Proved talkative in the end, didn’t he?’

Heck didn’t comment on that. He’d hit the old guy. Not hard, not with a fist, more a slap, but a hefty one. The skanky old bastard had already started talking by then, but Heck had pretended that he didn’t believe it, that it was all coming out too easily. In reality of course, he’d done it to impress on Marciano that he was a gangster now, not a copper.

‘This is Seamus’s form all over,’ Marciano said as they reached the third floor. ‘He sets up in places like this, near schools where he’s groomed kids online.’

Heck had heard similar horror stories elsewhere. ‘Does he pay them?’

‘Yep. Drugs or money. Whatever it takes. Like I say, it happened in Crowley a couple of years back. Seamus evaded the law on that occasion but it was a right kerfuffle. They covered it up, but the school got looked at. It wasn’t their fault though. It’s the fucking internet, the Dark Web.’

‘Didn’t think you could get away with quite as much on there, these days,’ Heck said.

‘Depends how good at using it you are. Anyway, even if these youngsters are doing it willingly, for pay, it’s still seriously illegal. And it’ll bring Frank the kind of heat he doesn’t need.’ They reached the fourth floor. Moving to a broken-down fire-door, they gazed along the next gantry. ‘Our target premises will be the one at the far end.’ For the first time Marciano looked wary. He slid his shades into his pocket, drew his Anaconda and cocked it. ‘It usually is.’

‘This guy going to be carrying?’ Heck asked, pulling his Walther.

‘It would make sense. I mean he’s a little fuck. You wouldn’t look twice at him on the street. But he knows what Frank’s rules are. Last time he got a kicking. This time, he knows it’ll be worse.’

They moved along the gantry. Out in the open air again, they could hear the rumble of the motorway, but on this side the gantry looked down sixty feet onto heaps of demolition rubble, the Bridgewater Canal, and then Gallows Hill High. Each aperture they passed, door or window, was clad with steel sheets painted in stark municipal green. But not the entry to No. 49. They slid along to this one with backs against the wall, and when they got close, saw that the steel had been crowbarred loose and was now propped in place.

‘Springburn’s intel’s paying off,’ Marciano mouthed. ‘That smackeroo you gave him was timely.’

Heck nodded, hiding his discomfort. It wasn’t that he hadn’t hit people before. He had, many times. But never some scared old man. That said, Seamus Hoag was supposed to be a skinny little wimp, and yet here they were, guns in hand and sweat on their brows. Suddenly, not having the protection or authority of the real police felt like a distinct disadvantage.

Marciano counted down, then darted to the other side of the door, Anaconda at his chin in a two-handed grip. He glanced at Heck and nodded. Heck yanked the metal down. It landed with a clang, and they went in side-by-side, weapons levelled.

‘Clear!’ Marciano shouted as he checked the empty shell of a room on the right.

‘Clear!’ Heck replied, checking the one on the left.

One by one, they cleared every room until the last one, which was set up for some amateur moviemaking. A double-sized mattress occupied the floor, while there were two cameras on tripods, and several lights, each on its own stand and connected to its own battery pack. None were switched on at this moment, and there was no one at home.

‘Told you,’ Marciano said. ‘Right on the fucking money.’

Heck couldn’t speak. He hadn’t expected that it would pan out like this, and now had to remind himself that Ray Marciano, when he’d been a bona fide DI, had been one of the top thief-takers in the Flying Squad.

‘You wanted evidence?’ Marciano holstered his Anaconda, taking out his phone and photographing the set-up. ‘How about this lot?’

Heck pocketed his own gun. At which point they heard a voice.

They glanced out into the corridor, listening.

It was a young male, clearly on the phone.

They scurried to the front entrance. Heck cringed when he realised that the steel shutter still lay flat. It was too late to do anything about that now. He diverted into the room on the right, weapon drawn again, while Marciano took the one on the left. They heard the approaching voice more clearly. It was reedy, nasally.

‘The chickens’ll be up in an hour. Soon as they’re done for the day. Won’t take us too long. Fifty minutes tops. Look… hey, I know it’s not a lot, but I’ve already got a bunch of stuff in the can. Same thing tomorrow, and the day after, and it’s a wrap. You’ll have everything by the weekend. Yeah… no problem. It’s all sound, trust me. Look… hang on a mo. Hang on a fucking mo. Oh, shit…’

He’d seen the fallen steel.

Heck sensed the shadow in the entranceway. There was a dull clank. Whoever it was, presumably Seamus Hoag, he’d stepped on the metal and was peering inside.

They lurched out both at the same time, grabbed Hoag and yanked him in, bouncing him along the main passage and into the room where the kit had been set up.

The suspect was exactly as Marciano had described. Not far off a kid himself. Jeans and T-shirt. Mid-twenties, thin and weaselly, with a thatch of greasy dark hair, spotty cheeks, wisps of baby hair for a beard and moustache, and a dirty bandage around his left hand. He tried to speak, but Marciano slapped the side of his head hard enough to stun him. He slumped to the floor and they patted him down, discovering that there was no firearm, just the keys to a vehicle and a mobile phone. Marciano pocketed the keys but stood back to check through the last few messages on the phone. Hoag lay groaning.

‘Caught in the act, eh, Seamus?’ Marciano kicked him. ‘If we hang around an hour or so, we’ll even meet the stars of the show, won’t we? What’s that paedo term you just used… “chickens”? What age group we talking this time? Twelve? Thirteen? With you the director. Fucking little perve.’ He kicked the prostrate figure again. ‘I suppose we should be glad they’re not pre-teens, eh?’

‘I never touch pre-teens,’ Hoag whined.

‘Get up,’ Heck said. ‘Now.’

The kid did so, hands raised, grimacing in both fear and pain.

‘Don’t worry, Seamus,’ Marciano said. ‘We’re not going to kill you here. Course, if we have to…’

The kid’s eyes darted about, his thin features greasy with sweat. ‘Listen… you take me in and I’ve…’

‘You’ve had it?’ Marciano finished for him. ‘It’s a fair estimate. If we were real coppers, you probably wouldn’t be safe either. But what’s really going to hurt, Seamus, is that big Frank told you to desist. I mean, you know us… we encourage private enterprise. But… not this, mate.’

Hoag shook his head. ‘They’ll kill me.’

‘Shame you didn’t think of that before.’

‘Look, I can give you something. Something bigger than this. A lot bigger.’

‘A lot bigger, eh?’ Heck said. ‘We’re all ears…’

‘No, we’re not!’ Marciano cut in, giving Heck a disapproving stare. ‘You don’t do that anymore, remember?’

‘You sure?’ Hoag asked them. ‘Because Mr McCracken might want to know about this. This is really bad. Look, no one gives a shit about a bunch of teens diddling each other. It happens all the time, with or without adults filming it. But this… this is something else. It could bring the whole fucking show down…’

‘Save it for someone who’s interested.’ Marciano tucked his gun away, producing a pair of cuffs and spinning him around to face the wall. But he was off-balance for half a moment, still clutching the phone in one hand. And that was all Hoag needed to break free, snatching the device back and charging pell mell for the door.

‘Fuck!’ Marciano shouted.

As the kid went, he tripped over one of the lighting stands. The bulb landed explosively, glass flying, Hoag toppling against the wall. For a second or so, Heck had his Walther trained two-handed on the half-fallen figure. He could have squeezed the trigger there and then… except of course that he couldn’t.

And then Hoag was off, dashing out of sight along the main corridor.

‘Fuck!’ Marciano blundered out after him. He glared at Heck. ‘Why didn’t you shoot?’

‘I’m not shooting someone if I can catch them instead.’ Heck barged past him.

Out on the gantry, the kid had gone left. He broke stride only to fling his mobile out into the void, specifically towards the canal, which it landed in cleanly, before haring off at full speed. But it was still a fatal error. Ahead, the gantry ended at a bare concrete wall. There was a left-hand turn in front of it, which Hoag took, though it led him past several more steel-clad entrances, and then ended at a waist-high wall. Beyond it there was another sixty-foot drop, this one down into a courtyard enclosed by further tiers of flats.

When Heck and Marciano arrived, the kid was straddling the wall.

‘Hey dickhead!’ Heck shouted. ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’

The bulging eyes in the rodent-like face gave him a terrified stare, before the fugitive lowered himself over the parapet, hanging by his hands. The hands themselves then vanished.

‘Climbing down to the next level,’ Marciano said, doubling back.

‘He’ll never make it!’ Heck continued to the end of the passage.

When he looked over the parapet, the kid had done reasonably well. Courtesy of a loose cable that had come untacked from the bricks, he was several feet down. But it was all sheer. There were no foot or handholds. Heck couldn’t even see the opening some ten feet below where the corresponding passage on the third level ended.

Almost inevitably, the cable then snapped.

Heck didn’t even touch it.

With a twang like a bowstring, it suddenly wasn’t there.

Instinctively, he glanced away from the tumbling, dwindling shape.

When he finally looked back, something that resembled a bundle of rags lay far below amid a spreading pool of crimson.

31

Heck stepped back into the shadows, sweating. The phone rang in his pocket. It was Marciano.

‘What just happened?’ the ex-cop asked.

Glancing down again, Heck saw his partner’s head sticking out on the third level.

He remained shaken, but was already wondering how he might turn this to his advantage. ‘I… I hit him. Little bastard grabbed me. Tried to drag me over. So, I hit him.’

‘You hit him? Two minutes ago, you wouldn’t pull a fucking trigger!’

‘I didn’t mean him to fall…’

Marciano sighed. ‘It’s nothing we can’t handle. I’ll meet you back in the flat.’

Heck didn’t have as far to go to get back to No. 49, but Marciano arrived there a short time later. He indicated the lights and cameras. ‘We’ve got to move all this kit.’

‘Any reason?’

‘It’s a suicide.’ Marciano started gathering equipment. ‘Some fucking nonce finally decided he hated himself too much. Chucked himself off a balcony. No mystery, no loss. But if all this kit’s here, it’ll indicate he was on the job. Not only that… that he actually had his shit together because he was running a network and making a living. Not very likely he’d be feeling guilty.’

Heck didn’t dispute any of that. It was quick thinking. They got everything together they could, though they had to leave the mattress and bits of broken bulb, and ferried it down from one level to the next, moving warily, always checking around corners first. According to their watches, the schools were out, and the chickens might soon be here. For the same reason, there was no possibility they could go searching for Hoag’s mobile, though most likely it would be in scattered pieces.

‘From what Springburn told us, the little bastard was living in his van,’ Marciano said, as they slid through the fence and rejoined the housing estate. ‘That’s going to be around here somewhere. I’d like to torch it, but it’s too late. With luck, it’ll be a pigsty. Full of chip wrappers, beer cans, kiddie porn. That’ll add to the cover story.’

This made sense, but Heck was relieved when they were back in the Volvo, having stowed the lights and cameras in the boot. As they drove away, he realised that he was still pumping sweat. He also felt sick.

Marciano slipped his shades back on and brushed his hair flat. ‘On reflection, you did the right thing not popping him inside the flat. We’d have been left with a body we couldn’t move, bullet fragments, probably a fatal wound not directly through the brain. Would have made it a lot harder for our mates in the fuzz to make this thing go away.’

Heck was only partly listening, unsure whether his nausea owed to what had just happened or a realisation that for the first time in his life he was approaching this thing from the villain’s perspective, which felt so fundamentally wrong.

‘Don’t fret,’ Marciano said, noticing how pale he was. ‘Think what that little shit was doing. Facilitating child prostitution, making and distributing child porn. You saying he deserved anything less?’

Heck knew that he had to put a lid on this “good guy gone bad but not quite bad enough” routine. ‘I’m more annoyed than upset, if you want the truth.’

‘Annoyed?’

‘For fuck’s sake, he was trying to tell us something. Something important, or so he said.’

‘He was trying to save his own skin.’

‘Which is how it always happened. Or have you forgotten already? They’re facing a bad outcome, so they turn snitch. And who benefits? We do.’

Marciano shook his head. ‘We had one job today. Bring in Seamus Hoag. That’s the way it works. Besides, that little scumbag would’ve spun us any old line.’

‘Don’t you think we should at least have listened?’

‘What you’ve got to ask yourself, Heck, is can a nonce ever be allowed to trade?’

‘That’s bollocks, Ray. We should’ve found out what he knew.’

Marciano had reddened. ‘We can ask around, I suppose. No harm there.’

‘Maybe it’s connected to the tunnel shootings?’

It was quite a while before Marciano replied to this. When he did, he seemed calmer, more thoughtful. ‘That why you’re here, Heck? You working Hobhall Tunnel undercover?’

‘Yeah, fucking sure. I went through that whole farrago in Scotland just so that GMP, a force that hates me and who I hate right back, would be well prepared for the next major robbery-homicide that occurs on their patch.’

‘Relax, I’m kidding.’ Marciano drove on. ‘The tunnel shooting’s nothing to do with us. I know there was a lot of cash and gear involved, but they were two smaller outfits. And we don’t care if smaller outfits wipe each other out, so long as we still get our cut. If that arrives, everything will be fine.’

‘You saying it hasn’t?’

‘The top floor is patient. But if they decide… when they decide it isn’t coming, then we’ll be mobilised. Just out of interest, what’s your beef with GMP? You were GMP yourself.’

‘You know about my brother, Tom, don’t you?’

Marciano shrugged. ‘Topped himself in jail after going down for something he didn’t do?’

‘There was quite a bit of police culpability.’

‘There usually is.’

‘This goes deep.’

‘We’ve plenty time.’

Heck sat back. ‘Tom was my older brother. Hippie-type user. So, my father chucked him out. I mean, Dad wasn’t really a tyrant, but he didn’t know how to deal with it. Tom was bumming around… squats, shelters. Finally got locked up for burglary. Bradburn park café. While he was in custody, local CID framed him for a series of aggravated burglaries during which the OAP victims were beaten…’

‘That’s right,’ Marciano said. ‘Didn’t they call the perp the Granny Basher?’

‘The press did. The investigation team didn’t have much evidence, and what they did, I suspect was planted. But they also forced a confession out of Tom, who’d have done and said anything for his next fix. Also, I think the idea of prison didn’t faze him. Roof over his head, three meals a day. Course, it didn’t go easy for him when he was inside. Not on those charges. He was still young. Good looking lad, I suppose, for all his dodgy lifestyle. Got attacked every day. Either battered or arse-raped, or both. When he topped himself, it was in the prison shower. One week before a uniformed patrol caught the real Granny Basher red-handed.

Marciano whistled. ‘Your folks should’ve got some good compo.’

‘They did, but they didn’t get justice. The arrest team’s paperwork was all straight, no one at the nick saw anything amiss…’

‘Looking the other way?’

‘What else? This was the Granny Basher, who’d terrorised the town’s retired community for months. On top of that, Tom had looked a teensy bit like the photo-fit… and then there was that confession.’

Marciano frowned. ‘You in the job while this was going on?’

‘Mate, I was fifteen.’

‘So, you joined up later?’ Marciano looked astounded. ‘After what they did?’

Heck glanced away. Of all the demons that haunted him, this was the most personal. He’d only ever revealed this part of his past to Gemma Piper.

‘There was an issue,’ he said. ‘Between me and Dad. As a youngster, I was a lad about town. Star athlete, county rugby league player. I was popular at school, popular around the neighbourhood. Dad was proud as punch. In contrast, he hated what Tom had become. After Tom died though, he had a kind of breakdown… everything got swapped around in his head. Suddenly Tom had been the golden boy, and I was the loser who’d wasted time with my rugby mates instead of getting an education. I was ostracised. In retaliation… stupid thing, but I was immature, I joined the job. Don’t need to tell you that, after that, my ostracization became complete. Just about no one I knew wanted to talk to me.’

‘At least the job worked out though, eh?’

‘Didn’t in GMP. I soon realised I wasn’t wanted in the northwest. So, I asked for reassignment to the Met.’

‘Where the streets really were paved with gold, eh?’

‘Under the shit, yeah. And the chewing gum. And the condom wrappers.’

‘Just out of interest, who were these hammerheads who fitted your brother up?’

‘The ringleader was a surly bastard. DI Jake Scutter.’

Marciano’s eyebrows arched for a long half-second. And then he barked with laughter.

‘I realise you’re just the sort to find humour in personal tragedy,’ Heck said. ‘But I don’t quite see…’

‘No… sorry, mate. Sorry.’ Marciano snickered again. ‘Not laughing at that, I promise. Just… check this out.’ He raised his phone, tapped in the access code – 1655, Heck noted – switched it to speaker, and placed a call. It was answered quickly, a gruff voice with a thick Mancunian brogue blurting out. ‘Not a good time, Ray.’

‘Doesn’t matter what time it is, as you know perfectly well,’ Marciano replied. ‘So, how’re tricks today, Jake?’

Heck glanced around. Marciano couldn’t resist a broad grin. ‘Direct some uniforms to Hascombe Court, and you’ll find a dead nonce. Name of Seamus Hoag.’

There was a brief silence. ‘We will, will we?’

‘It was accidental, as your SCIs will confirm. But just in case anything sus arises… shouldn’t, but just in case it does… make sure you do a job for us, yeah? In the meantime, I’d like a list of this guy’s known associates. Obviously, the sooner plod finds the body, the sooner you can do some digging without anyone asking why.’

‘If it’s one of your lot, won’t you know everything already?’ the voice wondered.

‘That’s not always the case, is it? We want to know if he had any other friends.’

‘What shit are you getting me into here, Ray?’

‘No shit at all,’ Marciano said. ‘You’ve got a sudden death, which the Coroner is going to judge either misadventure or suicide. You just go through the motions and get me that list like a good lad.’

He cut the call, grinning again as he drove them into Crowley.

Heck gazed at him, tingling. He wouldn’t have recognised the voice, but with the other clues: the first name, Marciano’s amusement… ‘DI Jake Scutter’s your pet cop?’

‘He’s DS Jake Scutter now. And he’s transferred to Salford CID. How convenient is that?’

‘He must be bloody ancient…?’

‘He’s only got ten years longer in the job than you had. He’s got to do another five before he qualifies for his full pension, and these days they encourage you to stay on anyway. Too many rats leaving the sinking ship.’

Heck looked to his front, still tingling, feeling compromised in more ways than one. From this point on, if anything happened to Jake Scutter, if he was injured or outed as bent, the Crew would have every reason to think him responsible.

‘If you thought Scutter was a surly bastard before,’ Marciano said, ‘you should see him now. Three decades in and a whole bunch of nobodies get promoted past him. No wonder he’s so bitter. Nothing to do with him having convicted an innocent who subsequently died in jail, of course. Hey, maybe that’s why he got demoted?’

Heck stared frontward. ‘We didn’t hear about it if it was.’

Marciano mused. ‘A grub like that’s bound to have fucked up in other ways. Main thing is, bet you feel you owe him, eh?’

‘It was a long time ago. We are where we are.’

Marciano laughed. ‘Yeah, and where we are is all on the same side. You, me and Jake Scutter. Who’d have thought it, eh?’

Heck said nothing.

*

‘Malcolm Peabody?’ Lucy said, dismayed. ‘I asked for Des Barton!’

In the Main Event MIR, which was noisy with phone-calls and urgent conversations, her outburst went unnoticed by most. Detective Superintendent Nehwal, who only that day had secured her an attachment to the tunnel enquiry, looked too distracted to be irritated by it, glancing instead through a bunch of signed documents that one of her underlings had just dumped in her arms.

‘Ma’am!’ Lucy protested. ‘I’ve worked with Des before.’

‘You’ve worked with Peabody too, as I recall.’ Nehwal continued reading.

‘Malcolm Peabody’s a kid. I’m the one who puppy-walked him, for God’s sake!’

As far as Lucy was concerned, Peabody’s inexperience, plus the quality of the opposition – one of Heck’s recent sporadic messages had informed her that the Crew, who were big enough adversaries on their own, had now strengthened their ranks with some badass ex-London supercop called Marciano – was a disaster waiting to happen.

Nehwal merely shuffled the papers. ‘You can’t have Barton. He’s married, he’s got children.’

‘We’re not the ones who’ll be in harm’s way.’

‘Not the point.’ Nehwal headed into her office. Lucy hurried after her, the door closing behind them. ‘You want this kept confidential?’ Nehwal said. ‘Well, family men are easier to get to. Most coppers don’t get bought because they’re bent, Lucy. It’s because they’re broke.’

‘Malcolm Peabody’s got no experience of this kind of operation.’

‘Neither have you.’ The DSU sat and booted up her laptop. ‘Far as I’m concerned, you’d both better hope Heckenburg knows what he’s doing. Otherwise, you’re all going to be swinging by the neck.’

*

‘No,’ Marciano said, in response to Zara Ballantyne’s question. ‘Apart from this “bad thing” he hinted at, he didn’t say anything else that made sense.’

‘That makes sense?’ Ballantyne replied sceptically.

They were back in the Northern Quarter club, though the Head of Security was now seated on a stool at the main bar rather than holding court in a side-lounge, Saul Baylock standing behind her. This was the first time Heck had heard her speak. She didn’t just resemble a femme fatale, her voice was deep and husky, her accent cut-glass. Of course, elocution was an advanced art-form these days.

Marciano shrugged. ‘Something to think about, I suppose.’

‘Pity he’s dead, eh? I mean otherwise you could ask him.’

‘I explained how it happened.’

‘Yes, sure. It was a complete accident.’ She turned her gaze on Heck. ‘Apart from the bit where you punched his lights out while he was hanging by his fingernails?’

‘I had no choice,’ Heck replied. ‘It was him or both of us.’

‘Saves a bullet, I suppose.’ She glanced at Marciano again. ‘Just make sure that rent-a-cop of yours cleans it up.’

Marciano nodded.

‘What about this… “bad thing”?’ Heck asked.

She sipped her blood-red cocktail. ‘Sounds like the sort of tripe any idiot would come up with if he thought it might buy him some extra time. Suppose it won’t hurt to keep your ears open. Aside from that… job done.’ She waved them off.

‘And that’s it?’ Heck said, as they took a beer each into a side-room.

‘No,’ Marciano replied. ‘We stay on it till it’s squared away.’

He found them a corner, grabbed his phone and contacted Scutter, this time on FaceTime. Heck was tense. He and Scutter had never officially met, but he knew the corrupt bastard would recognise him. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, of course; it wasn’t as if Heck was pretending to be someone he wasn’t. But just to avoid any potential complications he kept out of the way. Not that it wasn’t tempting to try and catch a glimpse of the copper who’d done so much to destroy the Heckenburg family.

What he saw made no impression. A balding head, a saggy, jowly face. Callous piggy-eyes. A small mouth, a flat nose. The perfect visage for a sullen, resentful oaf, for a guy in his early fifties who spent every minute complaining about his unfortunate lot in life and how he’d achieved nothing through the fault of others.

‘How we doing?’ Marciano asked.

Scutter replied: ‘If it looks like a suicide, sounds like a suicide, and you can write it up as a suicide, it’s a fucking suicide, isn’t it. Especially when it’s a shithead like Seamus Hoag. Nonce, tealeaf… no one who matters gives a fuck about him.’

‘What about his family?’

Scutter laughed. ‘Hoag’s family are the best part. He got temporarily taken into care when he was a nipper because his mum and dad were pimping him out.’

‘What?’

‘I know. It’d run your blood cold if it hadn’t been a bunch of total scrotes. When he was six, he told his teachers that his parents – Harold and Lilac – kept taking him to a place called Jollywood, derelict farmhouse out in the sticks, where customers would arrive and pay for the privilege of abusing him. There were other parents there too, supposedly, with their own kids, but he couldn’t name them. The whole thing’s as sordid as it fucking gets. Least, it would have been if it was true.’

Marciano looked confused. ‘So… it wasn’t true?’

‘I dunno. Who fucking cares. The main thing is they couldn’t prove it. Harold and Lilac ended up doing time for something equally sickening. Used to go around the shitbag parts of town, paying calls on braindead single mums. Harold would wear a suit and call himself a social worker, while Lilac wore a nurse get-up. Needless to say, the children they were there to examine got well-molested.’

‘Sound like a special pair,’ Marciano said.

‘They were active online too, posting their homemade stuff, some of it illegal, all of it XXX. No wonder the lad ended up diddling nippers. He’d never known anything else. Anyway, he’s no one’s problem now, which I call a fucking result. Give us a shout if you need anything else.’

Scutter cut the call, and Marciano sat back. ‘Still feel bad about Seamus Hoag’s death?’ he asked. ‘That was some verminous seed that needed wiping from the Earth.’

‘Hmm,’ Heck grunted. ‘There’s nothing like learning how badly life treated someone to make you feel glad their death was horrible too.’

Marciano was about to reply when his phone pinged. He read the message.

‘Don’t make any plans for tonight,’ he said. ‘You know the Jacks and Knaves nightclub? Castlefield?’

‘I can find it.’

Marciano stood up, pocketing his phone. ‘Be there for ten.’

‘What can I expect?’ Heck asked.

‘That’s the fun part of this job.’ Marciano slugged his beer down. ‘You never know.’

32

It hadn’t been a comfortable conversation with Gwen Straker.

After a day like this one, Heck had opted to ring her and impart the info personally rather than email his daily report. She’d accepted his assertion that Seamus Hoag’s death had been accidental but had pointed out that as Heck could hardly go and explain what had happened at the Greater Manchester Coroner’s Court, and as deliberately withholding evidence from an inquest was an imprisonable offence, this meant they’d have to postpone the hearing to accommodate that ever popular delaying tactic, ‘an ongoing police investigation’. In itself, that was a simple administrative matter, but it meant that someone at the Coroner’s Court would need to be informed there were undercover assets in the field, which would always be a security risk, while questions were bound to be asked by the Crew, who’d been assured by Jake Scutter that the whole thing would go through smoothly. At the same time, someone was going to need to advise Gallows Hill High about the activities of some of its students, which would be a very delicate matter. On the upside, none of this needed to happen imminently. They had a couple of weeks’ breathing space. On the downside, it still meant that Heck would need to come up with something very soon.

It was a rarity for Gwen to get angry, though on this occasion she was clearly struggling. She knew that it wasn’t Heck’s fault. He’d been put in a near-impossible position, but the incident at Harcombe Court had underlined the potential this case had for serious ramifications. She didn’t say it, but Heck knew that she’d already be wondering if anyone given so vague a brief could possibly secure a result that would justify outcomes like these.

‘Sorry to hit you with another request, ma’am,’ he said as he drove. ‘But I’m going to need everything you can get me on two known sex-cases. Harold and Lilac Hoag, husband-and-wife team who did time for offending against children.’

Gwen was quiet for a moment.

‘They’re obviously connected to this guy, Seamus?’ she said.

‘Their son. And one of their victims allegedly, though that was never proved.’

She sighed. This didn’t just mean more work for her (though it would, as the high level of classification meant that it couldn’t simply be allocated to the SCU Intelligence Officer), it implied that the Hoags might be relevant to the case, and therefore the death of the family’s youngest member was not just going to be something everyone could forget about.

‘You’re going to tell me what you want this intel for, aren’t you?’ she asked.

‘Call it gut… hunch.’

‘Oh, great!’

‘Ma’am, we’ve got a known offender against children who died by accident when the local firm sent an enforcer round to slap him. That’d be Zara Ballantyne’s defence. We’d be lucky if she even got fined. What Seamus Hoag himself was up to was disgusting, but there’s no one to prosecute for that – he’s dead and as his phone, which is almost certainly a burner, is now at the bottom of the Bridgewater Canal, and the SIM card will likely be kaput even if you could retrieve it, there’s no visible connection to anyone further up the food-chain. I could bring Marciano in, I suppose. He wouldn’t be a bad catch, but he won’t talk.’

‘Marciano’s facing life,’ she replied. ‘You sure he won’t talk?’

‘Yeah. No amount of nice letters to the judge will keep him out of jail. Even if he gave us everything. And with the Crew on his tail, no high security wing could keep him safe. Rather than face that, he’ll clam up and do his time. That’s if he doesn’t go down all guns blazing.’

‘So, we’re going with your gut.’

‘Two different sources have now told me there’s something bad going on in Crew country.’

‘Heck, even the term “vague” doesn’t cover that.’

‘It’s all we’ve got.’

‘What makes you think this kid, Seamus, wasn’t just some gossip merchant?’

‘Because he knew stuff the Crew’s own policeman didn’t. The word can’t be travelling widely. Of course, he could’ve been lying. Making shit up. That’s my point. We won’t know unless we check.’

‘What does Lucy Clayburn think?’

‘Thus far, she hasn’t been as much use as either I or she would’ve liked. To maintain cover, she’s been working nights and trying to help out during the day whenever possible, which hasn’t been often. I got a text from her earlier, though. Seems that now you and her gaffer have got your heads together…’

‘Knocking heads together would be a better way of putting it. She’s a rough customer, that Superintendent Nehwal.’

‘Whatever, Lucy’s back on days. Officially, she’s attached to the Hobhall Tunnel shootings. Unofficially, she’s ours.’

‘What does she think about the Hoag lead?’

‘I’ve not had a chance to discuss it with her yet. Look, ma’am… all we can do is look into it. If there’s nothing there, we move on.’

‘I’ll get you the intel. Just, please, Mark… make something happen soon.’

She cut the call as he arrived on the southern outskirts of Crowley. He pulled up on a quiet country lane, close to a break in the trees on the right-hand side. From here, beyond a low fence, a broad meadow led to a distant clutter of redbrick buildings.

Glad to be back in his scruffs and trainers, he climbed from the Puma and locked it, waded through some verge-side undergrowth and straddled the fence.

Online info about the alleged Hoag links to Jollywood Farm had been scant, mainly because no charges had ever been pressed regarding the supposed events there. He strode out across level pasture. The grass was thick and tussocky, but a faint path led across it. If the farm had been abandoned way back in 2004, the house was little more than a shell now, large sections of its roof having fallen in, joists showing like rotted ribs.

He walked around the exterior first. Some of the window frames retained fragments of the planks that had once been nailed across them, but others were gaping apertures, and through these he gazed into roofless rooms ankle-deep in rubble. At the third or fourth corner, he halted, wondering if he’d just heard something.

A brief clatter. Like bricks falling over.

He listened again but heard nothing else. Prowling on, he came to an entrance, the door itself lying flat. He edged inside, glancing through the gaps overhead, seeing a sky turning from blue to purple. Dusk was falling.

Through a window on his right, he could see across the meadow to his parked vehicle. It seemed a long way off, which made him feel unsure why he was here.

What was he going to learn from this place?

Someone must own it, yet whoever they were, they’d neglected it for so long it had all but disintegrated. He roved through the decayed rooms. Harold and Lilac Hoag had supposedly brought their underage son here to be the focal point of cult-like sex orgies. Numerous paedophiles had allegedly visited under cover of night to abuse this helpless child, and others like him. Or so the stories had told. Greater Manchester Police had looked into it, but hadn’t found any evidence, and yet both Harold and Lilac had later been jailed for other equally vile offences, so it seemed possible there was at least a smattering of truth.

He turned into a room that was darker than many others because its ceiling was intact, and where, as a result, much of the wallpaper remained in place. Directly facing him on that paper was a trickly red handprint. He took out his phone, activated its light, and saw that the print had been made in blood. It wasn’t recent; the blood had congealed, but it was red rather than brown, so it wasn’t old.

There were similar markings on other parts of the walls, also made in blood.

He pivoted, light in hand. An eye occupied the centre of a pentacle. A body had been nailed upside down on a cross, its legs indecently spread. A goat’s head with curved horns sat above a single scribbled word.

ASTAROTH

Vandals most likely. Idiots with nothing else to do. Nevertheless, Heck found himself drawn forward, peering into the goat’s face. At its disconcertingly humanoid features.

And then a female screamed.

Deafeningly.

Right in his ear.

He spun, and five feet to his left saw the upper half of a woman looking in through a window. She was somewhere in her early thirties, about 5ft8, wearing a suede jacket over a cream blouse. She had a mop of brown ringlets, wide, dark eyes and a gaping mouth. Whether she’d been shocked to see him in there was uncertain, but her gaze was now rivetted on the gruesome imagery.

Then she was gone, stumbling away.

‘Whoa… wait!’ Heck hurried out of the room, struggling over bricks and broken planks, before spying another open doorway. It was entirely fortuitous as he tottered out through it that the woman was coming towards him from the left. She stumbled to a halt, standing there rigid, ready to bolt.

‘It’s okay.’ Heck raised his hands. ‘I’m a police officer.’

He pulled out the cancelled warrant card. He activated the phone-light again and shone it on himself, offering his most endearing smile. He hadn’t suffered any facial injuries today, so she might even mistake him for an okay guy.

She didn’t show it, clearly determined to keep a good ten yards between them.

As well as the suede jacket and T-shirt, she wore tight jeans and white training shoes. She was trim and shapely. She was also, as he’d already observed, exceedingly pretty.

‘I knew I shouldn’t have come here.’ Her voice was querulous. She was very frightened.

‘It’s okay,’ Heck said. ‘It really is.’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘It really isn’t.’

33

Despite Lucy Clayburn’s complaints, PC Malcolm Peabody wasn’t a kid. He’d been in the job several years, but she would always struggle to think of him as anything more than a rookie because when he’d been a probationer, she’d been his tutor constable.

As often happened when two cops were saddled up together for a lengthy period, they’d developed a firm but unusual kind of bond. Even though there was only a decade between them, Lucy was the old hand who knew the job, Peabody the student who for the first few months at least had had to do nothing except follow her instructions. And yet, despite that, they’d soon come to rely on each other, Lucy making particular use of her sidekick’s physical attributes. Peabody was rangy, raw-boned and fit, and had proved himself fearless in confrontations with suspects. So, when her expertise hadn’t been enough, he’d provided the muscle. In due course he’d drawn confidence from this, and when his probation was over, had struck out on his own, learning the job like everyone else, by trial and error.

Their relationship now wasn’t so much teacher and pupil as stern older sister and wise-ass younger brother. He’d still defer to her in most things (Lucy was an experienced detective as well, while he was still in uniform), but he was growing in his role and didn’t like being bossed around, especially when the other copper responsible was his first real mate in the job.

‘So, we’re just providing back-up to a CHIS?’ he said.

Initially he’d been delighted to come out of uniform and be put into plain clothes, though he’d been wary that he was being assigned to work with Lucy. The last time this had happened, he’d got walloped on the noggin and needed twenty stitches in his scalp.

‘Not quite,’ she said, driving. ‘We’re giving DC Heckenburg support, but we’re going to need to be flexible.’

‘Okay, but…’

‘Malcolm, just listen, yeah?’

He clamped his mouth shut. Ahead, the angular shapes of Bullwood’s tower blocks ascended into the spring twilight.

‘I’ve never been content to just be a reactive copper,’ she said. ‘As you know.’

Peabody rubbed at the top of his head.

‘I prefer to be proactive,’ she added, ‘which means that the last text I received from DS Heckenburg has got me thinking. There’s something in the air. Something bad. Which is exactly the same thing a Crew contact of mine recently mentioned.’

He brightened up. ‘So we’re doing some actual investigating?’

‘We are.’

‘Cool. Who’s the Crew contact.’

‘You know Benny Bartholomew?’

He shook his head.

‘A one-time enforcer, who could have crushed both our skulls with his bare hands.’

‘That’s… erm, okay.’

‘Don’t worry. His best days are past him. And he isn’t affiliated to the Crew anymore. One other thing. All I’ve got is his home address, which is just ahead of us… and it’s a toss-up whether or not we’ll find him here. Sadly, if he’s got a scrap of brain matter, we won’t.’

*

Benny B’s address was in a concrete monolith standing on open ground. As night had fallen, it was spangled with lights, but it still looked basic and austere.

Lucy parked and she and Peabody advanced on the lone building together. They’d dressed down for the occasion, she in her leather biker jacket, T-shirt and jeans, he also in jeans, plus a patched-up sweater and raggedy anorak. The front door was two grimy glass panels, currently standing closed. Ordinarily, this would present a problem. Most of the names on the keypad were unreadable, if their bells even worked, and so the cops would need to pick one at random and hope the buzzer would sound without anyone bothering to check who they were admitting. But as they approached, they spied a thin woman with ratty, straggling hair, wearing an overlarge poncho, heading to the doors from the other side.

Lucy hauled Peabody out of the way, throwing her arms around him and planting her lips on his. He responded with surprise but then played along as the doors clunked open. The woman emerged from the building, barely even looking. Lucy stuck her arm out before the doors could close, and broke free from Peabody, insinuating herself through the gap.

Peabody followed but looked miffed.

‘Can you imagine if I’d done that to you?’ he said. ‘There’d be hell to pay.’

‘Don’t be so priggish. And don’t pretend you didn’t like it.’

‘I’m not saying I didn’t like it. Bit inappropriate, though.’

‘That woman was Sandy McCrollick. A known drugs mule. If she’d recognised me, she’d have phoned any mates of hers upstairs to let them know we’re here. The next thing, they’d have been shouting “Pigs” up and down the stairwells.’

‘Well… okay.’

‘So, it served a purpose, plus you enjoyed it. What’s not to love?’

He followed her across the lobby, pink cheeked. The lift was marked ‘Out of Order’, which seemed inevitable given that Benny B’s address was on the sixth floor. They ascended via a switchback staircase, the lighting so poor they weren’t even able to read the squiggles of graffiti on the bare concrete walls. However, the building was quiet. When they reached Benny’s floor, they’d still seen and heard no one.

Again, only a couple of overhead bulbs were working, fizzling and guttering, eerie shadows running the length of the Spartan passageway. They walked down it. More graffiti adorned the walls and doors.

‘If this ex-enforcer’s at home,’ Peabody said, ‘is he going to be pleased to see us?’

‘Nope,’ Lucy replied. ‘Though, of late, I’ve been winding him round my little finger.’

‘Yeah?’

‘No, not really. He wanted to hurt the Crew. I provided the means, but suddenly it’s not that simple. I wouldn’t say he stitched us up, but he was economic about what he knew. At least, that’s my suspicion. And it won’t do.’

‘And if it cuts up?’

‘Why do you think I asked for you?’

‘Brilliant.’

They arrived at No. 63, and Lucy knocked on the door.

No one answered. Neither at the first knock, the second, nor the third.

After the fourth, she lay down flat and tried to align her left eye with the crack along the bottom. But saw only blackness. She got up, dusting herself down. ‘Wasn’t entirely sure Benny would have the sense to skedaddle. But even dumb animals can scent danger.’

They knocked on a couple more doors, but no one responded.

‘So that’s it?’ Peabody asked as they descended.

‘Benny’s a lummox, but he’s connected,’ Lucy said. ‘He could have a hundred hidey holes across the northwest. That’s if he’s on the lam. Knowing Benny, he could just as easily have gone on the piss.’ They left the building. ‘But even then, I wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘No one else we can approach?’

They climbed into the car, Lucy switching the engine on.

‘We can’t start questioning people everywhere we turn, Malcolm. This thing’s on a need-to-know, remember. You’ve no idea how honoured you and me are to be part of it.’

‘I don’t feel very honoured.’ He eyed the desolate ghostliness of the surrounding flats.

They drove down a cobbled lane called Maybury Hill. A row of terraced houses stood on the left, a single building on the right at the bottom, a dingy-looking pub with frosted glass windows. It was as they cruised past that Lucy spotted the shield hanging over its front door, and the image emblazoned there.

It might have come from a Motorhead album. It was the snarling head of a wild boar, but made from steel, with chains hanging from its tusks and pinpoints of fire for eyes.

She braked, the Jimny slithering to a halt.

‘Everything okay?’ Peabody asked.

‘The Iron Pig. Benny mentioned this place a couple of days ago.’ She smiled. ‘It’s only his bloody local.’

34

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ the woman said. ‘If these are private premises, I didn’t realise. My car’s over on Packhorse Road. I’ll go now. I’m sorry.’

Heck’s own vehicle was parked on a road called Sharples Lane, so the woman had evidently come from the other side of the meadow.

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s not private as far as I’m aware.’

‘I need to go anyway.’ She made to walk around him, but only by giving him wide berth.

‘Please don’t be scared.’ He flashed his warrant card again. ‘Like I say, I’m a cop. I realise that doesn’t bring the comfort it once would. Detective Sergeant Heckenburg.’

The woman gave a quick, nervous smile. ‘Nice to meet you.’ She kept walking.

Heck followed, but kept a good ten-to-fifteen yards between them. ‘Excuse me for asking, miss… don’t worry, I’ll keep my distance. Is this place of some interest to you?’

‘Not really,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Not anymore.’

‘But it was once?’

She stopped and turned. ‘Am I suspected of something?’

‘No… it’s nothing like that.’ Heck waved it away, even though she was obviously here for a reason. No one came to a place like this at dusk for nothing. ‘But I could do with knowing a bit more about Jollywood Farm.’

She glanced towards the ruin, which was rapidly losing definition in the creeping darkness. ‘I’ve no idea who owns it, but it’s been like this for ages.’

‘Looks like it’s attracted a few oddballs over the years.’

She shuddered. ‘Horrible stuff. I don’t know what the hell people think is so funny about family tragedies.’

‘Family tragedies?’

She regarded him. ‘You’re a police officer, you say?’

He showed her his card again. She looked at it harder but there was nothing on the card itself to indicate that it was no longer in force.

‘You’re not…?’ She seemed unsure. ‘You’re not by any chance investigating a recent suicide?’

‘I am,’ Heck said, ‘as it happens.’

‘Seamus Hoag?’

‘That’s correct.’

Her shoulders sagged, and she pulled a handkerchief from her jacket pocket, dabbing at her eyes. ‘Anything…’ she took a second to get herself under control. ‘Anything you can tell me would be very much appreciated. I’m Timandra Hoag. Seamus’s older sister.’

Heck felt his guts sinking. So much for the nonce having no one who cared about him. Though it was a shock. Even from the momentary contact he’d had thus far, this lady wasn’t quite what he’d have expected.

‘Shall we go to the road?’ he said. ‘At least then we can both see who we’re talking to.’

She nodded, still dabbing at her eyes. They strolled towards Packhorse Road, which Heck could now see more clearly because the streetlights had come on.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said.

‘It’s just… I’ve come straight here from identifying the body. He was… he was in quite a mess. But I can’t find out what happened.’

‘It seems pretty straightforward, to be honest.’

‘What… that he’d deliberately drop himself four storeys?’

‘There’s no sign of anything else, Miss Hoag. Your brother was clearly a troubled man.’

‘That would be an understatement, I’m afraid.’

She still appeared to be a more rounded character than he’d have expected to emerge from such a dysfunctional background. On the surface at least. She was nicely dressed and had a calm manner even in her grief.

‘I just don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘I can’t allow myself to.’

‘Suicidal tendencies are often well-concealed.’

‘I don’t mean that. I mean what Seamus said had happened to him…’ She glanced back at the receding ruin. ‘I mean… there.’

‘You don’t believe it?’ Heck asked. ‘Despite what your parents were convicted for? I’m sorry if this is painful by the way. We don’t have to discuss it out here.’

‘I can’t deny what my mother and father were,’ she said. ‘Not even to myself. There was too much evidence.’

‘Are they still alive?’ he asked.

‘I understand so, but I haven’t seen either of them since they were released from prison. Don’t even know where they’re living. No interest in finding out.’

‘I can see it’s hurting you just thinking about it.’

‘It’s taken me years to get over it, if I’m honest.’

They arrived at the low fence separating the meadow from Packhorse Road. A tan Porsche Taycan sat parked in the pall of light cast by a streetlight on the overgrown verge.

‘But you don’t believe that Seamus was abused?’ Heck asked, hoping to crank out every bit of info he could before the woman left.

She pondered, looking puzzled. ‘There was no sign of it when we were young. I mean, obviously I didn’t know Mum and Dad had this kinky other life. We were kids, and it was kept away from us. But me and Seamus were close, and yet he never mentioned it. I’m sure he’d have said something. Also, why just Seamus?’ She stared at Heck. ‘Why was I spared?’

‘How old were you at the time?’

‘Fifteen. But I wasn’t always fifteen. I was once a pre-teen too… oh, I can see what you’re thinking. Have I blocked it all out? No, I assure you. I had a happy childhood. And it’s not as if they were only interested in little boys. I mean, some of the things I heard later… sado-masochism, orgies, home videos posted online, Mum and Dad performing with anyone who came along.’ She struggled to swallow. ‘You know, when Mum was inside, she made herself a sexy nurse uniform. She used to hold so-called surgeries. Basically prostituted herself to the other prisoners.’

‘Probably a survival technique,’ Heck said.

‘Even so, she evidently wasn’t uninterested in her own gender. So why didn’t they include me in their depravity? Why was it just Seamus?’

Heck couldn’t answer. It was for a higher cause, he tried to remind himself, but nothing felt right about standing here, pretending he was trying to help her, when in actual fact he’d participated in the tragedy.

‘I think he made it up,’ she said. ‘That stuff about the farmhouse. He was an abuser, himself. He’d clearly heard that abusers often start out as the abused. Maybe thought it might create an explanation for his behaviour… might excuse him in some way.’

‘Seamus was very young when he first reported these assaults to his teachers,’ Heck said.

She shrugged again. ‘Who can say at what age people develop these interests? I mean, nothing about Seamus was normal.’ She sidled through a gap in the fence, taking a set of keys from her jacket pocket. ‘Let me ask you a question, though. The fact you’re here investigating… does that imply you’re not happy with the suicide verdict?’

Heck stayed on the field. ‘Well, we haven’t had a verdict yet. That’ll be down to the Coroner. But I’ll be honest, Miss Hoag, there’s nothing to suggest anything other than suicide. It could have been an accident, but it looks as if Seamus went up to the fourth floor in that building purposely.’

She nodded sadly.

‘If we get any updates, I’ll let you know,’ he said. ‘I presume that, as next of kin, we have your contact details?’

‘Yes, but let me give you this… just in case.’

She unlocked the Taycan, circled around it and took what looked like a Gucci leather handbag from the front passenger seat. Rooting inside, she located a business card and walked back to the fence, handing it over to him. It was the real deal, professionally made, bearing addresses and contact details via phone, email and so forth.

He glanced at her, wondering again at how stable she appeared to be. ‘Thanks.’

‘No, thank you, sergeant.’ She backed to the vehicle. ‘I appreciate the time you’re taking on this.’

‘Miss Hoag? Can I ask you one more question. When you and Seamus were youngsters, your life… it really wasn’t that bad?’

She looked thoughtful. ‘For me, no. I mean in retrospect, Mum and Dad were out a lot, mainly at night. But we always had sitters. There was a private part of the house we weren’t allowed into. But I only found out much later that this was where… stuff went on. But we didn’t see any of that or hear it. I mean, they obviously made friends with some strange people. I’m sure that’s what put the idea in their heads about this bogus social worker thing. There was some suggestion during the investigation that it was mainly about money. That they might have been filming these trips out to the poor estates so they could sell the footage to paedophiles…?’

She gave him a querying look.

‘It’s possible,’ Heck replied, though it seemed obvious to him that you didn’t take on a money-spinning venture that involved inveigling your way into people’s homes and filming their children being abused without having a degree of enthusiasm for it yourself.

‘But our day-to-day life was fine,’ she added. ‘You know what haunts me?’ She gave him a harrowed look. ‘Maybe I just wasn’t attentive enough to Seamus as a child? Maybe I didn’t see what was going on because I couldn’t be bothered looking…’

‘Miss Hoag,’ Heck replied, ‘all my career I’ve encountered people who’ve had to deal with terrible revelations about friends and family. Why is he like he is? Did I not punish him enough when he was naughty? Did I not show him enough love? But guilt is often a symptom of sorrow. We don’t know who to blame, so we blame ourselves. It’s all nonsense. Those culpable when some among us go off the rails are often those people themselves. Your brother was an adult. And he made some very poor decisions. Very poor indeed.’

She gazed at him, bewildered.

‘Look… it’ll all come out eventually,’ Heck said. ‘Seamus kept bad company and had nasty habits, none of which were forced on him.’

‘I get the feeling there’s something you want to tell me, but can’t?’

‘Investigations need to take their course, and I don’t want to make a bad day for you any worse with idle supposition.’

‘You seem like a kind man, Sergeant Heckenburg. For a police officer, I mean. Don’t lose that. Don’t become like so many others.’

By “others”, he suspected she meant Jake Scutter, who had presumably broken the news to her and her family earlier that day, no doubt with minimum sympathy. But as she drove off in her Taycan, that didn’t make Heck feel any the less a heel for having deceived her.

Not that he wasn’t also wondering if she’d been entirely honest with him.

35

‘I thought we weren’t going to be questioning randomers,’ Peabody said.

‘It’s needs must,’ Lucy replied. ‘But I take your point, so anyone we speak to, size them up first. Course, Benny might be in here himself, in which case the problem’s solved.’

But Benny wasn’t in there. And The Iron Pig was every inch the backwater dump that she’d envisaged. Garishly lit, which did nothing to remove the aura of dinginess about the brown and yellow décor, the sticky carpet underfoot, or the atmosphere of stale beer. The place was busy, though this being a weekday, it probably wasn’t a surprise that the crowd were predominantly middle-aged and up. They were also mostly men, the majority shouting and guffawing.

‘Good to see a pub doing business,’ Peabody said as they sidled in.

‘Just watch yourself,’ she replied. ‘This is Bullwood, remember. It’s a rough area. If it kicks off for any reason, we don’t get involved. At present, we are not the fuzz.’

They shuffled towards the bar. There was no sign of Benny B. Even in this riotous company, a guy of his size and shape would have stood out. One or two curious glances were thrown their way, though most were at Lucy, and were leerily approving.

‘You’ve got a few miles in this job, Luce,’ Peabody said. ‘Sure you won’t be recognised?’

‘Not so long as they stay focussed on my derriere,’ she replied.

They reached the bar, where an elderly four-square woman in a flowery dress, heavy make-up and a silver-rinsed bouffant hairstyle was mopping the serving top. Lucy ordered them a bottle of lager each, paid and leaned against the bar to drink. Peabody did the same. The woman, possibly the landlady, had been civil enough, but now moved away to serve someone else, an older man in bottle-thick glasses and a yukky brown suit.

‘Why don’t we ask her?’ Peabody muttered. ‘She seems a sensible citizen.’

‘She seems like the owner to me. In which case, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.’

‘If this is his local, she’s bound to know him.’

‘Yeah, but she’s probably had all sorts in here. She won’t want trouble if it can be avoided, and coppers or not, that’ll be us. At least to her mind.’

‘Is it Benny you’re looking for?’ a woman’s voice asked.

They froze. Before turning.

It was the landlady who’d spoken.

But not to them.

To the oldster in the brown suit. He lowered his Guinness and wiped his lips. ‘He’s usually in at this time on a Monday.’

‘He was in earlier,’ the woman replied. ‘Twenty minutes ago. He went out the back. Was pulling his jacket on, so it looked like he was leaving.’

Brown Suit frowned. ‘Not the way to his place.’ He sniggered. ‘Must be on a promise.’

‘That’ll be the day,’ she cackled.

Brown Suit carried his drink away, manoeuvring through the jostling crowd. Peabody looked at Lucy again. ‘Out back,’ he mouthed.

She threw down what remained of her lager. They headed out through a back door, along a darkened corridor, and then out into a paved yard with high brick walls. There was a crate of empty bottles nearby, but at the far end, a gate stood open on darkness.

They hurried over to it. Beyond the gate lay an area of beaten dirt, rock hard from the recent good weather but crisscrossed with tyre ruts. A turning area for brewery wagons, presumably. To the left, a short access lane led back to Maybury Hill, though on the right it narrowed into a footpath, which disappeared into the night.

‘No sense him coming out the back just to go back around to the front,’ Peabody said.

‘Correct,’ Lucy replied. ‘If he was going back to his own pad, he’d have gone out the front. Which we know he wasn’t, because we’d have seen him.’

They approached the footpath.

‘Where does this lead to?’ Peabody wondered.

‘Can only be the Aggies.’

‘What in Christ’s name’s he going over there for?’

‘We need to find out.’

They ventured forward. The footing was solid, though it tilted downhill. As the lights of the pub fell behind, full blackness enshrouded them, tinged with a hint of mist. Pretty soon, they could only sense the arid slopes and the clumps of scrub-vegetation.

Peabody reached into his anorak pocket. ‘Least I brought my torch…’

Lucy grabbed his wrist. ‘Are you daft?’

‘We could break our necks on this.’ He indicated the rugged path.

‘Small risk compared to him realising that we’re coming.’

‘I thought this guy was a contact of yours?’

‘There’s something wrong here.’

The downhill route steepened. A tree passed by on the left. Twisted and diseased.

‘You know what this reminds me of?’ Peabody muttered. ‘Fairview bloody Landfill. Where I got clubbed unconscious.’

‘All in the line of duty.’

‘Was it in the line of duty that you left me all night?’

‘If you’re not happy, Malcolm, you can go back to the pub.’

‘Really?’

‘No, not really, for Christ’s sake! We’re on the job here. Pull yourself together.’

She strode on, Peabody chuntering as he followed. She understood why he was reluctant. The incident at Fairview had seen him left alone all night guarding a hideous crime scene and terrorised for hours by faceless opponents before they’d finally struck. He’d been off sick for quite some time afterwards.

She stopped. Peabody stopped too. All lights from the pub had vanished. They couldn’t see each other’s faces; their bodies were indistinct forms.

‘Whatever happens, Malcolm, I’m not going to leave you on your own tonight… okay?’

‘Be nice to have some back-up.’

‘We’ve got radios and phones. If we need back-up, we’ll call it.’

‘They won’t get down here anytime soon.’

‘We’ll be fine.’ She continued along the path, which was levelling out, though further skeins of opaque mist hung across it.

Unfortunately, it was niggling at her that maybe they wouldn’t be fine.

Everything had been normal enough at the start of today, and then the enquiry had taken this turn for the surreal. She’d thought Benny B an ally, but how could she trust him? And where the hell were they being led to, if they were being led anywhere? He couldn’t know they were on his tail… unless he’d been staking out his own apartment block and had headed down to The Iron Pig, knowing they’d be close behind. But why would he do that?

The answer hit her hard.

For the same reason he’d lured her to the Bleachworks.

How had he put it… to close a door behind him?

An inner voice told her that Benny B wasn’t that clever. The Bleachworks attack had been an obvious ploy. This trap, if it was a trap, was a lot more sophisticated. But then the info had been volunteered to them by Mr Brown Suit. That conversation he’d had with the pub landlady – could it have been staged?

‘Like a bleeding Hammer film, this,’ Peabody said, as the mist steadily thickened.

‘Keep your voice down,’ she hissed.

‘What’s all this about?’ he whispered. ‘It’s May, not bleeding November.’

‘Be from the Irwell. It can’t be far off.’

They passed under another stunted tree, a dim, rearing phantom. At least they were on the flat again, but it felt absurd to be down here with such restricted vision. If they blundered off the path, that alone could be fatal. There was old works rubble out here, colliery buildings that were little more than teetering piles of brick, flashes filled with water so toxic that nothing lived in it. On cue, they came to a waterway, a tributary of the Irwell rather than the river itself; a cut, a flooded ditch with a narrow wooden footbridge across it. They stopped, listening. And shivering; it might be May, but it was bitterly cold in this mist.

‘Could’ve gone anywhere,’ Peabody said.

Lucy listened on. It wouldn’t be cowardice if they retreated to the pub now. It was the only thing they could do. Except… would they be allowed to?

They weren’t alone. She could feel it. She turned a full circle.

This was the place. It had to be. They were hundreds of yards from anywhere. The river-mist didn’t just hide everything, it muffled all sound.

‘Sorry, Malcolm,’ she said.

‘What…?’

A fusillade of gunshots split the night.

36

The two faces were, as usual, astonishingly ordinary. Monsters almost never looked like monsters. Mostly not. Heck had encountered a few that did. But the majority of the time, evil concealed itself behind a bland façade.

Harold Hoag’s photograph was eighteen years out of date, and he’d possibly turned more odious since then, but it depicted a man you could pass in the street without looking at him. Chubby features, short greying hair, an overlarge nose and ears, a small, cherubic mouth. The eyes sometimes had it, of course, and these were the only part of Hoag that hinted at abnormality; they were flat and grey with small black pupils. Fish eyes; the sort you’d see on a supermarket slab. Lilac Hoag was equally nondescript. Again, the mugshot accompanying the criminal records that Gwen Straker had emailed through to him was eighteen years old, but it portrayed a woman in her late forties with a bull-neck and square head, her dark hair cropped in short, boyish fashion. Her nose was straight, her mouth a halfmoon frown, her eyes small and peevish.

Heck pondered.

The Hoags’ offences were among the more heinous he’d come across. The fake nurse and social worker act, during which they’d indecently assaulted eight pre-teen children, for which he’d drawn a seventeen-year sentence, but served thirteen, she drawing nine years and serving six, was only one story among many with which they’d been connected.

Both had been convicted previously: Harold Hoag for indecently assaulting a child when he himself was only fifteen years old, and later for indecent exposure; Lilac Hoag, when she was twenty-three and still called Lilac Gerrity, for beating a rival for her boyfriend so brutally that she’d broken the other girl’s nose and eye-socket. Prior to the bogus social worker horror, they’d also been investigated for the unsolved rape and murder of two little boys, whose bodies were found in a flooded quarry near Rochdale.

Ray Marciano’s words came back to him.

These two were a ‘special pair’.

The strange thing was the series of sex attacks supposedly launched (by them and others) on their own son in the abandoned farmhouse. Those allegations were investigated thoroughly. Not once, but twice, firstly at the time, and secondly when the enquiry was re-opened when the Hoags were convicted of the nurse and social worker assaults. But no evidence was ever found. Which made Heck wonder if these two had never been anything as simple as random, lust-driven sex-attackers. Having the knowledge and wherewithal to clean the farmhouse afterwards, thus protecting the identities of those others involved, would have put them in the organised offender category, which, to Heck’s mind at least, implied an even more insidious level of evil.

But it didn’t solve his problem now. He closed his tablet and placed it on the Puma’s passenger seat. It didn’t offer a single useful clue about the nature of the Bad Thing, as he’d come to think of it, that both Seamus Hoag and Benny Bartholomew had disliked so much. But it gave him a rough idea of the ballpark.

Or did it?

Again, it struck him that Timandra Hoag had emerged remarkably intact from the sordid mess of that family. She’d told him that she hadn’t suffered personally. And she was… what, just into her thirties? They’d certainly been offending when she was a young and vulnerable child, so why not abuse her the same way they would later abuse her brother?

Unless that part of the lurid tale wasn’t true.

Unless nothing had happened at Jollywood Farm. Jake Scutter hadn’t sounded convinced that it had. So what was Heck doing here? Why was he wasting his time?

Time.

He glanced through the window, across the meadow towards Jollywood Farm, but the full blackness of night had absorbed everything. Checking the neon numerals on the dash, he saw that it was close on eleven o’clock. And he’d been summoned to the Jacks and Knaves in Castlefield for ten sharp.

‘Shit!’ He snapped his seatbelt into place. He’d been so engrossed in his research that the evening had got away from him. He hadn’t even eaten yet, only grabbing a can of cola and a packet of peanuts from an off-licence on his way over here.

He took off at speed. He wasn’t sure where the Jacks and Knaves was. Castlefield was easy enough to find, but there were a dozen clubs and bars there. Before any of that, he’d need to get back to Taylor Street. He’d changed into his scruffs earlier, so he could check out the ruined farm building. Now he needed to change back, and quickly, otherwise he wouldn’t get past the nightclub door.

The distance from the farm to Taylor Street comprised innumerable junctions and turns, and of course every red light was against him. On this occasion, he saw no harm in parking outside the front of No. 31, as he’d be in and out, but it was already eleven-twenty when he skidded to a halt, and even going by the M602, it would take twenty minutes to get to Castlefield.

He dashed across the pavement, only stopping when it struck him that the door to No. 31 was standing ajar.

At this hour of night?

He glanced at the front window. The curtain was drawn, but lamplight filtered out. There was no sound of a television.

Glad that the Walther was still tucked into the back of his jeans, Heck slid into the darkened hall. The door to the living room also stood open, a crack of light spilling out. He listened. It was too quiet in there. He checked it anyway and found it empty.

Past the foot of the staircase, the hall opened into Cyndi White’s narrow dining room, and beyond that, her tiny kitchen. The door to the dining room was also half open, lamplight showing. Stealthy, but increasingly sure that if someone was here who shouldn’t be, they’d already know about him, Heck pushed the door open properly.

Cyndi sat at the dining table. She wore her dressing gown but was pale faced. She looked at him strangely, saying nothing. Heck stepped forward, and the door slammed closed, an ogre of a man emerging from behind it.

To Heck, who was 6ft1, and of lean physique, Saul Baylock, 6ft3 and built like a boxer, was a giant. But this guy was all that and more: 6ft9 easily, with the chest and shoulders of an ox, and a brutish, apelike face. For half a second, Heck wondered if this was the ‘bad rubbish’ that had used to beat Cyndi when she was married to it. But then he noticed the bastard’s well-cut Italian suit, the stylish black rollneck sweater underneath, and he realised that while he hadn’t gone to the Crew at ten-sharp, as instructed, the Crew had come to him.

The door to the kitchen opened, and Ray Marciano came through.

His tie was loose, and he’d removed his shades, but he didn’t look relaxed. He stepped aside, and behind him, in the kitchen, Heck saw a third man, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled back as he busied himself at the worktop, forking two eggs from a frying pan onto a plate of buttered toast.

It was a homely enough scene, but Heck had done adequate homework to know that he was at last in the company of the Crew’s Chairman of the Board, Frank McCracken.

It was impossible to tell which direction the shots had been fired from. Or even who the target was. In the cloying mist, Lucy hadn’t seen so much as a gun-flash. She’d darted forward, keeping low as she crossed the footbridge. On the other side, she diverted off the path and concealed herself amid heaps of broken bricks and deep clumps of thistle. Malcolm Peabody hadn’t followed her. She’d glanced back and spotted him veering off the path to the right, so she knew he hadn’t been shot, though from the hefty splosh that followed, he’d finished up in the stream, so she couldn’t guarantee he was safe.

For the next few seconds, she lay low and held her breath.

The echoes from the volley reverberated in the frigid air.

Peeking up, she saw only rolling veils of vapour. From somewhere on the left, she heard a lesser splash. She hunkered down lower. She had some idea that the path was in front of her, but she couldn’t see it and so couldn’t be sure. Even as she crouched, the mist seemed to thicken, reducing everything to black fuzz.

She weighed the radio in her hand.

It was a near-automated response for cops to pull their radios in moments of crisis. On this occasion, with shots fired, there ought to be no alternative, but whoever the marksman had been, if he or she was still out there, biding their time, all they might need was a voice to home in on. She could whisper of course, but there was no guarantee the Comms Suite would be able to hear that. The same went for her phone.

Another splash sounded on the left.

Lucy hunkered down till she was almost flat.

It could have been anything: a rat, a vole. But it had sounded close. She tried to peer over there but again saw nothing. When she heard a rustling through rough grass over on the right, she brought her mobile to her lips, only for a hand to clamp her shoulder.

She bit down on a scream as she recoiled from the figure kneeling behind her.

‘Have we called this in or what?’ Peabody asked.

‘Jesus, Malcolm!’ she hissed. ‘Firstly, keep your voice down! Secondly, don’t bloody creep up like that!’

‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Fell in the cut.’

‘You don’t bloody say.’ He reeked of stagnant muck. But it was so dark that she could barely see his face. ‘How’d you find me?’

‘Heard you moving around.’

‘Christ.’ Lucy thought she’d been quiet.

‘You called this in?’ he asked again.

‘Just keep watch.’ She dialled her radio’s volume to the minimum before passing the relevant info on to Comms.

A flurry of activity followed on the airwaves. Firearms officers would be scrambled, but they’d take an age to get here and would then need to liaise with local units to find their way down onto the right part of the Aggies. While all that was happening, it felt plain wrong for her and Peabody just to keep their heads down. It was increasingly a thing in modern police life, this obsession that the health and safety of officers was so vital that it trumped all other concerns, that doing anything on duty that was conceivably dangerous was at best a folly, at worst a disciplinary offence.

But was that a reflection of reality?

Every day, police officers found themselves in situations where the lives and limbs of others were at stake or where the most loathsome individuals might go free if they didn’t intervene. Lucy knew what her response should be. Two days ago, she’d been so close to gunplay that it was a lottery who’d walk out of it unscathed, but it had advanced the investigation significantly.

‘Let’s move.’ She got to her feet but kept low.

‘Where we going?’ Peabody asked.

‘If they haven’t shot us by now, that means they haven’t seen us or heard us, or more likely, we’re not the target. But that doesn’t mean we let them waltz off.’

She paused to think. The path was a few yards in front. She could just about see it, and so moved forward.

‘We’re still looking for this guy?’ Peabody said, incredulous.

‘Put it this way, we’re not running.’

She halted and squatted again. Peabody dropped to a crouch behind her. Just ahead, by about ten yards, the outline of a building loomed through the murk. It wasn’t much to see. About the size of a shed, but made from brick, with a slate roof, most of which had collapsed inward. But it was the first real cover they’d seen since they’d come down here. And as the path snaked past the front of it, about a yard from the black gap where its door had once stood, it would have been the perfect spot to launch an ambush.

‘Whoever it was,’ Lucy whispered, ‘if they were waiting for us, this is where they’d have done it.’

‘They might still be here.’

‘Yeah.’ She advanced again, but so low that her backside skimmed the ground.

‘Lucy… this is seriously fucked up.’

She glanced back at him. Sufficient of the mist had eddied for her to see his face. It was white in the moonlight, sparkling with nervous sweat.

‘Circle around to the other side, but give it wide berth,’ she said. ‘I’ll go in from this side.’

‘Lucy, you can’t be fucking serious.’

His wild-eyed gaze bespoke genuine fear and concern, and suddenly she wondered what she was thinking. Why in the name of God were they moving on this place when they weren’t armed? Had her overwhelming desire to bring Frank McCracken down got the better of her? And was this even connected to McCracken, or anything they’d been investigating?

But they were cops, she reminded herself. A gunman was running wild out here, and they weren’t turning tail. She’d never signed up for that, and neither had Peabody.

‘Get into position, Malcolm,’ she said quietly. ‘We observe and report. We’re not going to tackle anyone till the cavalry gets here.’

He nodded, relieved, and lurched away.

He was doing his damnedest, but the ground was so cluttered with loose stones and bricks that she heard him easily as he curved his way around the free-standing structure.

She ventured forward again. At five yards, the side of the building facing her emerged properly. As well as scabrous brickwork, she saw a second door, this one intact and standing upright, though hanging open a couple of inches.

It creaked and moved.

Lucy dropped to her haunches.

From somewhere nearby, Peabody’s noisy progress came to a halt.

The breath caught in Lucy’s throat.

The door moved again, outward. With a longer, even more arthritic creak.

A hefty, white figure was partly visible behind it.

Despite being rigid with fright, Lucy had to squint to see better.

‘Benny?’ she breathed.

The door swung wider, forced open by Benny B’s own weight. But why was he naked? And why were both his upper chest and face little more than mangled masses of blood and bone? And why was he now toppling forward?

37

It was impossible to tell which direction the shots had been fired from. Or even who the target was. In the cloying mist, Lucy hadn’t seen so much as a gun-flash. She’d darted forward, keeping low as she crossed the footbridge. On the other side, she diverted off the path and concealed herself amid heaps of broken bricks and deep clumps of thistle. Malcolm Peabody hadn’t followed her. She’d glanced back and spotted him veering off the path to the right, so she knew he hadn’t been shot, though from the hefty splosh that followed, he’d finished up in the stream, so she couldn’t guarantee he was safe.

For the next few seconds, she lay low and held her breath.

The echoes from the volley reverberated in the frigid air.

Peeking up, she saw only rolling veils of vapour. From somewhere on the left, she heard a lesser splash. She hunkered down lower. She had some idea that the path was in front of her, but she couldn’t see it and so couldn’t be sure. Even as she crouched, the mist seemed to thicken, reducing everything to black fuzz.

She weighed the radio in her hand.

It was a near-automated response for cops to pull their radios in moments of crisis. On this occasion, with shots fired, there ought to be no alternative, but whoever the marksman had been, if he or she was still out there, biding their time, all they might need was a voice to home in on. She could whisper of course, but there was no guarantee the Comms Suite would be able to hear that. The same went for her phone.

Another splash sounded on the left.

Lucy hunkered down till she was almost flat.

It could have been anything: a rat, a vole. But it had sounded close. She tried to peer over there but again saw nothing. When she heard a rustling through rough grass over on the right, she brought her mobile to her lips, only for a hand to clamp her shoulder.

She bit down on a scream as she recoiled from the figure kneeling behind her.

‘Have we called this in or what?’ Peabody asked.

‘Jesus, Malcolm!’ she hissed. ‘Firstly, keep your voice down! Secondly, don’t bloody creep up like that!’

‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Fell in the cut.’

‘You don’t bloody say.’ He reeked of stagnant muck. But it was so dark that she could barely see his face. ‘How’d you find me?’

‘Heard you moving around.’

‘Christ.’ Lucy thought she’d been quiet.

‘You called this in?’ he asked again.

‘Just keep watch.’ She dialled her radio’s volume to the minimum before passing the relevant info on to Comms.

A flurry of activity followed on the airwaves. Firearms officers would be scrambled, but they’d take an age to get here and would then need to liaise with local units to find their way down onto the right part of the Aggies. While all that was happening, it felt plain wrong for her and Peabody just to keep their heads down. It was increasingly a thing in modern police life, this obsession that the health and safety of officers was so vital that it trumped all other concerns, that doing anything on duty that was conceivably dangerous was at best a folly, at worst a disciplinary offence.

But was that a reflection of reality?

Every day, police officers found themselves in situations where the lives and limbs of others were at stake or where the most loathsome individuals might go free if they didn’t intervene. Lucy knew what her response should be. Two days ago, she’d been so close to gunplay that it was a lottery who’d walk out of it unscathed, but it had advanced the investigation significantly.

‘Let’s move.’ She got to her feet but kept low.

‘Where we going?’ Peabody asked.

‘If they haven’t shot us by now, that means they haven’t seen us or heard us, or more likely, we’re not the target. But that doesn’t mean we let them waltz off.’

She paused to think. The path was a few yards in front. She could just about see it, and so moved forward.

‘We’re still looking for this guy?’ Peabody said, incredulous.

‘Put it this way, we’re not running.’

She halted and squatted again. Peabody dropped to a crouch behind her. Just ahead, by about ten yards, the outline of a building loomed through the murk. It wasn’t much to see. About the size of a shed, but made from brick, with a slate roof, most of which had collapsed inward. But it was the first real cover they’d seen since they’d come down here. And as the path snaked past the front of it, about a yard from the black gap where its door had once stood, it would have been the perfect spot to launch an ambush.

‘Whoever it was,’ Lucy whispered, ‘if they were waiting for us, this is where they’d have done it.’

‘They might still be here.’

‘Yeah.’ She advanced again, but so low that her backside skimmed the ground.

‘Lucy… this is seriously fucked up.’

She glanced back at him. Sufficient of the mist had eddied for her to see his face. It was white in the moonlight, sparkling with nervous sweat.

‘Circle around to the other side, but give it wide berth,’ she said. ‘I’ll go in from this side.’

‘Lucy, you can’t be fucking serious.’

His wild-eyed gaze bespoke genuine fear and concern, and suddenly she wondered what she was thinking. Why in the name of God were they moving on this place when they weren’t armed? Had her overwhelming desire to bring Frank McCracken down got the better of her? And was this even connected to McCracken, or anything they’d been investigating?

But they were cops, she reminded herself. A gunman was running wild out here, and they weren’t turning tail. She’d never signed up for that, and neither had Peabody.

‘Get into position, Malcolm,’ she said quietly. ‘We observe and report. We’re not going to tackle anyone till the cavalry gets here.’

He nodded, relieved, and lurched away.

He was doing his damnedest, but the ground was so cluttered with loose stones and bricks that she heard him easily as he curved his way around the free-standing structure.

She ventured forward again. At five yards, the side of the building facing her emerged properly. As well as scabrous brickwork, she saw a second door, this one intact and standing upright, though hanging open a couple of inches.

It creaked and moved.

Lucy dropped to her haunches.

From somewhere nearby, Peabody’s noisy progress came to a halt.

The breath caught in Lucy’s throat.

The door moved again, outward. With a longer, even more arthritic creak.

A hefty, white figure was partly visible behind it.

Despite being rigid with fright, Lucy had to squint to see better.

‘Benny?’ she breathed.

The door swung wider, forced open by Benny B’s own weight. But why was he naked? And why were both his upper chest and face little more than mangled masses of blood and bone? And why was he now toppling forward?

38

Frank McCracken was the sort of opponent whose mere appearance made Heck feel queasy.

It wasn’t that he was obviously evil or mad. At first glance, he was neither. But he had an air of super-confident efficiency, of energy, of steel. He was somewhere in his mid-fifties, but of strong, trim build, his iron-grey hair slashed into a neat crewcut, his face lean and handsome but lined by experience. It might be incongruous to see such a man come through into the dining room with his jacket off and a plated-up egg sandwich in hand, but when a man could do anything he wanted, and gave off that vibe in spades, who was someone like Heck to question it? McCracken sat at the table, produced a knife and fork, and quickly but cleanly ate his food. The others watched in silence. When he was done, the guy dabbed at his lips with a napkin and sat back.

‘Detective Heckenburg,’ he said.

‘Just “Heckenburg” these days, Mr McCracken.’ Heck wondered what they’d learned. ‘I’m not a detective anymore.’

McCracken appraised him. ‘That’s a moot-point, isn’t it? Seeing as now you’re working for me. Running my internal affairs department.’

Heck glanced at Marciano, who gave nothing away.

‘Don’t get excited,’ the mobster added. ‘Turn of phrase. You’ve not been promoted. Yet.’

Heck relaxed a little. Maybe they hadn’t learned anything. Not that he could be sure. Who knew why this meeting had been convened, or where it would lead.

‘Hope you’re not hungry,’ McCracken said. ‘You not being here, I didn’t know whether you wanted anything.’

‘Wouldn’t be my place to eat without the lady of the house’s permission.’ Heck glanced at Cyndi. ‘You all right, love… no one’s hurt you?’

‘Hey…’ the hulking brute, who had to be McCracken’s infamously terrifying bodyguard, Mick Shallicker, growled. ‘The boss is talking to you.’

‘No disrespect, Mr McCracken,’ Heck said, one hand sneaking to his jeans pocket, ‘but if this overgrown chimp speaks one more time without being spoken to first…’

‘No, Heck, no!’ Marciano jammed his Anaconda’s muzzle against Heck’s temple.

Cyndi whimpered in terror. She lowered her head, one hand to her eyes.

Slowly, Heck withdrew his hand. It clasped a paper packet. ‘I was going to give him these peanuts. You know, keep him quiet.’

McCracken didn’t smile. ‘You were right, Raymondo. He’s a lively one.’

Marciano patted Heck down, locating the Walther tucked into the back of his jeans. He tugged it free and stowed it in his own pocket.

‘Oh, God,’ Cyndi whimpered again.

Heck turned to Marciano. ‘What the fuck is this? I thought we were on the same side.’

‘So did I,’ Marciano replied.

‘You don’t mind me saying, Mr McCracken,’ Heck said, ‘this is bang out of order. Coming here late at night. Whatever you think you know, it had better be good.’

McCracken looked amused. ‘Whatever I think I know?’

He nodded at Marciano, who whacked Heck in the ribs with his pistol. Cyndi squealed as Heck hunched sideways, dropping to one knee.

‘You think I don’t know you were supposed to come to see me?’ McCracken said.

‘Fuck’s sake!’ Heck gasped. ‘That’s what this is? I just haven’t got there yet…’

Marciano clouted his ribs again, this time with his triangular-toed winklepicker.

Heck went down into a ball. ‘Great thanks for letting you get away down in Cornwall,’ he grunted.

‘This fucking joker’s the real deal?’ Shallicker sneered. ‘I’ve shit better prospects.’

McCracken’s eyes remained fixed on Heck as Marciano hauled him back to his feet. ‘As explanations go, that’s quite original. You haven’t got there yet?’

‘Been busy…’ Heck’s voice was guttural with pain.

‘Too busy to come when I call?’

‘First of all, I didn’t know it was you. Second, I had a lead and needed to chase it.’

‘What’re you talking about?’ Marciano demanded.

Heck glanced at him. ‘Don’t know what a lead is? There’s a surprise. No one’d guess you were ex-Flying Squad, would they?’

‘Listen, you fucking…’

‘Enough of this cop love-in.’ McCracken stood up, turning to Cyndi. ‘Time you went to the front room and watched some telly, my love. I know it’s late, but there’s always something on.’

‘Look,’ she wept. ‘This is…’

‘None of this concerns you.’

‘But it’s my bloody house!’

‘Cyn, he’s doing you a favour,’ Heck said. ‘What you don’t know can’t hurt you.’

McCracken nodded. ‘He’s right, my love. You go and catch a late-night movie.’

‘Christ.’ She lurched past them to the hall. ‘Prisoner in my own home, story of my bloody life. Just don’t make a mess…’

‘And don’t even think about making a telephone call, darling,’ Shallicker advised her. ‘You’ll spend the rest of your life paying for it.’

‘Bastards!’ she shrieked, the door slamming behind her.

‘Great billet you found,’ Marciano said.

‘She’d probably be nicer if you were nicer to her,’ Heck replied.

‘Sad the way women get treated in our world,’ McCracken commented.

‘So, should we take him out back?’ Shallicker wondered. ‘So’s not to mess her place up.’

McCracken nodded. ‘That’d be thoughtful, yeah.’

The giant grabbed Heck’s arm.

‘You don’t want to hear about it?’ Heck said, as he was thrust out through the kitchen.

‘And what would that be?’ Shallicker opened the back door and dragged him into the darkened back yard, Marciano bringing up the rear, gun in hand. ‘This imaginary lead you’ve just thought up? Which our main investigator knows nothing about.’

‘He knows nothing about it because he’s a nine-till-fiver,’ Heck said. ‘I’m not.’

They hustled him to a rear gate. Frank McCracken walked behind, pulling on his jacket.

‘Timandra Hoag,’ Heck said.

They were now out in the backs. It was near enough pitch-dark, but rubbish clattered around their feet as Shallicker flung him across the cobbles into a brick wall.

The brute shrugged. ‘So, you’ve found out our little paedo friend had a sister. Well done. Must’ve taken you all of five minutes.’

Heck spun to face them. A clutch of wheelie-bins hemmed him in from the left, while the back of some hefty, mud-encrusted vehicle prevented any escape to the right. An attempt to lunge forward would also fail; Marciano was pointing the Anaconda straight at his forehead.

McCracken emerged from the gate, reading his phone.

‘There’s something going on, Frank!’ Heck shouted.

McCracken glanced up. ‘“Frank” is it? All of a sudden, we’re mates?’

‘Seamus Hoag said something nasty’s coming down.’

‘How bad do you want it?’ Shallicker asked.

‘Doesn’t matter.’ McCracken checked his phone again. ‘We can’t use people who won’t jump when I call.’

Shallicker turned, rummaged in the bric-à-brac spilling from the nearest wheelie bin and produced what looked like an old steam iron.

‘Benny B said the same!’ Heck asserted.

Shallicker threw him against the wall again, and drew the iron back one-handed, all set to flatten his face with it.

‘Wait!’ McCracken interrupted.

Shallicker halted. Marciano glanced around.

McCracken approached. ‘Say that again.’

Heck was drenched with sweat. ‘Erm… Benny B said it too.’

‘Said what exactly?’

‘That something bad was going down. He wouldn’t elaborate, but it scared him to death.’

McCracken glared at him long and hard. Suddenly there wasn’t a hint even of feigned affability. He held a hand out. ‘Give me that fucking thing.’

Shallicker handed over the steam iron. McCracken wrapped its flex around his arm so that it wouldn’t hinder him. ‘Hold him still,’ he said.

Heck struggled, but Shallicker and Marciano launched themselves onto him, one from either side. Again, the Anaconda was jammed into his ribs.

McCracken came forward, iron in hand. He met the prisoner eye-to-eye.

‘How do you know Benny Bartholomew?’ he asked.

‘He’s the one who put me onto you,’ Heck replied. ‘Said you needed your own cop. Christ’s sake, that’s how I found you… how I worked my way in.’

When McCracken spoke again, it was very quietly. ‘I’m not accustomed to asking the same question twice. I said how does an ex-London-based cop like you know a Manc shithead like Benny B?’

‘I was National Crime Group. Benny was one of our grasses. Not all the time. I used him when I was in the northwest.’

There was a stunned silence.

‘You lying bastard,’ Shallicker growled.

Heck was talking for his life. He was sorry he’d had to drop Benny in it with such a blatant untruth, but he was working on the basis the guy had left the region.

‘He never grassed on Crew operations,’ he said, trying to make it easier for the fat slob in case he ever got caught. ‘We had stuff on him, so he gave us a taster here and there.’

‘And the relationship continued?’ McCracken asked. ‘Even after you got whizzed?’

‘These things aren’t personal. I wasn’t in a position to do him favours anymore, but I could pay him. Cost me thirty big ones to buy my way into a firm that respects its talent.’

‘You saying it was Benny B set up that brawl at The King Billy?’ Marciano said.

‘Course it was,’ Heck replied. ‘You think I’d just go and hang around there in case something happened?’

‘You’re a tricky bastard, aren’t you?’

‘Shows inventiveness, I’ll admit,’ Shallicker said.

McCracken’s unflinching stare burned holes in Heck’s face. ‘If you’re such a big mate of Benny B’s… you’ll know where he is now?’

Heck shrugged. ‘I’m assuming he caught a flight overseas, or something similar.’ McCracken stared at him. ‘What is this?’ Heck said. ‘A fucking guessing game? He was a part-time grass. I didn’t take fucking showers with him.’

‘Benny hasn’t flown anywhere. Unless it’s to Heaven, though that’d be a wasted trip.’

It took a second for that penny to drop, even with McCracken’s associates.

‘Benny’s dead?’ Shallicker said.

McCracken retained the iron, but in his other hand, held up his phone. ‘As of half an hour ago. ‘Someone stripped him, shot him and stuffed him in a shed.’

Shallicker looked shocked. ‘This is kosher?’

‘Got it from one of my more impeccable GMP sources. Not that fat scrote you use, Raymondo.’ McCracken turned back to Heck. ‘And now you tell us he was frightened because something big was coming down?’

‘That’s what he told me.’

‘And you say Seamus Hoag said the same thing before you killed him?’

‘That’s right. Said it was worse than his kiddie porn racket. Said you’d want to know about it, because it could bring, quote, “the whole fucking show down”. Isn’t that right, Ray?’

They glanced at Marciano, who shrugged. ‘He said something like that.’

‘And what about his sister?’ McCracken asked Heck. ‘You mentioned her too.’

‘In my line of work, Mr McCracken, if two witnesses tell you the same thing, you look into it. That’s why I went out to Jollywood Farm this evening. Just to sniff around.’

McCracken frowned. ‘Jollywood? Rings a bell.’

‘That’s where Seamus claimed he was abused as a kid.’

‘That’s right,’ Shallicker said. ‘Some dump out in the sticks.’

‘What about this Timandra?’ McCracken asked.

‘She was there too. She’d just found out about her brother’s death. Thinks it was suicide of course, so she was in a state. Said she’d ended up doing the same as me. Sniffing round. Thing is… I didn’t buy it.’ He let that hang.

‘Go on,’ McCracken said.

Heck glanced at the iron.

McCracken lowered it. He nodded at the other two, and they released Heck’s arms.

‘She didn’t mention anything going on in her brother’s life currently that might have spooked him.’ Heck rubbed his wrists. ‘But the background she came from… dysfunctional would be a euphemism, and yet she seems too sorted, both physically and mentally, to have come out of all that. They’re usually fucked up three ways from Saturday. And she’s, well… she’s not just in good shape, she’s in great shape.’

‘And just out of interest,’ Marciano said, ‘how does this tie in with her brother dying and Benny B getting topped?’

‘Use your noggin, Ray,’ McCracken answered. ‘It’s an unexplained mystery, isn’t it? Two of them say there’s something bad coming, you need to listen. And if it’s something so bad that neither of those lowlifes wants a piece of it, that suggests it’s very bad indeed. And now we have Seamus’s sister looking like a lady-in-waiting to the queen… when she ought to be a scally of the first order. And that’s an unexplained mystery too, isn’t it? And our friend Heckenburg here, like all good coppers, doesn’t like unexplained mysteries.’

‘Sums it up pretty well,’ Heck said.

McCracken unravelled the flex from his arm and tossed the iron back onto the rubbish.

‘I was going to come to the club, Mr McCracken,’ Heck said. ‘But I was at Jollywood Farm till late, and then I had to try and work this lot into something that made sense.’

‘You see, Raymondo…’ McCracken straightened his cuffs. ‘This is what I’m looking for. Lateral thinking. Someone who gets out of his comfort zone.’ When he turned and looked at Marciano, his eyes were like blades. ‘Not some clock-watching nine-till-fucking-fiver.’

Marciano looked at the floor, while his employer strode away along the backs, turning sideways to get past the parked vehicle. Shallicker followed him, Heck trudging behind.

Marciano hurried to catch up.

‘Why didn’t you fucking call me?’ he hissed.

Heck shrugged. ‘Guess I’ve not got used to working with someone else yet.’

‘That ends now, fucko.’

Forty yards on, they turned a corner and rejoined Taylor Street. A sleek black Bentley Continental glided up and braked.

McCracken turned to face them. ‘In my opinion, this has worked out rather well.’ He focussed on Heck and Marciano. ‘Seeing as you two have already completed your last assignment, I want one of you on the Benny B case first thing tomorrow and the other on Timandra Hoag. Don’t let her know about it of course. When you get into her pad, give it a good going over… make it look like some druggie bastard’s responsible.’ He opened the Bentley’s rear door. ‘Not that I’m telling you your job or anything.’

‘I’d rather look at Benny B,’ Heck said, uneasy at the thought of committing burglary.

McCracken considered. ‘Makes sense. You being an ex-homicide dick. No point giving it to some knuckle-dragger from the Sweeney when we’ve got you around, is there?’

Marciano looked at his shoes again while McCracken folded himself into the back seat of the car. Shallicker went to the front passenger door and opened it. But first he stared at Heck over the roof. ‘Something about you I don’t like. I suspect it isn’t done between us.’

‘Obviously not,’ Heck replied. ‘You can still walk, talk, eat without using a straw.’

Shallicker’s expression hardened. He looked ready to come back around the car, but a whipcrack comment from McCracken brought him to order. With one last glare, he climbed inside, the vehicle lurching around in the narrow space the terraced street afforded, pulling a six-point turn. McCracken powered his window down.

‘Everything there is on Timandra Hoag, Raymondo,’ he said. ‘From people she knows to her fucking bra size. Let’s see you start earning the cash that pays for those fancy suits and ties. And you…’ He glanced at Heck. ‘I want the person who whacked Benny B. And I want this one alive.’

The Bentley pulled away. Heck and Marciano watched it go.

Eventually, Heck spoke. ‘You should have hit me harder in Cyndi’s dining room.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘So I wouldn’t be able to do this.’

Marciano never saw the headbutt coming. It cracked him on the bridge of his nose. He staggered back, grunting in shock and pain. Heck swept after him, grabbing the lapels of his jacket, spinning him and pinning him against the nearest wall.

‘Don’t confuse me with someone like yourself, Ray,’ he snarled. ‘You were bent. I wasn’t. And that makes me superior in every department.’ He banged another headbutt into Marciano’s left eye-socket. ‘So, you ever bring your scummy mates to my place of residence again, you let them threaten my landlady, let them eat the egg sarnie I was going to have in the morning… and your head goes through the next ten plate-glass windows on this street.’

A third headbutt followed, in the mouth, and then a brutal punch in the belly.

Marciano burbled blood and drool. ‘There are protocols… like in the job…’

‘But we’re partners, Ray, and partners don’t dump on each other. Now, you’ve got an assignment, buddy…’ He knotted his fist in Marciano’s hair and slung him along the pavement. ‘So you’d better get on with it.’

Marciano wobbled away, only for Heck, remembering something else, to go after him again, smash his knuckles into the nape of his neck, and send him sprawling onto his face.

‘And when you’re checking Timandra Hoag out,’ Heck dropped onto the fallen figure’s back with both knees, retrieving the Walther from his pocket, ‘you don’t lay a single finger on her.’ Marciano groaned, barely noticing as Heck also lifted the phone from his pocket, opened it using the 1655 access code, then took out his own phone and snapped two shots of its ‘Recent calls’ list. ‘You got me, Ray?’ Heck slipped both phones back into their respective pockets. ‘And not because Frank McCracken said so. Because I did.’

He got up again, kicked the bastard in the ribs, and walked back along the street.

Four houses down, Cyndi White stood in the doorway, arms folded against a chill that was more in her mind than real. Heck slid past her into the house.

‘Sorry about tonight,’ he said. ‘I’ll be out of your hair by the end of the week.’

39

‘DC CLAYBURN PLEASE!’ Priya Nehwal shouted the length of the MIR.

Lucy, who had only just arrived at the desk allocated to her and Malcolm Peabody, spun.

Nehwal beckoned. ‘My office now!’

Lucy stripped her leather jacket off, pushed the sleeves back on her sweater and headed down there. Though it was first thing in the morning, the place was already buzzing, phones chirping, detectives discussing display-boards pasted with photographic imagery from Hobhall Tunnel.

The DSU was installed behind her desk, checking emails, when Lucy entered the small, cluttered office. ‘You seen the ballistics report on Benny Bartholomew?’

Lucy was surprised. ‘We’ve got one already? It’s not eight o’clock yet.’

‘I had it fast-tracked.’

‘Okay, well… no I haven’t. Not yet.’

‘The weapon of discharge was a Taurus Raging Bull. In fact, the same Taurus Raging Bull that was used in Hobhall Tunnel.’

‘Bloody hell…’

Nehwal sat back. ‘My thoughts too. So, it’s time for us all to put our cards on the table. Get Mark Heckenburg to come in. We need to talk to him officially.’

This was the moment Lucy had been dreading.

‘I don’t think he’ll want to do that, ma’am.’

‘And I don’t want it ever to rain again, and what are the chances of that? Main Event and Circuit-Breaker have overlapped, so we need a full debrief. On top of that, I’m your SIO, so do as I damn well tell you.’

Lucy left the office, crossed the Incident Room and stepped out into the upstairs corridor. She placed a call to Heck’s mobile. He didn’t answer straight away, and when he did, he sounded half asleep.

‘You okay?’ she asked.

‘Nothing ten weeks on a cruise ship wouldn’t fix,’ he grunted.

‘You don’t sound okay.’

‘Tough night. I’ll be fine.’

‘Okay, well…’ She gave him the new info, everything from the ambush she’d thought she’d walked into on the Aggies the previous night through to the ballistics report first thing this morning. By this time, Heck was wide awake.

‘The shooter who did Benny was the same one who did the dealers and tramps in Hobhall Tunnel?’ He sounded fascinated.

‘Well, it was one of them. There were two guns used in the tunnel, remember.’

He took a second. ‘Gives me a head-start, at least. Before you ask, as his brand-new insider cop, your dad’s charged me with finding Benny’s killer.’

‘Okay…’ The fact he was in was good news, Lucy supposed. ‘All the better if you come in and talk to DSU Nehwal then.’

‘What?’

‘She needs you in, Heck. She doesn’t like this one-man-band lark anyway, plus she reckons we’ll need to compare notes. I’ll be honest, I see her point.

‘Yeah, well I don’t.’

‘Come on, Heck… don’t do this to me.’

‘I’m doing nothing to you. Just tell her I said no.’

‘You know it doesn’t work like that.’

‘On this occasion it has to.’

‘Heck, just…’

‘Lucy, listen! Sorry to mansplain, but this is very serious. Vassily Tarasov, the Russian mob boss who organised the Ace of Diamonds massacre, came after me again last year. You know he did… you read about it. Why did he come after me? Because he’d somehow found out I was responsible for his nephew’s death. Now, no one outside the Serial Crimes Unit or Greater Manchester Police knew that. I’m pretty sure no one at SCU tipped him off, seeing as most of them were dead by this time, so that means it was someone at your end.’

Lucy found that idea alarming, but not preposterous. ‘Okay, I get that. But…’

‘My money’s on a certain DS Scutter.’

‘Jake Scutter? Salford CID?’

‘He wasn’t always in Salford. He was previously a DI in Bradburn. And it was thanks to him that my brother, Tom, got wrongly convicted of being the Granny Basher and ended up topping himself inside.’

Lucy struggled to respond. ‘Come on, Heck… all this was decades ago.’

‘Yeah, and it’s interesting that he’s never risen through the ranks, isn’t it? In fact, he’s been demoted since then. So even though the bastard got cleared by an internal enquiry, that implies to me that someone still had their doubts.’

‘And Scutter blames you for that?’

‘No, I think he just considers me an existential threat. As long as I’m alive, never mind a cop, he’s going to feel uncomfortable.’

Lucy shook her head. And Heck had called her obsessed. ‘Heck, you’re seriously saying that one police officer would condemn another to death just because he’s discomforted having him around?’

‘An ordinary police officer, no. But Scutter’s bent as they come. He’s on the Crew’s payroll. And you’re getting that from the horse’s mouth. I’ve seen him in action.’

‘Even if he is, you go in and talk to Priya Nehwal, she’s not going to blab to Salford CID.’

‘You know word gets around. Doesn’t have to be intentional.’

‘Priya’s well aware this is hush-hush.’

‘Lucy…’ He was sounding tired again, or maybe just frustrated. ‘I hate to ruin your illusions about the police force you’ve served so well for the last decade, but even if Scutter is kept out of the loop, you’ve got more than one rotten apple in that barrel. Last night, your dad was tipped off about Benny B. Probably before Benny’s own family knew. He even admitted to me that it was someone in the job, someone who, from the sounds of it, is a much bigger fish than Jake Scutter.’

‘I can only reiterate that Priya knows to keep this thing under wraps…’

‘Lucy! Priya is investigating a robbery in which seven people were murdered. She wants me to come in because she thinks I may have an angle on it. But it’s not just going to be me and her. It can’t be. She can’t do a job like that on her own. You know this.’

‘At least come in and tell her yourself.’

‘No. Walls in police stations have ears.’

‘Perhaps I can arrange a meet for you two somewhere outside.’

‘No, Lucy!’ Now he sounded angry. ‘She’ll have a top-table team she’ll need to keep appraised, and that’s where the fucking wheels’ll come off.’

‘Heck, I know Priya Nehwal. If you don’t come in voluntarily, she’ll send someone out to bring you in.’

‘Good luck to them.’

‘What if it’s me?’

He didn’t answer immediately. When he did, he was calmer. ‘Then our already tenuous relationship will be strained past snapping point. In the meantime, I don’t suppose I can trouble you for regular updates on the Benny B part of the enquiry?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Me and you are supposed to be working this case together.’

‘Oh, you remember that now!’ She had trouble keeping her voice down even though there were staff moving back and forth past her. ‘Even though you’re going to be swanning around all day off the grid, while I’m the one in the shit!’

There was a long pause.

‘In that case stay out of it,’ he said.

‘What’re you talking about?’

‘You’ve done your bit anyway. You got me into the Crew.’

Before she could reply, he cut the call.

‘Heck… damn it!’ she hissed.

She sloped back into the MIR. The first person she saw was Priya Nehwal, walking towards her at pace, but wearing an anorak over her usual ragged jumper. The DCI acting as her deputy hurried alongside her.

Lucy stepped out of the way. Nehwal arched a querying eyebrow.

‘Can’t pin him down yet, ma’am. Trying.’

Nehwal shook her head as she went out. Lucy glanced across the room, her gaze falling on Malcolm Peabody making himself a brew at the refs table.

‘Time do you call this?’ she said, walking over.

He cringed because his tea was too hot. ‘It’s not nine yet.’

That startled her. An awful lot seemed to have happened since she’d come on duty one hour ago. ‘Drink that, we’re off out.’

‘New lead?’ He pulled his jacket on as he followed.

Lucy didn’t reply. What could she say?

But she stopped in her tracks when they passed the Exhibits Desk. DS Jim Turley, Main Event’s Exhibits Officer, a handsome black guy, ex-military with short grey hair and grey muttonchop whiskers, was preparing items of bagged, tagged evidence for storage. The one that had caught her eye sat in the middle. A brown leather satchel, aged and scruffy, its shoulder strap only intact because it had been tied in a knot at one end.

‘Everything all right?’ Turley enquired.

‘This was retrieved at the crime scene?’ Lucy asked.

‘Next to the dead homeless guys,’ he replied.

‘We’ve got three dead homeless guys, yeah?’

He nodded, puzzled.

‘And they were all guys? I mean, there wasn’t a woman among them?’

He shook his head, bemused. ‘No trace of anyone else. Just those three. Even the blood at the scene married up.’

‘I don’t… don’t suppose this had anything inside it?’ she asked.

Turley scratched his head. ‘Erm… slice of pizza, if I remember. Days old. And… this.’ He pushed forward a smaller evidence sack, containing a dog-eared book. ‘Bible,’ he explained. ‘Very old. Scuffed cover, pages missing. Plus, there was a bullet lodged in it.’

She gazed at him incredulously.

‘44 Special,’ he said. ‘Fired from a Ruger Redhawk. It punched through the satchel, but the Word of God was too much for it. Pity the perps had lots of other bullets, eh?’

Lucy nodded imperceptibly, backing away.

‘Something I should know?’ Turley asked.

‘Not yet.’ She headed for the main door.

Peabody scampered after her. ‘Lucy! I…’

‘Yes.’ She hit the corridor at speed. ‘New lead. A bloody good one.’

40

It was a gloomy day for late May, which, after the summer-like weather over the Bank Holiday weekend, felt as if it was adding insult to injury. On this occasion though, Ray Marciano had no option but to wear his sunglasses, even though they only partly masked the plum-like shiner where his left eye used to be, never mind covered his many other cuts and bruises. His lower lip was still the size of someone’s thumb, while the two loosened teeth continued to leak blood into his mouth. It was all the more difficult because he’d spent the morning in central Manchester’s shopping and restaurant district where, even though he’d donned another Hawes & Curtis suit, one without holes torn in it, and a shirt and tie that weren’t stained with blood, people noticed things like that.

He ought to have realised down in Cornwall that Mark Heckenburg could be a pretty destructive character when the mood was on him. They’d pushed him to that point the previous night. Not, Marciano had noticed, that Heck had lost it to the degree where he’d tried to tangle with McCracken or Shallicker. No one in their right mind would have done that.

But Marciano wouldn’t underestimate Heck again. Not least because, as the morning went on, he was starting to think that the bastard had been onto something.

He’d picked up Timandra Hoag’s trail first thing that morning, when she’d left her decent-sized townhouse on Solway Drive in Altrincham just after eight o’clock. And from the get-go there’d been something wrong about it. This was a young woman whose brother had committed suicide the previous day, and while Marciano had spent enough time in the company of the bereaved to know that everyone reacted differently to personal tragedy, exchanging cheery banter with a next door neighbour and then sashaying down the front path to the Porsche Taycan parked out front as if she didn’t have a worry in the world seemed misplaced. Even her dress code was wrong. He didn’t expect a woman in her thirties to adopt old-fashioned mourning attire, but pink ski pants? Zip-up knee-length boots, also pink? A baggy T-shirt with what looked like a Disney character on it? A leather jacket in pale blue? An even paler blue silk scarf? It was sexy and chic for sure. It had sophisticated city girl written all over it. But was it the ensemble you’d opt for the next day after your kid brother tumbled four storeys and broke his skull to pieces on the filthy floor of an abandoned apartment block?

She’d climbed into her Taycan, tossed her brown curls, donned an expensive-looking pair of shades and set off driving. Marciano had put his Volvo in gear and followed.

Together, they’d taken the A538, and from Wythenshawe followed the A5103 into town, where they parked off Great Ducie Street, close to the Manchester Arena. From then on, they were on foot, Timandra swinging her bag as she’d strolled past Victoria station.

This was the point at which Marciano had begun to feel the pressure of his facial injuries, several people regarding him with curiosity. He’d brazened it out until his target went first into Harvey Nichols and then Selfridges. The customers on these premises, not to mention the security staff, would certainly pay attention to someone who looked like he belonged on a ‘World’s Most Violent’ poster. Timandra Hoag herself was likely to notice in this kind of trendy environment.

But again, the woman’s demeanour was strange: treating herself to what looked like expensive new clothes in Harvey Nichs, reclining in the coffee shop in House of Fraser, giggling and chatting on her phone while enjoying an Americano. The casual display of affluence surprised him most. The checks he’d made on Timandra Hoag revealed that, for a living, she managed a small art gallery. Though not today, apparently, which was a Tuesday. It wasn’t impossible that she’d have staff working in her absence, of course, so Marciano didn’t attach too much significance to that. But he didn’t see how the manager of a small gallery – the manager, not the owner – could afford a town centre property in Altrincham, or a Porsche Taycan, or even to shop in luxury department stores like these. She could have inherited the money, but who from? Her unhinged and lengthily imprisoned parents, neither of whom was dead yet?

On top of all that, and this had been Heck’s main point, there was a certain style to the woman. Late morning, she steered her path towards The Ivy, one of the hippest eateries in town. TV celebs and sports personalities dined there, which underlined Heck’s view that there was something very ‘sorted’ about Timandra Hoag. She dressed and walked with confidence. She displayed good taste and visibly enjoyed her life. And yet, even discounting the recent bereavement, she came from a hellish background.

Marciano struggled to believe that Timandra herself had suffered no abuse at the hands of her depraved parents, or at least that she hadn’t seen it going on. It was still possible that her brother had lied about what they’d done to him, but they’d been convicted of so many other horrendous offences, how could either of their children not have reached adulthood at least a little bit screwed up? When he watched her join a group of girlfriends outside The Ivy’s front door, they too carrying designer-branded shopping bags, wearing pretty but pricy summer clothes, all laughing and hugging each other, he became resolute that something wasn’t right.

According to his watch, it was close on eleven.

Brunch in The Ivy was likely to take a couple of hours at least. And that was if she didn’t go somewhere else afterwards.

He walked away. Even if whatever was going on that was supposedly too nasty even for Benny B had nothing to do with Seamus and Timandra Hoag, there were questions here that needed answering.

41

‘Sister Cassie,’ Peabody groaned. ‘Not that bloody old lunatic again.’

‘She saved my life,’ Lucy replied.

He couldn’t argue with that, but Lucy knew that his thoughts had always been confused about Sister Cassiopeia, or ‘Sister Cassie’ as she preferred to be called, the one-time Irish nun and reputedly inspirational teacher who’d suffered a crisis of faith when she became mistress to a Catholic priest and later was dismissed from her order, a subsequent nervous collapse marooning her on the streets with a drug habit she fed by offering sex for cash. Incredibly, the once fine-looking woman she’d been was still in evidence even now, despite her gaunt features and emaciated body, even though the monastic robes she wore, the long black habit and brown scapular, the white wimple, black cloak and black veil, had become shabby and ragged. To a young male like Malcolm Peabody, who still harboured righteous but simplistic views about the way people ought to live, it seemed against nature.

‘Well, didn’t she?’ Lucy demanded of him.

‘She did,’ he confirmed.

Lucy nodded and drove on.

It had only been a year ago when she’d investigated a series of abductions of homeless people, the disappearances first drawn to her attention by Sister Cassie, and had found herself on the trail of one Martin Torgau, a suburban everyman who’d also happened to be the Crew’s number one assassin, and his two school-age daughters, Ivana and Alyssa, who’d been training in the family business. Coming up against such opposition alone, Lucy had almost died. Only Sister Cassie, who’d hung close to her throughout the enquiry, had made the difference. This had been the same enquiry though that had seen Peabody also miss death by inches out on the Fairview Landfill site. So the mere mention of the woman’s name stirred ugly memories for him.

‘Just to be clear,’ he said, ‘you’ve made this connection through that satchel?’

‘Of course. What else?’

‘She carried it with her, didn’t she… when she used to visit the homeless at night?’

Lucy nodded. ‘She’d feed them if she could. Sometimes she’d take them medicine. Sometimes she’d kneel with them, saying prayers. She called it making her nightly rounds.’

‘Are we sure it’s…’

‘If you’re about to ask are we sure it’s the same one, the satchel on the Exhibits Desk only contained a slice of pizza and a Bible. Who do you think it belonged to? And that Bible had a .44 slug lodged in it.’

The image came easily to mind: Sister Cassie sitting or kneeling alongside those Skid Row guys in the Hobhall Tunnel, satchel hanging by her side as always, about to pray for them, or just chat to them or whatever it was she did to bring comfort to the needy, the whole group suddenly caught in that blizzard of gunfire.

Though in her case, as Jim Turley had pointed out, the Word of the Lord had, quite literally, saved her.

‘You think she played dead and then wandered off later?’ Peabody asked.

‘What else? They wouldn’t have moved her body and left all the others, would they? There wasn’t even any blood at the scene that didn’t come from the other victims. As far as Operation Main Event is concerned, no one else was even there.’

He considered. ‘Bit lax of them not to have worked it out.’

Lucy smiled. ‘Too many out-of-towners, Malcolm. Always the way with these specialist investigation teams. They want slick bastards from the upper floors, cool customers who’ve been there before, seen it, done it, shagged it. Not carrot crunchers who know their own neighbourhoods and the people who live in them. Like us.’

‘Nehwal should’ve spotted it at least.’

‘She’s got a lot on her plate. But hey, that’s one of the reasons she’s brought us in, isn’t it? For our local knowledge. At least, that’s what she’ll say. And it’s worked. Because we’ve developed a hypothesis, and before you say anything else, we’re just checking it’s sound, and then we’ll make it official. Don’t worry, mate. We’re covered. I’ve got this.’

‘Yeah.’ He shrugged. ‘All we have to do is find a certain street-person who’s lived on these streets for the last ten years at least, so she knows her way around. On top of that, she’s someone who this time doesn’t want to be found, and in addition, she happens to be a lot more intelligent than the norm.’

‘Don’t be defeatist, Malcolm. We’ll find her.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because we’ve bloody got to, that’s why.’

*

It wasn’t the way any cop would prefer to spend his or her Tuesday morning, dragging their backsides from one drug den to the next, from squats to shooting galleries, from dirty, smelly huddles of desperate folk in long-forgotten underpasses to pool halls and rough bars, to walk-in centres and mission halls. And of course, it was a non-achiever in terms of results. No one Lucy or Peabody spoke to had seen Sister Cassie in quite some time.

‘Would you tell me if you had, Si?’ Lucy asked Cycling Simon, a well-known tramp of the St Clement’s ward, often to be seen riding a pushbike minus tyres, his front basket filled with empty beer cans.

‘Probably not, Miss Clayburn,’ he replied.

‘Why? You know Cassie and me are friends.’

‘That’s the problem. Makes people think she can’t be trusted. Makes it dangerous for her.’

‘People around here know Cassie’s a good person,’ Lucy replied. ‘They know she helps the police for the right reasons.’

‘Right and wrong don’t come into it, Miss Clayburn. You have to be careful who your friends are these days, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘Think he knows something we don’t?’ Peabody asked as they walked to Lucy’s Jimny.

‘They all know something we don’t,’ she replied. ‘It’s Hobhall Tunnel. The word’s got out that Cassie was a witness to what happened. We’re talking seven murders, Malcolm. That’s heavy stuff even for these people.’

After noon, they pulled into the parking area shared by a greasy spoon and a carwash. Lucy left her Jimny by the front wall, facing onto noisy Tarwood Lane, while she went inside and got them some eats.

Peabody leaned against the front of the car, gazing across the rivers of traffic to the large billboard on the far side, which was plastered with a mosaic of colourful imagery: balloons, clowns, laughing children, garishly painted wooden horses. Lucy came back out with two coffees, a pastie for herself and a slice of ham and mushroom pizza for him. They munched and drank, Peabody continuing to stare at the billboard.

‘Penny for them?’ Lucy asked.

‘Probably nothing.’

‘Let’s hear it anyway.’

He nodded at the board. ‘Flaherty’s Fair.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Kind of Irish traveller family, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, but they’re based around here. They set up at Broadgate Green for the Bank Holiday. Think they’re still there. They tend to do a week, then they move on. Probably go to Salford next, or Bolton.’

‘Law-abiding citizens?’

She shrugged. ‘Usual thing, half and half. It’s not quite Brassic, but they’re getting there. Old Man Flaherty’s a bit of a thug, or he used to be in his youth.’

Peabody looked around at her. ‘But they’re Irish? Whenever I’ve had contact with them, they all speak like Crowley folk.’

‘That’s the generation that was born here. But by origin they’re Irish, yeah.’

‘And do they have this Irish traveller thing in their blood? I mean, do they all stick together?’

‘What’re you getting at, Malcolm?’

‘It’s just… well, it’s a longshot. But Sister Cassie’s Irish, isn’t she?’

Lucy finished her pastie, wadded the napkin and the paper bag into a ball, and tossed it into the nearest bin.

Peabody reddened. ‘Daft idea. Forget I mentioned it.’

‘You finished your pizza?’

‘Yep. Always leave the crust.’

She nodded at the bin, and he slung the remnants away, along with his empty Styrofoam beaker. ‘We off then?’

‘Sure are.’

‘Where to?’

Lucy mused. ‘I feel strangely and suddenly compelled… to go to the fair.’

42

The shooting of Benny B wasn’t necessarily the key to Heck’s investigation in Manchester. It didn’t even connect the guy for sure to the Hobhall Tunnel killings, let alone to this mysterious Bad Thing that Seamus Hoag had said could bring down Frank McCracken’s whole empire. There was no certainty that one of the tunnel shooters had been the same perp who’d accounted for Benny, just that one of the same guns had been used. And guns changed hands quickly in the underworld. It was also the case that Benny had pissed off a lot of people over the years. But it could still be, and this wasn’t at all implausible, that someone had decided to off Benny B because he knew about the Bad Thing and had started mentioning it to people.

In that regard, it was quite convenient that McCracken had instructed Heck to look into the big guy’s murder. Not that it was going to be straightforward, because in his last decade and a half in the Serial Crimes Unit, Heck mainly had been south, only visiting the northwest occasionally, so he’d now lost most of the informants he’d had as a young bobby in GMP and hadn’t cultivated many new ones since. However, he knew someone who’d talk, even if the poor bastard didn’t realise it yet.

The face peering at him from the grainy driving license photo would now look somewhat different, Heck having smacked it around with a cue ball. The image itself was poor quality, but still recognisable as the Elvis fan from The King Billy. He clearly valued his teddy boy persona, because even on this image, presumably taken some time ago and when he was alone in a photo-booth, he wore a sneery, predatory grin, peering at the camera as if it was very close to getting its lights punched out.

According to the license, his name was Jordan Floyd, and he resided at 18 Clapton Terrace, Crowley. Heck slid it back into the wallet he’d found after The King Billy brawl. He was parked in the heart of Hatchwood Green, one of those infamous, sprawling sink-estates that woe-begotten towns in the north of England, and Crowley in particular, seemed to specialise in. Clapton Terrace was no worse than anywhere else in the district, but it was no better either, mainly comprising council houses with overgrown front gardens and smashed fences, though at the far end, because it was a cul-de-sac, stood a two-storey block of flats.

Heck climbed out, locked the car and pulled on a pair of thick canvas gloves. If this character, Floyd, was even here and not in hospital, he didn’t expect the guy to surrender anything easily, not even information, though it was only three days since the beating he’d taken in the pub. If nothing else, he ought to be in no state to resist. Not that Heck was here as a cop, of course, hence the Walther tucked again into the back of his jeans. It was another cloudy day, but muggy and warm. Even so, for extra padding, Heck wore a hoodie over his T-shirt and an anorak over the top of that.

He walked down the street to the flats.

No. 18 was on the upper floor, accessible by a concrete gantry at the front. There was no sign of movement up there. He glanced back towards his Puma. Other cars were parked in the street, so it didn’t stand out. No one was around.

He ascended via a flight of concrete steps at the side, turning a single switchback corner before reaching the top, where he looked out over a grassless wasteland at the rear, rolling towards a row of Victorian-age railway arches. A blue and purple train trundled across the top. He continued up, halting at the corner of the building, observing the front gantry.

Heck didn’t doubt that this Jordan Floyd was a player, otherwise he wouldn’t have known Benny B. Ergo, he was the sort who’d be on his guard. Especially if he’d now learned about his chubby mate’s demise.

But still, there was no sound. Nothing looked untoward.

At No. 18, Heck held the wallet behind his back when he knocked. Initially, there was no response, but then he heard a muffled voice, clearly female, and an equally muffled response from a male. Neither sounded alarmed or even alert. When the door opened, there wasn’t even a chain in place. A girl stood there, blonde, tousled and pretty but not much over eighteen, and wrapped in a towel so small that it barely covered anything.

‘Yeah?’ She was chewing pink gum.

‘Hi.’ Heck produced the wallet. ‘Think Jordan’ll be happy I’m the one who found this and not someone else.’

She glanced down at it, puzzled. ‘Jord!’ she called over her shoulder.

Heck’s eyes had already attuned sufficiently for him to penetrate the dimness behind her. It was a small, messy living room, unpleasant smells – dust, sweat, spoiled food – competing for prominence. Meanwhile, a figure descended an open riser staircase on the left.

When he swung into view, Heck didn’t at first recognise Jordan the rockabilly. Firstly, he was naked except for a pair of jeans, and for all his bully boy status, his physique wasn’t that impressive. Secondly, the whole right side of his face was a hotch-potch of tape, gauze and sticking plaster. It extended outward from the orbit of his right eye, the size and shape of a tennis ball. The eye itself was a painful splat of black and green and closed to a crimson slit.

For all this, Floyd came to a quivering halt when he saw Heck.

‘Hey, Jordan?’ Heck said.

The hoodlum backed away. ‘You dumb bitch!’ he stuttered. ‘It’s the fucking Crew!’

He turned and fled across his tiny living room. The girl screamed as Heck barged past her, following Floyd through a narrow, galley-like kitchen, and then an exterior door. Outside, they clattered down a steel fire-escape. Still half-naked, still minus shoes, Floyd straddled a rickety fence and lolloped onto the wasteland. He’d evidently learned who protected The King Billy since the fight there and had drawn the obvious conclusion: Benny was dead, and he was next. Injured or not, even running barefoot, he motored across that huge open space.

Heck pursued, but not as hard as he could. Since his recent fitness drive, he’d learned not to burn himself out over the first hundred yards, instead hitting a fast but controlled jog. Floyd got a significant distance ahead quickly, though it wasn’t long before he started flagging. In addition, he was limping and hopping. Heck could already see blood on the soles of his feet. It was no surprise on this surface, which was strewn with stones and slivers of glass. However, Heck needed to accelerate when, halfway across, the wasteland tilted downward, adding speed to the fugitive’s heels. He needed to overhaul the bastard before he reached the railway arches. The one directly ahead was stacked with what looked like abandoned white goods, but a path led into the middle of it, plus it was a shadowy cave in there. Almost certainly there’d be a hiding place, or maybe a concealed escape route.

And Floyd looked like he knew where.

43

Ray Marciano’s facial injuries now posed a problem. Under normal circumstances, he’d consider himself a smooth operator, the kind of presentable guy who could park up on any suburban street and keep watch on a house and still attract zero attention. However, with features like pummelled meat, this became more difficult.

This was especially galling because as soon as he arrived back on Solway Drive in Altrincham, he saw Timandra Hoag’s front door standing wide open, while a middle-aged Oriental woman in a flowered pinafore suspended a couple of rugs from a washing line and proceeded to beat them. Okay, facial mess or not, he couldn’t just have walked past her into the house. But with the premises wide open, he’d ordinarily have several options by which to try and gain entry, though sitting here cut, bruised and swollen, he looked highly conspicuous.

For all that, it was still too good a chance to pass up. He’d feared that he’d have to break and enter, commit burglary like a common thief, which in its turn meant he’d have to bypass the alarm system somehow. Frank McCracken would no doubt have provided technical backup if he’d called for it, but that would have taken time.

No, it was better to strike now, with the house insecure.

While the woman hammered the rugs, Marciano drove past. Ahead on the left, he spied a turn into what looked like a spacious backstreet with garages leading off it. Doubtless these belonged to the owners of the townhouses, but no one was around at present. He turned down there, travelling slowly. The road surface was unmade, so his tyres ground on gravel. Deep amid residential housing, someone could hear that and glance from a window. For all these reasons, he’d changed the plates on his Volvo before coming here. It was a standard precaution since signing for the Crew, but that wouldn’t have prevented someone becoming suspicious straight away, calling the cops, and a fast response car haring over here to intercept him. But it was a risk he had to run.

He only relaxed when he backed in between two freestanding garages. It wasn’t so much a parking space as a gap filled with weeds, but there was room there to keep his Volvo out of the way, so he wouldn’t impede the comings and goings of residents.

He tightened his tie knot, straightened his lapels and pulled on a pair of flesh-coloured latex gloves before climbing out. There was a footpath on the right, which cut between two more garages, and then connected with a cobbled lane running along the rear of Solway Drive. Going into someone’s property from the rear was a risk in its own right because almost no one went around the back of someone’s house without nefarious reason. The trade-off was that there were fewer people to see you.

Marciano strolled nonchalantly, clocking off the houses as he passed them. A gate coming up about thirty yards ahead on the left was the one he wanted. A little closer, and he saw that it was already open. He decelerated. And then froze. The cleaning woman had appeared there. Bending over as she emptied a bucket of dirty washing water into a grid. Her back was to him, so she hadn’t spotted him yet, though in half a second, she’d turn to re-enter the garden. If she turned left, she wouldn’t see him, but if she turned right… Marciano held his ground, heart thudding. If the woman caught him in this situation, close to the rear of the house, inexplicably suited (how he now wished he’d put workman’s overalls on, as he’d considered earlier), at the very least she’d be suspicious. She straightened up, one hand clutching at her back. Sweat slicked Marciano’s brow. Then she turned. Leftward. And went back into the garden.

He swallowed with relief. But he wasn’t out of the woods yet. She could reappear. Failing that, she could close and lock the back gate, and he’d be no further on.

But she didn’t reappear, and the gate remained open,

Marciano slid forward along the wall until he was right next to the gateway.

Holding his breath, he risked a peek.

The garden was long and narrow, perhaps sixty yards from the gate to the back of the house. There were deep bushes down either side, narrowing it further, but the rest was grass, with a single, paved footpath up the middle. The cleaning woman was visible at the far end, her back turned again as she unpegged sheets from another washing line. He stepped through, scuttling to his right and immersing himself in the deep vegetation. From here, he watched through greenery. The woman folded the sheets and placed them in a plastic basket. Once the basket was full, she hefted it, stiffened again – another twinge from her aching back – and then lumbered into the house through a rear entrance.

Marciano broke from the bushes, sprinting down the garden, before diverting to the right and plunging undercover again. The woman reappeared, gathered up the last of the laundry and took it indoors. Marciano was now halfway to the house. He could see inside through what looked like a utility room window. The woman was moving around in there. If he broke from cover again, she’d likely spot him. Instead, he edged forward, following the perimeter of the garden, his back to the fence, hoping the moving leafage wouldn’t give him away.

The woman reappeared a third time.

Marciano sank to his haunches. He was about twenty yards from the back door and could see her clearly. She stood at an angle. Not staring down the length of the garden as much as across the lawn, peering straight in his direction. Had she spotted him? The vegetation hung almost to the ground, but he was wearing a beige suit, a bright blue tie. When she turned stiffly away, he was certain he’d been made. She was acting as if nothing had happened. She’d go back into the house, then slam the back door, lock it and call the police.

But again, she didn’t.

Marciano watched wonderingly as she toddled down the path towards the rear gate. She moved past him five or so yards to his left. At which point, he realised that she was more than middle-aged. Probably well into her seventies. She also wore a pair of glasses, but they hung on her bosom on a chain. She was myopic then. She might well have looked in his direction, but her vision wasn’t the best.

Relieved, he watched as she walked down to the gate, no doubt to close and lock up. Again, a chance had come. He slid out through the leaves and scampered across the top part of the lawn, entering the house through its open rear door.

He was indeed inside a utility room. There was a washing-machine with a dryer on top. He saw a large refrigerator, shelves with tools on them. More important, there was an internal door, connecting with the rest of the house. He hurried forward, praying that it wouldn’t be locked. It wasn’t. He opened it, stepping through and closing it behind him.

Already, he was in a cosier environment. He saw a sideboard with ornaments, handsome silk wallpaper, a parquet floor. But the woman would soon be coming back. With luck, she’d shortly be leaving. Before then, he needed to find a hiding place.

44

As Heck passed under the railway arch, he yanked the Walther from the back of his jeans. It hadn’t seemed possible that Jordan Floyd could have concealed a weapon on himself when running half-naked from the flat on Clapton Terrace, but he could be heading towards a stash of weapons now.

Heck advanced slowly. There were all kinds of abandoned white goods under here: washing machines, dryers, fridges, all stacked on top of each other, and brown and cracked with rust. Crooked ways ran between them, knee-deep in wastepaper, cans and broken bottles. The latter could only help Heck, because Floyd was already travelling with wounded feet, bright smears of blood leading around one corner after another, finally trailing up to a black entrance in a wall of wet brick. Pistol levelled, Heck pushed through it into a passage no more than one-man wide. This too was deep in trash, and he waded forward blindly. With a reverberating roar, a train passed overhead, dust and grime pluming down. When he emerged under the next archway, it was closed off front and back, dim light penetrating through small gaps in the brick and girder ceiling, water dripping. Again, his phone-light picked out a trail of reddish footprints, which led to another narrow entrance. Here, a barred gate stood partway open. It was rickety and corroded, though a new padlock hung on it, which Floyd had not had time to fasten. Heck went through, halting when he heard a shuddering bang from somewhere ahead.

A door slamming closed?

Thinking that he must have passed out from under the railway by now, he progressed along a second tunnel-like passage, which ended at another open gateway. The space beyond this was filled with a grey, grainy light. Daylight, Heck realised, leaching in through a row of high, arched windows. By the looks of it, he was inside some kind of goods warehouse. He entered, gazing up at a high roof crisscrossed with rafters and dangling with cobwebs. The air in here was drier; there was no dripping moisture. Evidently that was one reason it had been chosen for its current purpose, because, while the huge space was maybe a hundred yards in length, and sixty or seventy across, the vast majority of its central area was occupied by a mountainous stack of furniture, three aisles dividing it lengthways.

Heck halted. His quarry had come in here. He had to have. Though that didn’t mean he was still here now. There could be a door at the far end. Perhaps that was the door Heck had heard slamming closed. But now something else caught his eye. Midway down the third aisle, a wingback armchair lay on its side.

Perhaps it hadn’t been a door that he’d heard banging.

He moved warily down the aisle, noticing more smears of blood, and very conscious of the towering stacks to left and right. It was like a warehouse discount store, except that nothing here was for sale. Plus, the merchandise had been crammed together stick by stick rather than arrayed on shelves. It was a range of what could only be called vintage furniture. Not just tables and chairs, but bureaus, sideboards, lampstands. None of it was new, and everything in a dull condition, dusty and dented, but though Heck had no better eye for antiques than the average man, he could tell from the off that most of this was quality stuff. That none of it was bubble-wrapped for protection or even bore shipping tags or certificates of provenance implied that this wasn’t just some wholesaler’s stockroom.

He reached the wingback chair. Upholstered in maroon leather, it looked like the last word in fireside comfort, though one of its intricately carved legs had broken. It lay next to a Chippendale writing desk protruding from the wall of furniture on the left. From the recent brutal gash on the Chippendale’s French-polished surface, the wingback had struck it as it came down. Heck glanced up to where it had fallen from, at a guess while Jordan Floyd had been clambering up there to hide.

He was just in time to see a chest of drawers tilting outward directly above him.

It crashed downward, turning over and over with incredible violence.

It was pure instinct that Heck dropped into a ball and rolled under the Chippendale.

The chest of drawers struck it with the most astonishing impact, woodwork exploding with such concussive force that Heck went spinning into oblivion.

45

Flaherty’s Fair had been set up in the middle of Broadgate Green, another vast Crowley housing estate, though not as run-down as Hatchwood Green or Bullwood. The fair sat on an open space, and though once evening fell it would glow like a Christmas tree, the neon-lit spokes of the Ferris wheel looking magical, stroboscopic colours flickering from the merry-go-rounds, now, on a grey Tuesday afternoon, the bright colours were gaudy, the fairy lights cracked and dull. Lucy and Peabody strolled among the stalls and rides anyway. The air was alternately sweet and foul with the mingled scents of candy floss, ketchup, fried onions, diesel from the engines, or stagnant waste from the free-standing, often open and paper-strewn chemical toilets. Despite the absence of school-age kids, the noise level was high, the site echoing with bells, whistles and bangs. Amplified shrieks sounded from behind the black, blood-spattered hoardings of the Tunnels of Terror, pounding rock emanating from the Waltzer, the Wild Mouse and the Wall of Death.

‘Used to love these places when I was a nipper,’ Peabody said. ‘My grandma used to take me. I remember she won me a goldfish at one of them… thought it was unbelievable. Then, about a year after that, I’d have been five or six, I went on one of the Dodgems on my own. Never done it before. Frightened me to death. Getting bashed all over the show. My grandma could see I was distressed, so she sent the bloke who was running it over to give me a hand. You know, pluck me out. He was a big, burly type… looked the sort who could rescue anyone from anything. He jumps on the back of the car and says: “Just drive the fucking thing. You fucking little girl.” Those were his exact words. I’ve never forgotten them. “What are you, a poof? Fuck’s sake! Stop fucking skriking.” I guess I realised at an earlier age than most that the fun of the fair was all a façade.’

‘They serve a purpose,’ Lucy replied.

‘What’s that? Providing entertainment for the great unwashed? I’ll tell you something, the great unwashed won’t be any cleaner when they come out of this place.’

‘Take it easy, eh? You had a bad experience with a pillar of toxic masculinity. Welcome to our world. But it was yonks ago, and the wanker responsible’s probably long dead.’

‘You reckon Flaherty and his firm’ll be any different? You’ve already told me they’re dodgy.’

‘No one’s forced to come to the fair, Malcolm. If they don’t enjoy it, they can stay away.’

‘Sorry…’ he sighed. ‘Bad memories. Where we going to find this boss-man, anyway?’

‘We’re not,’ she said. ‘Unless we have to. Because he’ll deny everything. Plus, if he knows we’re here, he’ll have his hoodlums keep an eye on us, so we won’t stumble across Sister Cassie by accident.’

The problem with this of course was that it meant they could only track Sister Cassie down, if she was here at all, by hoping to get lucky. It was anyone’s guess where she’d even be. Behind the fairground, a section of land had been roped off and was now being used as parking for vehicles and caravans. If she was in hiding here, she’d likely be holed up in one of those, and even if they went around and knocked on every door, which wouldn’t be possible without attracting attention, she’d be unwilling to respond. But Lucy felt she knew Old Man Flaherty well and, Irish kinship or not, he wouldn’t shelter anyone for a protracted period unless they were prepared to earn their way.

Peabody was sceptical of this. ‘Look a bit weird, a nun working on a travelling fair.’

‘She hasn’t been an actual nun for a long time,’ Lucy replied. ‘She doesn’t look much like one in daylight. Her vestments are pretty worn out by now. But they’ve probably made her change her clothes anyway, so she won’t stand out.’

They pitched up at one ride after another, eyeing the staff operating them. Mostly, they were roustabouts, hefty and denim-clad, sporting tattoos and earrings, though the buskers and hawkers were visible too, suited and booted, a ‘jockeyfied’ chap offering a plausible line of blarney on a podium in front of the Steeplechase, a hulk in leopard skins accepting challenges at the Try Your Strength. There were women on site too. Flipping burgers or serving in drinks kiosks. Any required to don costume and makeup – perhaps to add a touch of feminine enticement at the entrance to the Beer Tent or do the glammed-up cowgirl thing at the Rodeo Rider – were not at that stage of the day yet. Like most of the men, they tended to be in scruffs. None of them were recognisable as Sister Cassie.

They trawled on. Some attractions they had to venture into, because simply queuing at the front didn’t give them full vantage on everyone working there. So, while they were spared the Waltzer and the Rocket Ride and the Dodgems (‘thank fuck for that!’ Peabody said under his breath), they had to pay to go into the Freakshow, which contained nothing but poorly constructed wax dummies, and the Hall of Mirrors, which cast its usual eerie spell even though there was only one corridor of reflective glass to walk along.

Lucy thought they might have a genuine chance when it came to the Petting Zoo, because one thing Sister Cassie genuinely offered was empathy. She’d be ideal for a role where all she needed to do was encourage children to cuddle piglets, lambs and puppies. But the sole member of staff manning the pens in there was a plump woman wearing a plaid shirt under green canvas dungarees. She thought it curious to see a pair of adults without any children and rose to her feet.

‘Don’t worry yourself, love,’ Peabody said airily, ‘we’re just looking for a friend.’

‘That wasn’t very smart,’ Lucy hissed as they went outside again.

‘What harm did it do?’

‘You think the word won’t travel? That two folk are on site looking for someone? While the people running this place are offering sanctuary to a fugitive? Seriously, Malcolm?’

46

When Jordan Floyd climbed down from his high perch, he was still dizzy.

The fight in The King Billy had left him severely injured. He was certain that he’d fractured his right cheekbone, maybe his right eye-socket as well. But he hadn’t dared go to A&E for fear the Crew would have spotters looking out for anyone damaged in that way. He’d thus patched himself up and tried to cope with the pain by dosing himself with codeine. At first, this had left him semi-stupefied, fuddling his thinking when it came to what might happen next. He hadn’t even realised until just now that he’d lost his wallet, and he’d only learned that morning that Benny Bartholomew had been murdered. Not just shot repeatedly, but stripped naked first, which implied that he’d also been tortured. Presumably, that had been to make him name his confederates, those others who’d participated in his planned attack on a Crew pub?

It had seemed ridiculous that anyone might go to such lengths when all it had amounted to in reality was a few smashed bottles and broken photo frames, but seeing that bastard turn up at his front door – that same bastard who’d given him such a kicking – there’d been no doubt in his mind after that. Still in agony from his broken face, groggy with self-medication, it had been a crazy thing indeed to then go dashing across the back fields towards the railway. But what other option had there been? These Crew maniacs were the worst of the worst.

His head swam as he clambered down through the stacked furniture. The aisle below was a clutter of fallen, shattered pieces, but of the bastard chasing him there was no sign.

When Floyd got down there, he leaned against an upright Chinese cabinet covered in lacquer and colourful images of wildfowl. The heavy chest of Victorian drawers had burst apart on impact with the Chippendale desk, its various fragments hanging together on strips of damask. As for the Chippendale, it was badly scarred, but, in astonishing testimony to its carpentry, remained intact. He kicked at bits of wreckage, wondering where his pursuer’s mangled remains might be lying, and still seeing nothing. Until his gaze locked onto a flap of embroidered wall-hanging, which had come down in the deluge and now half-covered the Chippendale, partially concealing the space underneath.

‘No way,’ Floyd muttered.

No way had that bastard got under there. Not into the one place that could have shielded him. Hand shaking, he reached down. Gripped a corner of the dusty material between thumb and forefinger. Yanked it clear.

He heaved with relief.

Nothing. There was no one there.

Someone tapped his shoulder.

Floyd spun around. And caught a fleeting glimpse of the Chinese cabinet, now standing open, and the person who’d stepped out of it, before a gloved fist landed like a bone mallet.

Floyd went down, chin singing, mouth running with fresh blood.

‘Look,’ he jabbered. ‘I didn’t know it was a Crew boozer.’ He crab-crawled away. ‘How could I? They don’t put it over the door.’

‘Should’ve asked.’ The Crew bastard followed him.

‘Seen all this? See?’ Floyd spread his hands. He was drenched with sweat as well as blood, especially now seeing a pistol trained on him. ‘Look!’ He scrabbled up to his feet. ‘Look! There’s several mills’ worth of stolen gear in here. Antiques, paintings, everything… it’s all yours.’

The guy looked around as he sidled behind him. ‘Haven’t we already had our cut?’

‘Not from this lot, no.’

‘Bit naughty.’ The muzzle pressed into the back of Floyd’s head.

‘Fuck!’ he squealed, jamming his hands into the air. ‘Look, mate… I’m just the caretaker. But let me make it up to you… you can have it all.’

‘We’re the Crew, Jordan. We can have it all anyway.’ His captor kicked his legs from under him, dropping him to his knees.

‘Pleeease,’ the hoodlum whimpered. ‘There’s a babby coming.’

A pause. ‘You and Lolita back there are having a baby?’

‘Yeah!’ Floyd nodded vigorously, blood and sweat flying. ‘It’s not due, but…’

‘Poor little bastard, eh?’

‘Someone’s got to provide for it.’

‘And how you gonna do that, Jordan? By breaking up more pubs?’

‘You do what you’re good at.’

‘Fucking clown.’ A kick between the shoulders toppled him onto his face. ‘You weren’t that good.’ The bastard cocked his weapon.

‘The babby!’ The hoodlum squirmed over onto his back, his jeans filling with urine. He clamped a hand to his face. ‘Pleeease…’

A second passed.

‘Really want to live, eh?’ his captor asked.

Floyd peered between his fingers. ‘Course… course I do. Who wouldn’t?’

The bastard lowered the gun a little. ‘Okay… here’s the deal. You answer some questions to my satisfaction… and I might, might, walk away.’

Slowly, Floyd removed his hand, though he remained terrified.

‘You’re not going to get a better offer today, Jordan, I can guarantee that.’

‘What do you want to know?’

47

‘Lucy, for Christ’s sake!’ Peabody blurted. ‘We’ll have to speak to Flaherty and his goons. We’re getting nowhere here.’

‘Yeah, and now you’ve just made certain of that…’

‘What’s she running from the cops for, anyway?’

‘I think it’s called a trust issue.’

‘We’re talking seven murders. It’s heavy shit. And she thinks these carnies can protect her better than we can?’

‘Mark Heckenburg would agree with her…’

‘And what’s he doing while all this is going on?’

‘I must admit,’ Lucy said, ‘that I would like to know. Hang on!’

‘Lucy, let’s put a lid on it…’

‘Shut up, Malcolm! Listen!’

More by accident than design, they’d found themselves at the rear of a rather extravagant pavilion, done in purple with gold and silver suns and moons all over it. But it wasn’t that, it was the voice they could hear inside.

It was female, very gentle, with a soft Irish lilt.

‘Now, my dear, I think you’ve been through difficult times, yes?’ the voice said.

‘Very ’ard, yes,’ another female replied in solid Manchester. ‘Ever since my husband died… I’ve not known which way to turn.’

‘Now, my dear, don’t upset yourself,’ the Irishwoman said. ‘The path ahead may seem difficult, but it will clear for you. There are better days round the corner…’

Lucy pushed Peabody around the tent to the front.

The signpost suspended from the awning read:

GYPSY LAVINIA

PALMS, CRYSTALS, TEA LEAVES

A tubby young woman with straggling black hair, wearing a bulging tracksuit, sat in the entrance on a deckchair. She wore a money-belt, but was so engrossed in Tittle-Tattle magazine that she didn’t even realise Lucy and Peabody were there.

Lucy walked him away a few yards. ‘I know that voice.’

‘Sister Cassie?’ Peabody seemed doubtful. ‘You sure?’

‘I’ve had plenty dealings with her.’

He made to go in. ‘Let’s grab her…’

She snatched his arm. ‘Wait!’ She glanced again at the tubby girl. ‘Let’s not be too quick to show our hand. You watch the entrance. Covertly, obviously. I’ll go around the back and cock an ear. We just want to be sure, don’t we?’

He looked aggravated. ‘Either you know that voice, or you don’t.’

‘Give me a couple of minutes, that’s all I ask.’

When Lucy got to the back of the tent, her main concern was to not look suspicious. This was the outer rim of the fairground, close to the temporary car park. A few carney folk were sitting around smoking and swigging beer. None had noticed her, but they would if she hung around. She made as if she was looking for something in the grass, all the time listening.

‘Oh, my dear,’ the Irish voice said. ‘Is it essential there be another man in your future? Do you really want to get married again?’

‘I’d like to.’ The Manchester woman sounded puzzled.

‘My dear, happiness can come in many shapes and sizes.’

‘Does that mean I’m not going to meet anyone else, then?’

‘My dear, let’s not be hasty. Take my advice…’

‘Can’t you just tell me…?’

‘Take my advice!’ the Irish woman cut in with a hint of teacherly firmness.

There was no doubt in Lucy’s mind now. Gypsy Lavinia was Sister Cassie. But before she could move, she heard an outbreak of harsh voices. One of them was Malcolm Peabody’s.

‘Look, I’m a police officer. As you can see, if you can even read! And it’s very important that I speak to Gypsy Lavinia!’

‘Malcolm!’ Lucy dashed around to the front.

When she got there, he was in a stand-up confrontation with the woman reading the scandal mag, who was also Irish and demanding that he wait his turn and pay.

‘What the hell?’ Lucy said.

Peabody turned a red face towards her. ‘She asked me what I was doing here, and why I was sniffing around. I had to identify myself and explain that if she continues barring me from speaking to this Gypsy Lavinia, she’s obstructing an enquiry…’

‘Fuck’s sake!’ Lucy shoved a fiver into the girl’s hand, and pushed past the pair of them, ripping aside the curtain.

Inside, there was a circular table with a Chinese paper lantern hanging over it and a crystal sphere mounted in the middle. To one side, a woman in her fifties, wearing an overcoat and holding a handbag, sat primly but gazed at the new arrival with mouth agape. There was no one else in there, though at the back of the tent, a concealed door, which had been opened by the simple method of unzipping a panel from top to bottom, flapped in the breeze.

‘Great, Malcolm,’ Lucy said as Peabody stumbled in behind her. ‘Just bloody great.’

48

‘Simple question,’ Heck said, still pointing the Walther, though he’d now seated himself at one end of a Royal Divan couch. ‘Who whacked Benny B?’

Jordan Floyd sat at the other side of the aisle, his back to a large mirror with ornate leafage for a frame. He looked confused. ‘Wasn’t it you lot?’

‘You mean for working over The King Billy?’ Heck pulled a face. ‘Be a bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?’

Floyd shrugged. ‘Dunno then. Benny’s Benny. There’s been plenty bastards wanted to stick it to him over the years. He’s not Crew anymore, so any one of ’em could’ve felt free.’

‘Are you one of those, Jordan?’

‘Me?’

‘Don’t give me that innocent routine. He sent you to The King Billy to do a job, and instead someone did a job on you. Did that piss you off?’

‘No way.’ Floyd shook his head. ‘Benny was a mate. I was with him last night, supping.’

‘Last night? Last night was when it happened.’

‘It was earlier than that. The King Billy was a fuck-up obviously, so we’d hooked up to try and make a plan. Benny reckoned we needed to keep our heads down.’

‘Where was this meeting?’

Floyd dabbed at his mouth with a grubby tissue. ‘The Iron Pig.’

‘The Iron Pig?’ Heck had heard that name before.

‘Boozer on the Bullwood. Benny’s local.’

Heck remembered. Benny B himself had mentioned The Iron Pig.

‘What time did you and him part company?’

‘Tennish. It was an odd one really.’ Floyd looked confused. ‘He’d been chatting to this chunky lass.’

‘Come again?

‘He likes big birds. Always has. Something about this one, though. Bit slutty. Like she was up for it as soon as they got gassing.’

For some reason, Heck felt a creep at the back of his neck. ‘Elaborate on “chunky lass”.’

‘Short grey hair, five-five, dumpy… early sixties.’

‘Sixties?’

Floyd made a loose gesture. ‘Right up Benny’s street. He likes ’em older and bigger. BBWs, he calls them. Big beautiful women.’

‘Okay… and he went off with her?’

‘Not really. That was the strange thing.’ Floyd dabbed his mouth again. ‘This bloke turns up in a suit. Same age as the woman. Sixties, not in great shape. Benny reckons it’s her husband.’

‘Okay…’ Heck was discomforted. If this turned out to be a jealous spouse, any possible lead into the Bad Thing was well and truly blown. But Floyd hadn’t finished.

‘I thought it was funny at first,’ he said. ‘Like Benny had had his chips pissed on. Then he comes over to me and says “I don’t think her old fella’s bothered”. I asks what he means and he says he’s cracking dirty jokes with her while her hubby’s sat there, and she’s giving him nudges and showing her sussies, and hubby’s not saying owt.’

‘Hubby just sat there, drinking?’

‘Yeah. Like it’s all happened before, and he doesn’t give a shit.’

‘What’re we talking about, swingers?’

‘That’s what Benny reckoned.’

‘In their sixties?’

Floyd frowned. ‘Takes all sorts, you know. How often do you get out?’

‘Not enough, clearly.’

‘Anyway, they suddenly decide they’re leaving, and this big lass gives Benny a peck on the cheek. But not like it’s goodbye, more like it’s a come-on, you know? Then her and her husband go out through the back. Benny watches them, takes him a couple of minutes to finish his ale… then he’s off after them. He’s sure they want him to meet them on the path over the Aggies.’

‘And that’s the last you saw of him?’

‘God’s honest truth. I went home myself straight after.’

‘Anything else about this couple that struck you as… different? I mean apart from them being sixty-year-old swingers.’

Floyd mused. ‘Something a bit weird maybe. ’Cept it was part of the same thing, I reckon.’

‘Spill it anyway.’

‘When the woman’s getting up to go out… I mean, she’d dressed all wrong for her age. Caked in makeup. Stilettos, seamed stockings. Her plastic mac’s well short too. And when she’s on her way out, it flaps open for half a sec and I see…’

‘What?’ Heck pressed him.

‘Looked like a nurse’s uniform. Not a real one, though. Sexy… you know, for role-playing, that kind of stuff.’

Heck got quickly to his feet. ‘Who else have you told this to?’

Floyd gazed up, worried, unsure what the sharp reaction presaged. ‘No one. Fucking cozzers haven’t even spoke to me yet, but I wouldn’t tell them squat. Like I say, thought it was you lot, and that this fat bird and her hubby were just a lure. Same reason why no one in The Iron Pig will talk. They know what side their bread’s buttered on up in Bullwood.’

Heck lurched away, tucking the pistol into the back of his jeans.

‘You don’t think it was them what did it, do you?’ Floyd called after him. ‘Couple of oldies, like that?’

‘Like you say,’ Heck said under his breath, ‘it takes all sorts.’

49

Ray Marciano watched from the diamond paned window next to the front door as the cleaning woman walked away, wearing a coat and a shoulder-bag.

Even after she’d vanished from view, he was wary of relaxing too much. He had some expertise with alarm systems, and from what he could see, the activation points on this house were mainly on the exterior doors and windows, so theoretically that meant he could move about the interior with impunity. But it was always possible with the endless advances in hi-tech security, alerts being sent straight to mobile phones and the like, that some new development had slipped him by. As such, he edged from room to room cautiously, always checking first that there wasn’t a camera.

From what he could see, the place was no better protected than the average middle-class house. This could mean one of two things. Either Timandra Hoag was confident to the point of cockiness that whatever she was up to was in no danger of being detected, or she wasn’t up to anything. But one thing was undeniably true. Heck had mentioned that she’d seemed a confident, free-spirited woman, who displayed no visible damage from what had surely been an horrendous upbringing. And the house only added to that. There was a minimalist thing going on, but it was all tasteful and expensive, with original paintings on the walls, rich rugs on the polished floors, and more ornaments on the shelves than books.

He didn’t suppose it was impossible that she’d got through that terrible childhood unscathed through sheer strength of character. There were many who’d risen from the ashes of a ghastly early life to become successful later on. But this wasn’t just poverty they were talking about. Harold and Lilac Hoag had been a pair of total weirdoes, and sadly but perhaps inevitably, Seamus had followed that same path.

But Timandra hadn’t?

And then there was the matter of the money on show. Even if she wasn’t working today, she had to have a decent income of some sort to afford all this. Altrincham was a pricey area, and this property was swish even by Altrincham standards.

It was all the more reason to have a good snoop. Without real evidence, these suspicions amounted to nothing.

The ground floor possessed a central, rather grand staircase, reception rooms to left and right, and a hall down the right-hand side, connecting with a very modern and expansive kitchen and utility area at the rear. After scoping all that out, he went upstairs, wary again for potential unseen alarms – but there was nothing.

The upper floor comprised a large bathroom and three plush bedrooms. Two were clearly guest rooms, because aside from their pristine state, there were slight patinas of dust on their flat surfaces, suggesting they hadn’t been used for a while. The third and largest was mostly neat and tidy, but there were lots of everyday accoutrements on show: bits of clothing not properly put away, a flatscreen TV on the wall, a couple of paperbacks on the bedside table.

Marciano went through the drawers, but found only what he’d expect: underwear, jewellery, makeup, a couple of sex toys. Nothing useful, like a diary. The wardrobes contained only hanging clothes, all female.

He went into the other bedrooms and checked in their cupboards. All were empty. The cabinet in the bathroom contained only medication, lotions and some spare toilet rolls.

Out on the landing, he finally started wondering if this was a fool’s errand. He hadn’t even seen a computer, laptop or desktop, that he could try to open. Though maybe, on reflection, that was curious. Had he missed something important?

He glanced around again, suspicions working overtime.

He didn’t realistically think there was much chance Frank McCracken would replace him with Mark Heckenburg. Not straight away at least, because they were still testing the new guy out. But Heck had started well, and if he continued in that vein, who knew where it might end?

‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers!’ Marciano hissed.

He’d thrown his own police career away for the incredible benefits of working for organised crime, firstly Milena Masanyan and now the Crew. Though he’d earned plenty of extras during his police career by tipping off local firms that the law was onto them, he hadn’t joined with the intention of becoming corrupt. But all the usual reasons given by bent coppers had held good. Very long hours, which had quickly destroyed his family life. Constant high-risk situations, which had played hell with his nerves. Subservience to a supervision that didn’t know its arse from its elbow, especially now that it was jampacked with ex-university people who only knew as much about the streets as they could see from the windows in their ivory towers. And total hypocrisy from Joe Public, who on one hand wanted you to beat the living shit out of every scrote you got your hands on, but on the other was always there with a phone-camera if you did.

It had made so much more sense eventually to go and work for the mobsters directly. Okay, he’d become just another citizen as far as the rest of the world was concerned, but at least he’d been raking it in daily. But now this shadow blotted the horizon.

Not only had Heck busted his deal with Milena Masanyan, now he was the cuckoo in the nest here in Manchester. Or maybe not, Marciano thought. He wondered if he was overreacting.

Heck was still a crusader at heart. At some point he’d receive an unsavoury command that he just couldn’t act upon. And that would be it with him and the Crew. But that didn’t mean Marciano didn’t need to get a result of some sort today. He couldn’t walk away from this house without something solid to report, especially not now that he’d spied the anomaly of the absent computer.

Timandra Hoag hadn’t been carrying anything resembling a laptop when she’d left earlier. And it was impossible to believe that a woman like her didn’t have one.

He went through the cupboards and drawers again, this time searching among garments. He looked under beds, on top of wardrobes. It was a time-consuming exercise and in truth he didn’t know how long he had left. Worried and weary, he checked the airing cupboard on the landing – only to open it and find that it wasn’t an airing cupboard.

It looked that way from the outside, which was probably the intention. But on the inside, a retractable steel staircase led up into what seemed to be an attic space.

Marciano climbed.

It was dark and musty up there because the attic had no windows, but he activated his phone-torch and saw a switch on the wall, and when he flipped it, a light came on. It was a small office space, which clearly only occupied a partial section of the roof’s interior. It looked as though it had been temporarily constructed because it had plywood walls and a plywood ceiling – something that could be dismantled very quickly, leaving the sort of dusty, cobweb-filled emptiness that sat underneath everyone’s roof.

Of course, you could only do that after you cleared it out, and it wouldn’t be possible to do that quickly here. He stood by the trapdoor, taking in every inch of the clutter.

Alongside a single swivel chair, a desk groaned under the weight of several laptops, a couple of desktop monitors, a wi-fi router, a whole load of mobile phones and pen-drives, and several external hard-drives. It was all disconnected at present, a bunch of loose cables snaking back and forth under a litter of paperwork. There was more paperwork along a side shelf and even pinned in untidy wads to the plywood wall. Marciano picked up several dog-eared notebooks, flicking through them, seeing scribbled lists of what he assumed were coded names. The strewn and hanging paperwork contained lists too: more coded names, but also what looked like betting odds, categories, and cash sums (some of them massive, literally in the hundreds of thousands). When he glanced back at the accounts books, he saw similar figures.

Clearly he’d stumbled into the hub of some kind of gambling operation. He knew this because the Crew ran several and he was familiar with them, though he’d never been to this address before, or heard it mentioned in Crew circles, even though this appeared to be where the central website was administered from. In itself, this wasn’t proof that Timandra Hoag was doing anything the Crew would disapprove of, but some of those sums were huge – he flicked through the accounts books again – both in terms of the stakes and the prizes. Of course, there was no indication who the players were or what betting market this operation had given them access to. He might find out if he was able to get online, but that would surely be impossible. All the electronic systems here would likely be protected by password and encryption.

He glanced again at the various notebooks. One, he noticed, had been scrawled on its front cover in black marker pen: CRAZYHOUSE 4. When he looked a bit further, there was a CRAZYHOUSE 5, a CRAZYHOUSE 1, a CRAZYHOUSE 2, a CRAZYHOUSE 3.

Somehow, he didn’t think that in this context, ‘Crazyhouse’ was referring to a mental hospital. If anything, it had even more sinister connotations than that. He pondered the so-called nasty thing that Seamus Hoag had offered to trade in return for his life, this unsanctioned business, whatever it was, that Heck had got so lathered about.

‘Heck,’ Marciano breathed with new under-standing. ‘You scheming little…’

With a resounding thud, a door banged open downstairs.

Marciano went rigid.

A voice carried up through the house. It was female. Timandra Hoag, almost certainly. But then he heard another voice too. And this one was male.

50

‘I just can’t state enough how much of a star you are, Malcolm,’ Lucy said as they pushed through a throng now swelling with gangs of schoolkids and people knocking off work early. She pinched thin air. ‘We were literally that close.’

‘We don’t know that she knows anything anyway,’ Peabody said sheepishly.

‘We know that she witnessed the Hobhall Tunnel shootings. We know that one of the same shooters did Benny B.’

‘Look, Lucy…’

‘Get your head out of your arse, yeah? You’re slouching around like it’s all too much trouble. You want to be a successful investigator, you’ve got to go the extra mile, okay?’

‘Alright,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ she retorted. ‘Just…’

She paused, staring hard. Peabody followed her gaze.

About thirty yards to the left of them, a somewhat diminutive figure, a woman, wearing the kind of clothes you’d normally associate with an old-fashioned Romanian gypsy – a headscarf decorated with what looked like coins, an embroidered off-the-shoulder blouse, a red floor-length skirt – was bustling away through the crowd.

Lucy jolted forward in pursuit. Peabody hurried behind her.

Every conceivable person then seemed to get in their way. They couldn’t just thread their way through this mob, they had to shoulder and shove, which made it harder and harder to keep tabs on their target.

‘Oy!’ a bearded bloke in a leather waistcoat shouted, grabbing Lucy by the collar of her jacket. ‘What’s your game?’

‘Hands off, buddy!’ Peabody cut in, breaking the grip with a slap.

The bloke squared up to him. ‘You looking for some, pal?’

Peabody was about to reply in kind, but Lucy steered him on. ‘Ignore this dipstick.’

But the diversion had been enough to cost them their quarry. They stood hapless, eyes roving the thoroughfares between rides and stalls, seeing no one they recognised. Until Lucy’s gaze fell again on the Gothic façade to the Tunnels of Terror. She lurched towards it, hauling Peabody behind her.

The pantomime gypsy they’d glimpsed had just climbed into one of its cars. Lucy had seen her clearly as she’d travelled along the runway at the front, and then angled sharply right, vanishing inward through a pair of mock castle doors.

The two cops regarded the structure as they approached. It was a temporary thing, of course, and in truth, little more than a giant painted hoarding, but it was eye-catching all the same: turrets and battlements set against a lightning-filled sky, green witch faces peering from arrow-slot windows, skeletal warriors on guard overhead.

They used their warrant cards to navigate through the queue and then up the steps onto the gantry alongside the track. Here, a roustabout wearing bloodstained overalls and a rubber hockey mask was busy installing each new set of riders in their car and then pushing the car along until it rolled under its own steam. He saw the cops and approached them, yanking his mask off, revealing brutish, sweaty features.

Lucy flashed her ID again. ‘Police. We want to speak to one of your customers. So, as you were. We’ll wait here until she comes out.’

The roustabout clearly didn’t like the arrangement, but did as she said, unbarring the latest batch of riders to have emerged and ushering the next group to take their place. The cops stood and waited, and all the while the bangs and crashes of shunting vehicles rang out, alongside amplified screams and peals of demonic laughter.

‘Don’t understand why she’d go in there,’ Peabody said. ‘What’s it going to do apart from buy her a hiding place for a couple of minutes?’

Lucy had to agree, scanning each new car as it emerged, and seeing no sign of anyone who even remotely resembled a panto gypsy.

‘Don’t you think she should have come out by now?’ Peabody asked.

Lucy wasn’t sure and said so. But a couple more minutes passed with no result.

‘Okay,’ she said. She called the roustabout, who yanked his mask off again. ‘The person we’re waiting for hasn’t come out, so we’re going in after her. Shut this thing down, yeah?’

The roustabout gaped in disbelief as they climbed over the barrier and jumped onto the track, sidling past the first approaching car.

‘This rail isn’t electrified, is it?’ Peabody asked.

‘It’s motor-driven,’ Lucy replied as they approached the ride’s exit door, which was also painted to look like a castle entrance. It banged noisily open, emitting yet another vehicle, though this one was empty. ‘There’s a chain-and-gear system underneath the floor.’

Peabody glanced down, focussing on the metallic strip along the centre of the track and realising that it wasn’t a rail, but a narrow gap trimmed along either edge with metal.

The doors thundered open again, another empty car crashing out. Lucy glanced back towards the roustabout, irritated. He was on a mobile phone but spread his arms when he saw her looking. ‘Have to get all the customers out first!’ he shouted.

Another car emerged. There was no one in this either. Another followed, and that too was empty.

‘I think that’s it, mate!’ Lucy called over to him.

The roustabout nodded and spoke again into his phone. As he did, a loud thud reverberated through their feet, and the ongoing whine of the engine, somewhere at the back of the structure, cut off. The exit door, in the process of emitting yet another empty car, jammed halfway as the car halted.

Lucy clambered over the dead vehicle and through into the darkness beyond.

‘Are we legally sound here?’ came Peabody’s voice from behind.

‘You mean is this an illegal search?’

‘What else?’

‘First of all,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘I’d debate whether you could classify a fairground ride as private premises. The public has full access to it.’

‘Not all of it…’

‘In addition, we saw Sister Cassie go in and fail to come out again. The obvious conclusion is that she tried to vacate the car during the ride, which is highly dangerous, and so she could now be lying injured somewhere. We’re police officers, and it’s our duty to enter and assist her. Though that’s not going to be easy if these bloody lights don’t come on.’

They were pressing inward along the exit tunnel, but it was only partly illuminated by a blade of daylight jutting through the half-open door about twenty yards behind.

‘Can’t see my hand in front of my frigging face,’ Peabody muttered.

With a clatter, presumably because the car in the door had been manually removed, even that sliver of light now vanished.

‘Shit,’ Peabody said.

‘Got that torch on you?’ Lucy asked.

‘Didn’t think I’d need it today.’

She tried her phone-light, but it lit no more than a half foot or so.

‘Can someone put some lights on please!’ she called aloud. ‘We are police officers, and we have reason to believe that someone might be injured in here.’

There was no response, not even an echo. It wasn’t just black as obsidian, it was close and stuffy, smelling of sweat and oil.

‘Shit!’ Peabody said again, as they groped forward through damp, wet hangings, strips of sodden cloth or paper. With a burst of multicoloured light, something like a Native American totem pole jolted forward from the blackness on their right, every animalistic face on it gaping wide. Nightmarish howls and snarls assaulted their ears.

‘Jesus!’ Lucy jerked away.

The garish object withdrew into blackness again.

‘Thought they’d turned this place off,’ Peabody said.

‘Special effects’ll be on a circuit of their own,’ she replied. ‘Probably motion-sensitive… now they will be electric, so be careful.’

‘Bloody great, this.’

‘Stick to the track. That’ll be clear, and if nothing else, it’ll take us to the other door.’

They’d only gone a few more yards, however, before they came to another stationary car. They had to climb over it to get past, and as they touched down on the other side, a row of three horizontal windows, luridly lit in red, green and yellow, appeared in front of them, a hideous leprous face gazing out from each, animatronic claw-like hands raking at the grubby glass. Thankfully, they veered left, the track leading them away from it.

‘In the history of bad ideas,’ Peabody began, ‘this is…’

‘Shhh!’ They listened, but the silence was ear-pummelling. ‘Sister Cassie!’ Lucy shouted. ‘If you’re in here, please identify yourself. It’s Lucy Clayburn.’

A yowl of demonic laughter dropped them into a crouch as a spectral blue bat, wings spread, glided above them by no more than half a foot or so.

‘This is bloody dangerous!’ Peabody grunted.

Lucy couldn’t disagree. She’d hoped the lights would come on. But Flaherty’s roustabouts were clearly not on their side. They’d complied sufficiently to get all the collaterals out of here, ensuring the intruders were alone. What did that mean exactly? Was it all a ploy to keep them occupied while Sister Cassie escaped, or did they have something else in mind?

‘You think these guys have decided we’re not cops?’ Peabody said.

Lucy was also wondering about that.

‘I’ll say it one more time,’ she called out again, as loudly and clearly as she could. ‘We are police officers working on a murder enquiry. If any of you people are planning to impede us any more than you already have, you’ll be arrested for attempting to pervert the course of justice. And let me assure you gentlemen, that is jail time.’

The silence that greeted this was absolute.

‘Shall we go back?’ Peabody whispered.

‘I’m not sure it’ll be any easier finding our way back than finding our way forward.’

They moved on, and directly in front of them, a thirty-odd yard section of cylindrical tunnel came ablaze with garish light, every brick either a neon green, orange or purple. The track ran clean through it, straight as a black ribbon. But then the tunnel began to rotate, first one way and then the other.

‘Christ, not one of these.’ Peabody stumbled as the dizzying effect took hold.

Lucy averted her gaze downward. ‘Focus on your feet,’ she said.

Screaming laughter struck them from behind and when they turned, a semi-translucent figure of Bela Lugosi in Dracula guise was advancing towards them.

‘More harmless optics.’ Lucy pushed on.

Peabody agreed but continued to glance over his shoulder as the phantom drew closer. Normally, customers riding this ghost train would be travelling in the other direction, and so the figure would appear in front of them, and they’d pass through it. On this occasion, the fact it was coming from behind was even more unnerving, though the figure blinked out as they reached the end of the tunnel, the tunnel itself ceasing to rotate, all lights dimming to nothing.

At which point, two brick monoliths, one to either side of the track, came alive with fiery light. Then collapsed inward. They were painted fibreglass with bulbs inside them, but the instinct was still to duck, especially as when the lower halves of the pillars halted, the upper halves continued downward before bouncing back up on hinges.

‘My ankle,’ Peabody groaned.

‘What about your ankle?’ Lucy asked.

‘Those frigging pillars. I ducked and my foot slipped off the track into a nest of cables. I tried to drag it out, it got caught on something and I think I’ve sprained it.’

‘All right, let’s just get out of here.’

‘Good plan.’

‘Never known anyone bruises as easily as you, considering you’re a big, raw-boned fella.’

‘That is so bloody sexist, Lucy…’

She activated her phone-torch. Again, it revealed nothing of immediate consequence, apart from another stationary car about five yards in front, though on the right of that stood a mass of what looked like temporary scaffolding. Another censor was tripped, and a series of Halloween mask-type faces dotted all over it lit up, screams and sirens sounding, more crazy laughter rolling over them.

She ignored it, clambering through into a narrow passage running alongside a wall made of heavy-duty black canvas. About five yards to her left, a small green bulb was visible some seven feet up. An emergency exit light, she realised. Underneath it, three zips, two upright and one horizontal, created the rectangular outline of a door.

‘Malcolm,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘This way.’

Peabody was already halfway there, whimpering each time his left foot made contact with anything. ‘I’ve really knackered my ankle you know. I’m not kidding.’

‘I believe you. Sorry. We shouldn’t have come in here.’ She let him put a hand on her shoulder, and they sidled along the canvas to the exit. She tugged on the zip toggles. Daylight flooded in and they stepped through.

Outside, it was another grubby workplace of the sort you found behind the glitzy facades of funfairs. More cables snaked here and there. There were boxes with bits of tawdry costumes hanging out, a couple more deckchairs, a few empty beer cans, the grotty rear-ends of other tents hemming them in from all sides.

‘If she came through here…’ Peabody said.

‘I know.’ Lucy was resigned to it. The bird had flown. ‘Here…’

He leaned on her again but then went still. Lucy turned, following his gaze.

Four figures had appeared, one in each of the four passages leading away between the tents and sideshows. They had to be the most rugged-looking roustabouts they’d seen thus far. They wore oily denims or overalls, and wielded brutish weapons: a length of iron pipe, a belt with a heavy buckle, a baseball bat, a spanner.

‘You guys have got to be kidding?’ Lucy said. ‘After what you’ve just put us through, you should be running for your lives.’ The roustabouts came forward. ‘Are you stupid, or what?’

It seemingly made no difference.

‘Listen fellas!’ She showed her wallet, flipping it open. ‘I’m going to say this one more time. The only connection we have to the Hobhall Tunnel murders is that we are investigating them. We are cops. This is PC Malcolm Peabody and I am Detective Constable Lucy Clayburn. You want to do serious time in the lock-up…’

‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake,’ a female voice with an Irish accent interrupted.

Lucy twirled to see the door in a nearby portable toilet open and a woman step out of it. She might still be wearing her Gypsy Lavinia costume, but it was immediately obvious from the thin but pretty middle-aged face that this was Sister Cassiopeia.

‘Lucy, my girl,’ she said admonishingly. ‘Why on Earth didn’t you say it was you?’

51

Marciano stood as close to the top of the stairs as he dared. The front door was closed again, while the twosome who’d come in had either gone into the reception room on the left or the one on the right. It was impossible to tell from up here. Half a second later, Timandra Hoag passed the bottom of the stairs, rummaging through her bag.

The male voice had sounded strangely familiar to Marciano, but it was only when he too walked past the bottom of the stairs that the ex-cop actually glimpsed him, and the shock went through him like an electric charge. He threw himself backward out of sight.

Heckenburg had been on the money after all. There was a connection here.

Because that man whom he’d just seen, despite him wearing shades indoors and a green tartan suit, which on its own was more than enough to distract anyone trying to place a face, had been none other than Zak O’Calligan, the Crew’s cybercrime whizz-kid, and of course, the number one son of Head of Security, Zara ‘Satana’ Ballantyne.

What all of this meant though, Marciano still couldn’t fathom.

He leaned out over the staircase to listen.

‘Look what happened,’ O’Calligan said. ‘You had to adjudicate over whether that guy, Trevor, died when he fell into the pit or when he went under the wagon.’

‘Crap job, but someone had to do it,’ came Timandra’s response. ‘Anyway, what difference does that make to the likes of us?’

‘Nothing to us, but a pretty fundamental difference to the clients. Did Trevor die first or not? That ended up being your choice. No wonder there was some grumbling.’

Their voices grew louder, but Marciano was so fascinated by the conversation that he was still at the top of the stairs when Timandra reappeared down below. Fortunately, her back was turned as she glanced back into the room.

‘Gamblers always grumble,’ she said. ‘Ultimately, it’s because they don’t like losing.’

‘I just think these are high-risk games,’ O’Calligan replied.

Marciano withdrew from sight, but it was only when he heard feet thudding up the stairs that he realised what a predicament he was in. There was no physical danger. Even injured, he could deal with these two. But simply being discovered here would poleaxe the investigation, and just when it sounded as if he was on the cusp of a breakthrough. He backed along the landing, to then find that only two doors were available to him: the entrances to the master bedroom and the bathroom. The guest rooms were out of reach because that would mean going back across the top of the stairs.

‘That’s why the minimum stake is so much higher,’ Timandra said, almost at the top.

Marciano looked around frantically. For no particular reason, he opted for the bathroom, and no sooner was he in there than he heard her come round the top of the stairs onto the landing.

‘It was safer when it was Skid Row types who no one would miss,’ O’Calligan said, also coming upstairs.

‘Easier to work out their chances, though,’ she replied, outside the bathroom door. ‘All you had to do was look at them. Plus, they copped it straight away in most cases.’

Marciano spun wildly, eyes falling on the shower cubicle, over the front of which hung an opaque plastic curtain. He slid the curtain aside, stepped through, drew it behind him again and held his breath.

‘The cops will be everywhere after this next one,’ O’Calligan said from the landing.

‘There was a cop on the case yesterday,’ Timandra replied.

‘What?’ O’Calligan sounded alarmed.

‘Poking around at the farm.’

‘The farm? What were you doing there?’

‘What do you think?’ Timandra was now inside the bathroom. ‘Ever since Seamus plucked up the courage to start going back there, he’s been drawing weird shit on the walls. But I had to make sure he hadn’t left a final message naming any names.’

Marciano stood stock-still, sweat beading his brow. She was less than a couple of feet away. The curtain dividing them was as thin as tissue paper.

‘And had he?’ O’Calligan asked.

‘No. It was the usual nutty crap. Still trying to convince himself it’s all down to the Devil.’

Marciano heard a fumbling of cloth, and then a protracted tinkling of water.

‘What about the cop though?’ O’Calligan came into the bathroom as well.

‘He was looking into the suicide,’ she replied.

‘Did he recognise you?’

‘No… so I told him who I was.’

‘Christ, Timi!’ O’Calligan now sounded seriously concerned.

‘Relax, he was only doing his job.’ Clothing rustled again, a zipper was drawn up and the toilet flushed. ‘I put on a show for him, the grieving sister and all that, and he was happy.’

‘That’s fucking it! We can’t afford to run any more games in the northwest.’

‘Good thing we don’t need to,’ Timandra said. Water splashed into the washbowl. ‘We’ve pulled in thirty mill already. It’s chickenfeed to set up somewhere else.’

‘Why bother?’

‘Christ’s sake, Zak, it’s a licence to print money.’

‘When hoboes vanish, no one even notices. But these groups of lads…’

‘Makes for a better game. That’s why so many more people want to play.’

‘Shit, Timi…’

‘Why discontinue a good thing?’

Despite the peril of his position, Marciano was enthralled. Piece by piece, a solution to this mystery was falling into place. But increasingly, his blood was running cold. He understood absolutely why Benny B had sought to distance himself, why Seamus Hoag thought he could use the mere knowledge of it to buy himself another chance.

‘You really don’t have any conscience at all, do you?’ O’Calligan said.

‘What can I say? I’m Mummy and Daddy’s little girl.’

They went out onto the landing, their voices becoming muffled. Presumably because they’d then gone into one of the bedrooms.

Marciano stepped from the cubicle and walked on the balls of his feet to the bathroom door, where he listened again. They were still talking, though it was unclear. He ventured onto the landing. Assuming they were in the master bedroom together, which was the most likely scenario, he could creep to the top of the staircase and descend without them seeing him, though that was only possible if its door was at least partly closed. To be sure, he had to lean out onto the landing. The master bedroom was the next room along, and though its door was open, there was only a narrow gap through which he could distinguish movement and hear their voices again.

‘Truth is,’ O’Calligan said, ‘I never thought we’d even cover the initial outlay, let alone rake it in like this. Who’d have thought there were enough bad eggs out there with enough readies to make something disgusting like the Crazyhouse into a cash-cow?’

The Crazyhouse.

‘There are bad eggs everywhere, babe,’ Timandra replied, emerging unexpectedly from the bedroom. Right in front of Marciano.

He froze, his hair standing on end.

She was undressed except for a pair of lacy knickers, but by yet another miracle, her back was turned to him as she looked along the landing towards one of the guest bedrooms, the doorway to which also stood partly open. ‘You of all people ought to know that. Especially on the Dark Web.’

Marciano’s eyes locked on the guest room door. He sensed movement in there too: Satana’s son, who, if he came out onto the landing now, would see him clearly. Instead, the guy spoke back with a raised voice.

‘It’s a nasty place, isn’t it,’ he said. ‘With all sorts of nasty things going on.’

‘So, why don’t we stop talking,’ she tittered, wiggling out of her knickers and leaving them on the landing as she walked on to the guest bedroom door. ‘And try a few for ourselves.’

It slammed closed behind her.

Marciano rocked where he stood, soaked with sweat, before finding the wherewithal to scamper to the top of the staircase, where he halted again to listen. There was no further conversation in there, but he heard a long, low creak, as of a bed with two bodies falling on it. He descended the stair as swiftly and quietly as possible. Only when he reached the front door did he hear anything else from upstairs.

The bed. Which creaked, and creaked, and creaked.

Thanking a God he was sure had turned against him many years ago, Ray Marciano let himself out through the front door and closed it quietly behind him.

52

‘You appear to have changed your vocation, Sister Cassie,’ Lucy said, as she drove them back to Robber’s Row.

‘You should know me better than that, Lucy,’ the ex-nun replied, sitting primly in the front passenger seat, though she was still clad in her over-the-top gypsy costume.

‘Sorry?’ Lucy said. ‘You haven’t exchanged Catholicism for fortune-telling?’

‘Only the trappings of it, my dear.’

‘I thought fortune-telling was a sin?’

‘Fortune-telling is fakery,’ Sister Cassie replied. ‘But I use it as a means to impart advice for life.’

Malcolm Peabody snorted his disdain. ‘You’re offering advice for life? That’s a killer, that is.’

Lucy felt he had a point. Despite the personal tragedies that had ended Sister Cassie’s religious vocation, the fact she’d ended up living on the streets, a heroin-addicted prostitute, hardly recommended her for Woman of the Year.

The ex-nun looked coldly at him. ‘Excuse me, young man. You should try walking a mile in my shoes before being so judgemental.’

‘I can’t walk a mile in anyone’s shoes thanks to you.’

‘I’m sorry you were injured.’

‘Me too,’ he grunted.

‘You say you’ve only changed the trappings,’ Lucy said, slowing for a red light. ‘But I thought the trappings were always important to you.’

‘Well, it’s true,’ Sister Cassie said. ‘My Carmelite sisters were all killed for refusing to surrender their religious garb.’

‘Killed?’ Peabody said. ‘What you on about now?’

‘Paris, 1794. The Terror.’

‘Oh… right.’ Peabody clearly didn’t understand the reference, but at least 1794 meant it was out of his jurisdiction.

‘It was a big decision for me,’ Sister Cassie said. ‘But when friends offered refuge, well… I’ve been outdoors long enough to know what it may mean to ignore such kindness.’

‘Why?’ Lucy asked, driving on.

‘My dear… you know why. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have me in your car right now.’

‘You need to be more specific.’

‘I witnessed a ghastly crime.’

Peabody sat forward. ‘You were in Hobhall Tunnel at the time of the shooting, yeah?’

Lucy threw him a look through the rearview mirror, warning him not to lead the witness.

‘I was,’ the ex-nun confirmed. ‘I was ministering to my flock as I always do on cold, dank nights. Kneeling alongside three poor unfortunates at the time. When the shooting started, it was only through the mercy of God that I was spared.’

‘You know,’ Lucy said, ‘the shot that struck that Bible of yours was fired by a Ruger Redhawk.’

Sister Cassie shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand what that means.’

‘It means that, mighty though God’s word is, it’s still a miracle the round didn’t carry clean through and send you straight into the afterlife.’

The witness looked thoughtful. ‘At first, I thought it had. The blow in my belly knocked me senseless.’

‘Not fully unconscious?’

‘Semi-conscious would be a better description.’

‘But you still saw the shooters?’ Peabody asked.

‘They were standing in the headlights of the two cars. So, I saw them very clearly.’

‘Can you describe them?’ Lucy said.

‘I can. Whether I will is another matter.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘By removing my monastic garb, I wasn’t just hiding from criminals.’

‘You were hiding from us? Why? We played fair with you before.’

‘You played fair with me, my dear. But in the case against that awful disturbed child, Ivana Torgau… I found myself surrounded by others. Other police officers, lawyers. I detest lawyers most of all.’

‘That we agree on at least,’ Peabody muttered.

‘Untrustworthy types from the word go,’ the ex-nun said. ‘They threatened to put me in prison. Me! And when I was there to help them.’

‘They threatened to put you in prison, Sister,’ Lucy said, ‘for Contempt of Court.’

‘I never show contempt for anyone, Lucy. You know that.’

‘Because on the day you were due to give evidence, you failed to turn up. And they’d even made special arrangements so you could give your evidence from behind a curtain. They had to go searching for you.’

Sister Cassie looked discomforted. ‘I lead a challenging life, Lucy. You know that better than anyone. I’m not always sure where I’m going to be on set days.’

‘Well, you’re going to need to be sure this time. You agreed to come with me to Robber’s Row Police Station.’

‘Only because you said you would arrest me if I didn’t.’

‘Whatever… the point is we’re going to the police station right now, where we’re going to ask you for another witness statement. And this time it’s serious… you understand?’

‘It wasn’t serious last time?’ Peabody chuckled. ‘How many murders was that kid charged with?’

‘Relax Malcolm.’ Lucy eyed him through the mirror. ‘It all got sorted in the end. Ivana Torgau got a minimum tariff of thirty years.’

‘Poor creature,’ Sister Cassie said.

‘Poor creature?’ Peabody retorted. ‘You remember what she did?’

‘I remember perfectly, young man. I saw the burns on her face up close…’

‘Thing is, Sister,’ Lucy cut in, ‘this time we’re not talking young people who can claim they were misled.’

‘No, most decidedly, we are not.’ The ex-nun looked thoughtful again. ‘These two were sixty each, if they were a day.’

‘Really?’ Lucy asked.

‘He was shaped more like a barrel than a man. He was nearly bald, he walked with a stick. The mere effort of walking along the tunnel left him tired.’

‘You say he?’ Lucy replied. ‘You mean the other was a she?’

‘Absolutely. And a disgrace to her gender.’

‘Same age?’

‘Roughly. But she wore this plastic mac that was somehow indecent.’ Sister Cassie shook her head. ‘It was too short for one thing. I could see that she also wore a very short dress underneath.’ She shuddered. ‘Her stocking tops were visible.’ She caught Peabody’s raised eyebrows in the rearview mirror. ‘Excuse me, young man… don’t give your commanding officer a look like that.’

‘Lucy’s not my commanding officer,’ he replied. ‘I know she acts like it…’

‘It’s the look I’m concerned about. You think I’m some drunken old paddy, a nun who lost her faith, but still plays at it because she hopes a place remains for her in Heaven. I assure you I’ve seen and done things that would make your baby curls straighten out.’

‘She has, Malcolm,’ Lucy agreed. ‘Trust me, she has. In fact, a bigger problem for me, Sister, is that you’re a bit too streetwise. You still on the big H?’

‘Not anymore.’

Lucy nodded her approval. ‘You kicked it?’

‘Not quite, but I intend to.’

Peabody snorted again.

‘Okay, great,’ Lucy said. ‘Well, your good intentions aside, you have a nasty habit at present. And let’s be frank, you also do nasty things to support it. All of this puts you closer to the people who committed these crimes than it does to us. I mean, you’ve already admitted you don’t trust the law.’

‘How can I trust a group who’d like nothing better than to put every friend I have in a six-by-seven concrete room?’

‘Maybe you need better friends,’ Peabody said.

‘You see?’ Sister Cassie looked sad. ‘The young cannot lie. His mocking words say much about the callous attitude of law enforcement today.’

‘Is there any way you can convince me that you aren’t lying?’ Lucy asked. ‘Because you must admit, these descriptions you’ve just given sound like total fantasy.’

‘I was surprised too.’

‘Which one did the shooting?’ Lucy already knew the answer to this, but now, while they could still kick her out of the car without showing themselves up by taking a headcase to the police station, seemed like an opportune time to test the witness. ‘The man or the woman?’

‘Both,’ Sister Cassie said, which of course was true. ‘They each had a pistol. They killed the dealers first. Then, only belatedly, did they realise there were others present. So, then… well, then they shot at us.’

She sniffled and wiped away a tear. Lucy felt briefly guilty. She’d been hard and suspicious with the woman, who, though she was scatty and occasionally drug-addled, genuinely felt for the homeless in the town, spending every evening taking them food and trying to provide comfort.

‘Saint Patrick’s Breastplate didn’t work on this occasion, did it?’ Lucy asked, recollecting the age-old prayer the nun had always insisted kept her safe.

‘It did for me,’ Sister Cassie said.

‘Suppose you’re right.’

‘Indeed I am. God sent me a protector. Now, I trust, he’ll send me an avenger.’

53

Heck could have arrested Jordan Floyd for any number of offences that would have seen the guy sent to prison. But again, his own CHIS status was more important. In fact, in light of what Heck now thought he knew, it was absolutely essential.

He trudged back across the wasteland, head spinning at the idea that Benny Bartholomew had been lured out of The Iron Pig the previous night by a couple in late middle-age, both overweight, but the woman done up saucily in a ‘sexy nurse’ outfit. Who knew what went on in the life of an odious blob like Benny B? There could easily be a range of reasons for people wanting to kill him, but that description of the suspects was too telling.

Harold and Lilac Hoag had lived lives of almost continued sexual deviancy. By the sounds of it, they’d indulged in every kink there was, with illegality no obstacle. As such, Harold Hoag’s visits to struggling families on poor housing estates, posing as a social worker so that he could ‘examine’ the children, was facilitated by his wife, who’d been disguised as a district nurse. Then, while she was in prison, she’d taken this one step forward, making her own saucy nurse costume and prostituting herself to the other inmates.

But not only were the couple last night a measure-for-measure match to the Hoags, a connection seemed even more likely when you considered that the Hoags’ son, Seamus, had been a bit-part player in the Crew, as had Benny B.

It was still, to an extent, superficial. To start with, the Hoags had been convicted of sex offences against children, while Benny B had been killed in an execution-type scenario. Two very different crimes. It didn’t follow that, just because the Hoags could hurt youngsters, they could also commit murder. Except that Harold Hoag had been suspected of murder in an earlier era, so they couldn’t afford to assume he was incapable of it either.

‘Yeah?’ Gwen Straker said at the other end of the line.

‘Can you talk, ma’am?’

‘Give me a mo?’ A door thudded closed. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘what’ve we got?’

‘Are you aware there was another shooting murder in Crowley last night?’

‘Yes.’ She sounded dispirited. ‘The vic was your old friend Benjamin Bartholomew.’

‘Correct.’ Heck sat back in his Puma. ‘Former security chief for the Crew, who got kicked out by Frank McCracken for being a total dumbass. He harboured a grudge ever afterwards. So much so that it was his idea to get me on the inside…’

‘Haven’t you reported this already?’ she interrupted.

‘I have, ma’am. I’ve also reported that Benny got spooked when he heard there was something particularly nasty coming down the track.’

‘This mysterious Bad Thing you mentioned?’

‘Correct again. Recent contacts now suggest this Bad Thing is not actually a Crew operation. Not officially. It’s certainly nothing that Frank McCracken knows about.’

There was a brief silence. ‘And you got this information from the horse’s mouth?’

‘I did, ma’am.’

Another silence, longer this time. ‘Okay, I hear that. But we still need to know how sound it is. I mean, if both Benny Bartholomew and Seamus Hoag thought…?’

‘Neither elaborated on what they thought they knew,’ Heck said. ‘Maybe they didn’t know that much. But suppose, just suppose, this Bad Thing is the work of a smaller outfit, a Crew splinter-group… pursuing their own project?’

‘Why would we suppose that?’

‘Because Frank McCracken, who likes to run a very tight ship, is distinctly uneasy about this. Just like Seamus Hoag said he would be. And not because he thinks he’s going to get caught, because he thinks someone else is… and this someone is connected to his operation.’

‘And this someone else is the one who killed Benny Bartholomew?’

‘It would make sense,’ Heck said. ‘Benny possibly heard something through what’s left of his old mates inside the Crew. Perhaps a couple of malcontents like himself are still embedded there and got involved with this new outfit. But once he knew about it, that made him an inconvenient loose end. His actual murderers though, in my opinion – and this is the bit where you’re going to have to hold your breath – were Harold and Lilac Hoag.’

Another long silence.

‘Two ageing sex-offenders?’ she finally said.

‘You’re right to be sceptical, ma’am, but it fits.’ Heck explained the connection he’d made through the descriptions of The Iron Pig shooters and the sexy nurse outfit and reminded her about Seamus Hoag.

‘Seamus was a Crew member but only small-time,’ he said. ‘The lowest guy on the ladder. On top of that, he was suspected of, and had previously been disciplined for, running his own taboo operations… so I doubt anyone who mattered in the organisation would have told him anything they didn’t need to. Except maybe his mum and dad.’

‘So, Seamus’s mum and dad, Harold and Lilac, who had no Crew affiliations at all at the time they were sent to prison, have now, somehow, got involved with this out-of-control splinter group, and are participating in this Bad Thing?’

‘It’s their territory, isn’t it?’ Heck argued. ‘Whatever the Bad Thing is, we already know it’s very nasty. Odds on it’s going to be sexual or sadistic, or both. I mean, Seamus Hoag and Benny were ridiculously open-minded when it came to pleasures of the flesh, but neither of those two wanted a piece of this.’

‘But Seamus’s parents might?’

‘They were weird enough.’

‘Heck…’ she sighed, ‘this is so circumstantial it’s untrue.’

‘I agree. But less so is Harold and Lilac’s apparent link to the Hobhall Tunnel shootings.’

‘Okaaay…’ She sounded even more dubious. ‘Perhaps you can explain?’

Heck did so, describing the recent ballistics report and its finding that one of the weapons used in the Hobhall Tunnel massacre was the same weapon used to kill Benny B.

‘Bloody hell,’ she said.

‘Just suppose,’ Heck added, ‘this splinter group are not especially well funded, because they haven’t got the top floor, and whatever the Bad Thing is, they needed somehow to bankroll it. That robbery in Hobhall Tunnel netted six-hundred grand in total. That couldn’t hurt, could it? Might also explain why the Crew taxmen haven’t received their cut yet.’

‘It’s an entertaining theory, but we still need proof.’

‘That’s why I want to go over there now.’

‘Where to?’

‘Harold and Lilac’s residence… just to scope it out. Assuming you can get me the details. It would also help if I knew what they’d been up to since their release from prison.’

‘I’ll call you back,’ she said.

‘Thanks, ma’am.’

‘Have you passed any of this to GMP.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Heck, you’re going to need to.’

He groaned. ‘Ma’am, GMP are leaky as a sieve.’

‘I don’t care. We’re officially working with them now. You need to tell them. That’s not a suggestion, it’s an order. Stand by for the intel.’

She cut the call. Heck groaned, wearied by the prospect of having to deal with the infamous hardcase Detective Superintendent Nehwal and her at least partly dodgy taskforce. Not that this was the only option open to him, of course.

He tapped in a text message for Lucy, giving her the address of the stolen goods depot that he’d fortuitously uncovered near the railway and advising her that if local plod put it under surveillance for a decent length of time, they’d catch a whole bunch of high-end tea leaves. He also said that he had reason to believe the Hobhall Tunnel killers were Harold and Lilac Hoag. ‘Should keep you busy for a bit,’ he said, sitting back again. ‘And out of my way.’

Gwen Straker now rang back. ‘Harold and Lilac Hoag both served substantial jail time,’ she said.

‘Anything I don’t know?’

‘Let’s keep it civil, shall we? I know you’re tired, but I’m juggling stuff too, so I’m not putting up with twattishness.’

‘Sorry, ma’am.’

‘On release, they were both required to sign the Sex Offenders’ Register.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Which made it difficult for them to simply reintegrate back into society. Hence, they live outside of it.’

‘Okay…?’

She paused, presumably reading her laptop screen. ‘They’re both now in their mid-sixties, and neither are known to have been involved in any criminal activity since their release.’

‘What about the “outside of society” bit?’

‘Their last known address was 8 Rook Valley Road, White Coppice, Lancashire. Which, from what I can see on Google… is pretty rural.’

*

‘Get onto Comms, see if a uniform can run you to the hospital,’ Lucy told Peabody.

They’d just got out of her car in the personnel lot at the rear of Robber’s Row, only for the younger cop to find that he could barely put his foot down.

‘Will you be all right dealing with this on your own?’ he said.

‘I think I can just about manage,’ she replied.

Sister Cassie had got out alongside her and stood brushing down her garish outfit, oblivious to the curious looks being thrown her way by other members of station staff.

Lucy’s phone pinged. She checked it and saw a text from Heck. This surprised her, given the way they’d left things. But it didn’t surprise her as much as the message itself, especially the final part of it.

Strong reason to suspect the Tunnel shooters are sex offenders Harold and Lilac Hoag. No evidence yet, but maybe soon. Meantime, dig up anything on them you can. Tell Nehwal. Ensure this communique goes in the policy file.

Lucy knew all about Harold and Lilac Hoag. She also recalled the descriptions that Sister Cassie had initially given her. She spun to face her witness, who was still waiting patiently.

‘As well as the statement, Sister, I’m going to be showing you some photographs.’

Sister Cassie gave her a pained expression. ‘Now that’s plain cruel, my dear. Nothing reminds a poor person more about their penniless state than other people’s holiday snaps.’

‘I’m not talking about holiday snaps.’

‘Glory be…’ The ex-nun rolled her eyes. ‘Just my attempt at levity.’

‘This is important, okay?’ Lucy said. ‘When I get you inside, you’re going to need to give these pictures your fullest attention.’

Sister Cassie treated her to a school-ma’amish look. ‘I understand the importance of this, Lucy. Only a few weeks ago, I watched seven people die by violent hands.’

‘Well… good. Because now’s your chance to ensure those violent hands never strike again.’

54

Even Heck, with all his experience, was prone to making value judgements based on stereotyping. For example, before he located Rook Valley Road in the West Pennine foothills, he’d already assumed that Harold and Lilac Hoag would be living in some run-down hovel. These people had been serious criminals, and everyone knew that crime mostly didn’t pay. They’d also been a pair of sexual perverts, a husband-and-wife team whose aberrance was so pronounced that, to the untrained mind, it implied a form of mental illness, which also meant they’d likely struggle to be a buoyant part of economic life.

But as it turned out, they hadn’t.

To be fair to Heck, these presumptions were aided and abetted by a search he’d made on Google Maps before heading up there, in which he’d seen Rook Valley Road feature as a single-track lane winding uphill between dry-stone walls, with only sheep-dotted moorland and occasional stretches of forest beyond it. The building that seemed to correspond with the actual address was an old farm cottage with a barn attached, both so decrepit that it looked as though a medium-strength wind would blow them down. Of course, a few images on Google Maps were slightly out-of-date, but he was still surprised when he made a drive-by that evening and saw that the farm cottage had completely vanished and that, where the tumbledown barn had formerly stood, there was now an impressive barn-conversion.

He decelerated.

The rough, weedy ground where the cottage had once stood was now an expanded gravelled drive, only accessible from the road via a pair of electronically operated wrought-iron gates. On the right-hand side in front of the conversion was a small, neat garden, while the conversion itself, which retained many of its more alluring traditional features – a stone exterior, aged beams – had been modernised with decking, lighting and a dish for satellite TV. It was a large building too. Heck had no idea how many bedrooms it might accommodate, nor how much it might cost on the open market, but you could probably multiply its overall value by two or three given how much extensive extra land appeared to be attached to it. On the left side of the premises there was another field with an open gate connected, now filled with spruce firs. In addition to that, he glimpsed a much vaster green space behind the building, an infinitely larger garden at the back than at the front.

Dusk was now descending, the sky strawberry-red in the west, indigo clouds in the east, so Heck drove on, the sumptuous property falling behind him, finally vanishing from view.

It was possible, he surmised, that his intel was also out of date. 8 Rook Valley Road had been given as the Hoags’ last-known address. There’d be an accurate record of their movements somewhere, but Heck didn’t know which database Gwen Straker might have accessed. If it was the Serial Crimes Unit’s dedicated intel site, SCUA, things occasionally slipped and the terrible twosome might have moved on without anyone realising, meaning that someone else had rebuilt the property. But that seemed unlikely.

He’d certainly heard and read nothing about the Hoags being well financed, and even if they’d been average middle-class people, owning or renting a pad like this would have been beyond their means. However, an ugly thought was now occurring to him. This Bad Thing, whatever it was, would not be of interest to a potential break-away group inside the Crew if it wasn’t profitable.

That was always the bottom line with organised crime. They didn’t do evil stuff simply because they were evil people. Yes, they were evil, but they weren’t fanatics, they weren’t insane – they were purely in it for the cash. The Hoags themselves had sold the porn movies they’d made. They’d charged those who’d gone to Jollywood to abuse their son. Despite their degenerate status, ultimately it had all been a money-making exercise. So, was this new affluent lifestyle further proof that they were part of the Bad Thing? And did this mean that, whatever it was, it was highly lucrative?

A mile up the road, he pulled into a layby.

On their release from prison, aging and unemployable, and ostracised from all respectable society, the Hoags might have acquired the isolated ruin that had once stood at 8 Rook Valley Road to seek seclusion. Since then, though, sometime recently, certainly since the Google camera car had visited, they’d come into a considerable amount of money.

Heck climbed from his car and locked it.

In light of everything he now thought he knew, it was impossible even to consider that there might be no connection between these people and everything else that was happening.

Unless he was way off, and it was no longer the Hoags in residence.

The only option was to check, but he couldn’t do that by knocking on the front door.

He ensured the Walther was tucked into the back of his jeans again, vaulted over the nearest wall, landing on rough pasture, and proceeded back downhill, keeping parallel with the road. With luck he’d spot the apex of the barn-conversion’s roof before he came in view of its windows.

Once again, he was in serious breach of protocol. But as was happening continually on this case, the unique circumstances demanded it. He didn’t buy Lucy Clayburn’s assertion that DSU Nehwal was trustworthy. Nehwal herself might be, but her team had more holes in it than a Texas road sign. Besides, he couldn’t serve two masters at once. Gwen Straker had already admitted that Nehwal was hard work. Straker herself was uneasy about the length of leash she’d extended for him, so Nehwal was likely to reel him in a lot more quickly, and that would negate his usefulness.

The dip of the land steepened, the dark mass of spruce firs re-emerging into view, the upper tip of the barn-conversion’s roof just visible beyond it. Heck edged closer to the wall. However, the gradient then levelled, and the conversion sank out of sight behind the fir plantation. When he reached its outskirt, he clambered through a low barbed wire fence and threaded his way into the evergreens. As he pushed his way through, he heard tinny music playing. It was faint, but it sounded like a radio station.

The firs thinned out ahead, and Heck edged forward. With only one layer of foliage left between himself and the property, he dropped to a crouch. The first thing he saw clearly was a gleaming silver-grey Land Rover Discovery parked at the side of the barn-conversion, but he was so positioned that he could also see to the building’s rear. As he’d anticipated, there was a huge open lawn, more like a manicured meadow, with pristine rockeries and flowerbeds around the edges of it. At the very back of the building, a conservatory type annex had been constructed, a pair of large French windows opening onto a smoothly paved patio. There were items of garden furniture arranged there, but its centrepiece was a hot-tub large enough to bath a horse in.

The radio sat on a wrought-iron table next to the tub, but there was no sign anyone was around. Heck shuffled forward on his knees until he was directly behind the boundary wall, which only came up to his eyes.

Again, he scanned the barn-conversion’s rear, and this time noticed a figure inside the tub. He hadn’t spotted it before because it was low down.

Nerves tingling, he risked standing up.

There’d been no mistake.

The figure looked to be naked, but it was still mostly concealed from him, because it was floating in the tub facedown.

55

‘Sister Cassiopeia is a streetwalker and a drug addict,’ Priya Nehwal said.

She might have sounded sceptical about the signed document that Lucy had just placed on her desk in front of her, not to mention the photographs of the suspects, but for all that, she still regarded it with interest.

‘And it was her evidence, ma’am,’ Lucy replied, ‘that sent Ivana Torgau to prison for the rest of her life.’

Nehwal glanced up. ‘She has positively identified Harold and Lilac Hoag as the tunnel shooters?’

‘Yes, she pulled them off the photo ID parade straight away. There’s no doubt in her mind. And she’s given us a statement to this effect.’

The DSU breathed out long and hard but remained seated. ‘And this kerfuffle when you went looking for her, which led to Peabody getting injured, tell me about that again.’

Lucy shrugged. ‘Old Man Flaherty and his crew were hiding her at the fairground because she was frightened. We wheedled her out with some difficulty… I won’t pretend that it didn’t get a little bit dicey. They weren’t really sure who we were.’

‘So, more than a few people now know that she’s talking?’

‘They’ll know that she’s come in to speak to us. They won’t know that she’ll name the Hoags. She didn’t know that herself until we showed her the pics.’

‘But if the word travels that she saw who did it, and is talking…?’

Lucy nodded. ‘Yes. We may need to put her into protective custody.’

Nehwal pursed her lips. ‘We’ll also need to move on the Hoags fairly quickly.’

‘Probably for the best, ma’am. I know you’d normally like to do some surveill—’

‘What about Heckenburg?’ Nehwal interrupted.

‘Ma’am?’ Lucy replied, uneasy, acutely aware that though they were alone in the DSU’s office, the door to the MIR was partway open.

‘We’ll need Firearms on board to make this arrest,’ Nehwal said. ‘That’s going to cost, so I’ll need to tell people where the intel came from.’

Lucy shrugged. ‘Information received.’

‘Not good enough, Lucy. Not this time. Did you tell him I want him to come in?’

‘I did.’

‘And let me guess, he refused?’

‘He gave good reasons.’

‘I don’t give a damn what his reasons are.’ Nehwal got to her feet. ‘We can lock the Hoags up on the basis a witness has fingered them from photo IDs, but I’d like to know how we were able to direct that witness to those photos in the first place. You do understand this, Lucy? I’m the SIO. There has to be a line of enquiry at least that I can follow.’

‘I know that, ma’am…’

‘So, where’s Heckenburg now?’

Lucy struggled to find a reply. She glanced again at the part-open door.

‘You’re not seriously telling me he’s still in the wind?’

‘He’s obviously making headway…’

Nehwal slammed the document with an open palm. ‘That’s an understatement.’

Lucy cringed; if there was anyone in the outer office not already aware that something of note was occurring in here, they’d be under no such misconception now.

‘However,’ Nehwal added, ‘unlike you, I’m not content to sit around and wait till he throws me another scrap from his table.’

Lucy stood hot-faced, but at the same time she understood the frustration.

Heck had viable concerns about a security leak inside the MIR. But without being here to explain it himself, he appeared arrogant and difficult. No detective, never mind someone as prickly as Priya Nehwal, could be handed the solution to a murder case like this on a platter and not demand to know where it had come from. Not least because she’d need to be able to present a full prosecution file in the event they proceeded to trial, detailing every step the enquiry had taken.

From the little Lucy knew of Heck, he’d come in and cooperate at some point. But doing it on his own terms, when he himself was good and ready, would not cut it with DSU Nehwal.

‘Ma’am…’ Lucy reached out with her foot and kicked the office door closed. She lowered her voice. ‘Heck thinks we’ve got moles in here. Or at least a mole.’

Nehwal regarded her stonily. ‘Who?’

‘He doesn’t know.’

‘Working for who?’

‘The Crew.’

Nehwal’s arched eyebrow implied how rich she thought it, Lucy Clayburn delivering such an accusation. Lucy didn’t rise to that bait but hurried on with her explanation.

‘Obviously, he’s concerned that if word gets back to the Crew that he’s working for us, not them… well, we all know what’ll happen next.’

Nehwal walked across her office. She stood by the small window. ‘Lucy…’ Fleetingly, she almost sounded conciliatory. ‘I have no doubt there’s something in what he says. The Crew have tentacles everywhere, and we have way too many bad apples in our own barrel to get hoity-toity about it. But you and Heckenburg both need to understand that, thanks to this intel, we could be on the verge of solving eight murders. Not to mention accounting for an awful lot of drugs and an awful lot of stolen money.’

‘But ma’am… Heck’s not here to solve the Hobhall Tunnel case. He’s here to embed himself in the Crew. And by the sounds of it, he’s almost there. This bone he’s thrown us…’

‘Bone!’ Nehwal spun around.

‘Yes, ma’am. Or scrap from the table, if you prefer to call it that. This scrap he’s thrown us may only be the first of many. And what a scrap it is. And it’s all because he’s gained the trust of our pre-eminent crime syndicate. But if he comes in now, that will end.’

‘He still has to come in. I need to talk to him at least, so that we can compare notes. His own gaffer’s agreed to that. Look… I can personally guarantee that his undercover status will be respected and secured.’

Lucy sighed. ‘All I can do, ma’am, is tell him that.’

‘Or arrest him. If he won’t play ball.’

‘First of all, I’ll have to find him.’

‘That’s the easy part, isn’t it? I mean, you’re a detective. Go and detect.’

Lucy headed to the door but then turned. ‘In the meantime, ma’am, are you locking up Harold and Lilac Hoag?’

Nehwal made a helpless gesture. ‘Like I say, I can’t afford to dick around or I’ll lose them too. But that means you don’t dick around either.’

Lucy nodded and continued to the door.

‘You hear me, Lucy?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

*

For the first time in what seemed like several days, Heck found himself on the right side of the law. Apart from the fact he was carrying an illegal firearm of course. But the Police and Criminal Evidence Act empowered any officer to enter and search a private premises without a warrant if he or she believed that someone in there was in danger of death or injury.

He’d straddled the wall and was halfway across the open space towards the patio when it struck him that he might be about to blow his cover. Whoever was in the hot-tub, he couldn’t apply first aid or call for an ambulance without revealing who he was. It would defeat the whole purpose of his being here, but instinct had kicked in without him really considering it. It was too late to beat a retreat now anyway, not that he would ever do that if someone was in peril.

He hurried onto the patio, only briefly scanning the windows of the barn-conversion, seeing no sign of anyone moving around. He halted alongside the tub. It was larger than average; five or six people could have laid down in it at the same time. In the middle of it meanwhile, as he’d already spotted, a naked, but rather hefty figure – it looked like a woman – was floating face-down, a mop of short iron-grey hair swirling around her head.

He leaned over, aware that he’d be interfering with what looked like a suspicious sudden death, which was a complete no-no in crime scene management terms, but unwilling not to at least see if there was anything he could do.

At that moment the figure sprung upright, its pink, porcine face running with water and written with jack-o-lantern glee.

As Heck took an involuntary step backward, the woman flung her arms out, revealing massive but sagging breasts, not to mention a huge rubbery belly hanging down over her crotch. At the same time, the cold nub of a steel muzzle pressed into the nape of his neck.

‘See anything you like?’ a voice asked him.

56

Lilac Hoag remained naked as she stood upright in the tub, one hand on her left hip, grinning lewdly, while her husband, having already extricated the Walther from Heck’s waistband and tossed it away, circled into view, fixing Heck dead-on with a firearm of his own. Heck recognised it as a Taurus Raging Bull, presumably the same one that had been used in Hobhall Tunnel and on that poor fat sap, Benny.

Harold Hoag didn’t look much deadlier than his wife. He too was ageing badly, overweight and breathing hard. At least he was dressed, wearing a grey tracksuit and white trainers, but his face was pudgy, his mouth wet, his hair almost nonexistent, and he squinted myopically as he gazed along the barrel. Of course, this guy had already killed several people. You couldn’t afford to judge books by their covers in this game.

‘You need to put that down,’ Heck said slowly. ‘Or at least point it somewhere else.’

‘Fat chance,’ the woman in the tub cackled.

Heck continued to eyeball her husband. ‘I don’t want a slug in me just because you’ve got a twitchy finger.’

‘If you get a slug in you, son,’ Hoag replied, ‘it’ll be because I decide to put one there… and that’s a very possible outcome, you’d better believe me. Hands up.’ Heck had lowered them a little but now raised them again. Hoag’s fish-like eyes appraised him. ‘Back away,’ he said. ‘Sit in that deckchair. Lilac, tie him up. And put something on, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Pair of heels?’ she suggested.

‘Stop fucking around. Look at this guy… is this a sneak-thief? An everyday burglar?’

‘I don’t know, but he’s hot.’

‘Lilac, I’m serious.’

‘You’re getting boring in your old age.’ With much puffing and grunting, she slid herself out from the hot-tub, ensuring to spread her legs wide as she did.

‘Fucking slapper,’ her husband grunted.

‘And you love me for it, you old perve.’ She plodded across the patio, her bare feet smacking its smooth paving stones.

‘Who are you?’ Hoag demanded.

‘Just a sneak-thief.’ Heck retreated towards the deckchair. ‘You were wrong thinking otherwise.’

‘Carrying a Walther .380? I doubt it.’

‘Maybe he’s here about the Crazyhouse?’ Lilac reappeared wearing a pink house-robe, which was too small for her and concealed almost nothing, and carrying a bundle of old hosepipe.

‘Shut your mouth about that!’ Hoag growled. ‘Stupid trout!’

‘For God’s sake, you moaning old git. Like you said, look at him! This is no scally. He’s obviously got something to do with it.’

‘Don’t know anything about any Crazyhouse,’ Heck said, watching Hoag carefully, noting the fresh sweat glistening on his forehead.

The nasty old bastard clearly knew it would be no contest if the prisoner got past his gun. But maybe there was more to it even than that. Whatever this Crazyhouse was, it had deep significance.

‘In the deckchair!’ Hoag snapped. ‘No sudden moves by the way. I won’t fucking hesitate.’

Heck complied, reclining in the deckchair, which creaked and felt rickety under his weight. He kept his arms out wide as the woman lurched around him, winding his body with hosepipe, strapping him into place. At least once, a heavy, milk-white breast with a strawberry-sized nipple flopped out of the loosely tied robe and hung in his face.

‘Ooh, sorry,’ she chuckled. ‘So sorry about that. Completely unintentional.’

‘Will you stop tarting about, woman, and get him fastened in!’ Hoag grumbled.

When she decided that Heck was secure, his hands bound together behind him, she stepped away.

‘So, are you?’ Hoag asked.

‘Am I what?’ Heck replied.

‘Connected to the Crazyhouse? What happened? Lose money on a bet? If so, you’re taking it up with the wrong people. We’re just caretakers.’

‘Well paid caretakers, by the looks of it,’ Heck said.

‘You’re surely not surprised by that?’ Hoag replied.

‘He’s not surprised,’ Lilac said. ‘He just wants his money back.’

‘Like that’s going to happen. We need to know who he is. Search him properly.’

Lilac leaned over Heck a second time, hands roving his body, kneading at his crotch.

‘Keep your mind on the bloody job,’ Hoag growled.

She first located his phone, which she brought out and laid on the table, then his wallet, which she casually flipped open, before giving a short but genuine gasp. She looked at her husband. ‘He’s a copper. Name’s Heckenburg.’

Heck watched tensely as Hoag, looking equally alarmed, stepped forward, weapon levelled one-handed as he reached out to see for himself. The way Heck saw it, even if Hoag now went and made a ‘freedom of information’ request and learned that this card was no longer in force, it wouldn’t help. Explaining that he was an ex-cop in the pay of Frank McCracken would just as likely get him killed.

‘What do you want, pig?’ Hoag tossed the wallet onto the table, and approached until the Taurus’s cannon-like muzzle was only a few inches from Heck’s forehead. ‘You better talk right now, or I’m going to pop you in the face.’

‘And then what’ll you learn?’ Heck asked him.

‘Why you poking around here?’ More sweat beaded Hoag’s brow.

Heck gazed along the shiny steel barrel, locking eyes with his captor.

The old perve was in a state, and to be fair, so he should be. If Heck was a real copper and he’d got this close, the game was up for all of them. But questions remained. Was Heck a real copper? And if so, where were his mates? How much intel had he already passed back to Control? Was back-up due to arrive? But if he wasn’t a real copper, who the hell was he?

The trouble was that getting answers to these questions would be so imperative to Harold Hoag that Heck knew he wouldn’t be able to stall him much longer. The Taurus was so close that even a blind mouse couldn’t miss. And though the deckchair was light and flimsy – Heck only had to move about to feel it twist and creak underneath him, while the hosepipe was not designed to bind anything tightly and he’d already managed to loosen it at the back simply by rotating his wrists – he still wouldn’t be able to break free cleanly before Hoag squeezed the trigger.

‘I’m telling you squat,’ Heck said, more coolly than he felt. ‘You’re a couple of geriatric weirdoes… but you’re not so weird that you don’t realise it’s more important to learn who I am than to slot me.’

If it was possible for Hoag’s damp face to redden even more, it did so now. He backed away a yard, still pointing the gun at Heck’s forehead.

‘So, who am I, eh?’ Heck asked. ‘What have I found out about you two and this Crazyhouse of yours? Who else knows about it?’

Hoag licked his lips. ‘Check that police card again,’ he said. ‘Make sure it’s real.’

‘You mean am I a phoney?’ Heck asked. ‘Did I get that warrant card made up, so I could use it to blag my way in here, put the shits up you two, get my money back? Is that what this is all about?’

Hoag scowled, the Taurus trembling. ‘I told you, you little shit. You won’t be getting any money back. Not from us. But not from anyone else, either. You got any idea what you’re dealing with? Do you think you’re the first punter to get pissed off because he’s lost a fortune? What do you think the people who run this show will do to you if you start pushing your arse around? You saw what happened inside that fucking place. You think people like that are just going to sit back and let you make trouble for them?’

‘Can’t tell whether it’s a fake or not,’ Lilac said, exasperated.

Hoag inched towards her. He was still only two or three feet away, the Taurus now trained on Heck’s chest, though even there it would blow a hole the size of a dinner plate.

‘I know what’ll work,’ Lilac said, eyeing the captive with distaste now rather than playful lust. ‘What’ll soften him up.’

She tossed the card away, turning and heading towards the house.

‘You’ve done it now, son,’ Hoag said, ‘getting my Lilac on the warpath.’

‘What’s she going to do, steamroller me to death?’

Hoag snarled, spit fizzling between his browning pegs. The sweat now showed through his tracksuit in big, slick patches. Heck had got his hands loose, but he kept them behind his back. No way would he reach the old bastard before at least one round ripped into him. Lilac reappeared, waddling back from the house carrying a small tin box. She watched Heck as she approached, mouth curved into a weird half-moon grin, then shoved the table forward until it was alongside him, placing the box on top. Heck looked down as she lifted the lid, revealing an all-in-one heroin kit, including a capped syringe, an arm-cord and a small vial with a soft rubber plug in one end and clear fluid inside.

‘That’s right,’ she said, voice hard, ‘we’ve got more nasty habits than you can imagine. And here’s one we cooked up earlier.’

Hoag stepped behind her, watching over her shoulder. But watching what she was doing as she took out the needle and vial, not watching their prisoner. And seemingly unaware that he’d lowered his firearm a crucial half foot or so.

Heck struck out with everything he had, impacting the woman’s right knee with the flat of his left foot, using his right to propel himself upward, the weak, unwieldy chair breaking apart. Lilac squawked in pain as her leg buckled sideways, though before she fell, Heck smashed her left wrist with a karate blow, the needle, still capped, flirting away across the patio. In the same movement he threw a massive right at the shocked face of her husband.

The punch was enormous, and it had to be, because Heck was still bound bodily to the frame of the shattered chair and needed several moments to extricate himself. Hoag tottered backward, his pudgy features a mask of blood, the Taurus pointing every which way, two shots blasting out of it but going wide. But he didn’t go down. Heck, still wound with rubber, dragged the deckchair wreckage behind him as he stumbled in pursuit. Hoag, dazed, failed to sight him with the gun, and when Heck landed a second, that one did the trick, the older guy hitting the patio hard, the Taurus skittering free.

Heck kicked it further afield, shucked off what remained of the hosepipe, then rounded on Lilac, who was down on all fours. A hefty stamp on the back of her skull, which smacked her forehead into the paving stones, was all it took to put her out.

*

Lilac Hoag lay on the patio, moaning faintly, as Heck pushed her husband’s face down towards the hot tub’s bubbling surface.

‘Wa… wa… wait!’ Hoag burbled, blood dripping from his nose, turning the water pink.

Heck leaned down on him harder, one hand grasping the nape of his neck, the other pushing the back of his skull. ‘You’re going to talk to me, mate. You’re going to tell me everything you know, or I’m sending you to Davy Jones in your own back yard.’

‘But I don’t know nothing,’ Hoag protested.

‘Wrong answer.’

Heck thrust him into the swirling bubbles. He held him in place there for four or five seconds before letting him up again. Hoag gasped, choked and spluttered. ‘Please…’

‘Tell me.’

‘Ask me anything… anything!’

‘The Crazyhouse. What is it?’

Hoag looked bewildered. ‘Surely you know that already?’

Heck shoved him under again, this time holding him for ten seconds. When he came up this second time, Hoag was coughing painfully.

‘Christ’s sake… I told you, me and Lilac, we’re caretakers. They don’t tell us nothing.’

‘And what do you do as caretakers?’

‘What do you think? Clean up the mess.’

‘Mess?’

‘After the games. We don’t deal with the bodies, though.’

Heck lugged him up by his lapels, turned him and pushed him back against the tub. ‘What bodies?’ Hoag looked exhausted. He was drenched both with sweat and tub water and struggling to get his breath. ‘Look at me!’ Heck snarled. ‘What bodies?’

The captive eyed him weakly. ‘It’s nothing to do with us. We just clean up the blood and the other muck. Get it all shipshape forensically. Look… it’s our lass and her boyfriend who’re the organisers.’

Heck was fascinated but needed more. ‘You mean your Timandra?’

‘Of course, who else?’

‘She told me she no longer has contact with you two.’

‘She says that to everyone. We’re a fucking embarrassment, aren’t we. But who else could she use for a job like this?’

If nothing else, Heck now had an explanation as to why Timandra Hoag hadn’t emerged a scarred relic from this family. She’d been right at home with them.

‘Especially when you pulled in some big cash for her to get this thing started, yeah?’ Heck replied.

Hoag looked evasive again. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

‘Like fuck you don’t. So, Timandra keeps you at arm’s length in public, but whenever there’s something dirty needs doing…?’

Hoag shrugged again. ‘Makes her a smart girl, doesn’t it.’

‘Or a sick one.’

‘Smart!’ the older guy insisted. ‘Very smart. This thing pays, for Christ’s sake! I mean you must’ve noticed that by now. Even scrotey underlings like us do well out of it.’

‘You said Timandra and her boyfriend were the brains behind it. So who’s the boyfriend?’

‘A spoilt rich-kid called Zak O’Calligan. He’s a cocky little twat, but he knows how to make money.’

‘Yeah.’ Heck nodded. ‘Especially when there isn’t a scrap of morality involved, eh?’

‘What does morality ever get you?’

‘Nothing you’ve spent your life looking for, I’m sure. Just tell me exactly what this business involves. And don’t leave anything out.’

Hoag looked bemused again. More than bemused: baffled, perplexed. He’d assumed that whoever this dangerous intruder was, real copper or not, he’d at least be au fait with the operation. Otherwise, why else was he here?

At which point, the ageing pervert was hit between the eyes by a bullet, which shaved Heck’s jawline it sped so close. Heck stumbled away, spattered with hot blood. Only belatedly did he turn to look behind, at the same time reaching for Harold Hoag’s Taurus, which he’d tucked into his jeans.

‘Don’t do it!’ Saul Baylock bellowed, approaching from the corner of the house, a Browning Hi-Power semi-automatic levelled on Heck with both hands. ‘Not if you know what’s good for you.’

Heck spread his arms. At which point, Lilac Hoag gave a theatrical groan and tried to lever herself upright. Baylock, only briefly distracted, pegged a single round at her. It punched through her neck. Head lolling obscenely, she flopped backward again.

‘What…’ Heck stuttered. ‘What… what the actual fuck! Baylock…’

They had no reason to assume that Heck wasn’t still onside, and that was how he intended to play it, explaining that he’d found Benny B’s murderers, as instructed by McCracken, and that it might be about to lead them to the Bad Thing… at least, until he got a chance to get the message to either Lucy or Gwen. But momentarily, he was tongue-tied.

Baylock, who’d now come close, kept the Browning trained on Heck as he scanned the rear of the premises. ‘Anyone else here?’

‘Seriously?’ Heck’s voice thickened with rage. ‘You don’t think we should’ve tried to find something out? You don’t think…’

And only then did he notice the uninterested expression on Baylock’s scarred, golem-like features. And with aching slowness, the penny dropped.

Baylock grinned in acknowledgement. ‘You’re clearly good at what you do, Heckenburg. Which is a damn shame. You’d have been worth your weight in gold.’

Heck went for the Taurus. But it was around the back of him, and before he could reach it, the Browning’s steel barrel clattered against the side of his skull.

57

‘Let me guess,’ Cyndi White said sullenly. ‘You’re here for Mark Heckenburg?’

‘Is he in?’ Lucy asked, standing on her doorstep.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Any idea where he is?’

‘No clue. Didn’t even see him this morning when he went out.’

Lucy regarded her suspiciously. ‘He’s not upstairs right now, is he?’

‘Darling…’ Cyndi sighed. ‘I’m not hiding him from you, if that’s what you think. You’re welcome to him. It’s getting to the stage here where anyone’s welcome to him.’

‘I don’t think you understand.’ Lucy drew the wallet from her back pocket and flipped it open. ‘I’m a police officer. Detective Constable Clayburn. Crowley CID.’

The householder glanced again at Lucy’s tight jeans and black leather motorbike jacket, but she still didn’t seem surprised. ‘Should’ve sussed him from the outset, shouldn’t I? I ought to be able to by now.’

‘He’s not in any kind of trouble,’ Lucy said.

‘I’ll bet he’s not.’

‘But it’s very important that I speak to him.’

‘Like I say, he’s not here. But I can see you don’t believe me…’ Cyndi stepped aside. ‘So go up and have a look around his bedroom. Might even be something there to indicate what he’s up to.’

‘Who are you anyway?’ Lucy asked, entering the house.

‘Cyndi White, and I’m the owner of this dump, though you wouldn’t know it the way your fella and his mates have been behaving.’

Lucy said nothing. She saw no reason to divest the woman of her misconception. It was only to the good if Cyndi White was left believing that this visit was all about Heck being some kind of love-rat rather than a player in a criminal conspiracy.’

The woman handed over a key, and Lucy started upstairs. She switched the landing light on and tapped on the bedroom door she’d been directed to. There was no response. She inserted the key, turned it, and the door opened. It was late evening now, so the bedroom was dark inside. She ventured in warily, feeling for another switch, locating it and turning the light on. A few of Heck’s personals lay around and the bed was rumpled, but otherwise the room was undisturbed, as if he’d been living out of his grab-bag. Then the curtain, which was drawn, fluttered. Lucy glanced at it, distracted. It was late spring, verging on summer. There’d be nothing unusual about a bedroom window being left open. Especially not with someone downstairs. But somehow it seemed unlike Heck.

A metallic click signalled the cocking of a firearm.

Lucy froze with disbelief.

The bedroom door was pushed quietly closed. Its catch snicked into place.

‘Don’t even think about making a noise,’ said a low male voice. ‘Trust me, I’ve got absolutely nothing to lose.’

A man circled around to face her, pointing a large frame revolver at her head. It wasn’t so much the gun that surprised her though, as the state of the guy. He wore a sharp suit and a very smart shirt and tie, but his fair hair was a sweat-damp mess, and his face had recently been pummelled until it was black and blue.

‘What are you then?’ he asked. ‘Heck’s bird? Keep your hands where I can see them.’

‘Maybe,’ she replied.

‘Yeah,’ he sneered. ‘In his dreams. You’re DC Clayburn, aren’t you?’

Lucy said nothing.

‘Don’t worry, it’s not magic. Heard you talking to the bottle-blonde downstairs. Don’t call out to her, by the way. Be a real shame if I had to leave two dead bodies here tonight. So…’ he paused for effect. ‘Heck’s been playing us for suckers all along, has he?’

Still, Lucy said nothing.

‘You know what the problem is? My problem, I mean?’ For a moment, he seemed despondent. ‘I wanted it to be true. I wanted to know that I wasn’t the only good guy who’d got sick of it and swapped over.’

‘Heck would have had better reason than you,’ she replied. ‘You’re Ray Marciano, I assume?’

His crooked grin was all the answer she needed.

*

Heck wasn’t unaccustomed to waking up to a throbbing headache, but this one was more acute than most, and localised on the right side, where he just knew a minor open wound was in need of attention. Not that he was in a position to give it. A musty blanket had been draped over the top of him, but more problematic, he’d been hogtied.

He lay face down on a vehicle’s rear seat, his hands behind his back, fastened sharply together by zip-ties, these in their turn attached to his ankles, which were also zipped together and had been drawn backward and up at such an angle that his knees were cramped with agony. He struggled all the same, eventually managing to dislodge the blanket from his head. Glancing right, he saw that he was inside a car, jolting and bouncing along what he assumed was yet another country lane. There was minimal light inside the vehicle because there were no streetlamps outside, but from the dome-like skull of his sole captor, the driver, whom he could just about visualise in the soft glow from the dashboard, he was still in the company of Saul the Maul.

It couldn’t be a worse person, in truth. From what Heck had seen, Baylock was all brute force and ignorance, a sort of much scarier version of Benny B. Heck was sure that Frank McCracken would be surprised. All-in-one heavies tended to be loyalists. It was the clever ones, like McCracken himself, who rebelled.

‘So, what was it?’ Heck asked. ‘Why’d you kill the Hoags?’

Baylock didn’t reply.

‘Do you not like sex offenders either?’

‘Let’s just say things were getting a bit close to home,’ the gangster finally said. ‘What, with the cozzers linking the Benny B hit to Hobhall Tunnel.’

‘Your GMP insiders really make life easier for you guys, don’t they?’ Heck said. ‘Mind, I don’t blame you. The Hoags were a couple of sore thumbs, eh? A regular pair of loose ends. I imagine the people who do the killing in the Crazyhouse are a lot more professional.’

Baylock chuckled.

‘That’s funny, is it?’ Heck said.

‘What’s funny is the way you act as if you know stuff. You don’t.’

‘You sure about that, Saul?’

Baylock swung them around a tight bend. ‘As sure as I am that only a game of absolute chance is worth staking any kind of money on, let alone mega bucks like these.’

Heck cogitated on this.

So there was betting going on.

But… absolute chance? It was less easy to work out what that meant, though it implied, or seemed to, that the hosts of this ‘game’ – whatever Harold Hoag and Saul Baylock meant by that term – were not doing the killing themselves, or at least not doing it in straightforward fashion. There was some kind of chance involved.

God only knew what form this racket actually took, though Heck had a strong suspicion that he was going to find out very soon.

58

‘You almost look disappointed,’ Marciano said, indicating with his pistol that Lucy should sit on the bed.

She did as instructed, alongside Heck’s open laptop, which the intruder had clearly been trying to access, though without success. She watched him carefully. He’d suffered a real kicking, but he seemed to be in control of himself. Not that you could ever be certain of that when someone was pointing the sort of gun that looked as if it belonged in a Clint Eastwood movie.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, to be honest,’ she said.

‘So you were expecting me?’

‘At some point.’

He nodded. ‘I suppose the next question is… who else is?’

She shrugged. ‘Everyone who matters. We’ve got full reports on every conversation you and Heck have held since he arrived here, all your movements, all the actions you’ve authorised…’

By the tightening of his injured face, that wasn’t something he’d wanted to hear.

‘But Heck’s not after you, Ray,’ she added. ‘When he came up north, he didn’t even know you’d be here.’

‘What did he come for specifically?’

‘That’s classified, I’m afraid.’

You realise I’m the one holding the gun, DC Clayburn?’

‘And you realise that if you shoot me, it won’t make any difference? Other than to add another thirty years to your eventual sentence.’

Marciano sniffed. ‘Heck’s working the Crazyhouse, isn’t he?’

His face had tightened even more. The one good eye not buried in bruised, swollen flesh literally gleamed. The Crazyhouse? Whatever that was, it clearly frightened him. Even terrified him.

Lucy was unnerved.

This was the legendary ex-cop turned supervillain, Ray Marciano.

And the Crazyhouse terrified him.

*

The car skidded to a stop, sliding sideways. Heck was jerked down into the footwell. At first, he wondered if help had intervened. But then Baylock clambered out, and he heard a gruff exchange of voices. A second later, the car’s rear door was opened, the blanket was torn away and he was lugged out and dumped on his knees on a broken, weedy road surface.

It was a crossroads, several other routes leading off in different directions. He couldn’t see much beyond that, though likely it was yet more bleak moorland. More immediately, he found himself in a crosshatch of headlights. This was a rendezvous point of some sort, because two other vehicles were present, parked at different angles.

He’d been brought here in a smart black Range Rover, but the other two transports were very different. One was a minibus. It was clean and new, and looked just the sort of thing a bunch of eager young people would go off to have an adventure in. The other was larger and dingier, a white works van, a medium light goods vehicle, much spattered with mud. Both were open at the back as the cargo from the minibus was now removed to the van. The person doing it was another of the biggest men Heck had ever seen. In fact, he recognised the guy from the Crew security team he’d glimpsed in the shadows at the strip-club in Whalley Range. He was easily 6ft7 and of hulking build, a physique made all the bulkier by his heavy waterproof coveralls, though the most disquieting thing about him was his monstrous mass of hair. It was thick, black and immensely long, hanging in greasy ravels past his shoulders, and complemented by an equally dense, shaggy growth of beard, which jutted down onto his chest but grew so high up his cheeks that it almost reached his eyes.

‘You good, Yeti?’ Baylock asked, going over to him.

‘Aye,’ the hairy one replied. ‘These are the last two.’

He was busy carting two unconscious men, youngish guys wearing shorts and tennis shirts, from the minibus to the van, one under either arm. When he reached the van, he tossed them inside as if they were sacks of grain.

Heck wasn’t in a position to see into the van’s rear compartment, but he assumed there were already several more in there. More interesting were the two women standing close by, clutching an open sack and working their way through its contents. Occasionally, one of those contents would flash into view, a sachet of powder or pills. The women were only in their mid-twenties, one a redhead, the other a blonde. Shapely, high-heeled and beautifully made up, with acres of smoothly contoured leg and heaving bosom on view, they’d have turned the head of any red-blooded male, or any group of red-blooded males, particularly if said group were on their way to getting sloshed. Heck didn’t need to have studied up on the recent disappearances in Blackpool, a group of lads out on a stag-do, last seen in company with two painted doxies, to put two and two together.

‘Hey, girls!’ he shouted. They glanced over. He grinned. ‘You want to know the thing with me?’ They said nothing, but he told them anyway. ‘I have a kind of rule. It’s not a police regulation, or anything. It’s more a personal thing. A creed, if you like. I don’t just get the killers. I get the people who’ve assisted them too. You understand what that means?’

‘Yo!’ Baylock shouted, striding back. ‘Heckenburg!’

‘You do understand… I can see it in your eyes,’ Heck said. ‘I hoover up the entire network. Literally…’

Baylock landed a massive kick in the side of Heck’s chest, pitching him onto the road.

Heck stayed focussed on the two women, who were still watching. And listening. ‘And by that,’ he gasped, ‘I don’t just mean those who’ve done the murdering. I mean those who’ve made it possible…’

Baylock kicked Heck in the belly.

He grimaced and just about kept his stomach contents down. ‘So… one of these days, when there’s a knock on your door you weren’t expecting, you know who it’ll be…’

‘It won’t be fucking you!’ Baylock stamped on the side of his head, bouncing if off the road surface, stunning him into semi-consciousness.

After that, Heck was only vaguely aware of the mobster rounding on the two women.

‘Ignore that shithead,’ he said. ‘This is his last night on Earth. All present and correct with the payment?’ The women mumbled in response. ‘On your way then. We’ll be in touch.’

The next thing Heck knew, the women were out of sight and the minibus making a complex three-point turn, before rumbling away along one of the darkened roads.

‘What’s the story with this one?’ another voice asked. It was Yeti.

‘Last minute competitor,’ Baylock said.

‘Need to put that out,’ Yeti replied. ‘It’ll affect the odds and stuff…’

‘Leave the thinking to someone else. You just deliver him, as usual.’

Yeti crouched, checking Heck over. Up close, he reeked of dope and sweat. With a snick, a switchblade sprang into view. He reached for Heck’s ankles.

‘Leave him tied,’ Baylock said. ‘This one can be trouble.’

Yeti frowned. ‘Might cause problems if one of the competitors has a handicap. There was a ruckus last time over which one of the poor bastards died first. Plus, you’ve already knocked half his brains out. How much trouble can he be?’

‘At least leave him incapacitated for the journey,’ Baylock retorted. ‘You can’t leave him anywhere you can’t watch him. Not if he’s untied.’

Yeti closed his switchblade, hefted Heck up under his armpits and flung him into the back of the van. The stupefied cop was dimly aware of the heaped bony forms of the other unconscious men he was thrown on top of: their cologne, their aftershave, and also their vomit and urine, side-effects of the poison they’d been dosed with.

The door then slammed, and utter blackness enveloped him.

59

‘The next question,’ Marciano said, ‘is how do I convince you I’ve had nothing whatever to do with any of this?’

Lucy shrugged. ‘Try.’

He sat on the chair, watching her closely. ‘As far as I’m aware, it’s a rogue group within the Crew. Some kind of gambling syndicate.’

‘Why would they need to be rogue?’ she asked. ‘Gambling’s meat and drink to the Crew.’

He shook his head. ‘Not this time. Whatever it is they’re taking high-rolling bets on… let’s just say it’s nasty. There might be lives at stake. Innocent lives.’

‘You’re telling me the Crew doesn’t commit murder now?’

‘There are some things even Frank McCracken draws the line at.’

‘You think so? You don’t know him very well.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I do know him. Even if I didn’t, it was him who put me onto this. Me and Heck. When he thought we were both onside. He got suspicious the same way we did. He wanted to know what Timandra was into.’

‘Timandra?’ Lucy was absorbing these bits of info and processing them as fast as she could, though much of it was new to her. Such as this name, Timandra.

‘Timandra Hoag,’ he said. ‘You’ll know her mum and dad better. A real pair of whackos.’

‘Okay…?’

‘To all intents and purposes, Timandra’s a middle-class chick. Ex-university, manages an art gallery. All normal, except that when she left uni, she was going steady with one Zak O’Calligan.’

Lucy recognised that name at least. ‘Keep talking.’

‘I’m giving you a lot here, and you’re giving me nothing.’

‘I’m giving you an open door, Ray… when I’m satisfied.’

Marciano pondered. ‘You’re saying you and your team aren’t going to come after me?’

‘That depends what you’ve got to divert us with.’

There was no possible way Lucy could make any such promise. She’d looked into Marciano since Heck had first mentioned him, and he was one of the most wanted men in the UK, but whatever this Crazyhouse horror was, it might well be the key to undermining the Crew, and even Priya Nehwal would be prepared to do deals on that basis.

‘O’Calligan’s a superstar computer nut,’ Marciano said. ‘Programmer, hacker, all that shit. Knows the Internet inside out. Especially the dark part of it. He’s only a kid really, but thanks to his expertise, he’s way up there in the Crew’s cybercrime operation.’

‘And now you think him and this Timandra are branching out on their own?’

‘Not on their own. O’Calligan’s got skills, but I can’t see what Timandra brings to the table… unless she found a way to bankroll the operation.’

Lucy didn’t say anything, but the Hobhall Tunnel robbery leapt to mind.

Committed – according to Heck, at least – by two people who might very well be Timandra Hoag’s parents.

‘They’re not big enough fish to be doing this on their own,’ Marciano added. ‘If it’s anyone, it’s going to be O’Calligan’s mum.’

‘His mum?’

‘Zara Ballantyne. Head of Crew security. She’s as ambitious as they get. Frank’s had me watch her a couple of times. Especially now she’s got this attack-dog sidekick…’

‘Saul the Maul.’

‘Know about him, eh?’

‘I’m GMP, Ray. Give me some credit.’

‘Zara’s likely to be the brains behind it. Saul the muscle.’

‘Have you actually heard that Zara Ballantyne’s involved?’ Lucy asked. ‘Or is it a guess?’

‘It’s a guess, but it’s educated.’

Lucy considered that. When Benny B had first intimated he was willing to help smuggle an undercover asset into the Crew, she’d been desperate to take advantage of it. It had been the first ever potential chink in their armour. The only workable way she’d ever discovered to undermine Frank McCracken and maybe bring the whole organisation crashing down. But if Frank himself had put his own investigators onto this supposed rogue outfit, the trail of blame wasn’t going to lead to his door. In some ways that disheartened her – cutting McCracken off at the heels had been Lucy’s main motivation since word had come out that he was her biological father – but she was still enough of a cop to know when something else needed her attention too, and from Ray Marciano’s reaction, this Crazyhouse business qualified highly.

‘You said this rogue outfit would need to be bankrolled,’ she said. ‘Surely, if Zara Ballantyne’s involved, she could do that with her department’s spare change.’

‘In the normal world of gangster scumbags, yeah,’ Marciano said. ‘But Frank runs a tight ship. Every penny has to be accounted for.’

‘Why can’t it just be the two kids?’

‘Are you not hearing me?’ He got to his feet. ‘Whatever they’re doing, people are getting smoked. Two ex-university types, on their own? Seriously?’

‘We’re going to need to know how much of this is real and how much is imagination, Ray?’

‘Yeah, because I’m going to give you a written statement with my name and address on it.’ He lurched to the window. ‘That’s why I’m off. Not just out of here, out of town.’ He yanked the curtain back, revealing an open window panel and the upper section of a ladder. ‘You’re not stopping me, and if you and your team try to follow, I will shoot. Do you understand that, DC Clayburn?’

She remained where she was. ‘It could be you overestimate your importance in the pecking order of Great British criminals?’

He straddled the sill. ‘So long as you don’t, we’ll all be fine.’

She only moved when he’d climbed down out of sight, walking to the open window. ‘They’ll catch up with you eventually. If it’s not us, it’ll be the Crew.’

Marciano was almost at the bottom of the ladder. He glanced up, aiming his gun at her again. ‘I’m not part of whatever’s going on at this Crazyhouse place.’

‘I thought you said Frank McCracken wasn’t, either.’

‘He isn’t, but that won’t win me any brownie points. Not after I helped bring an undercover cop into his head office. Go back inside, DC Clayburn. And draw the curtain. Do it now.’

*

When they reached their destination, it seemed to Heck that they’d been travelling less than half an hour. Again, they’d banged and jolted along narrow, badly maintained roads. It was too dark to see anything in the rear compartment of the van; not even threads of light penetrated through chinks or gaps. Heck’s fellow travellers remained deeply unconscious. He had no idea what state they’d be in when they woke, but by the time the van came to a halt, he himself was fully compos-mentis again, albeit with his head ringing and the whole right side of his face plastered with dried blood. He still couldn’t move. The zip-ties held him firmly. Now that the vehicle had stopped, some kind of chance might beckon, though whether the driver, Yeti, would prove to be as good as his word and cut his bonds was anyone’s guess. It would seem less of a risk for him of course, if Heck was still out cold. Thus, as the van’s rear door creaked open, and brownish-yellow lamplight fell over them, he closed his eyes and lay still.

‘Five more for the fucking pot,’ Yeti muttered.

Heck was laid hands upon first, pulled roughly out and dumped on a concrete surface. He lay bone-still, holding his breath, waiting for that familiar snick of a switchblade. He just hoped that no one else turned up to assist the bastard.

But with or without another foe to deal with, that snick never came.

Instead, Yeti lugged another of the unconscious bodies out, and then another. Heck continued feigning insensibility, but his concern grew as more and more of them were dragged out. He cracked open an eyelid.

They were in a yard, not exactly square but perhaps fifty yards by sixty. He couldn’t see much more without making it obvious he was conscious, but there seemed to be an electric light somewhere nearby, while the yard itself was encircled by sheer walls of towering red brick. Windows were visible in some of them, probably even doors at ground level, but again he couldn’t afford to look around too much.

‘Job’s a fucking good ’un,’ Yeti mumbled, having pulled out the fifth and final victim.

Heck was vaguely aware of him standing with hands on hips, looking around, still muttering through his grubby whiskers. ‘What now… search? Yeah… that’s it. Search the fuckers. Make sure they can’t take anything in they can use.’

It sounded distinctly as if he was reiterating orders that had been imparted to him, but the main thing now was that he knelt alongside Heck first, at which point he realised that Heck was still bound. Heck could have shouted with relief at that familiar snick of a blade springing loose, but what he would do once his limbs were free he didn’t rightly know. Yeti was every bit the monster his nickname proclaimed him.

The cop continued to feign lifelessness as steel sliced his zip-ties and blood rushed back into his extremities. A rough and ready search then followed, all his pockets turned out, fingers poked behind his waistband, into his socks and down the sides of his trainers. Of course, in Heck’s case there was nothing there. Anything useful that he hadn’t inadvertently left at the Hoag residence had been removed by Saul Baylock. Yeti spun and started on another of the prone forms. Heck opened both eyes fully. The guy’s broad back faced him directly, but he was hunched forward, so a swift blow to the nape of the neck wouldn’t be easy. A blow to the back of the head could be more cleanly delivered, but all Heck had to strike with was his fist, which at present was still half-numb, and might not be sufficient, given the sheer physical size and strength of his opponent.

As Yeti moved on to another body, Heck scanned the yard.

It was some kind of loading bay, and part of a much larger industrial complex, though by the clumps of weeds growing through cracks in the concrete, the thick rust on the heavy steel grille pulled down over a double-sized entrance atop a nearby platform, and the state of the few windows he could see higher up, all either broken or boarded over, it was impossible to believe that this place was still being used for its original purpose.

Though of course it wasn’t.

Whatever they’d actually built it for back in Lancashire’s industrial heyday, it hadn’t been called the Crazyhouse then.

Heck turned his head, and saw how the van had come in. A much heavier looking steel shutter, this one shiny and new, stood closed on a broad brick archway. The array of lights on the electronic keypad alongside it offered proof that this was a recent installation.

‘Fucking bastard,’ Yeti suddenly growled.

Heck went rigid, then glanced back.

But he hadn’t yet been detected. It was one of the other captives, a larger, burlier member of the intoxicated troupe, who’d reached weakly up and tried to grapple with the driver, one hand hooked limply onto his beard. Yeti slapped it away, and then, for good measure, because it surely couldn’t have served any other purpose, dealt him a backhander to the face before continuing his body-search.

The hairy giant still wasn’t looking his way, so Heck risked rubbing at his hands, and then sitting up and groping at his ankles. Normal feeling had mostly been restored. As Yeti rose back to his feet, to lurch across to the final captive, Heck knew that his time had come. The bastard’s back was still turned, but it wouldn’t be for much longer.

He rose shakily to his feet, then charged forward, launching himself through the air.

60

‘I knew he was trouble the moment I saw him,’ Cyndi White said, standing with arms folded.

‘Still gave him a room though, didn’t you?’ Lucy replied, descending the staircase.

The landlady shook her head. ‘I’m not a very good picker when it comes to fellas.’

‘Me neither, don’t worry.’

‘He’s not done a runner, has he?’

‘Why fret?’ Lucy handed her the bedroom key. ‘I thought you didn’t want him here anyway.’

‘I don’t. Not anymore. But he owes me a week’s rent.’

‘His stuff’s there, but in truth I don’t know where he is. When did you say you last saw him?’

‘Monday night. Haven’t seen him at all today.’

Lucy was about to ask another question when the mobile buzzed in her pocket. The caller was Priya Nehwal. ‘Ma’am?’

‘Sister Cassie was partly right at least,’ Nehwal said.

‘Yeah?’ Lucy glanced at Cyndi. Cyndi rolled her eyes and headed off along the downstairs passage.

‘Harold and Lilac Hoag were certainly into something,’ Nehwal added.

‘Are they talking?’

‘Seeing as they’re both dead, no.’

Lucy went cold. ‘Recent?’

‘Recent enough for the water in their hot tub to be the colour of tomato soup. They were both propped up in it, facing each other. They’d been shot first.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Where’s Heckenburg?’

Lucy felt a surge of panic. ‘Ma’am, you don’t think…?’

‘I don’t know. Heckenburg was on their tail before we were. According to you, at least.’

‘We don’t know if he was even there.’

‘Sadly, I think we do. Because even at first glance, there’s plenty of evidence here. Including one of Heckenburg’s old warrant cards and a mobile phone, which I feel certain will prove to be his. We’ve also got a Browning Hi-Power. Probably the murder weapon, and suspiciously easy to find.’

‘Suspiciously easy?’ Lucy said.

‘As in it was on a table next to the hot tub. What do you reckon the chances are that Heckenburg’s dabs are all over it?’

Lucy couldn’t reply. Because she couldn’t see any other reason the gun would have been left there if they weren’t.

*

Heck landed cleanly on Yeti’s back, locking his right arm under the bastard’s chin and around his throat. But managing to get a decent chokehold was only part of the problem.

The modern-day Goliath bullocked forward, jerking his massive torso from side to side in an attempt to dislodge his attacker. Heck tightened his grip, clutching his right elbow with his left hand, tugging on it with every inch of strength. But that neck was a tree-trunk. Heck swung like a ragdoll, Yeti’s damp, foul hair filling his nose and mouth. He hooked his ankles around the beast’s hips so as not to be flipped over the top, only for Yeti to drive his elbows back like jackhammers. Either one could have broken rib bones, but Heck’s relatively lean frame worked in his favour, the impacts glancing rather than heavy, and now Heck’s own strategy was paying off.

The giant gagged as he struggled to breathe. So frantic did this make him that he never thought to go for the switchblade in whichever pocket he’d stowed it, but instead attempted to break Heck’s grip, fingers digging into Heck’s wrists and forearms, then at Heck’s head, ripping at his face and scalp. When a lump of his hair was caught in a massive, gnarly fist, Heck loosened his left hand and jabbed that thumb as hard as he could into both of Yeti’s eyes, one after the other.

The beleaguered giant would have howled had he any air in his lungs. Face turning puce, he sagged down to one knee. Heck’s feet touched the ground, which gave him extra leverage. He yanked Yeti’s head back harder, tightening his chokehold, tightening it, tightening it. With a hollow gargle, mouth blubbering saliva, Yeti slumped onto his side. Heck went down too but remained focussed. If the fallen giant had thought to roll over, he might have gained some advantage. He could have body-slammed Heck backward into the concrete, but he no longer had thoughts in his head.

With a dull crunch, something gave.

His windpipe, or maybe a vertebra.

Either way, the giant went limp, his head lolling.

Heck hung on a little longer, just to be sure, before wriggling out and crab-crawling away.

Yeti lay motionless, head turned in Heck’s direction, his eyes – bloodied, either from the thumb or from the way they’d partly strained loose from their sockets – fixed on him sightlessly. Panting, Heck scrambled to his feet. His vision now having attuned to the dimness, more of the entrance gate’s new-fangled fittings were visible, and these included a couple of surveillance cameras. Whether there’d be anyone at the other end of them was uncertain. But Heck couldn’t afford to assume there wasn’t. Not when he still had four unconscious bodies to deal with. He glanced again at the electronically controlled gate. It wasn’t just the electrics. Up close, it was a monumental slab of steel, built to withstand a siege. He glanced at the other doorways at ground level. One stood half open, but it led inside the building, not out.

Any way he looked at it, he was trapped.

61

‘Ma’am, this is clearly a stitch-up,’ Lucy said into the phone.

‘I agree. But if it is, that gives us another problem.’

‘I know,’ Lucy said. ‘It means that whoever really did it…’

‘… has now got Heckenburg.’ Nehwal completed the sentence. ‘Whatever leads you’ve got, DC Clayburn, you’d better chase them pronto. I can’t get away from here for the time-being. It’s a major crime scene relating to our main line of enquiry. But anything new – anything – you get on the blower, yeah?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’

Nehwal cut the call. Lucy slipped her phone back into her jacket.

‘Not looking good, then?’ Cyndi White said, returning from the kitchen.

‘No. It damn well isn’t.’ Lucy hurried to the front door, stopping and digging out a contact card. ‘If Heck turns up or gets in touch, I need you to ring me, okay?’ She pressed the card into Cyndi’s hand. ‘I don’t care what time it is. This is important, you understand?’

‘You think I don’t? With all the fun and games I’ve had round here?’

Lucy went out onto the pavement, where her Ducati was propped against the kerb.

‘Where do you think he is, anyway?’ Cyndi asked, following.

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Lucy grabbed her helmet from a handlebar. ‘Unless you know somewhere called the Crazyhouse.’

‘Only that place up in Lancashire,’ Cyndi replied.

Lucy stopped and turned. ‘Excuse me?’

‘That old place,’ Cyndi said. ‘Ex-cotton mill or something. Near Anglezarke Reservoir. You know it?’

Lucy shook her head. ‘I’m not sure.’

Cyndi thought about it. ‘They turned it into a fun place for kids. I’m talking years ago. When my niece and nephew were nippers, instead of raggedy-arse ingrates who don’t visit their auntie anymore. You must know it… it was massive, dead popular. Indoor climbing frames, slides, trampolines. All on different levels. Burger bar, ping pong. Even had a wax museum.’

Lucy took her by the elbow. ‘You say had?’

‘Well, it’s derelict now. Been derelict for years. Think they ran out of money, or someone bought them out.’

‘It’s still standing, though?’

‘Far as I’m aware.’

‘And they called it the Crazyhouse?’

‘When it was for kids, yeah.’

‘Anglezarke Reservoir?’

‘Not far from there. Think it’s…’

But Lucy was already astride her bike, throttling it to urgent, angry life.

*

Frank McCracken stood pensively on the penthouse suite balcony of the Astarte Hotel, malt whiskey in hand, taking in Manchester city centre as it lay glittering at his feet.

Inside, the phone on his office desk commenced ringing. A second later, Mick Shallicker came out. ‘Might want to take this.’

McCracken nodded and went indoors.

‘Evening, Frank,’ said the voice on the line.

‘Raymondo… you’ve been difficult to pin down of late.’

‘Yeah… well.’ Marciano sounded wary. ‘Probably for the best.’

‘What is, exactly?’

‘Me. Cutting all ties.’

‘Really?’

‘If you don’t know why yet, Frank, you soon will.’

‘So, that’s it?’ McCracken sipped his malt. ‘You’re a free agent again? Just like that?’

‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’

‘Seriously, Ray? This is how you repay all those exceptional pay cheques I put your way?’

‘I repaid those exceptional cheques, Frank, by doing exceptional work on your behalf.’

‘You didn’t want to say goodbye in person?’

‘I didn’t think that was the best idea. No offence intended.’

‘But offence is taken. If nothing else, you owe me a handshake man-to-man.’

‘Sorry, Frank… but it’s very simple. I need to put distance between us.’

McCracken sipped again. ‘You think that’ll protect you, Ray?’

‘What will protect me, Frank, is there’s no need for you to send anyone after me.’

‘You reckon?’

‘I know you’re in the habit of recording all calls received on the head office landline, which is why I rang this number and not your mobile. And on that basis, I’m quite happy to put my hand up and admit the various unstable elements I turned over to you and your boys: Antony Cutolo, Michael LeBron, Dangerous Dan Devlin. Not to mention Seamus Hoag, the nonce who fell off the flats in Salford after I’d chased him. Yeah, that was me. In the first three cases, I pursued them all, apprehended them, and handed them over in full knowledge the men I was giving them to were going to make them all disappear permanently. So there you go, Frank. I’ve just confessed on tape to my part in a villainous enterprise of sizeable proportions. How exactly can I inform on you now and not expect to be facing charges myself a few days later?’

‘You’ve really thought of everything, haven’t you?’

‘Always part of my skillset.’

‘Except your last pay packet. I must owe you, what… sixty, seventy grand?’

‘We’ll waive it,’ Marciano said.

‘No need. We can agree a drop-off point. Leave it in a bag for you somewhere. No one’ll be waiting. God’s honest truth.’

‘Let’s not push our luck, Frank. I want this parting to be on the most amicable terms. For which reason, I’m now going to do you a major-league solid.’

‘This’ll be interesting.’

‘It’s about a man called Mark Heckenburg,’ Marciano said. ‘And a place called the Crazyhouse…’

*

Heck searched both Yeti’s body and the cab of his van, mainly for a firearm, but in the end settling for the switchblade. He found the guy’s phone too, but couldn’t open it as it was locked and required a code. He considered trying to ram the outer gate, but felt certain the ramshackle old vehicle would come off worst. He scanned the upper reaches of the encircling building, particularly the windows, but none of them were even lit. Not that this boded well necessarily. Even if there was nobody else here, someone would be arriving soon.

The four lads meanwhile were now twitching where they lay, breathing heavily, groaning. Heck ignored them, vaulting up onto the concrete platform and peering in through the rusty steel grille. It was too dark to see much, but he fancied there was a recess and then another pair of factory-type sliding doors. He jumped down and ran across the yard to the one door that was already open. It stood at the top of a short flight of steps, and by its ordinary appearance, could have been the door to anywhere – a canteen, an office – but it stood ajar on darkness.

Slurred voices sounded behind him. He hurried down the steps and approached the casualties. Three of them were sitting groggily upright, while one was on his feet but looking confused.

Heck didn’t waste time. ‘Can you guys walk?’

‘Walk?’ one of them muttered. He was a chubby sort, with short spiky hair and soft, teddy bear-like features. ‘What… happened?’

‘Tell you later.’ Heck clapped his hands, raising his voice. ‘Lads… you need to get up, start walking around. Okay? All of you, chop chop!’

The one standing already, a good-looking type with an air of refinement, gazed at him. ‘Who… who are you, mate?’

‘Yeah?’ Another one swayed upright, the burly individual who’d partly grappled with Yeti. He had a solid physique, a shaven head and surly, street-scrapper looks. ‘Where’re the birds?’

Heck didn’t bother with that. He ran back to the door at the top of the steps, listening to the darkness beyond, still hearing no sounds of activity.

‘Fuck!’ Teddy Bear shouted, slapping at his pockets. ‘I’ve been robbed.’

The fourth and final member of the team, a tall guy, 6ft2 perhaps, with a shock of blond hair, made the same discovery. ‘My wallet’s gone. And my fucking phone.’

‘What’s with this fella?’ The refined-looking lad wondered. He’d suddenly noticed Yeti.

Blondie gave the prone form brief but puzzled attention. ‘Never seen him before.’ He turned to face Heck, who’d come back down the steps. ‘Never seen this guy either.’

Scrapper gazed at Heck truculently, taking in his nicks and bruises, and the blood still streaked down his right cheek. ‘Who are you? What’s happening here?’

‘Never mind who I am.’ Heck raised his voice again, as much as he dared. ‘Listen, lads, because I’m not saying this twice. You’ve been drugged and abducted.’

Teddy Bear frowned. ‘Who by?’

‘Them fucking birds,’ Blondie retorted. ‘Who do you think?’

‘I think this fella’s dead,’ Mr Refined interrupted, sounding alarmed.

‘By a bunch of people who’re a bit weird,’ Heck said in response to Teddy Bear’s question. ‘So weird that they’re going to watch you guys die and enjoy every minute of it.’

‘I’m telling you, this bloke’s dead!’ Mr Refined shouted, sounding panicky.

‘Are you fucking idiots listening, or what?’ Heck shouted. They peered at him, goggle-eyed. ‘Listen to me. The people who brought you here… are… going… to… kill… you.’ His gaze roved from one to the next. ‘Probably tonight. And to them it’s just a game, okay? Most likely, they’re already laying bets on who’ll die first and who’ll die worst.’

A stunned silence greeted this.

‘This is a joke, yeah?’ Blondie said.

Heck kicked at Yeti’s body. ‘Does it look like one?’

Slowly, the penny dropped with them that the hairy shape was indeed a corpse. Involuntarily, they backed away from it.

‘Who are you?’ Refined demanded. ‘We’ve asked about six times now…’

‘I’m a cop!’ Heck said. ‘Somehow, for my sins, I’ve got stuck in this predicament with you sad bastards. But I’m not going to die, okay? If you want the same, you stay with me.’

He moved back to the doorway at the top of the steps, listening, still hearing nothing.

‘I’m not going anywhere?’ Blondie said, firmly.

‘If you’re a cop, show us your ID,’ Refined demanded.

‘Show me yours,’ Heck said, coming back down. ‘Yeah, that’s right, genius. They took it.’

Refined pointed at Yeti. ‘Did you kill this guy?’

Heck looked at the corpse reluctantly. ‘I had no choice.’

Refined backed off. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’

‘Was he one of the kidnappers?’ Teddy Bear asked, looking appalled.

Heck shook his head. ‘I’ve not got time to tell you who these people are, lads. But if you stay here, they’ll come for you. Any minute now, I reckon.’

He went back up the steps, sidling into the building, leaving the small group to talk among themselves, a debate that quickly became heated and quarrelsome.

Heck didn’t really know what he expected to find beyond the narrow door. It was likely to lead to more of their abductors rather than away from them. But anything had to be better than sitting around in that yard like turkeys waiting for a shoot. In the faint smudge of light from outside, he could just about distinguish the foot of an internal staircase. Then someone came in through the doorway behind him. It was one of the lads from the yard, the chubby one, Teddy Bear. It looked as though he’d got tired of the other three, who were still arguing.

‘I’m Salty,’ the lad said awkwardly.

‘I know the feeling,’ Heck replied.

‘No… my name’s Tim Sweet, so they call me Salty. What do I call you?’

‘Heck.’

‘Heck?’ The lad still seemed wary. ‘This… I mean, this is a game, isn’t it?’

‘For someone, yeah.’ Heck felt around the back of the door and found a couple of bolts on it, presumably dating back to the days when only legitimate business was done here. ‘Not so much for you.’

Before Salty could reply, they were distracted by a thunderous barking of dogs.

Heck pushed out to the top of the yard steps. New lights had come on in some of the higher windows. He could also hear voices inside the building, but the main thing was the barking; it echoed from wall to wall, which amplified it to terrifying volume.

The lads in the yard looked bewildered with fright. Heck then realised that the doors behind the rusty grille had folded back, and that a reddish light was shining out. Several four-legged forms, all silhouetted on the garish glare, leapt and slashed at the rusted bars, their eyes gleaming like needle-tips. Even as Heck watched, those bars were moving, the grille slowly lifting. Already, two or three foam-covered snouts jutted underneath, snarling gruesomely.

‘This way!’ Heck shouted. ‘Up here!’

Even then, the three lads seemed uncertain. Refined shook his head stubbornly. ‘I ain’t going with him… he’s a self-confessed murderer.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ Scrapper tugged on his shirt.

‘LADS!’ Heck roared. ‘You’ve got five seconds, then I’m closing and locking this door.’

‘I ain’t going!’ Refined said again, pulling loose from the other two.

Scrapper came up the steps without him. Blondie followed, though unwillingly. Heck glanced at the steel grille. It had now lifted a foot or more and was still ascending. Two or three of the dogs, Dobermann Pinschers, slavering in rivers, were squirming to get under it.

Heck pushed Scrapper and Blondie past him through the doorway. Refined remained defiantly below, though he stood rigid as a pole, his eyes locked on the hounds.

‘For God’s sake!’ Heck shouted.

‘Ain’t going with you,’ came the desperate retort.

At that moment, it seemed to be very important to Refined to assert his credentials as a decent human being, as someone who, despite all temptation, would not throw his lot in with the brutes. Heck had seen it before: people who froze in the midst of crisis, unable to make a coherent decision. The normal solution was to rush over, grab them and bundle them where you wanted them to go without asking their permission. But that wouldn’t work now.

Yowling hideously, the first two dogs were through, bounding across the platform and leaping down. With no other choice, Heck slammed the door and rammed its bolts home.

62

Lucy now felt she knew which site Cyndi White had referred to.

Anglezarke Reservoir was a serene body of water nestling amid the gentle lower slopes of the West Pennine Moors. For the most part, it was surrounded by open countryside, though Horton’s Mill stood less than half a mile from its north-eastern shore. It comprised a number of buildings, but two main ones: the mill itself and a similarly gigantic warehouse, both Edwardian in origin and standing so close together that you could be forgiven for thinking from a distance they were one and the same. It had ceased to function as a textiles manufacturer in the mid-1970s but had not stood empty for long. After a brief stint as a visitor centre, roughly 1984-1992, it had been converted into an ‘entertainments village’ for families and children, filled with play areas, climbing frames, games rooms, and yes, even a miniature wax museum.

Lucy, having no dependents, had only been vaguely aware of these latter details, and had certainly not known that it was then referred to as ‘the Crazyhouse’, though knowing it now, she could easily imagine flashing lights, bells, whistles and exterior hoardings covered in cartoon characters and the like.

She came in sight of it after wending her way through a network of unlit farm lanes.

It was late evening now and pitch dark, though she could just about discern the mill’s colossal, square-shouldered outline. In daylight it would be a typical industrial-era edifice, all red brick, rusting pipework and towering chimney stacks, its few windows covered by steel. Of course, they’d spruced it up a little when they’d turned it into a kiddies’ centre, but the main revamp then had been the interior. The exterior remained soulless and functional, designed purely to withstand the worst a Lancashire winter could throw at it, even after a decade of dereliction.

Assuming it was derelict.

It wouldn’t be easy finding out, because the next thing Lucy noticed was that no actual road seemed to connect with it. At least, there were no signposts. She eventually pulled her Ducati up on the verge and checked her iPhone. Online mapping apps recognised Horton’s Mill as a landmark but displayed no obvious access routes to it. Frustrated, she rode on blindly, navigating purely by instinct, crossing a humpback bridge over the Rivington Canal, riding along a lengthy, single-lane tunnel. All the while she kept eyes on the dim outline of the mill, though it only came closer when she finally left the road network, cutting south through an open farm gate and along a muddy track. Coming to a second gate, this one closed, she had to dismount and push it open. At the far end of the next meadow stood the monstrous industrial outline. Beyond a final gate, Lucy found herself on a road that had the air of leading nowhere. Something to do with fissures in the asphalt crammed with greenery, and thick, bushy foliage overhanging either kerb.

She followed its gentle upward slope in the direction of the mill and around a couple of bends, where she slowed to a halt.

PRIVATE PROPERTY

STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE

The sign hung on a wall of upright metal slats, which stood about seven feet tall and filled the road from side to side. There was even a coil of barbed wire along the top.

Possibly it was this that made Lucy determined to proceed.

The old mill was a colossal tombstone in the near-distance, black and lifeless, but if that was the whole story, why bother going to so much trouble to fence it off? The other thing was the rubble-filled skip placed next to the fence, with a huge five-by-ten sheet of steel propped against its rim, presumably to provide a ramp for workmen pushing barrows.

On the basis that a ramp was a ramp, Lucy turned her Ducati around and rode back downhill, wondering what might be a suitable distance for a run-up. It was a crazy notion, of course, but there was near certainty in her mind that this was the place, not to mention a growing conviction that if Heck was in there, he was in the hands of their enemies.

*

There were many things you encountered in policework that you couldn’t bear to think about afterwards. The usual solution, often the only solution, was to try not to think about them. There’d be a price to pay for that down the line, but at least it got you through the day. Heck, having investigated so many horrific murder cases, was a past master at this. But even his resolve was shaken as he fought to block out the snarls and screams from the loading yard by working his way, fingertips first, around the walls in the space behind the door.

The lads stood like frozen ghosts in the darkness, listening in disbelieving horror. Only Teddy Bear, or Salty, as he preferred to be called, seemed to be treating it lightly. When the screams fell quiet, and Scrapper stammered and swore, he responded with: ‘Relax bro, they’re only dogs. You know what Col’s like. They’ll be licking his hand in a mo…’

‘They’re attack dogs,’ Heck said over his shoulder. ‘They tear human flesh off the bone. That’s what they’re trained for.’

Salty laughed. ‘Come on, man, you can’t be serious…’

‘Salty, mate!’ Heck, who’d found only upright brickwork thus far – he didn’t yet want to chance the staircase – swung around. ‘This is not some fucking role-play, okay? I can see your coping strategy is to try and persuade yourself this is not real… but what you just heard out there plainly wasn’t your mate, Col, playing along.’ He paused, sweating in the blackness. ‘Was it?’

Salty gave a whimper, and then a sob. Outside, all they could hear now was the grizzling of the dogs as they worried and tore at the mess that remained of poor Col.

‘No, it wasn’t,’ Scrapper replied in a nasal tone, which sounded as if he too was crying. ‘And we left him out there.’

‘We gave him every chance,’ Blondie muttered.

‘We could still…’

‘He’s dead, lads,’ Heck cut in. ‘Sorry, but there it is. Listen, I’ll say this one more time. They are not going to let us walk out of here. So we have to force our way, yeah?’

The dogs now commenced snuffling and growling around the bottom of the door. Gruff male voices sounded in the distance.

‘Going to fucking beat the living shit out of these bastards,’ Scrapper said.

‘If they were chained to cinder blocks, maybe you’d have a chance,’ Heck replied, searching the wall again and finally finding a light-switch. He hit it, and a flickering bulb activated.

The pale, bedraggled group stood blinking at each other.

The only section of wall Heck hadn’t yet checked was just to the left of him, and another door stood there. It was closed, but when he turned the handle, it opened. ‘This way.’

The lads crowded through into another darkened ground-floor room. Heck located a second switch and turned on another light.

It was a larger chamber than before, looking as though two sizeable rooms had been knocked through into one. On its left-hand side, this had created a single stretch of wall that ran to at least fifty yards, though where that wall once stood, now it was upright bars, with about half a foot between each one. Beyond the bars lay what looked like a straight corridor, with more bars on the other side of that. More eye-catching were several long tables laden beneath a variety of brutish implements: wrenches, spanners, cleavers, lengths of pipe, chains, bats, spring-loaded coshes, riding crops, even a fire-axe.

Heck’s blood chilled as he wondered how running a gauntlet against weaponry like this corresponded to a ‘game of absolute chance’. But then it struck him that if the competitors, as they’d been called, were herded along the corridor behind the bars in total darkness, and the team posted in here could only strike through the bars blindly, it couldn’t be deemed anything else. He grabbed and discarded items at random.

‘Tool up,’ he said.

‘Tool up?’ Blondie replied, grey-faced.

Heck indicated the barred corridor. ‘You’d have faced your first attack out there. Previous vics were bare-handed. Do you want to be?’

He focussed again on the weapons in front of him. More through habit than anything else, he selected an old blackthorn police staff complete with wrist-loop.

‘Shit!’ Salty exclaimed. ‘There’s blood on some of these.’

‘Better someone else’s than ours.’ Heck went back to the entrance and peered up the staircase. One by one, each of the other three selected a weapon, Blondie a cut-down pool cue, Scrapper a monkey wrench and Salty a length of rope with a heavy knot at the end.

‘We really going up there?’ the latter asked, joining Heck at the foot of the stairs.

Heck was unsure. It seemed like madness to head up to the higher floors when the only exits would be down here, but it felt as if there was no option, especially when the snarling and barking on the other side of the outside door was replaced by more of those angry male voices. Someone tried to open it, and then heavy blows struck the woodwork.

Heck went up first, the other three close behind.

‘Who are these guys?’ Salty asked breathlessly. ‘Serial killers, or something?’

‘Worse,’ Heck replied. ‘Serial killers are nutters. These bastards are very, very sane.’

63

Lucy’s Ducati hadn’t suffered too badly during the controlled crash she’d pulled while chasing Barry Coyle. A few dents and scuffs. Anything worse and she wouldn’t have ridden it anywhere. But it only crossed her mind as she made her third run up to the improvised ramp, this time at full speed, that deeper damage might have been inflicted, which she could have missed, and that the machine would fail her at just the wrong moment.

It was too late to check now.

She hit the ramp at forty and took off like a rocket, lofting easily over the top of the seven-foot fence. That much had been a calculation rather than a gamble. The problem was always going to come on landing, given that no downward ramp awaited, but as she descended, she saw that the ground, though rough and broken, was level. She leaned back, pushing her rear wheel downward first, and it made secure contact. For several terrifying seconds she one-wheeled at thirty-plus, but then the front of the Ducati landed too. The bike wobbled and whipped, but she held it, decelerating as she rode into what looked like a vast parking area, which completely encircled the dark monolith of the mill.

At one time, there’d have been a gridwork of lines painted all over these vast forecourts, delineating parking bays and so on. Now though, it was covered in layers of leaves and litter. High on the mill’s west-facing wall, she could just about distinguish large but faded lettering.

Horton & Sons

Again, it looked derelict. The only windows or doors had been blocked up. All sorts could be going on inside, and no one out here would know about it.

*

The barking of the dogs at the loading yard door only grew in volume as Heck led the three surviving lads up the darkened staircase. Not to mention the furious crashing and banging against its woodwork, and the angry shouting.

They climbed as high as the second floor, before reaching a dead end of bare bricks. It would have been a moment of utter despair, had Heck not felt to his left and located another door. He searched for a handle, found one, turned it. The door opened.

Again, it was pitch-dark, but he slapped along a wall, found a switch and hit it. This next chamber was functional in the extreme, all plaster walls, with bare boards on the floor. But it was also small and looked like a storage area. Boxes and crates were stacked to one side, though there was another door at the far end. Heck tried it. It was locked. He pivoted around, pushing past the other three as they crowded in, and spotting a row of maybe thirty keys suspended from hooks on the left wall.

‘Christ,’ he muttered. ‘This for real?’

‘What’s happening… what do we do?’ Salty jabbered.

Timbers exploded at the foot of the staircase, dogs growling frenziedly as they surged inside.

‘What we do is blockade this bloody door!’ Heck grabbed the nearest crate, which was heavy because it was full, and hefted it across the room, slamming it down in front of the door they’d come through. It didn’t help that this one had no lock on it.

The row from the dogs amplified as they gambolled up the staircase. The other three began pulling down and carrying crates or boxes, building a barricade.

‘Any of those four-footed killers get through,’ Heck said, ‘that’s what you chose your weapons for. These aren’t pets… so don’t hold back. And lads…’ he fixed them with a penetrating gaze. ‘That goes for any blokes who get through too. You know what happened to your mate, Col. They don’t care about that. They want to do that to all of you. They’re reptiles, lads. Ice-cold killers. So, if any of them do get in here… it’s no fucking quarter, okay?’

They regarded him in dumb silence. Then he pushed Salty towards the row of hanging keys. ‘Work your way through those. One of them may fit that inside door, but we won’t know unless we try.’

Salty, milk-pale and drenched with sweat, nodded vaguely as if he only half understood, but grabbed a handful of keys. Heck turned back to the door they’d blocked. Against the several heavy items now stacked there, it seemed impossible that anyone pushing from the other side would make progress, but he still didn’t know what they were facing. How many men were there? Were they carrying firearms?

The dogs were now on the outside landing, snarling at the base of the door, which shuddered violently. A minuscule gap cracked open as it was pushed inward.

Scrapper shouted, throwing his body against the barricade.

‘Get back!’ Heck hooked an elbow under his armpit and dragged him to one side, just as two shots punched through the woodwork, splinters flying.

Scrapper turned a face of stunned disbelief on Heck.

‘Told you these guys are the real deal,’ Heck replied. ‘How you doing, Salty?’

‘Four keys down, no dice so far.’

‘Keep trying. You two, stay out of line with the door.’

With deafening reports, more shots were pumped into it.

‘They’ve got guns and we’ve got spanners?’ Blondie said with outraged disbelief.

‘Shore up the door!’ Heck replied, he and Scrapper manhandling a new crate into place.

He stepped back as Blondie pushed another forward, though in truth there weren’t too many left. One that had been shot virtually to pieces had already spilled most of its contents. Heck scooped some of them up. They were short aluminium shafts, about fourteen inches long each, fletched with feathers at one end, fitted with bodkin-like arrowheads at the other.

He hardly dared imagine what purpose these served. ‘Salty?’

‘Twelve down, still nothing.’

Heck turned to Blondie. ‘Help him, yeah?’

Blondie nodded, grabbing a handful of keys.

Scrapper waited to one side of the barricade, wielding his wrench. The dogs were going crazy, yowling and grizzling. Another fusillade of shots followed, slamming through into the crates, lodging in some, bursting others open. The door, already peppered with holes, stood loose in its frame. Only the barricade held it upright.

‘Got it, got it!’ Salty shouted, the inside door swinging open.

Heck hurried over there. Beyond it lay a corridor, lit intermittently by flickery bulbs. To the left, about fifty yards along, three motionless figures were visible. To the right, the passage was clear. Blondie pushed past Heck, heading right. Heck restrained him.

‘What’s the fuck?’ the lad hissed.

‘Less haste more survival,’ Heck replied.

The lad gazed at him, incredulous.

Heck stared left, wondering why the men he could see there were not moving.

‘What the fuck, man?’ Blondie hadn’t liked taking orders from the beginning and yanked himself free.

Heck squinted into the shadowy niches overhead, wondering if he’d see cameras. ‘We’re in it. Like it or bloody not. We’re in the game.’

*

Lucy rode slowly around the mill’s exterior, closely following the tall, wire-topped fence standing about eighty yards away from the building, which seemed to encompass the entire plot with no sign of a gateway. That in itself was ridiculous and not a little bit suspicious, but simply having a gut feeling that all wasn’t well here was insufficient legal cause for her to force entry, and that was assuming she found a way to do it. She wasn’t even sure where she stood simply being present on the parking area. Not that it looked as if there was anyone here to complain.

The mill buildings were mostly hemmed in by what appeared to be a curtain wall, a sheer rampart of aged brick. It was like an industrial-age castle. On the north side of it though, she sighted an entrance: a huge heavy steel slide-door, wide enough for two wagons at a time to pass in and out, and relatively new by its condition, though currently it was closed. A row of dumpsters stood to the left of that, while to the right was parked what looked like a dustbin lorry. Those were the first signs of life she’d seen that suggested the place wasn’t derelict. She continued circling, and on its east side saw a different entrance. This one was similar to the first, a large slide-door made from heavy-duty steel, a recent installation by the state of it, located under a brick arch. Again, there was no trace that anyone was here, but this time Lucy decelerated, thinking she’d heard something.

She brought her bike to a halt, took off her helmet and listened. She was sure she’d just heard a muffled barking of dogs.

Eventually, hearing nothing else, she set off again. One more circuit of the old mill and she’d make a decision. The ‘Crazyhouse’ connection had made it worth her while coming out here but given that the place seemed to be in ordinary use, it didn’t feel as if she could justify calling support units. She supposed she could fill Nehwal in when she got back, then the MIR could dig into the place’s history to find out who owned it and maybe search for other ‘crazyhouses’ in the area.

But even as she rode off, a couple of things felt as if they weren’t adding up. Still there was no sign of a working gateway in the boundary fencing. She completed the circuit again. On more than one occasion, she saw access roads on the other side, little disused lanes, much like the one that had brought her here, but all ended abruptly at the bulwark of slatted steel and coiled wire. So how did the property’s occupiers get in? More to the point, how had that bin wagon got in?

Lucy headed back towards the mill, circling it one more time. On this occasion she rode right up to the bin wagon, where she drew to a halt, dismounted and removed her helmet. She wondered if she might hear dogs again. It occurred to her that guard-dogs could be loose in this vicinity, though there’d been no signs warning of such, which itself was illegal. Besides, if there were any, she was certain she’d have seen them by now.

In any case, there was no further sound of barking.

What there was instead was a faintly repellent odour.

At first, she wondered if a wind-change was blowing the stink of sileage from nearby farmland, but as she ventured on foot towards the bin wagon, it grew steadily more sickening. She halted again. There was only one thing that smelled like this. She had no balm, so wasn’t able to anoint her upper lip, but she advanced anyway.

There was always that last moment as a copper, just before you went into a room that stank foully, when every kind of reservation took hold of you, when the certainty you were about to come face-to-face with horror did everything it could to hold you back. But duty was duty. She walked first to the vehicle’s rear, where the stench was so thick that it set her eyes watering. Like most rubbish compactors, the back of the wagon, which was a rear-loader, was wide open. She climbed onto the riding step and as it was dark inside, took the phone from her jacket pocket and activated its torch. A swarm of bluebottles broke loose.

Lucy wafted at them, struggling not to lose her perch. Then she looked into the trough.

It was beyond nauseating: a tangled pile of ragged, filth-encrusted human forms, mostly wrapped in bin-liners, though these had torn extensively so that limbs and heads hung out. Even as a cop, when you first encounter a corpse, there’s always a temptation to dismiss it as a dummy or mannequin. But such self-deception never lasts long. In this case barely at all.

Probably because of the blood.

Clotted and sticky. Caking the broken, twisted hands, slathered on lacerated faces, clumped in ratty, ripped-out hair.

She just about kept the presence of mind to get several shots with her phone camera before trying to climb down. But as she reached backward with her left foot, an iron claw gripped her ankle, turning the joint painfully, and then yanking her from the step.

Lucy landed on her side, on concrete, a blow that knocked the wind clean out of her.

64

Apparently, Blondie had heard all he needed to. Not the fiercest looking of the four lads, he was nevertheless the tallest and broadest, and having lugged himself free from Heck’s grasp, blundered on along the empty stretch of corridor.

Knowing that nothing in this place was what it initially seemed, Heck was reluctant to follow but went in pursuit anyway. Scrapper and Salty, the latter having locked the storage room door behind them, went too, calling their mate’s name.

‘Isaac! Christ, mate!’

‘Bugger that!’ he said over his shoulder.

‘You fucking dipstick!’ Scrapper shouted.

Heck grabbed the blond lad more forcefully. ‘Just wait!’

Blondie swung about, pointing back the way they’d come. At the far end, the trio of figures still stood motionless. ‘We can see them right there, or are you blind?’

‘Listen,’ Heck tried to argue, ‘they call this place the Crazyhouse.’

‘The fucking Crazyhouse?’ Scrapper sounded bewildered.

‘Like a nasty version of a funhouse at a theme park,’ Heck stated. ‘Which means it’s all about games. Misdirection, kidding people…’

Blondie gazed at him long and hard, flustered, sweaty-faced, as if trying to work out what he was being told, as if this guy, whom he didn’t know at all, had any kind of answer.

Then he shook his head. ‘Bollocks, I’m off.’

He stumbled on down the corridor. This time, Salty tried to restrain him, but now Heck held Salty back. It was instinctive more than anything else, but it was also timely.

Five yards further on, Blondie collided with a steel mesh suspended across the corridor, a network of interconnected threads so fine that he didn’t see them until it was too late.

The bright blue glaring flash dazzled them all…

*

The guy who had thrown Lucy to the floor was a bruiser of the old school, slope-shouldered, slope-browed, with ears like cauliflowers. Scowling, he pointed a pistol down at her, a semiautomatic, and cocked it. Lucy got back to her feet, but his baleful eyes never left her.

Often in the past when confronted by hoodlums, the fact she was a woman amused them. The underworld had never got the memo about equal opportunities. Though that wasn’t the case on this occasion. And it was hardly surprising, seeing that there was a bunch of butchered corpses in the back of this guy’s vehicle. Someone discovering you were carting stuff like that around was rarely funny in any way.

‘She alone?’ came a shout from somewhere else.

A black guy, younger and taller than the first, but equally burly, his head clean-shaved, approached from the direction of the mill’s north-facing door, in the left side of which a small panel had opened. Unlike Cauliflower, who was clad all-over in waterproofs, this second guy wore a large, waxed coat over a T-shirt and jeans. Evidently, they didn’t want their clothes getting bloodied while they were on disposal duties.

‘Seems to be.’ Cauliflower glanced towards him.

It was a half-chance and nothing more. But Lucy was already so spooked by the mangled relics in the rubbish truck that she swept out with her helmet, not at Cauliflower himself, but at his gun, making solid contact, sending it spinning from his grasp.

‘The fuck!’ he shouted. ‘You bi…’ but he never finished, Lucy sweeping the helmet back, clattering it across the side of his ugly turnip head.

As he staggered and fell to one knee, she went pell mell for her bike.

The black guy shouted, breaking into a run, though he was a good thirty yards off.

She pulled her helmet on, kickstarted the machine and roared away, veering in a tight circle, mainly to avoid Cauliflower, who was already back on his feet, though as she swung past the black guy, she saw that he’d pulled a large blade from under his coat, something like a machete. He swiped with it. She ducked, and it passed by with inches to spare. She throttled away, accelerating so fast that she pulled a wheelie, only to be struck by a heavy object on the back of the helmet. It was a massive blow, and it dizzied her. She held the bike steady, but felt her head weighted to one side. Reaching around the back of the helmet, she found the machete embedded point-first. Struggling not to imagine what it would have done to her bare skull, she yanked the implement free and tossed it. Glancing behind, she saw that, even though she’d already made a hundred yards on him, the black guy was running in pursuit. Not only that, Cauliflower, twenty yards to the right of him, was aiming two-handed with his pistol.

There was a flicker of light and a dull crack, but no bullet impact.

That wouldn’t be the case for long… not if she stayed out in the open.

Lucy looked to her front. She was on the building’s east side, riding fast but aimlessly across another of its vast ex-parking areas. She swerved back towards the main structure, seeking refuge around its southeast corner. When she got there, she skidded to a sideways stop. Her two pursuers were several hundred yards distant but still coming. They couldn’t afford to just let her ride away from here, even assuming she was able to find a way out. The radio she’d checked out first thing that morning had long run out of battery power, negating any possibility of sending an emergency message, so she dug her phone free and called Nehwal, only for it to bounce back ‘engaged’. Instead, she texted:

Found Heck’s captors. Horton’s Mill, Anglezarke.

Multiple fatalities on site.

With a plink, a bullet caromed from the brickwork above her head. Prompting her to add:

Come quick. Am alone and under fire.

*

‘Don’t touch him!’ Heck shouted. ‘He might still be hooked up to it.’

Even Scrapper, who threw himself down to his knees alongside the charcoaled husk lying amid smoky metallic netting, saw the sense in that and refrained from grabbing hold. Not that he needed to. Blondie had just been hit by thousands of volts; he was long past help.

‘I’m… I’m…’ Scrapper tinged purple as he swayed back to his feet. He appeared to be hyperventilating. ‘I’m… I’m gonna take this out of their fucking skulls!’

He turned and, raising his wrench, slogged back along the corridor towards the trio of distant figures.

‘Wait!’ Heck shouted. ‘WAIT!’

‘Cammy, no!’ Salty shrieked.

Heck lurched after him, but the kind of madness that strikes modern man only rarely had now taken possession of the guy. Froth flew from his mouth as he screamed: ‘Gonna kill ’em… fucking kill ’em all!’

Heck wanted to shout again that this place wasn’t just about death, it was also about choice… that their adversaries here hadn’t pushed or dragged Blondie to his electrocution, or even herded him. They’d left the decision to him. Of course they had. From the gamblers’ POV, it needed to be a game of chance. So on that basis, who and what were the three motionless figures waiting at the end of the corridor?

As Scrapper neared them, he raised his wrench like a tomahawk.

Heck was too far behind to stop him, but close enough now to see that they weren’t real people, but wax facsimiles. They weren’t perfect replicas – this wasn’t Madame Tussauds – but there was enough about them for him to recognise the faces of Tony Blair, Bob Geldof and Boy George, all three in much younger mode of course, the latter in early Culture Club guise. Even though it was obvious what they now were, that didn’t stop Scrapper clobbering them with his wrench, pounding their heads with furious blows, hammering them to horrific pulp even as they stood rocking on the steel plates to which they were attached.

As the last one fell, Heck caught up. Scrapper didn’t spare him a glance, but blundered on, foaming at the mouth, through a right-hand door and across a steel catwalk. Here, Heck hung back, startled by the sight below: dozens upon dozens of silent, motionless figures standing in ranks, most with mouldy sheets thrown over them. But there were figures ahead of them too, dotted in their ones and twos along the catwalk. These weren’t sheeted and again were recognisable as celebs of former eras.

Stephen Fry awaited Scrapper with a warm smile and hands tucked into his smoking jacket pockets. Scrapper picked him up and hurled him bodily into the abyss. Next came Ian Wright and David Beckham in their respective Arsenal and Manchester United kits. Scrapper walloped them into shapeless lumps before Heck caught hold of him again, yanking him around by the shoulder.

‘I can see you think you’re a hardknock!’ the cop said.

The maddened twenty-something pushed Heck away and blundered on, knocking the smile off Noel Edmonds’ face with a single stroke, then meting out the same to John Major, though not until after landing a boot in the ex-prime minister’s imaginary gonads.

Heck grappled with him again. ‘Fine, good… I can use a hardknock. But not if you’re dead. You want to cool it a bit?’

‘Why?’ Scrapper panted. ‘Because doing it your way is saving lives left, right and centre?’

The lad pulled free yet again, bullocking on towards the next figure, which had its back turned, was wearing stained overalls and had a mop of greased-back dark hair.

An alarm kicked off in Heck’s head, but again it was too late. The figure swung around and pointed a revolver at them.

The Glaswegian from the incident at The King Billy grinned broadly, the teeth like blades in his pitted, leathery face.

‘Try hitting something that can hit back, you wee shite!’ he told Scrapper.

65

‘Christ almighty,’ Zak O’Calligan said, peeking from behind the bedroom curtain.

Timandra came in from the landing. They’d been up in the attic, so she’d barely heard the chimes of the front doorbell. ‘What is it?’

‘McCracken!’ Zak narrowed the gap in the drapes even more but still peered down.

She stiffened. ‘Frank McCracken?’

He backed into the bedroom. ‘You know any other McCrackens who can put the shits up you just by smiling?’

‘Fuck…’ she breathed.

He pushed past her and went to the top of the stairs. ‘Any reason why he could be here… I mean that’s not connected to the obvious?’

She shrugged helplessly. Downstairs, the doorbell chimed again.

‘Jesus Christ…’ He tucked his shirt in as he descended.

‘You’re not going to answer it?’ she said.

He glanced back up at her. ‘Timandra, you don’t keep blokes like Frank McCracken waiting on your doorstep.’

‘But what about…?’

‘Turn it off.’

‘What?’

‘Get back up there. Turn it all off. Everything.’

She nodded but was visibly shaken. ‘Trust him to come tonight of all nights, when the whole thing’s gone belly-up.’

‘It’s not gone belly-up.’

‘You could’ve fooled me.’

‘Don’t worry about that.’

‘Don’t worry about it?’

‘Timi!’ He pointed a shaking finger at her. ‘Mum’ll take care of it. Now get upstairs and turn it the fuck off. And lock the attic when you’re done. Go.’

She stumbled obediently away, while Zak continued down, turning lights on as he did.

*

Scrapper clearly didn’t want to do this, but his only alternative was catching a bullet. Slowly, he turned to face Heck, raising his wrench to attack.

‘That’s the ticket, son,’ the Glaswegian laughed. ‘I can hear those new bets pouring in. Which one of you two walks away from this?’

‘Cammy, mate?’ Salty pleaded from behind them.

Heck retreated into the combat pose, only for Scrapper to spin back around, slinging the wrench as hard as he could. It hit the Glaswegian on the bridge of his nose. The crack of bone was so loud it had an echo. The bastard screamed in astonished rage and pain, pumping his trigger at the same time, but tottering backward, the shots going wide.

Heck and Scrapper lunged towards him together.

Though a crimson torrent gushed over his mouth, the doughty Scot lurched back into it, headbutting Scrapper in the face, putting him flat on his back on the catwalk, then rounding on Heck, pointing and firing, the slug hitting the police truncheon, blowing it out of Heck’s grasp in two pieces. Heck leapt forward anyway, but the Scot struck at him with the pistol. Heck blocked it with his right forearm and slammed a left into the Scot’s teeth, two or three of which audibly broke. The hoodlum stayed on his feet, literally fizzing with blood, but lamping Heck with his free fist, then striking again with the pistol, clubbing Heck’s right shoulder. Heck gasped and twisted, but still hooked onto his opponent, throwing his own head in, once, twice, three times, making repeated heavy contact, ramming the guy’s groin with a knee – and yet still the bastard wouldn’t go down. Heck slammed the firearm against the catwalk railing. It was a Colt Cobra short barrel, a six-shooter, and the cylinder snapped open, shedding bullets. The Scot yanked himself free, but Scrapper, back on his feet, swung a haymaker, bloodying his target’s left eye, forcing him back against the railing. The Scot kicked out. Scrapper staggered. The Scot turned to Heck, flicking the Cobra cylinder closed. It was empty but still a hefty chunk of steel. He swung it up and over, but Heck struck first, Yeti’s switchblade sliding hilt-deep into thigh muscle. The Scot’s eyes bulged; he turned grey.

‘Bastard!’ Wrench back in hand, Scrapper took another wild swipe, bludgeoning the Scot’s cranium with it, sending his eyes rolling like pinballs. As the gangster slumped backward over the barrier, Scrapper grabbed him around the legs and upended him, sending him plummeting into the vast room below, where a dozen of the wax figures fell like skittles as he landed among them.

For several seconds, the twosome could only gasp and lean against anything in reach. Even Salty looked exhausted as he came white-faced towards them.

‘Fuck!’ Scrapper panted. ‘I shouldn’t… shouldn’t have chucked him over. Might’ve had more slugs in his pocket… we could’ve used that gun.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ Heck replied. ‘I’ve just cost us the knife. But we are where we are…’

And with a deafening clatter, a bullet caromed from the handrail.

Raging shouts echoed in the recess below, male figures forcing their way through the ranks of upright dummies. A couple stopped to aim upward with firearms. There were flashes, bangs. More slugs whistled past.

‘They’ve had enough.’ Heck lurched on across the bridge. ‘The game’s ended prematurely. But that must mean we’re getting close.’

‘Close to what, for Christ’s sake!’ Scrapper shouted.

‘A resolution of some kind… whatever that ends up being.’

*

Frank McCracken was waiting in the porch, arms folded. He wore a lightweight coat over his usual suit and tie and seemed very relaxed.

‘Zak,’ he said, smiling.

‘Mr… erm, Mr McCracken! How cool to see you.’

‘How unexpected too, I’d imagine?’

‘Yeah, but… I mean, you’re always welcome.’ Zak glanced past him. There was no car on the street, but the giant, cumbersome form of Mick Shallicker leaned on the gatepost. ‘Come in, please.’ Zak stepped aside. ‘You too, Mr Shallicker.’

The duo entered, McCracken still smiling, his towering bodyguard blank of expression.

‘They told me you were shacked up with the lovely Timandra,’ McCracken said, as they went into the lounge. ‘I was impressed to hear it.’

‘Didn’t know you knew Timandra,’ Zak said, following him in.

‘I didn’t. But I do now.’

‘I see…’

McCracken turned to face him. ‘She not here?’

‘Oh, erm… bed.’

‘Ah, yeah.’ McCracken nodded. ‘Apologies for the lateness of the hour, but you know business, Zak. Sometimes it just won’t wait.’

‘Course not.’

‘But there’s no need to disturb Timandra’s beauty sleep…’

‘You’re not disturbing me, Mr McCracken,’ Timandra said, sashaying into the room behind them in a figure-hugging tracksuit. ‘I was already awake.’

McCracken looked pleased. ‘And just as gorgeous as they all say you are.’

‘Thanks.’ She gave a bright smile. She’d brushed her hair out and added extra makeup, so even at this Godawful hour she was something of a vision. ‘I’m not sure what all this is about, but perhaps I can get us a pot of coffee?’

‘Mick can take care of that,’ McCracken replied. Shallicker nodded and left the room.

‘Mr McCracken…?’ Zak said, struggling to hide his unease.

‘Call me Frank.’

‘Frank. I, erm… to what…’

‘To what do you owe this honour?’ McCracken ambled around the room, taking in its ornaments and smart furnishings. ‘Well, let’s just say I’ve heard a whisper, which I need confirming… from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.’

‘A whisper?’

‘To the effect that you two – because you come as a pair now, don’t you? – that you two have an interesting theory about who might have done the tunnel job.’

‘Excuse me?’ Zak looked genuinely puzzled. ‘The tunnel job?’

‘The Hobhall blag.’

Zak and Timandra glanced at each other, not sure whether to be relieved or even more alarmed.

‘That, in fact,’ McCracken added, ‘it might even be someone you know.’

From the kitchen, they heard the sound of the percolator. Shallicker reappeared in the doorway. He was so tall that his head almost touched the lintel. He waited there.

‘I mean, you are aware,’ McCracken said, ‘… you may not be, Timandra, but Zak definitely is, that no scores get taken in this part of the world without the taxman getting his chunk.’ His smile tightened. ‘The taxman being me, of course. I mean, our going rate would normally be a third of the take, but seeing as a bit of time’s now elapsed, we’d be looking at charging interest. So it’s going to be more like two thirds.’

‘Thing is, Mr McCracken…’ Zak tried his damnedest not to look as if he was struggling internally, as if he wasn’t battling with the immense decision of whether or not to give up a massive boon in order to save both their lives. ‘Thing is… if you give us a bit more time, we can come clean about…’

‘We?’ McCracken’s eyebrows arched. ‘You’re not saying you two were involved? That’d be a novelty, eh?’ He glanced at Shallicker, who remained eerily po-faced. ‘A whip-smart university grad like you and his good looking middle-class girlfriend going in blazing, slotting a bunch of dealers and a handful of tramps who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?’

‘It wasn’t us, Mr McCracken,’ Timandra blurted out. More quietly, she added: ‘It was my mum and dad. Harold and Lilac.’

The brief silence stretched taut between them.

‘You serious?’ McCracken finally said. ‘Those pervey oldies who were all over the papers a few years back?’

‘Since when did they go in for a bit of blagging?’ Shallicker asked.

Timandra shrugged. ‘They… well, they’ve been messed up for quite a while.’

‘What Timandra’s trying to say,’ Zak interjected, ‘is that… well, they’ve long had an amoral outlook on life. And they liked to experiment, you know. I mean sexually.’

‘That include killing?’ Shallicker wondered.

‘I don’t think it excludes it. But I couldn’t tell you.’ Zak shrugged exaggeratedly. ‘I’m not a psychologist, but some of the movies they used to make, some of the services they offered to clients were what you might call… extreme.’

McCracken nodded. Again, he was all understanding. ‘That may be as may be, but it doesn’t explain how they knew the deal was going down, or where.’

Zak glanced at Timandra again. The girl was dead-white.

‘Let me guess,’ McCracken said, ‘this is the bit where “we” comes into it?’

‘We planned it,’ Zak admitted, looking vaguely shamefaced. ‘Me and Timandra. Harold and Lilac just carried it out.’

‘We’re going to pay,’ Timandra added quickly. ‘Obviously, we’re going to pay. But we had overheads we had to take care of first, and…’

‘A mo, Timi, a mo.’ Zak raised a hand. ‘Let me, yeah?’

She clamped her mouth shut.

‘You’ve heard of speculating to accumulate, Mr McCracken?’ Zak asked. ‘Sorry, obviously you have. But the fact is we needed that money to underwrite a new project we’ve got going.’

‘Oh, that.’ McCracken nodded again. ‘You mean the Crazyhouse?’

A second passed.

‘You know about that?’ Zak finally asked, in equal parts horrified and astounded.

‘You’d be amazed the things I know,’ McCracken replied.

‘We’ve heard it’s a bit gross,’ Shallicker said.

‘Gross?’ Zak was still too stunned to at first make sense of that term, but out of necessity, pulled himself together quickly. ‘Maybe, yeah. But it’s already earned us thirty million quid.’

There was another brief silence.

‘Thirty million.’ McCracken gave a low whistle. ‘That’s an even bigger percentage for us then, Mick.’

‘No, Mr McCracken, no,’ Zak said, his confidence restoring itself. ‘You don’t understand. It’s all for you.’

The chairman regarded him blankly. ‘All of it?’

‘Of course all of it.’ Zak chanced a chuckle. ‘We’re not freelancers… this is for the firm. And it’s going to be the biggest earner we’ve ever had. But there’re kinks in it, see, which we needed to straighten out before we could present it officially.’

‘And yet you’ve already pulled in thirty million?’

‘And that bit, at least, is not for us,’ Shallicker said, as if stating the obvious. ‘Or you’d have handed it over already.’

‘That money’s still safe,’ Zak replied. ‘It’s not been spent, if that’s what’s bugging you. But while we were still working things through, we needed to find a safe place to put it.’

McCracken shrugged. ‘So, we’re talking… what? Cayman Islands? Switzerland?’

‘That sort of thing, yeah.’

‘And yet even at that stage, when you were sorting the banking out, we hadn’t been made aware?’

‘Look…’ Zak made a fraught gesture, suggesting that he too was frustrated. ‘If it had all gone tits up, I’d have looked a right plonker, wouldn’t I? And I’m trying to rise in this job. So, it was better from my POV if no one knew about it. The other advantage was that you and the rest of the firm wouldn’t be connected to any of this. If it went wrong. You see?’

‘I do see, yeah.’ McCracken rubbed his chin. ‘Thoughtful of you.’

‘Gotta be professional about these things, haven’t we? Gotta carry the can ourselves if something goes wrong.’

‘More than you can ever imagine, Zak. Well…’ McCracken rubbed his hands. ‘Looks like you’ve got all bases covered. Perhaps it’s time you talked me through this thing properly, eh? I’ve got to know what I’m being asked to take on, after all.’

Zak shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, there was a game tonight, but it’s finished. A bit earlier and you could have watched it live.’

‘Like you say…’ McCracken gave him a level stare, ‘how unfortunate.’

‘Erm, but… well, we record everything, so we’ve got a couple of highlights reels you can look at.’

‘Highlights reels?’ McCracken threw another glance at Shallicker.

‘We’re not selling them, or anything,’ Zak added hastily. ‘That’d be a security risk.’

‘And an added income,’ McCracken said, apparently thinking aloud. ‘You sure that isn’t something Timi’s mum and dad can’t sort out? They must have a wealth of contacts.’

‘We thought about it… they suggested it, in fact. But we decided no. Best to keep this one strictly for the high rollers.’

‘That grim, is it?’ Shallicker asked.

Zak made an airy gesture. ‘It wouldn’t be Sunday evening viewing, put it that way.’

McCracken laughed. Zak and Timandra did too.

‘Why don’t you let us be the judge of that?’ Shallicker said.

‘Sure thing.’ Zak turned to Timandra. ‘Go and bring the spare laptop down.’

She nodded and sidled past Shallicker into the hall. The giant watched her as she headed up the stairs. It was noticeable, Zak thought, that he hadn’t laughed even once.

66

Lucy’s Ducati kept her so far ahead of her pursuers that it wasn’t long before they gave up the foot chase.

She was somewhere close to the compound’s southeast corner when she pulled up again, glanced back and saw that they’d come to a halt. The distance was so great that they weren’t even bothering to shoot. Instead, the black guy was talking on a mobile phone. Whatever message he received, he and Cauliflower retreated back towards the mill, finally walking around towards its north side. She followed them cautiously, all the time wary that, even though she had the bike, they had a gun. Circling around to the north, she halted a good two-hundred yards from the bin wagon, where she turned her headlight off and watched as the twosome made a beeline for the boundary fence on that side. They stopped about twenty yards apart from each other and commenced unfastening two series of catches. They then took hold of the fence and shuffled backward, lifting out an immense section of it. On the other side lay another disused road.

That was how they got in and out.

It was also how Lucy could get out now, if she’d a mind to. But she could sense that some kind of endgame was approaching.

She remained at her safe distance as the duo, having left the opening clear, recrossed the car park. Cauliflower clearly knew she was there, because he pointed his pistol at her one more time but didn’t fire. He and his mucker rounded the parked bin wagon and went back inside the main building through the single-panel door.

Lucy was now sure that some kind of getaway was in the air. Whether they’d take the gruesome cargo with them or would simply hightail it, she wasn’t yet certain. But she was damned if she was just sitting here. She revved forward, braking alongside the bin wagon. She leapt off the bike, determined that the evidence at least wasn’t leaving. Circling the wagon on foot, one hand clamped on her nose, she uncapped each tyre valve and allowed them to deflate. She also checked the cab door, which wasn’t locked, and climbed up and inside. There were no keys in the ignition, so she tore at the steering column, rending its plastic panels open, yanking out handfuls of wiring.

Muffled voices sounded.

She vacated the cab and ran around to her bike, which was screened from the main entrance by the bulk of the wagon. Kicking the machine to life, she rode away fifty or so yards, before circling, braking and sitting to watch.

The two men reappeared, now with scarves over the lower halves of their faces.

The black guy spotted Lucy, and halted to stare, clearly furious and frustrated by her continuing presence. In the meantime, Cauliflower scuttled to the bin wagon’s driver door, only to stop when he saw the flattened tyres. He let out a shout of rage, before clambering up to the cab and peering inside, promptly letting out another shout. Seconds later, he was back with his mate. Swearing and gesticulating at Lucy, they lurched towards the mill entrance, the black guy again getting onto his mobile.

*

The video finished, and Zak O’Calligan closed his laptop. Once again, the silence in Timandra Hoag’s living room seemed to lengthen.

‘Pretty hardcore,’ the chairman finally commented.

‘Secret of success, Mr McCracken,’ Zak said. ‘Giving the public what they want.’

‘And there’s really a betting market for this?’ Shallicker asked

‘You’d be surprised…’

Various thoughts and ideas now occurred to McCracken, but first and foremost, always, was the business potential in each and every situation. Or lack of it.

‘Put some figures on it,’ he said.

‘Certainly,’ Zak nodded. ‘First of all, just to be a member, it costs fifty grand a year. For that, you get four games guaranteed. Each time there’s a range of betting options available, but the minimum bet across the board is ten grand. We’ve already got four-hundred players plus… so, well, do the maths.’

‘Must be forking out a lot of winnings,’ Shallicker replied.

‘We are, but like I say, we’re currently in profit to the tune of thirty million. And all we had when we started was that measly six-hundred grand from the Hobhall Tunnel robbery.’

‘Thirty million?’ The chairman looked impressed again, if at the same time a little doubtful. ‘Seriously?’

‘God’s honest truth, Mr McCracken. And that’s after only three games. It’s all done crypto at this end, but we’ve never had any problem selling it on.’

‘Thirty million smackers for a bit of grue.’ McCracken sniffed. ‘Depressing world we live in, isn’t it?’

Zak grinned. ‘Fortunately.’

‘Just out of interest,’ Shallicker said, ‘who were those poor bastards?’

‘First up we used hoboes… Skid Row types who no one’d miss,’ Zak said. ‘We felt that was the safest way.’

‘Yeah, but it wasn’t much of a show,’ Timandra added.

‘The show’s important too?’ McCracken said.

Zak nodded. ‘To some extent that surprised us. But if the contestants all just cop it straight away, and none of them show an inch of nous or fighting spirit, or if they go down as soon as they get hurt, well… it doesn’t last very long. The punters don’t feel they’ve got their money’s worth. So the last two groups we brought in were a sturdier lot. Lads about town, that sort of thing.’

‘You didn’t consider that a risk?’ Shallicker asked.

Zak smiled. ‘Once you’re in the Crazyhouse there’s no getting out of it. Doesn’t matter who you are. We’ve got muscle on site to ensure that, just in case it all goes to shit… but it never has yet.’

‘If you’re looking at strapping young fellas, how’d you pull them in?’ McCracken asked.

‘We use two hookers-turned-porn actresses who Mum and Dad used to hire,’ Timandra said. ‘They look good but they’re total skanks. They’ll do anything for junk.’

‘Even keep their mouths shut?’ Shallicker sounded sceptical.

‘They don’t know what it’s about, they’re just bait.’

McCracken smiled. ‘These birds can’t put two and two together? Lads about town going missing are going to be on every news bulletin from here to Land’s End.’

‘The girls don’t even know who we are or where we are,’ Zak said. ‘And if the worst came to the worst, well…’ he shrugged, ‘we do know who they are.’ He handed over a leather notebook, which he’d opened at a central page. ‘We send someone round.’

McCracken glanced at it and saw two female names written down, along with addresses and personal contact details. ‘Our cybercrime department’s sanctioning and executing its own hits now?’

Zak hastened to explain. ‘Oh, it’s not like that, Mr McCracken, not quite…’ He reddened, clearly knowing that he was blowing a huge confidence here but perhaps having seen no other option. ‘I’ll be frank with you… my mum’s come in on this with us. Without her security force, it would’ve been difficult to set up, if not impossible.’

McCracken handed the notebook back. Then put his arm around the younger man’s shoulders. ‘Be honest with me, Zak… I mean, you’re an up-and-coming lad, you’re ambitious, you want to go places… I’ll understand if you’ve not been entirely excessive with the truth so far. But… well, was this thing actually Zara’s idea all along?’

‘No way,’ Zak replied, so adamantly that McCracken was inclined to believe him, though he found it difficult at first.

He knew Zara Ballantyne well – intimately, once – and it was a struggle to get her to take instruction from the top floor let alone the head of another subdivision. The fact it was her own son would probably have helped in that, but there was no chance she’d have participated in something like this, regardless of her son’s ambitions, unless she’d got to the end of her tether being part of someone else’s organisation. And by the looks of things, she was already making the running, whatever young Zak and his totty thought. According to his GMP mole, both Harold and Lilac Hoag had been clipped this evening, presumably on Zara’s orders, and presumably because Heckenburg and Marciano’s investigation had been getting close to them. And at present, Timandra didn’t even know about it.

‘It was all Zak’s idea, Mr McCracken.’ Timandra spoke proudly. ‘He’s the online maestro, and it’s the Dark Web, you see. The possibilities down there are unbelievable.’

‘I did talk it through with Mum first,’ Zak cut in. ‘Like I say, we couldn’t have done it otherwise.’

‘Where’s Zara now?’ McCracken asked.

‘At the Crazyhouse.’

‘She attends these events herself?’ Shallicker said, surprised.

Zak shook his head. ‘Only tonight. Gordon Kramer manages the actual games – he’s the ace bookie, after all. But tonight, there was a wild card introduced. Ups the stakes obviously, means the odds are going all over the place. She wanted to be sure everything ran smoothly.’

McCracken waited. ‘And… did it?’

Zak seemed initially hesitant, but then nodded.

‘Well…’ The chairman took a moment to think things through. ‘I can’t say I’m not impressed, young fella. We always encourage enterprise, as you know. We love people who think outside the box.’

Zak took Timandra by the hand. ‘I knew you’d be pleased, Mr McCracken. I just didn’t want to take any chances when it was all at an early stage, if you know what I mean.’

The chairman pondered. ‘You’ll still have to come in, of course.’

‘Sorry… come in?’

‘To the Astarte.’ McCracken looked thoughtful. ‘If we’re going to integrate this racket into our routine business, I’ve got a few more questions, plus we’ll need to see the paperwork relating to cashflow and such.’

‘There’s no paper, Mr McCracken,’ Timandra said.

‘Just a turn of phrase, darling.’

Zak was frowning. ‘Do you need both of us?’

‘You’re co-authors, aren’t you?’ The boss smiled encouragingly. ‘At the very least you deserve an equal share of what’s coming.’

‘Okay…’ Zak said. ‘So… are we going now?’

‘No time like the present.’

Shallicker opened the front door, and Zak and Timandra saw a Renault Clio idling at the kerb.

‘Make yourselves comfy,’ McCracken said. ‘We’ll follow in the Bentley.’

When they opened the Clio’s back door, the sight behind the wheel of a paunchy older man with grey hair and a cheerful disposition visibly reassured them. ‘Hop in, folks,’ he said. ‘Roads are clear at this hour. We’ll only be fifteen minutes.’

The twosome climbed in, Timandra first. Before Zak got in, he turned and looked at the two gangsters standing on his girlfriend’s front path. ‘Thirty mill, Mr McCracken,’ he said. ‘And a lot more to come.’

McCracken nodded. ‘Counting on it, Zak.’

As the Clio rolled away, the chairman and his sidekick strolled to the end of the road and turned right. The Bentley he’d referred to, his own Bentley Continental, was parked in a shadowy spot several streets away.

‘Comes to something, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘When moral fibre’s so lacking in young people.’

‘Millennials,’ Shallicker grunted. ‘Can’t tell ’em anything.’

‘I doubt Zara tried very hard. The conniving bitch.’

‘What do you want doing?’

McCracken shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘Make it quick and clean in honour of previous good service. Then grind them to pigfeed. I want nothing left. They just vanish.’

‘No probs.’

‘Make sure we nab the housekeys and the alarm code first, so we can send someone over there to take care of the cameras. Front porch, downstairs, everywhere… and whatever piece of kit they were downloading to. We were never there.’

‘Can torch the whole premises if you want?’

McCracken glanced at him. ‘It’s a terraced house. What do you want to do, cause a holocaust just to make a point?’

‘I’m thinking about the rest of their gear. Relating to this Crazyhouse shit. They’re bound to have some of it there.’

‘You heard the man. There’re no electronic pathways leading to us. They made sure of it.’

‘And what about Zara?’

McCracken thought on that. ‘We’ll watch her for a few days. Play dumb. See what she does when her son and his bird don’t report in. In the meantime, we’ll need to recruit new Security.’

‘I’ll get on it.’

‘They’ll need to be good men if we’re going to take Zara’s team down. When the time comes, it’s the same for that lot by the way. All of them. Nothing left, no trace.’ Shallicker nodded. ‘That goes for these two as well.’ McCracken handed him a folded piece of paper, which, when the enforcer opened it, contained the details of the two women who’d acted as the Crazyhouse lure. McCracken had covertly torn it from the notebook.

‘We can move on these two straight away,’ Shallicker said.

‘Do it. The less time they’ve got to spout bullshit on the streets the better.’

‘Same for Heckenburg and Marciano?’

‘Marciano’s in the wind, so good luck with that. And Heckenburg can testify in our favour, so whatever happens, we leave him alone.’

Shallicker frowned. ‘Generous of you, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Just pragmatic.’

A couple of minutes later, they were back in the comfort of Frank McCracken’s £170,000 car, Shallicker behind the wheel as they hit the A56.

‘Frank…?’ The big guy glanced into his rearview mirror. ‘Thirty mill? And more coming? That’s a lot to pass up.’

McCracken considered. ‘Benny B told Mark Heckenburg there was something nasty coming down the track. Mate, that was underselling it. If there’s even a rumour connects this thing to us, that’s it. They’ll have the SAS on our backs, never mind the fucking law. Every bent copper on our books will walk. There isn’t a judge, barrister or politician in the UK who’ll take our money. And all the while, the Corporation will be laughing their stones off down south… the Albanians will fancy their chances again. There’ll be no end to it.’

Shallicker pondered as he drove.

‘The other thing is… it’s just a bit too diabolical.’ The Chairman of the Board gazed at nothing as they glided through the night. ‘There have to be limits, even for the likes of us.’

67

Heck and his two surviving dependents had managed to grab a short breather behind a steel door that stood half-open at the far end of the catwalk. They’d been shot at all the way across, one slug blowing a massive hole in the footway right in front of them. Behind the steel door, which they managed to grate closed, a flight of steps led upward. Again, it was the wrong direction as far as Heck was concerned, but the whole ghostly structure of this place was now alive with shouting voices.

The two lads were in a state, Scrapper pale and shuddering, unable to shuck off his rage at the deaths of close friends, while the heftily built Salty was redder of complexion and sodden with sweat. Even so, they couldn’t delay.

Again, the stairway was basic, all brick and breezeblock, and they ascended it via a series of switchbacks, grunting and groaning as their cuts and sprains nagged at them. At the third switchback, a square aperture stood on their left. It might once have been an internal window, but there was no glass in it now, nor even a frame. Nevertheless, it gave a clear view of much of the vast building’s interior. They halted, looking down on footways and ramps, on towering scaffolds, on ropes and pulleys, on hanging chains with cruel hooks at the end, on catch-nets made from barbed wire. Add to that the utilitarian nature of it, even the things that weren’t designed to be death-traps made from rough timber, rough-edged metal, rough, unpainted concrete.

‘Check out the game zone,’ Heck said.

‘This can’t be what you guys think it is,’ Salty said in a voice strained to breaking.

‘So what do you call that?’ Scrapper retorted.

They glanced upward, and this time they did see cameras, clusters of them hanging from contraptions of bars and cables.

‘Spared no expense on this place,’ Heck said. ‘Bet you never knew you and your mates were worth so much, eh Salty?’

They continued up, rounding another switchback corner only to find a tall, shaven-headed figure standing midway up the next flight.

Perhaps inevitably, it was Saul Baylock.

They halted again as he grinned spookily down at them.

‘Good job we decided to pop along tonight and watch the show live, eh?’ He was carrying what looked to Heck like a Mossberg 500 12-gauge pump-action shotgun, a real man-stopper. He ratcheted a cartridge into its breech. ‘I mean in person of course, not on the telly.’ He trained the muzzle on Heck specifically. ‘I said at the time we should’ve just whacked you, not put you in as an extra contestant.’

‘Yeah, but you’re just a soldier,’ Heck replied. ‘It’s Zara who’s the boss. And those bosses, they’ve only got eyes for the green.’

Baylock said nothing. Simply raised the 12-gauge to his shoulder, taking very careful aim at Heck’s face.

*

Lucy hadn’t had to watch the entrance for long once the troublesome twosome had hurried back in through it. With a heavy grating sound, the huge slab of steel slid slowly open.

Behind it lay a cavernous internal space, which even though it was lit by electric lights was still too dim to reveal much of itself to the outside. As soon as the door was fully opened, a grubby white van pulled out, its engine revving wildly. The two guys who’d shot at her were visible inside.

Lucy accelerated away as they raced towards her. She still ought to have the edge in speed, but straight off she hit a stretch of ground layered with unbroken leaves and litter, her rear wheel spinning as she struggled on the intractable surface.

Cauliflower leaned from the passenger window, gun levelled. ‘Got you now, bitch!’

*

Heck thrust Yeti’s mobile phone into the air.

‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Kill me. I’ve already called this in and named you, so if you want to make things even worse for yourself, pull the trigger… kill a cop.’

The phone was still locked of course, and he hadn’t been able to open it, but Baylock didn’t know this. The gangster gazed at him along the barrel, hesitating. Sweat gleamed on his shaven dome. He lowered the weapon a couple of inches. ‘Throw me that fucking phone.’

Heck dropped it on the step and stamped on it so hard that it smashed. ‘Oh dear, sorry…’

Baylock was breathing like an animal. ‘You fucking will be…’

‘You got them?’ Zara Ballantyne’s whipcrack voice sounded from somewhere above.

The shaven-headed brute struggled for a moment, his eyes livid with hate, more sweat beading his brow. ‘There’s three left,’ he shouted back.

‘Bring them up! We might need them.’

Again, Baylock was slow to respond, as if this was just too much. But finally, perhaps realising that even the captain of a sinking ship was better than no captain at all, he stepped aside, signalling with his gun for the captives to go up the stairway ahead of him.

‘Course, it’s not the cops you should worry about,’ Heck said, limping past. ‘It’s Frank.’

‘Shut it,’ Baylock hissed.

‘They could send you to Gull Rock, Saul, and you wouldn’t even be safe there.’

From Baylock’s wolflike expression, there was nothing he’d have liked more in the world than to jam the pump-gun against Heck’s head and blow his skull to smithereens. But maybe there was something else in his brutal face now, something new, something that Heck noticed even if the others didn’t. Concern, wariness… a hint of worry?

Baylock was an experienced underworld guy. A British version of a caporegime, who’d worked for the Crew for years. He’d know from experience that the best and safest forms of business were those that ran quietly and efficiently. With minimal incident.

So where did all this register on that Richter scale?

*

Lucy gunned her Ducati sideways, just about evading the van. Inside, its furious passengers bellowed obscenities. Throttling the bike with everything she had, she arced away, riding in a huge circle as she sought firmer ground. If she veered left from here, she could aim for the now open gateway in the perimeter fence. Once she was out on the road network, they’d never get near her. But escape was still not her purpose. Heck was inside, along with God knew how many others, and she was a cop – so she wasn’t running.

A shot cracked, the slug whining past her with terrifying proximity.

She swung towards the gap in the fence. In her wing-mirror, she saw the van do the same.

Good. She wasn’t leaving Horton & Sons yet. But these bastards were.

Ten yards short, she pulled a hard-right. She’d managed to accelerate to just over forty, so, even on a Ducati, it was a perilous manoeuvre. But she held the turn and found herself belting along the inside of the fence, only centimetres between her nearside grip and the steel slatting. The bike fishtailed, threatening to pitch her into it at full speed, which would have carved her into slices. But this was nothing to the problems faced by the van driver, who also made the turn at speed, but whose ungainly vehicle careered out of control in the process, clattering along the fence, its nearside bodywork reduced to ribbons, the shouts inside becoming screams as it was torn and battered and its nearside wheels were ripped away.

The van jolted downward onto its left, travelling another fifty yards on a trail of sparks.

Lucy glanced back as she headed towards the mill. Two figures kicked their way out of the hunk of wreckage, one on either side. From what she could see, they were now in heated debate about what to do next, though with both potential escape vehicles out of commission, and a very good chance the cops were en route, she knew what her response would be. And they didn’t disappoint. When she glanced again at her wing-mirror, they were only visible from behind. They’d gone through the newly opened gateway and were running for their lives down the disused road.

68

Baylock marched the three captives up the stairs, switchback after switchback. Heck had no clue how high they were now, but they had to be near the top. Salty was puffing hard.

‘Problems, Jumbo?’ Baylock asked from behind. ‘Need a bucket of KFC to perk you up?’

Salty shot him a baleful look. ‘Fuck you, Lurch! Why don’t you just kill us now… you’re going to do that anyway?’

‘They need us, didn’t you hear?’ Heck said, assisting Salty by clamping his elbow. ‘They’ve fucked up royally.’

‘Keep talking, Heckenburg,’ Baylock retorted. ‘If it’s a human shield Satana wants, Fatboy here can do that on his own. We won’t need you.’

They rounded another switchback, and saw Satana herself, Zara Ballantyne, waiting at the top of the next flight. She was clad in another of her tight-fitting outfits, a bright purple catsuit, and a similarly coloured leather jacket with biker tassels. But she looked a tad more ruffled than when Heck had last seen her. Her platinum locks hung in limp strands, her older-than-you-might-think features showing clearly through her glam makeup. Gordon Kramer stood alongside her, even gaunter and more sallow-cheeked than usual. He chuffed hard on a cigarette, while running a nervous finger around the inside of his grubby shirt collar.

Ballantyne was on her phone but clearly getting no joy.

‘You hear those shots fired outside?’ she asked Baylock as they neared the top.

He shook his head.

‘Fuck! Sit them there!’ It was a small landing made from concrete. No further flights led up from it, though on the left, a narrow door stood open on a small, smoky room. ‘It stinks bad enough in there as it is, with Gordy’s fucking dogshit fags!’

Despite that, she disappeared through that same doorway, Kramer close behind her.

Baylock kicked and pushed his three captives into a corner of the landing, and indicated with his shotgun that they should sit on the floor. They did so. Their captor waited, his weapon trained on them as he communicated with his boss through the open door.

‘What shooting are we talking about?’ he asked.

‘Turns out there was only one of them,’ Ballantyne replied, reappearing. ‘At least, according to Brogan and Marco.’

‘One of who?’

‘Fuck knows, but the bin wagon’s kaput.’

‘The bin wagon?’

Heck watched Baylock with interest. He imagined it wasn’t often when that soulless, brutal face registered disquiet, but it was clearly visible now. The time-served professional crim was likely wondering how he’d got involved with this craziness. He also appeared to be listening. Heck listened too, and despite the thickness of the mill’s age-old walls, thought he could just about detect an ongoing roaring and grinding of engines.

‘I told Marco to use one of the other vehicles,’ Ballantyne said. ‘Anything, just get the stiffs away from here.’

‘What about the shooter?’ Baylock asked, focussing on what to him was evidently a more pertinent point.

‘How do I know? Now they’re not even answering…’

Before she could finish, there was an explosive impact from out on the car park, followed by a series of similar impacts, like a train derailing carriage-by-carriage, or some other vehicle bouncing at pace along a hefty obstruction, hitting it again and again. Even muffled by the mill’s walls, they heard it.

‘The fuck?’ Ballantyne dashed back into the room.

‘I was serious before, Saul,’ Heck said. ‘This is an almighty fuck-up, and you’re smack in the middle. You’re not just a hired hand anymore, mate, you’re up to your neck in this.’

Baylock gave him only a cursory glance. Inside the room, they could hear the sound of Ballantyne firing orders at someone via telephone.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Gordon Kramer muttered in a childlike voice. ‘Oh Jesus…’

Heck persisted: ‘But thus far, I reckon, you can still cut a deal to dob this superbitch in.’ Again, Baylock looked at him. ‘It’s over, mate. The cavalry’s on its way, isn’t it?’

‘Saul!’ Ballantyne called from inside the room. ‘Code Crimson, you understand?’

Baylock wiped the sweat from his face with a sleeve. ‘You’d better hope not, cop,’ he told Heck. ‘Because they’ll find no one alive when they get here.’

*

Now that she looked in through the huge entranceway properly, Lucy saw a hangar-like space. Clearly, when Horton & Sons had been a working mill, this would have been a depot area for the loading and unloading of trucks. Now, it was mostly empty, but around the edges there were caged-off sections that had survived even the ‘kiddie zone’ era. Some were rusty and hanging open, some still enclosing stacks of tools, spare parts and other bits of kit. A heavy steel lifting door connected with other parts of the building but was currently lowered. Twenty yards left of that a pair of diesel pumps stood disused. But it wasn’t just the place that caught her attention, it was the things going on in there.

To start with, two other vehicles were parked at the hangar’s farthest end. Even from this distance, she saw a black Range Rover and a fiery orange Macan T. In addition, closer by, there were three men. They hadn’t noticed her yet, but all wore dark, hardwearing clothing, industrial type overalls, motorbike leathers and such, and scampered back and forth with petrol canisters, the fuel gushing out, already forming a vast, glistening lake in the central area. A few canisters had already been emptied and lay discarded, while another row of eight or nine, still full, waited close by. A fourth man worked his way along the interior wall on the right-hand side, using a heavy drill to bore holes every few yards and inserting sinister-looking packages into each one, all of them wired together.

Lucy knew demolition charges when she saw them.

This was Heck’s work for sure. It had to be. She hadn’t known him that long, but even from that brief time it was already apparent that he could drive you to self-destruct.

But how long did she have before they hit the button?

About thirty yards ahead on the right, a bare concrete stairway opened out into the hangar. Under ordinary circumstances, that would be Lucy’s next route – if nothing else, it looked as if it led up and away through the mill’s innards – but before she could even think about that, she had to do something to slow the demolition team down. None of that seemed possible straight away, though after a relatively short time the petrol guys, each of them now equipped with new canisters, headed down towards the parked cars and veered left, passing to another section of the mill through a small internal doorway. The explosives guy followed, carrying his drill and wearing a heavy backpack from which various leads and cables trailed.

She hurried forward on foot, splashing through the fuel. It covered several hundred square yards and was inches deep. Even without the explosive charges, this thing would go up like an inferno. But to add insult to injury, halfway across the hangar she smelled rotten eggs.

She stopped and glanced at the ceiling. Multiple pipes ran across it.

Almost certainly, this place had been leased under a fake company name, hence the fully restored power. And the gas as well. Which now, thanks to the team here unfastening a few caps, was pouring into the premises.

‘Jesus.’ She waded forward. They weren’t taking any chances.

*

‘Let’s take him,’ Scrapper whispered into Heck’s ear.

‘Just wait,’ Heck replied, watching Baylock closely. The big guy was still standing half in and half out of the small room, which presumably was the onsite hub of operations at the Crazyhouse. His shotgun was trained on them one-handed, but he was in constant, strained conversation with Zara Ballantyne, who was rushing around in there like a whirlwind.

‘Code Crimson,’ Scrapper reminded him. ‘Do you like the sound of that?’

‘Saul, it’s over,’ Heck said loudly. ‘They’ll be surrounding this place as we speak.’ Baylock fought to ignore him. ‘You can still turn evidence against the Queen Bitch.’

With near indecent haste, that same queen whipped back into view, glaring at Heck.

‘Fucking cozzer!’ she hissed, her fake accent dropping. ‘Eyes and nose like a shithouse rat! But I’ve eaten expensive meals off the backs of higher-paid men than you.’

‘There’ll be no men where you’re going,’ Heck said.

‘Seems we don’t need these bastards after all, Saul,’ she replied, making what seemed like an on-the-spot decision. ‘Kill them and follow me and Gordy down. Do it however you want, but we’ve got twenty mins and then the whole place goes.’

Baylock nodded and she vanished again. He turned with shotgun levelled.

‘I’m offering you a straight deal,’ Heck said. ‘Witness Protection in return for our lives. You’re going to need that anyway, pal, when Frank finds out.’

Again, Baylock hesitated. ‘You’ve no authority to make that deal.’

‘You kidding?’ Heck replied. ‘There’s only my evidence linking you to any of this!’

Briefly, the gangster lowered his weapon. Then grinned. ‘That’s right. How peachy for me.’ Again, he took aim…

69

The fact that it was Scrapper who leapt on Baylock shocked the hoodlum. He’d expected the main threat to come from Heck, so even though the lad had edged away from Heck a significant distance, he didn’t pay attention to him. But it was still no contest. Scrapper was clearly a genuine hardcase, and he struck Baylock from the blindside, landing a good left and a good right, but the gangster responded by headbutting him.

It was a sufficient distraction for Salty to find the courage to tackle the big guy too, but all he really did was walk into the shotgun’s stock, which slammed his face with sledge-hammer force. Even as Salty went down, Scrapper, blinking and bloodied, jumped at Baylock a second time, going for his throat. Baylock backed off and had to loosen one of his hands from the firearm to fight back properly. As he did, he tottered through the narrow door into the small room beyond. Heck entered the room too, sidling past the struggling pair. It was, as he’d suspected, the onsite nerve-centre of the Crazyhouse, cluttered with tables and desks loaded with electronic equipment, paperwork and TV monitors. It stank of cigarettes, though this was mitigated by the glassless window at the far side, which stood floor to ceiling; it was hammered over on its outside with misaligned planks, but there were many chinks between them.

Alongside this, a fire door was wedged ajar.

Heck made a beeline for the door, entering a short corridor with bricked up entrances along it, and at the far end the top of another steep, narrow stairway. It was clearly an emergency exit, and like the previous one, swung around a switchback twenty feet below. With such a head-start, Zara Ballantyne and Gordon Kramer were already out of sight. In the control room meanwhile, Scrapper was taking the pounding of his life. Heck had no choice but to go back to help.

Scrapper streamed blood from numerous cuts as the human golem hit him back and forth across the head and face. Sensing Heck’s return, Baylock spun, levelling his shotgun single-handed, only to receive a cut glass ashtray filled with Kramer’s dog-ends full in the kisser. Heck had flung it with force, the ashtray smashing, the gangster toppling backward, losing his grip on the shotgun entirely. Scrapper tried to land another punch, but was too weakened, and allowed Heck to push him away. Baylock, his own nose flattened and gouting blood, looked up from where he’d sprawled over a desk, just as Heck’s foot smacked him under the chin. He flailed at Heck’s leg but missed. Heck followed with two fists clamped together, bludgeoning the back of his neck. Any normal opponent would have been accounted for, but not this one, the hoodlum grappling with a table-top cable, yanking it free and swinging whatever heavy object hung on the end of it. It was a Tannoy speaker, and it would have smashed against the side of Heck’s head, had he not raised an arm to deflect it. The blow hurt like hell, but Heck went back on the attack as his opponent stumbled up to full height.

They wrestled wildly. Baylock hurled Heck backward onto a table, a colossal fist following. Heck evaded it by inches and punched his assailant in the throat, then kicked out with both feet, hitting him in the crotch. Baylock staggered backward again. Heck jumped up, hacking in with a left, a right, an uppercut. Baylock swung a clumsy haymaker of his own, which Heck ducked, slamming another left and right into the bastard’s ribs.

Scrapper meanwhile had recovered sufficiently to take action of his own. As their cop saviour seemed able to handle himself, he slid past to the emergency exit door.

He was going after those other two shitheads. They’d picked on the wrong crowd today, he thought, descending the first flight. Rounding the switchback corner at the bottom, the next flight down was also empty. They were running then? Good, they fucking should.

He spun around the next corner… and she was there.

Halfway down the next flight, facing upward. The blonde bitch in purple.

Pointing a pair of pistols, one in either hand.

Scrapper stuttered to a halt.

She fired. Twice from each pistol.

Each round hit either his head or chest.

As Scrapper tumbled lifelessly down the remainder of the steps, Zara Ballantyne turned and continued her descent.

*

Both the Range Rover and the Macan were locked, with no keys in view. Lucy could deflate the tyres again, but that was going to take time, and the voices of the demolition crew could be heard in what literally sounded like the next room.

She cast around, looking for anything else she could use.

Behind the vehicles stood another of those caged-off sections. It was open and there was all kinds of junk in there: propped-up pieces of bodywork, heaped engine parts. But there was also an ancient toolkit. She rifled through it, selecting an old screwdriver, then circled the two vehicles, puncturing all eight tyres with multiple blows.

As she did, she heard voices approaching. A female and a male. She scanned the hangar, trying to work out which direction they were coming from, finally focussing on the entrance to the concrete stairwell opposite. Whoever it was, they were descending fast. She looked around again. Here in the depths of the hangar, she could see other exits and entrances. Behind the derelict diesel pumps for example stood a large, square recess, which had previously been cloaked in shadow. It was still dark inside, but it looked like a functional annex, a workshop maybe.

Lucy hared over there, again splashing and skidding. She reached it just as two figures emerged from the stairwell, and backed into the darkness to watch, and only at the last second became aware that there were at least two people in there already.

Both standing directly behind her.

*

The echo of gunfire from the emergency stair was not something Heck wanted to hear. He was still grappling with Baylock, but now was distracted, glancing at the emergency exit just as a sweeping fist clubbed his right cheekbone, sending him spinning from his feet.

He struck a desk covered with broken equipment and fell to the floor.

Baylock loomed over him, snarling, crimson froth dripping from the brand-new gaps in his teeth. Breathing hard, he hefted a swivel chair, raising it over his head. It would come down on Heck from maybe ten feet. The blow would be bone-shattering.

‘Yo, Boris Karloff!’ a hoarse voice said.

Baylock glanced around.

Salty was up on his knees. He’d grabbed the 12-gauge and was pointing it.

The boom in that narrow, wreckage-filled room was ear-numbing, the flash blinding.

The force at which Baylock catapulted backward was so irresistible that he passed clean through the wooden boards covering the window.

Heck levered himself upright and staggered to the new-made aperture, peering down. At this hour, it was impossible to see anything below, but the bastard had fallen a hundred feet at least, and with a hole in him you could put your arm through.

‘I… I… had to do it,’ Salty stammered, his voice tremulous.

The lad stood shaking, the shotgun dangling from one finger. Where his face wasn’t smeared with blood from his own busted nose, it was pale as ice.

‘Damn right you did.’ Gently but firmly, Heck extricated the weapon from Salty’s hand. ‘Common Law grants you full immunity from prosecution for murder on the basis you were acting to save another’s life.’

The lad’s eyes remained glazed. ‘I… I…’

‘Salty,’ Heck patted his cheek, ‘don’t think about it too hard. We’re not out of here yet. You may have to do it again.’

70

Lucy blinked with astonishment.

A group of figures stood behind her in the darkened workshop. The first was a young and muscular Bruce Willis, wearing only slacks and a bloodstained vest. To the right of him stood an equally young, equally hunky Sylvester Stallone in Rambo mode, complete with headband and over-the-shoulder bandolier belts filled with ammunition and dangling with grenades. She gazed past them at the others, seeing Jack Nicholson as the Joker and Dan Aykroyd in Ghostbusters guise.

Facsimiles. This was some kind of overspill from the defunct wax museum.

Astonished by the bizarre turns this night was taking, she swung around to watch the hangar again, though shuffled backward until she was among the motionless figures, hoping that if anyone did spot her in the dimness, they wouldn’t look twice.

Out on the lake of shimmering petrol, the twosome who’d emerged from the foot of the stairway – Zara Ballantyne in another of her garish outfits, this one a searing purple, and the crumpled, tottering, clearly terrified figure of Gordon Kramer – were in mid-crisis.

First of all, Ballantyne had gone straight to the main entrance, where not yet having acclimatised to the bin wagon filled with corpses, she stood with one hand across her nose.

‘What the fuck?’ she screamed at her stumbling shadow. ‘Where the fuck are Brogan and Marco? And why’s the van halfway across the car park, lying on its side?’

Kramer could only stand with hands helplessly spread.

‘Fuck this!’ She shouldered him out of her way as she hurried towards the two parked vehicles, her high-heeled purple boots slipping and skidding in the fuel. ‘WHAT THE…?’ This was more a bellow than a scream, the Crew’s own Ma Barker sliding to a disbelieving halt alongside the disabled cars. ‘This doesn’t make sense? Marco said there was only one of them! So, where the hell is the little bastard? And how the fuck – how the actual fuck! – did he take out all these Goddamn vehicles? And where the fuck is Marco anyway?’

From Lucy’s POV, any normal criminal boss contemplating a fast getaway from the scene of the crime would summon his or her compatriots at this moment to warn them the jig was up. Instead, calling out to no one, Ballantyne sloshed diagonally back across the hangar, Kramer tagging behind. Not that she had any way to get the rest of her team to safety, Lucy supposed. The voices in the next room had faded away, as though the men had moved deeper into the huge building and now were out of earshot. On the hangar’s far side, Ballantyne grabbed a hanging control box, hit a button, and then manually pulled open a folding steel lattice. Behind that stood an empty brick shaft, but by the sounds of the heavy clanking and clattering overhead, a vehicle, probably one of those oversized industrial elevators, was descending.

‘Ballantyne!’ Lucy shouted, knowing she had to act. She stepped out into the open.

The purple-suited figure spun around, a pistol in either hand. With reactions like that, she’d have won a gunfight in Dodge City, but Lucy reacted too.

‘Yeah, why not?’ she shouted, both hands shooting up, palms flat. ‘But you’ll die as well! Sniff the air. Pull those triggers and this whole place goes.’

‘She’s right,’ Kramer jabbered. Behind them, the elevator arrived. ‘We should just leave.’ He took Ballantyne by the arm and tried to lead her into it.

From this distance, fifty yards or so, it was difficult to see the expression on the mob boss’s face, but no doubt it was a grimace of hatred, a snarl of narcissistic fury.

‘You slimy cow!’ she shouted. ‘I told Frank repeatedly that you were his Achilles heel, that you’d be the one to take us down someday.’

‘And he’d laugh,’ Lucy responded, ‘because I’m only taking you down, it seems.’

‘Zara,’ Kramer begged. ‘It’s time to go.’

‘You aren’t going anywhere, Mr Kramer,’ Lucy replied, ‘except to prison.’

‘Yeah?’ Ballantyne’s snarl morphed into a manic grin. She retreated into the elevator with her lackey, who eagerly hammered the control and let it swing back out on its cable.

‘What’re you going to do, hide in the cellar?’ Lucy shouted. ‘There’s an army on its way. And I’ll tell you something else, Frank isn’t very happy.’

With a clunk, the elevator lurched downward.

‘Frank can suck on the end of this!’ Ballantyne pointed one of the pistols. ‘And so can you.’

‘No!’ Kramer grabbed her.

She shook him off, taking aim at Lucy again as she descended from sight. Lucy swung back into the darkened workshop.

Five shots rang out as she threw herself through the wax facsimiles, hitting the floor with arms wrapped over her head. Figures fell across her from every side, riddled with bullets, limbs severed, heads blown apart. Yet somehow, miraculously, the fumes didn’t ignite. The seconds ticked by as Lucy lay there. She finally looked up, just as a hand grenade rolled in front of her and came to rest. She grabbed at it, frantic… only to realise that it was made of plastic. A few inches away, Sylvester Stallone’s solemn features, half-shattered by gunfire, gazed lifelessly back.

She stumbled out into the hangar. Directly across, the gate stood open on the shaft, but the elevator was gone.

She scrambled over, halting at the top of the vertical passage. Down below, the clanking of gears came to a halt. There was a fleeting silence, and then she heard something else: the sound of an engine starting.

‘Shit!’ She hurried back across the hangar, again slipping and sliding.

Outside, her bike waited, leaning on its stand. She mounted up, kicked it to life, and sped recklessly into the building, tobogganing through the fuel, before reaching the shaft. Grabbing the control, she hit the appropriate button and waited as, with much groaning and clattering, the elevator commenced its laborious ascent back.

‘Lucy?’ a voice said to her left.

She spun on her seat.

It was Heck, looking bedraggled and severely beaten, having just emerged from the concrete stairwell. He had someone with him: a young chubby guy dressed in what looked like a tennis kit, but who was also dirty and bloodied and sickly pale.

‘What’s happening?’ Heck asked. He carried a pump-action shotgun.

‘Don’t fire that, whatever you do,’ she said as the elevator re-emerged. ‘Smell that gas?’

‘Thought there was a taint in the air. What’re you doing?’

‘Ballantyne’s trying to get out through the cellars. I don’t know how, or which way, but I’m going after her, okay!’

It wasn’t really a question, and not atypically, Heck looked as if he was about to argue, but in the end shrugged. It was Lucy who had the wheels.

‘You’ll have your hands full here, Heck,’ she said. ‘Back-up’s coming, but there’s at least half a dozen of these bastards still in the building, and as you can see, they’re setting up to blow it sky-high. You’ve got to stop that somehow or we lose every scrap of evidence.’

He looked around, spying the holes in which the explosives had been inserted, and the loops of wire between them. His eyebrows arched at the rippling lake of petrol covering the hangar floor. ‘No pressure, eh?’

‘I know you can’t shoot them,’ she said, ‘but the good news is they can’t shoot you either. Plus, Priya Nehwal should be here soon.’

The elevator halted, and she rolled forward into it.

Heck came to the entrance and hit the descend button.

The creaking mechanism set off downward again.

‘Reckon you can handle all that?’ She pulled on her helmet.

He shrugged. ‘We’ll soon find out.’

71

Outside of the elevator, Lucy rode onto what appeared to be a subterranean quayside, a flat concrete platform jutting out into dark water, steel rings set along its edge. At first, she was too bemused to make sense of this. Then she saw the ripples of light reflecting on a low, overarching roof of Victorian-era brickwork, and realised that the water was only about thirty yards across. It was the Rivington Canal. As often happened in this hilly part of Lancashire, the original engineers, rather than levelling the land whenever necessary, had simply tunnelled through it. The question now was, if Zara Ballantyne and Gordon Kramer had kept a getaway boat moored down here, which direction had they taken?

Lucy dismounted and walked to the edge. Leftward, she saw only darkness, but glancing right, she could visualise a fast-receding speck of light.

She re-mounted the Ducati, kick-started it and throttled in pursuit, trusting that the canal quayside would give way to a towpath, which it did within forty yards or so. It was narrow and made from beaten cinders rather than solid concrete, but it was bricked along its edge, plus it ran straight as a die. She accelerated as she followed the waterline.

*

Heck held the shotgun across his chest as he waited.

He’d positioned himself dead-centre of the hangar, the large double-sized entrance about twenty yards to his rear. He stood facing the disabled cars and the passage leading through to the next area, where, as he listened, he heard more and more male voices gathering. Aggressive, urgent voices.

No doubt, this was what remained of Zara Ballantyne’s security team. Whether they were still working to blow this place up, he wasn’t sure. It wouldn’t have taken much, given the stench of gas and the floodtide of combustible fuel. But it could also be that they now felt as if they’d been abandoned, which they had, basically, and with Baylock, Ballantyne’s second-in-command, no longer around, there’d be nothing to stop then doing a runner. And indeed, a couple of minutes later, when they came in, eight in total, four with dogs on leads, arguing and jostling each other, the matter was obviously up for debate. Of course, the heat would really turn up when they learned that the only way out of here now was on foot.

‘How you doing?’ Heck shouted.

Immediately, they ceased squabbling. They were perhaps seventy yards away, but already his spine crawled. Eight to one were no odds to be going up against, not even with a 12-gauge in your hands.

‘I might as well tell you, fellas,’ he said, ‘it’s over. Zara’s legged it and left you to cop the blame. You can either come quietly or you can die here. Your shout.’

But already, the group had spread out into a skirmish line and were advancing. The four dogs were Dobermen, probably the same savage beasts that had killed that young bloke, Col. They strained on their leads, snarling, barking, drooling copiously. The men themselves had drawn firearms, in most cases pistols, though one, who also had a backpack trailing cables, carried an Uzi submachine gun.

‘Okay!’ Heck shouted again. ‘I’m sure you guys know better than anyone that to start shooting in here would be a bad idea. But I haven’t come all this way to get fucked over by a bunch of overpaid, undertrained gorillas.’ He chambered a round. ‘You get me? I had the same conversation with Saul the Maul, and now he’s outside on the car park, looking more like a fried egg than a human being.’

They halted, unsure whether to believe it. If nothing else though, they knew they were breathing North Sea gas and standing in petrol. It wouldn’t matter that the demolition charges weren’t ready.

They gazed at Heck, a feral pack just about keeping it together.

So, who would blink first?

*

Lucy hurtled along the tunnel, her headlamp creating a halo glow just ahead of her, flashing and flickering on the canal’s surface, which increasingly slopped as she gained on her target.

She wondered what kind of craft they’d be riding. Even immense horsepower would be wasted on a canal given that the fugitives would come to a lock-gate eventually. But then it struck her that if the lock-gate coincided with a road, there might be another vehicle waiting there. If they got into a fast car before she caught up with them, that was it, they’d be gone. She throttled up all the harder, even though it was a risk. This towpath wouldn’t have been used for decades. There could be all sorts of obstacles: breaks where the canal side had given way, fallen masonry, even an abandoned donkey-cart.

But then, without warning, she was out in the open. The overarching brickwork had gone, and the midnight sky soared over her. An almost impossibly fresh breeze blew. Immediately on her left, the canal’s surface increasingly swirled and foamed in the wake of the motorboat. Even with her helmet on, Lucy could hear the drone of its engine. She throttled up more, knowing that she was taking her life in her hands. Now that she was back on the normal canal-side, other obstructions might materialise: barred gates, a jogger or cyclist, even someone engaged in a late-night dog walk.

‘Good God,’ she thought aloud. That wouldn’t be pretty.

*

‘Don’t try me,’ Heck warned them as they advanced. ‘My name’s Heckenburg, and I’m the mad fucker who lost his job at the National Crime Group for going off-piste. I don’t apologise for that; it’s the way I am. But Frank McCracken wouldn’t have hired me otherwise, would he?’

Again, they slowed to a halt, now about thirty yards away. No doubt they’d heard rumours that McCracken had brought in a couple of cops to investigate his own organisation. Likely this was something they’d never come across before. Why would their gaffer do such a thing? More importantly, why would any coppers, no matter how bent, agree to it? They’d have to be insane. At least, that was what Heck hoped they were thinking.

‘Let the dogs have him,’ one of them said.

‘Dog-meat burns just as nastily as man-meat,’ Heck retorted. ‘Because even if you don’t start shooting, I will. Put your weapons down. It’s over.’

They watched him, faces taut, brows furrowed. Was he bluffing? Could anyone be this barmy… that he’d blow himself to pieces just to uphold some skewed definition of the law?

‘Step aside and we all go home,’ one said aloud. ‘Don’t know who you are, mate. But you’re not taking any of us to head office.’

‘I was actually thinking the local nick,’ Heck replied.

‘Yeah, sure. We know what that’d mean.’

Heck did too. After this horrific caper, it’d be life without parole, but it wouldn’t get to that either. Even in the depths of Gull Rock, England’s own concrete hell, the hardest and most highly secure prison in the UK, Frank McCracken would get to them. Heck had to admit that they didn’t have an awful lot to lose.

With a click, the guy with the backpack worked his Uzi’s slide back.

Heck levelled the shotgun at his shoulder. They didn’t flinch. Slowly, he retreated. The dogs yowled, pulling their leads to full stretch. He could sense the entrance to the hangar ten yards behind him. Once they were out in the open air, it was anyone’s guess what would happen. They’d certainly feel free to open fire then. At the very least, they’d unleash the hounds. He halted again, standing his ground a couple of yards short of it.

Several of them were smiling. The game might be up for them, they’d clearly decided, but it was certainly up for him.

*

It made a difference that they were out of the tunnel.

The light from the motorboat, even though Lucy could only see it from the rear, was much more clearly visible, and no more than seventy yards ahead. She could even see the huge churn of water in its wake, hear the growl of its powerful engine. It wasn’t a motorboat as much as a speedboat, but it was still no match for a Ducati M900, and now at last, the people on the boat itself seemed to have realised that she was in pursuit.

Lucy could distinguish two passengers. A figure in purple stood at the steering wheel, while a male figure – it had to be Gordon Kramer – cowered in the bows, staring in Lucy’s direction. Lucy accelerated. She was pushing sixty now. At this speed, with her headlamp illuminating only forty yards in front of her, she’d never brake in time. Any collision would be fatal. But she sped on anyway, determined to impede whatever escape plan they had.

The fact that it was Kramer at the back of the boat encouraged her; if he even had a firearm, he’d be unlikely to use it well, but whether they’d risk changing pilots at this speed, especially while running along a channel that was no more than thirty yards across, was another matter. Ballantyne had been maniac enough to open fire in the gas-filled interior of the mill, and indeed, as Lucy closed the gap between them from thirty yards to twenty, she broke away from the wheel, grabbing Kramer by the collar of his jacket and hauling him into her place.

The powerboat swerved and bounced, sending huge breakers over the canal’s banks, but bulleted onward. Lucy could hear Kramer shouting warnings, but Ballantyne ignored him, crouching at the back of the boat, pointing at Lucy with both hands.

*

Heck backed outside, the foul-smelling bin wagon standing to his left.

He glimpsed Salty’s pale, sweaty face peering around one side of it.

‘I told you to get out of here!’ he said.

‘Looks like we’ve got ourselves a Wild West situation,’ one of the gunmen laughed.

‘Only with no Wyatt Earp,’ another answered.

Heck’s only hope now was to turn and run and trust that the darkness swallowed him. But it was impossible to imagine they wouldn’t unleash such a volley that he’d be shot to bits straight away. And then there were the dogs. They’d run him down blindfolded.

‘All right, gents!’ he said, in a voice that even he wasn’t persuaded by. ‘This is the last time I’m saying this… you’re all under arrest. You need to lay your weapons down.’

‘We’ll lay you down first, you fucking gob on legs.’

They were now outside the building.

Like a firing squad, they raised their guns in unison.

*

Only when it was nearly too late did Lucy realise that Ballantyne was clutching two pistols. A fusillade of shots followed, but the rocking and leaping of the inexpertly helmed craft saved her life, the slugs whining past. She decelerated all the same, and just in time, because suddenly, not far ahead, obstructions loomed.

A row of several houseboats was moored along the canal-side, their tethers stretched taut across Lucy’s path, fastened to a similar number of short concrete posts. She veered wide to avoid them, leaving the cinder footway altogether, the bike losing its grip in the leaves and underbrush of a hedgerow, twigs whipping her body and helmet. She slid sideways at a terrifying angle before righting again. She’d have lost ground on her target had the powerboat not hit difficulties of its own, Kramer shrieking as he struggled to steer them around the sleeping houseboats. There was adequate width in the waterway, but again he lacked the know-how, the craft almost capsizing. Ballantyne tottered towards him and grabbed the wheel with one hand, turning it deftly back onto the straight, another huge wave erupting over the canal’s far bank, the houseboats rocking and rolling, clouting the brick quayside.

Lucy glanced back as she regained the path, seeing lights coming on inside them. Up ahead, the powerboat had lost velocity. She accelerated. Ballantyne heard her and staggered back to the stern. She’d presumably lost a weapon during the previous kerfuffle as she now had only one. She braced her legs and took two-handed aim.

*

With a screech of tyres and braying of sirens, the cavalry arrived.

Heck was so glued to the sight of the gun muzzles arrayed in front of him that he only became aware belatedly that emergency vehicles were pouring into the compound at his rear. A cascade of revolving blue lights washed over them all. With a furious thudding and banging, doors opened and closed. A cacophony of shouts sounded, and before he knew it, myriad cherry-red dots had pinpointed the heads and bodies of the eight gunmen, who could only goggle at the force suddenly confronting them.

No doubt there were several such dots fixed on his back as well. But that didn’t matter. Drooping with relief, barely hearing the harshly delivered instructions through the loudhailer, he sank to his knees, lowering the shotgun to the ground and spreading his arms out wide.

The gunmen stood solidly together. The problem with all-purpose hoodlums like these was that you never knew which ones were simply bad and which were actually mad. Some were likely both, and indeed, the one carrying the Uzi jerked backward, raising it again to the firing position. A police rifle boomed and he folded over like a piece of paper.

Heck winced where he knelt. The fatal slug had literally parted the hair on top of his head.

The mobsters gazed into the dazzling glare of innumerable spotlights. More and more doors banged open as more units arrived. Cherry pinpoints speckled them. Heck shook his head. There was a myth in the twenty-first century that just because British society was descending into abject snowflakery, the cops were the same. That they weren’t the right sort of people anymore. That they weren’t willing to use violence because that wasn’t woke. Well, what had just happened ought to be proof enough to this particular set of idiots that, modern and progressive police or not, if it was a case of them or you, it was always going to be you.

‘Hey, dickweeds,’ he hissed. ‘You’ll get all the chances you want to flex your muscles in the showers at Gull Rock. Now drop those fucking weapons before you get us massacred.’

*

Did Lucy fall back again, or take a chance that Ballantyne would miss?

The decision was taken from her by Kramer’s poor steering.

Again, he had to contend with an obstruction, this time a steel barrel floating mid-channel. He screamed, swerving around it. Zara Ballantyne tilted over as her finger squeezed the trigger, the bullet flying nowhere, and then fell into the back of the boat.

Lucy accelerated fast. A new idea had come to her. Rather than maintain a close pursuit, why not overtake and get to the next lock gates ahead of them? If there was a getaway car waiting there, she could disable it somehow.

She throttled up, touching seventy as she drew level with the boat, only to see the towpath in front transform from firm-packed cinders to well-trodden mud. She cursed as the bike lost traction and ground. But she was still level with them, and in her left-field vision could see the purple-suited figure straightening up on one knee, taking aim with her remaining pistol. There was only ten yards between them. Ballantyne couldn’t miss.

The path firmed up. Lucy accelerated, but not quickly enough. Wildly, barely thinking, she dug into her jacket pocket and pulled out the phony hand grenade that she’d brought from the mill. She’d no idea why she’d kept it. It had been a total whim, a crazy thought that it might be more useful to her than a plastic Bowie knife.

She lobbed it sideways at the boat.

Ballantyne jumped upright as the grenade landed on board, skittering out of sight. With shrill shouts that Lucy heard even over the roar of the two engines, the woman frantically searched for it. Kramer, a disastrous pilot even when he was concentrating, broke from the wheel to help. Ballantyne screeched at him. He looked at her blankly, and for a couple of chaotic seconds, no one was steering.

And that was all it took.

The boat veered to the left, where it hit a small concrete landing stage. The collision was deafening, the vessel flung high into the air, turning end over end while spinning like a top. Lucy watched agog as it came down on the open countryside left of the canal, again turning over and over, every impact an explosion in itself, one of which finally detonated its fuel tank, wood and burning metal flung in every direction.

*

The next thing Heck knew, guns were clattering to the ground and armoured firearms cops swarming past him, MP5s levelled on the remaining desperadoes, all of whom were unceremoniously overwhelmed. He sagged down, so relieved that he didn’t care when he himself was kicked from behind and landed hard on his face, a pair of knees digging into his spine. As his hands were pulled behind his back and zip-tied together, another voice intruded. It was female.

‘That’s Heckenburg,’ she said. ‘Let him go.’

*

Lucy decelerated, staring across the waterway as the shattered, shapeless hull came to rest in a pool of fire, the glare of which illuminated a spectacular trail of wreckage zigzagging back to the canal’s edge.

She rode on towards a humpbacked bridge with a country lane passing over it, a stationary vehicle sitting parked on this side of the water. It hadn’t been a lock they were aiming for after all, but they’d have rocketed off into anonymity all the same, had they got there first.

She braked, jumping off her bike, pushing through a kissing-gate, and running up the flight of steps to the road. The parked car was a Lotus Emira. A quality motor, and presumably entirely legitimate. Zara Ballantyne hadn’t expected that anyone would have the capability to chase her this far from the Crazyhouse, and once she was out in the world in this, assuming the vehicle wasn’t registered to her, there’d be no reason for any number plate recognition system to flag it, or any curious police officers to stop it.

*

Heck got to his feet, rubbing at his wrists. As he did, a squat, tubby woman came alongside him. She was of Indian heritage, wearing an armoured vest over a scruffy khaki jacket, a ballistics helmet with the visor raised, and ill-fitting jeans tucked into wellingtons. In one hand she carried a loudhailer, while with the other she was busy tucking a police-issue Glock SLP into the holster on her hip.

‘Timely of you, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

‘You can thank DC Clayburn,’ she replied tersely.

‘I will. In the meantime…’ he glanced at the seven prisoners being manhandled to their feet, and the dogs slashing at their armoured captors as special muzzles were forcibly applied, ‘these men are all under arrest. For just about every offence in the statute book. But mainly for conspiring to commit multiple murders.’

She nodded, stern-faced, saying nothing.

‘Before anything else, though,’ he added, ‘I’d clear this whole area if I was you.’ She glanced at him, puzzled. ‘And call the Bomb Squad.’

*

Lucy took off her helmet as she walked over the bridge and down the steps. The towpath on the other side of the canal brought her to the trail of wreckage. She followed it across the open ground. The odd fragment still burned, but most of them were simply pulverised. The same went for the first body she encountered, some seventy yards from the water. It was Kramer, but there was no need to get close to check whether he was alive or not.

Wondering if she ought to feel guiltier than she did, Lucy strode on, finally coming to the main remnant of the boat about three-hundred yards from the canal. Even here, most of the flames had receded, so she could clearly see Zara Ballantyne inside. Again, there was no need to check whether Madam Satana had gone on to meet her namesake.

By the expression on her smashed, blackened face, she was already in his grasp.

72

Lucy sat side-saddle on her bike, which was parked between two police vehicles on a former access road to the mill, a sunken lane now, much overgrown, that had once led up through pasture and fenced-off farmland. A dawn chorus was waking in the trees and hedgerows, a pale wash of early light seeping westward across the sky. Radio static crackled continuously.

‘Who’d play a game like this?’ she wondered. ‘Who’d want to bet on it?’

‘Lots of people.’ Heck yawned, looking tired and ragged as he leaned on the bonnet of one of the cars. ‘People who look just like you and me. Check the violent offenders’ files for the worst of the worst. You won’t find too many vampires or werewolves.’

‘Okay, they hide in plain sight. But how many can there be? I mean to make something like this into such a money-spinner?’

‘At a rough guess, I’d say one in every ten people is abnormal in some dangerous way.’

Even after the night she’d just had, Lucy looked as if she couldn’t accept that. Meanwhile, a group of Lancashire tactical support officers wandered past them up the lane, newly arrived but wearing body-armour and helmets and carrying shields and nightsticks.

‘The world and his brother arrives when it’s too late to be any use, don’t they,’ she said.

‘Usually,’ Heck replied.

‘Doesn’t matter what they find up there,’ she said, ‘no one’ll believe it.’

‘It’s always stranger than fiction.’

‘I don’t just mean because it’s so bloody outlandish. I mean because all we’ve really done at the end of the day is help Frank McCracken extricate several rotten eggs from his basket.’

She shook her head, visibly frustrated.

‘If you’re so desperate to get him,’ Heck said, ‘why don’t you just wait for him one night and pull the trigger? No one’ll ask too many questions. They’ll assume it’s one of his own.’

The outrageous suggestion seemed to shake her out of her reverie. ‘For Christ’s sake!’

‘It’s just that you seem really keen to be the one who gets this guy. You deny that it’s personal, but you’re not content to sit around and wait till his empire implodes. Which they always do. Someone’ll pop him. And then there’ll be a new boss… as bad as the old boss, maybe even worse.’

‘I told you… I need to restore my credibility.’

‘You took care of that last night.’

‘It’s not that simple. Everyone in the job knows I’m an adequate detective…’

‘More than adequate.’

‘Okay. But they also know me as Frank’s daughter. I can’t shake that off.’

She sniffled. Heck was surprised to see a tear on her cheek, though perhaps he shouldn’t have been. Not after what they’d both just been through. The brass would have them attending counselling sessions till the end of their careers after this.

‘You’ve just made a sterling effort to bring him down,’ Heck said. ‘Once this story gets out, they won’t think you’re anything less than one hundred percent committed to law enforcement.’

She wiped at her eyes with her fingertips. ‘I suppose I’m being lectured by someone who knows. It’s not like you haven’t got some bridges to build either, is it?’

‘I don’t care about that.’

‘You’re not fooling me.’

‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘I had one job to do in that place. Safely extricate four lads who were lost, dazed and frightened. Only one made it, and he’ll likely be a gibbering wreck for the rest of his life. So excuse me if I don’t give a fuck what people in the job think of me.’

‘But you do give a fuck about justice. The lengths you’ve gone to, firstly to get it for your deceased colleagues, and then to get yourself back onto the front line… that’s not someone who doesn’t care.’

Heck cracked a half-smile. ‘How many days did you say we’ve been acquainted? You read me better than some folk I’ve worked with twenty years.’

‘Have to be good at something, I suppose.’

‘Lucy… you’ll be a great DI someday.’

‘In my dreams.’

‘No, they’ll promote you. They’ll have no choice.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Because these days there’s not enough people in the job like you. Not holding rank, anyway.’

She pulled a face. Meanwhile, a bunch of shots sloped past them down the lane, their heavy rigs still dangling with pistols, submachine guns and MP5s. They looked more like combat soldiers than police officers.

‘Just out of interest,’ he said, ‘did you get that email with those photographs attached?’

She dug her phone out. ‘Those two images of someone else’s phone that you sent me?’

‘You didn’t check them out?’

‘There were a few things going on at the time. Anyway, it just looked like a “recent contacts” log.’ She called up the relevant images. ‘Still does.’

‘That’s the point.’ He leaned over. ‘These are recent contacts between Ray Marciano, whose phone that was, and… see there, a certain other number, which you can clearly see he’s been chatting to for several days, on and off.’

‘Okay… so?’

‘Did you forward them to DSU Nehwal, like I asked you?’

‘I did, but I wasn’t able to tell her what they were…’

Before Heck could explain further, Nehwal herself walked past, heading down the lane in company with two senior detectives from Lancashire.

‘What did you make of it, ma’am?’ Heck called to her.

Nehwal glanced at him, distracted. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Sorry.’ He waved a hand of apology. ‘Not important.’

Nehwal said something to the other two, and they continued down the road, while she came over. ‘I thought you two were going to hospital to get checked out?’

‘We’re comparing notes first,’ Lucy replied. ‘So we can get our statements right.’

The DSU appraised Heck. ‘You look terrible.’

‘I’ve been worse, ma’am.’

She was probably aware of his past, namely that he’d been shot twice during his career to date, and stabbed at least once, so she didn’t bother arguing. ‘What was it you wanted?’

He mentioned Ray Marciano’s phone again.

The DSU glanced at her own device. ‘These are pictures of Ray Marciano’s call log?’

Again, Heck pointed out the finer detail. ‘That number, which gets repeated so often, belongs to a certain Jake Scutter, a detective sergeant in Salford CID.’

Newhal’s expression changed from scepticism to interest, which was hardly a surprise, Scutter being well known in local cop circles and Marciano one of the most wanted felons in Britain as well as a major affiliate to various organised crime groups.

‘Where did you come by this?’ she asked.

Heck stifled another yawn. ‘While engaged in my undercover assignment, I got into a violent altercation with Marciano. And as he was lying there, half-unconscious, I slipped his phone out of his pocket and took those two pictures… before returning the phone, of course.’

She frowned. ‘Marciano wasn’t arrested during the course of this altercation?’

Heck shrugged. ‘Obviously not.’

‘Then how on Earth can we present this as evidence of anything?’

‘You can’t, ma’am,’ he said. ‘But you don’t need to. All this does is prove to you and your supervisors that DS Jake Scutter is a very bad man.’

She considered. ‘And has this anything to do with what happened to your brother?’

Heck was impressed by that. She’d dug into his past deeper than he’d expected.

‘Sure does,’ he admitted, ‘but that doesn’t alter the plain fact that Jake Scutter is corrupt as hell. And now you all know it for an irrefutable fact.’

‘Shouldn’t that be sufficient grounds to start a covert enquiry, ma’am?’ Lucy chipped in.

Nehwal clearly didn’t disagree, but even she, famously tough, looked wearied by the prospect. ‘Like this night hasn’t generated enough paper already.’ She moved off. ‘And get yourselves checked out. That’s an order.’

‘One more thing, ma’am…’ Heck said.

She glanced back.

‘I’ve nothing connecting to the other mole in your team, or perhaps that should be moles.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Everything you learned during the investigation, almost every move you made… the Crew knew about it too. And that wasn’t Scutter. Couldn’t have been. He wasn’t part of Operation Main Event.’ Heck rubbed at his neck. ‘Ma’am, that MIR of yours needs a damn good shake-out.’

Nehwal said nothing else, just lumbered away down the lane, the full brightness of a fine spring morning now spearing through the leaves overhead.

‘Don’t think she’s very happy,’ he said.

‘Well, it’s not like you didn’t rip the carpet from under her feet,’ Lucy replied. ‘I mean you’ve solved the two big mysteries of the day: the missing Lancashire lads and the Hobhall Tunnel blag.’

‘We did that. Not just me.’

‘Anyway, I know her better than you do, and she’s not a glory hunter. Deep down, she’ll be glad we made progress. How about your own gaffer?’

‘Ah, yeah…’ This reminded Heck that he had to get on the blower and update Gwen Straker. ‘No complaints there. She’s really good.’

‘You mean because she tolerates you?’

‘Sort of. Mind you, there’s one who doesn’t tolerate me.’

‘Yeah?’

‘She’s even better.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Or she will be, when she’s back on her feet.’

Thanks for all their help, advice and assistance to

Kate Burke, Steve J Shaw and David Penny.

Thanks also the many Heck fans out there,

who kept the faith during the long years of his absence.