Читать книгу Best of British Crime 3 E-Book Bundle - Mark Sennen, Paul Finch, Mark Sennen - Страница 22

Heck began to suspect the van was following him when he spotted it on the M6 motorway. He’d first observed it on the M1, about sixty miles further south, where it had appeared to be keeping a steady pace a hundred yards behind him. It was a hire van, a transit, high-sided and brown in colour, but so covered in oil and grime that no insignia was visible on its bodywork.

The first occasion he noticed it, he thought nothing of it. It was now midday on a Monday, and the traffic flow from south to north was, as usual, heavy and relatively slow moving. In addition, there was nothing in the vehicle’s demeanour to make him suspicious. It was proceeding along the motorway like so many others – what else was there to say? But when he spotted it on the M6 as well, still close behind, having passed numerous slip roads that it could have turned down, he had his first misgiving.

He pulled into the slow lane and reduced his speed to about forty m.p.h. The transit van cruised slowly past. It was impossible to see who was driving it or how many there were, but soon it was a significant distance ahead. He relaxed and eased his foot back onto the gas. However, ten minutes later, he saw that the van had also pulled into the slow lane – for no apparent reason, as there were open spaces in front of it. Once he’d overtaken it, it slid casually back into the middle lane and began to speed up, as though to keep up with him. Initially, Heck wondered if Gemma had given him a guardian angel. But he soon dismissed that idea. She would have told him; it would serve no purpose for her not to. He picked up his mobile and was about to tap in her number, to enquire – but then decided that if she’d had nothing at all to do with this, she might be panicked to learn that his cover had already been compromised, and pull the plug.

The next possibility was that Commander Laycock suspected he might be up to something. Heck dismissed this idea too. Laycock would consider that he had far more important things to do than keep tabs on a damned ranker like Heck, and even if he didn’t, had he the slightest inkling that the enquiry might be continuing, he’d have called Heck to his office by now and demanded an explanation.

Of course, there was still a chance that the brown van was completely innocent. By two o’clock in the afternoon, Heck was in Cheshire, and about forty miles from the junction with the A580, the East Lancashire dual carriageway connecting the motorway with Manchester and Liverpool; the brown van was still an ominous presence at his rear. As the traffic at last began to break up, he got his foot down – he didn’t race away, but accelerated slowly and purposefully. The dingy brown shape fell further and further behind, making no obvious attempt to hurry in pursuit.

Even after he’d lost sight of it, Heck continued to accelerate. When he reached the A580, he swerved down the exit ramp, gunning the engine hard to get through the traffic lights at the bottom, and circled the large roundabout, finally peeling off and heading east towards Manchester. He still wasn’t sure whether or not somebody had been tailing him, but if they had been he felt that he’d lost them now – not that this incident was something he could dismiss as unimportant. Ten miles later, he pulled into a petrol station to fill up and buy himself a bottle of water. It was only when he’d got back into his Fiat and was inserting his key into the ignition that he glanced across the forecourt and saw the brown van parked near the station entrance.

Heck was tempted to get out and walk over there, but he resisted. He appraised it. Again, its driving cab was too filled with shadow for him to work out who was in there, though someone was clearly sitting behind the steering wheel.

Casually as he could, Heck started his engine and pulled back out onto the dual carriageway. He drove at a steady fifty for three miles, but at the next junction pulled off onto a B-road, entering Highworth, one of several Greater Manchester townships he remembered from his youth; former coal-mining districts that were now heavily unemployed and run down. At this time of day, there was still plenty of traffic and Heck was forced to slow down to accommodate it. He continued to watch his rearview mirror, and it wasn’t long before the brown van reappeared. Now he was sure it was following him. He slowed until it was about thirty yards behind. At the next island, he halted, giving way to traffic from his right. When he finally pushed forward into the flow, the brown van followed. They halted at the next ‘give way’ line together, the brown van directly behind him.

This time vehicles came piling past from the left. Heck would normally have nosed his way out carefully, but he waited until a minuscule gap approached, and suddenly rammed his accelerator to the floor, screeching out into it. A blue Toyota had to break sharply and tooted with annoyance, but the purpose was served. Heck accelerated hard as he swung right the way around the traffic island, and then braked again. Their positions had been neatly reversed; now he was sitting behind the brown van.

Its reaction pleased him. A split second later it had the opportunity to pull out into the traffic, but it simply sat there, its engine chugging, as if the driver was uncertain about where he was and what he should do next. Heck waited patiently. At length, the van pulled right, taking a town centre road, moving carefully and slowly – too slowly. It stopped at each set of lights, its handbrake applied, and then set off again, always keeping a steady pace, making no attempt to turn – being driven without aim or direction, Heck realised. As the town centre fell gradually behind them, a sixth sense made him check that his seatbelt was secure.

Up ahead there was open land. Several drab-looking housing estates stood to the left, but on the right lay the grey hummocks of slag heaps. The traffic was thinning quickly. From sheer instinct, Heck felt for his pocket where, under normal circumstances, there would be a police radio by which he could inform Comms that he was about to embark on a chase; finding nothing there was an ugly reminder that he was going it alone. They cruised on for a mile before halting at the next set of lights – and that was when the van suddenly lurched forward, rocketing through the red, causing cars to scream to standstills both from left and right.

Heck sped after it, following a road that was suddenly open and half empty, which was massively to his advantage. His Fiat, though ancient and battered, was more than a match for a ramshackle old hire van. He hadn’t hit seventy before he was close behind it. Frantic, the other driver swung across the opposing carriageway without indicating – causing yet more vehicles to scream to halts, a couple sliding off the tarmac onto the grass verge – and then bounced and jolted its way down an unmade track, which ran straight as a ribbon across the spoil land.

Heck wasn’t able to follow immediately. There was a confused blaring of horns as the opposing traffic tried to force its way past. Seconds ticked by while he watched the brown van slowly diminish, drawing a trail of dust behind it. Swearing, he finally worked his way through onto the dirt track, where he too jolted over ruts and potholes, each one a crashing impact beneath his feet. Despite this, he was gaining ground fast. He saw the van spin left onto another unmade track. However, this one was so bad that it was barely distinguishable from the surrounding clinker. The van swayed dangerously, rubble spurting from its wheels. Heck veered after it. Up ahead there was a dead end; what looked like an old car park attached to a row of prefabricated industrial buildings, all derelict and blackened by fire. The van screeched into this area and tried to pull a handbrake turn, in order to double back as Heck came dashing in after it. But if the van had ever been designed for such manoeuvres, it was now way past them. It tipped spectacularly onto its nearside wheels – briefly resembling a stunt vehicle in a Bond movie – and then crashed over onto its roof, rolling twice before coming to rest in a cloud of dust, smoke and debris.

Heck slammed his brakes to the floor, skidding sideways, a stench of melted rubber filling his nostrils. He leapt out. As he did, a lithe figure wormed its way through the van’s shattered windscreen. It was clad entirely in black – black gloves, black boots, black combat trousers, and a black ‘hoodie’ sweat top with the hood pulled up.

‘Police officer!’ Heck shouted, running forward. ‘Stay where you are!’

The hooded figure tried to dart for the line of derelict buildings, but whoever he was, he was limping and Heck quickly caught up with him, leaping onto his back – only to be flipped forward over the guy’s shoulder and land heavily in the dirt.

Heck was winded, but still managed to roll away and scramble up into a crouch.

The hooded figure backed off slowly, but the hood had now come down to reveal that he was actually a she. In fact, he was the girl from The Raven’s Nest, the dusky-skinned, mini-skirted beauty who’d whupped Heck at pool.

She was in less sensual mode now, breathing hard, her face shining with sweat as she retreated. When Heck got to his feet, she snapped a flick knife open, its long, slender blade glinting like ice.

‘I told you I’m a police officer,’ Heck warned her when he’d recovered from his surprise. ‘You stick that thing in me and I die, you’ll get thirty years minimum.’

‘You think I’ve come all this way because I want to kill you?’ she panted.

‘Okay … so put the knife down.’

‘Uh-uh.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not being arrested.’

‘If you knew how many times I hear that in the average day …’

‘Just back off! I don’t want to hurt you.’ But she winced as she retreated, her right leg almost folding beneath her.

Heck shook his head. ‘I knew Bobby Ballamara was way down the list when they were giving out cerebella, but I never thought he’d be stupid enough to hire an amateur like you.’

‘I’d have told you last night, if you’d given me a chance … I don’t know anyone called Ballamara.’

‘Sorry love, but that won’t cut it. Whatever you say, or don’t say, all they’ll need to do is find evidence that you were on his payroll, and anything that happens to me will come back to haunt him in a big way.’

‘Look … I just want to find my sister.’

Heck stopped. ‘What?’

‘If you’d listened in the pub there’d be no need for any of this.’

‘Your sister?’

‘My name’s Lauren Wraxford. Does that ring a bell?’

‘Should it?’

She gave a wry smile. ‘Yeah, it should. But it’s no surprise it doesn’t.’ She was still breathing hard and warding him off with the knife, but she now knuckled at her right cheek. To his surprise, he realised that she was trying to wipe away a tear. ‘If you don’t recognise “Lauren Wraxford”, maybe you recognise “Genene Wraxford”?’

‘Genene Wrax …’ That name was definitely familiar. Heck placed it: on a mis-per file – one sent down to Scotland Yard at his request by the West Yorkshire Police. It had featured a colour snapshot of a beautiful black girl posed in a graduate ceremony gown, holding a law degree.

‘Went to Leeds Uni?’ he ventured.

She nodded; her eyes were now brimming with tears.

‘There seems to be a resemblance,’ he said.

‘Genene’s my older sister.’ She wiped irritably at her cheeks.

‘Alright, I understand. Lauren … drop the blade, okay? Right now.’

She swallowed, finally closing the knife up and pocketing it, but making sure to keep a distance of several feet between them.

Heck made no further effort to approach. ‘You’re telling me that all this is because you’re trying to find your sister?’

‘I was only shadowing you. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.’

‘Until now. Now you’re hampering a police investigation.’

‘I thought the investigation was closed.’

‘So why were you shadowing me?’

She shrugged. ‘I didn’t know what else to do.’

Heck mopped sweaty hair from his brow. ‘If I remember rightly, Genene disappeared three years ago. Why’s it taken you this long to get excited about it?’

‘I’ve been away.’

‘Away?’

‘Afghanistan. Before that it was Iraq.’

‘You’re a soldier?’

‘Was. Until recently. Royal Ordnance Corps, Combat Support Division.’

‘That explains a lot.’ Heck’s side was hurting where she’d thrown him.

‘Look, I’m sorry this has happened,’ she blurted. ‘I’ve been trying to get information through normal channels, but no one seems to know anything. Or they don’t want to talk about it. You any idea how difficult it is for a member of the public to even speak to a copper these days? The small parts of police stations you’re actually allowed into are operated by civvy nobodies who think that, just because they’ve got uniforms on, they can lord it over you.’

Heck dusted himself down before turning back towards his car.

She cautiously followed. ‘It took me ages just to get your name.’

‘Yeah, well I’m sorry, but like I said last night, you wasted your time.’

‘Why? Is the investigation on, or isn’t it?’ She ran to catch up, snatching him by the arm. ‘I’m talking to you!’

Heck spun around. ‘Hey! Now you’ve stalked me all the way from London so you can threaten me with a knife. You carry on like this … ex-army or not, I’ll throw your arse in jail.’

Her dark cheeks had coloured, her eyes shone. She wasn’t crying now, he noticed. And she didn’t release him.

‘You’re not just going to walk away from me!’ she hissed. ‘Look, my sister’s been missing thirty months and now it’s not a case that you can’t tell me anything … now it’s a case that you won’t? Are you having a laugh?’

Heck yanked his arm free. ‘I’m not answerable to you. I’m sorry about what’s happened to your family, but I’m not going to divulge sensitive information to you or anyone else. To start with, I don’t have the first clue who you really are. For all I know, you could be the bloody kidnapper.’

‘You bastard!’ she shouted, as he walked on.

‘If you’ve got a complaint, take it to New Scotland Yard.’

‘If you’re not going to find her, I am …’

He reached his Fiat and opened it. ‘I’d be more concerned about how you’re going to get home, if I were you. That van looks like a write-off.’

‘What … you think I can’t make it out of here on foot? I used to deploy on ten-day patrols, for Christ’s sake … through the most godforsaken mountains you’ve ever seen.’

‘Good practice for getting back to Yorkshire, then.’ He climbed in, closed the door and switched the engine on.

She limped up to his open window. ‘I suppose you’d rather spend your shift dragging out paperwork? Or maybe nicking hard-working citizens for being impolite to their drug addict neighbours?’ Heck put the car in gear. ‘You just get on with all that,’ she added. ‘I’ll go look for Genene. I’ll start with this character Ballamara.’

Heck glanced round at her.

She smiled as she retreated. ‘If I can find you, I can surely find him.’

‘Miss Wraxford …?’

Despite having hurt her leg, she moved quickly away, stopping first at the wrecked van and pulling a heavy Bergen backpack out of it.

‘Hey, Miss Wraxford!’

She ignored him, hoisting the pack onto her back and starting to walk.

He spun the car around after her, but she deliberately veered off the lot onto broken ground, crossing it diagonally towards the unmade track that had brought them here. It was several minutes later before he could pull up alongside her again.

‘You are not to go looking for Bobby Ballamara!’ he said through his window. ‘You understand me?’

‘What is he?’ she scoffed. ‘A gangster? You think that scares me? You think anyone in London scares me? I come from Leeds.’

‘Just forget Bobby Ballamara. He’s nothing to do with this case.’

‘Let’s see what he’s got to say about it …’

‘You’ll be putting yourself in extreme danger …’

She laughed loudly. ‘The time for playing it safe is over! We’ve been waiting three years to hear from you lot. There hasn’t been a damn peep, so now my family has trusted me to get some answers. With or without your help.’

Before he could reply, she cut back across the spoil land, heading towards the main road. She was still limping, but covered the ground quickly, ‘yomping’ army style. By the time he reached the main road, she was on its verge, thumbing for a lift.

‘You’re more trouble than you’re bloody worth!’ he shouted, pulling up.

‘Yeah?’ She shifted away from him. ‘Disappointingly, you’ve been no trouble at all.’

He jumped from the car. ‘Do I have to arrest you for taking that transit van without its owner’s consent?’

She looked surprised. ‘I hired it.’

‘And now you’ve dumped it.’

‘I’ll phone them and tell them where it is.’

‘I can still take you in.’

‘Go on then.’ She folded her arms and waited. ‘I won’t resist. Only you didn’t lock me up when I threatened to knife you … what’s changed this time?’

Heck couldn’t at first respond. In truth, there wasn’t an answer he could give her.

‘Get in the car,’ he finally said.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be reading me my rights?’

‘You’re not under arrest. Just get in the car.’

Warily, she did as he asked, sliding into the front passenger seat.

Heck sighed as he walked around to the driver’s door. He wasn’t quite sure why he was doing this. But there was more truth in what the girl had said than even she might realise. Besides, he wasn’t much of a tough guy when it came to human suffering. Too many cops turned a blind eye to it – either as a defensive mechanism to stop it upsetting them, or because they were heartless shithouses who genuinely didn’t care.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked, as he climbed in.

‘First, I want proof that you’re who you say you are.’

She felt under her sweat top and produced a driving licence. From the ID and photograph, she was indeed Lauren Wraxford.

‘You’ve got bottle, Lauren, I’ll give you that,’ he said, as he switched the engine on and pulled away from the kerb. ‘You’ve also got a grievance. I reckon the very least I can do is buy you a cup of coffee.’