Читать книгу Best of British Crime 3 E-Book Bundle - Mark Sennen, Paul Finch, Mark Sennen - Страница 24

In police terms, Salford was a legendary district.

Existing as a city in its own right, but enclosed by the larger Greater Manchester conurbation, it was regarded as one of the toughest beats in Britain outside London. It fell within the Greater Manchester Police’s F-Division, described to Heck on his last day of basic training, when he’d learned that he was being posted there, as: ‘A big, dark, noisy, chaotic, rain-soaked, urban hell!’

Heck had done two years as a cop in Manchester before transferring down to London. It wasn’t a long time in reality, but it was long enough if you were working on as busy a division as ‘the F’ to get to know every one of its nooks and crannies. Once a manufacturing hotbed and busy dockland on the Manchester Ship Canal, Salford had endured severe unemployment since the mid-twentieth century and, as a result, had come to suffer some of the worst social and housing problems the northwest had ever seen. Modern regeneration schemes had spruced up certain parts of it – Salford Quays saw the creation of attractive and costly canal-side residences, but other parts of it were still agonisingly depressed. The Industrial Revolution-era slums had been cleared away en masse in the 1960s, and replaced with austere, high-rise architecture, which had very quickly degenerated into slums of a different sort. Some sections of the town were now wastelands of graffiti-covered tower blocks, boarded-up shops and rubbish-strewn subways.

Heck arrived in one such locality around six o’clock that evening. His Fiat, already old and beaten-up, was additionally dirty from the chase across the spoil land, so no eyebrows were raised as he prowled between rows of identical concrete maisonettes that were more like World War II bunkers than dwelling places.

Ron O’Hoorigan supposedly lived at fourteen, Lady Luck Crescent, a spectacularly misnamed cul-de-sac. On one side of it lay the maisonettes, on the other a row of poor quality council houses. The gutters were scattered with litter and broken glass, there was scarcely a gate or fence left intact, and those remaining were covered in spray paint; the burnt hulk of a car occupied the turning circle at the far end.

Identifying number fourteen as one of the maisonettes, he cruised to a halt some three buildings down, where he considered how best to play it.

At length, he decided that the easiest option was to introduce himself as a police officer and invent some imaginary crime that he could claim he was looking into. He checked again through O’Hoorigan’s print-out. O’Hoorigan, whose lean hatchet-face glared up at him from the attached glossy, was a professional burglar – mainly small time, though his last offence had involved the tying up of two terrified householders. On arrest, he’d thus been charged with aggravated burglary, which was the reason he’d finished up serving seven in Rotherwood high security unit. Another such conviction and he’d likely go down for twenty, which gave Heck quite a bit of leverage. He’d make something up and demand an interview. O’Hoorigan would be eager to clear himself and, that way at least, Heck could get a foot in the door and start asking questions about Klim.

He climbed from the car, locked it, and walked back along the pavement and up the path to number fourteen. The tiny front garden was an unkempt mass of weeds. The front window had what at first glance looked like drawn curtains, though at second glance these turned out to be hanging bed sheets.

Heck knocked on the red, soft-board door and waited. There was no response. He knocked three times in total. Still there was no response. Eventually, he crouched and peeked through the letter flap. A musty smell, like old sweat, exuded out from it. Nothing was visible inside except vague outlines and dust. He moved away from the front door, and peered down a side passage cluttered with rubbish. An iron gate had once barred access to it, but this now hung from rusted hinges. He pushed his way through, wincing as the corroded metal squealed, and then advanced warily. When an empty emulsion tin clattered away from him, he froze – but there was no sign that any of the neighbours had heard, or cared if they had.

At the end of the entry was a small garden, though its grass was thickly overgrown, and the scabby thorn bushes along the fences to either side were hung with rags and waste paper. An old fridge had been dumped in the middle; its open door yawned on mouldy blackness. The windows at the rear of the maisonette had also been covered from the inside, one with stained sheets and another with newspaper. There was a back door, but it was firmly closed. The window panel in it contained frosted glass, so he couldn’t see through.

Heck then heard the squeal of the entry gate again.

He listened as echoing footfalls sounded in the passage. There was a familiar clatter as another foot clouted the emulsion tin. He tensed, moving away from the back of the house, onto the more open ground of the garden.

A figure rounded the corner into view.

Heck couldn’t believe his eyes.

‘So who lives here?’ Lauren asked.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’ he hissed, dashing forward and glancing past her down the entry; there was nobody else there. ‘Well?’

She shrugged. ‘I told you, I’m not just going home.’

‘I put you on a sodding train!’

‘No, you didn’t. You kicked me out of your motor. It wasn’t difficult getting a taxi outside a railway station. I think the driver was quite chuffed when I said “follow that car”.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Lauren, this is not a game!’

She looked irritated. ‘You’re telling me that? My sister’s been missing for …’

‘I’m sick of hearing about …’

‘You’re sick of hearing about her?’

‘I didn’t mean it like that. Look, Lauren …’ Her gaze burned into him as he made a succession of helpless gestures, only his concern for discretion keeping him from shouting. ‘Lauren … criminal investigation is a serious business. You can’t play at it like this.’

‘I want to know what’s happening,’ she said firmly. ‘I want to know what leads you’ve got.’

‘Do I really have to arrest you?’

‘Try it. And I’ll tell the first inspector I meet that you advised me to report that hire van stolen. That you were covering up a crime. In fact, I’ll go one better than that. I’ll tell your own boss. What was his name … Commander Laycock?’ She smiled when she saw his startled expression. ‘Ahhh … you wouldn’t want him to know, would you?’

There was no way Heck could answer that without revealing that he didn’t even want Laycock to know he was here in Manchester. He turned stiffly and walked back up the entry to the road.

Lauren followed. ‘It doesn’t have to be this way, though.’

‘You must be out of your mind,’ he replied, shaking his head but talking more to himself than to her. It defied all logic how he’d ended up in a situation like this. He’d planned this trip so carefully. He emerged onto the pavement in a daze.

‘I can help you,’ Lauren insisted.

He swung around to face her. ‘You’ll get yourself killed. And maybe me with you …’

‘You looking for Ron?’ someone asked.

They turned sharply. A man they hadn’t previously noticed was seated on a deckchair in the garden opposite. In contrast to O’Hoorigan’s, this garden had no vegetation at all – it was bare dirt. The man was youngish, but pale and rail-thin, and had hair dyed bright pink. He wore a vest and a pair of cut-off khaki shorts; he was smoking, and drinking from a tin of lager.

‘I said are you looking for Ron?’

‘Ron?’ Lauren said, crossing the road towards him.

‘Ron O’Hoorigan?’ the man said. ‘That’s his house.’

‘Yeah mate, that’s right,’ she agreed. ‘We’re looking for Ron O’Hoorigan.’

Heck crossed the road alongside her, just about managing to hold his tongue. The man eyed them. With Lauren in her dark army-surplus gear and Heck in jeans, trainers and leather jacket, they didn’t look out of place for this neighbourhood.

‘He owe you money or something?’

‘Something like that, yeah,’ she said.

The man nodded as if this was a familiar story. Up close, his face was pinched to the bone. There were matching sets of needle bruises on both his pipe-cleaner arms. ‘You’re not the only ones. He hasn’t been round here for a bit.’

‘So where’s he living now?’ she asked.

‘Couldn’t tell you. Try the Dog & Butcher round the corner. It’s his local, or was. He used to spend every day there.’

‘Cheers.’

The man took a drag on his cig as they moved away, before adding: ‘Give him a kicking for me, when you find him, yeah. Our Shaz let him shag her and the bastard never coughed up for it.’

‘See,’ Lauren said, when they’d got back in the car. ‘We make a decent team. I presume this Ron O’Hoorigan is involved?’

Heck rammed his key into the ignition and banged the handbrake off. ‘I’m taking you back to the railway station. And this time I’m going to make sure you get on a train.’

‘One problem. I don’t have money for a train.’

‘You had money for a taxi.’

‘That’s why I don’t have money for a train.’

‘No worries.’ He started driving. ‘I’ll pay for your ticket.’

‘And like I say, I’ll ring Scotland Yard. I’ll ask for Commander Laycock and tell him you’ve been covering up crimes in Manchester.’

‘You really think this is the way to win my friendship, by trying to blackmail me?’

‘I’ll do anything necessary.’ They’d now turned into the next street, and, as the pink-haired man had told them, the Dog & Butcher came into view at its far end.

‘Let me at least help you find this character, O’Hoorigan,’ Lauren added. ‘Look at this place. You’re not going to be asking questions round here on your own, are you? I’m an ex-squaddie. I’ll have your back.’

Heck shook his head as they slowed to another halt. He felt completely helpless.

The Dog & Butcher certainly seemed the sort of place someone like Ron O’Hoorigan would hang out. It was one of those one-level pre-fab constructs typical of the 1970s. In a district where tower blocks marched every skyline, it looked more like a shoebox than a building. It was difficult to imagine that any civic architect could seriously have designed something like this without intending it as a joke, yet hostelries of this sort had sprung up all over Britain as part of a grand plan to regenerate the inner cities. Those few that remained, like this one, now stood as monuments to soulless functionalism and intellectual arrogance. It was clear what the locals thought of it. It only had a few windows, all high up and letterbox shaped, and filled with reinforced glass, but even so, many were cracked or broken. Its pebble-dashed walls were daubed with various substances: mud, chewing gum, dog shit.

Heck was unsure what to do next. Obviously, he had to take Lauren back to the station, but what if she really called the Yard and tried to reach Laycock? In addition, Salford station was a good fifteen minutes’ drive from here, now through rush-hour traffic. Driving there and back again would use up valuable time, and might make his Fiat noticeable to anyone round here who happened to be keeping an eye out for unusual comings and goings.

‘Can I trust you to stay in the car?’ he asked, though it tightened his chest just thinking about the risks this entailed.

She shrugged. ‘If that’s what it takes for you to keep me in the loop, sure.’

‘This doesn’t mean you’re part of the enquiry.’

She shrugged again. He eyed her, looking for signs of deceit, but she seemed a lot more relaxed than she had done earlier. He could always produce his cuffs and fix her to the steering wheel, but that really would draw attention to them. Instead, he got out and sauntered towards the pub, glancing up at the licensee’s name as he approached.

Francis James Ogburn

It sounded a tad well-heeled for this neighbourhood. Heck glanced back at the car. Lauren waggled her fingers at him through the windscreen. Swearing under his breath, he turned and went inside.

The Dog & Butcher was a dingy, shadow-filled den. Grey light filtered through its grimy windows, showing a stained carpet, Formica table-tops, and, dotted here and there, punters – some in groups, some alone – all of whom looked either tired, miserable or menacing, or a combination of the three. Though it was cloudy outside, it was hot and therefore humid indoors. Flies buzzing back and forth added to the squalid atmosphere.

Heck approached the bar. The man behind it was bare-chested under a faded denim waistcoat, and broad as an ox. He was bullet-headed, with a boxer’s battered face; his brawny arms and shoulders bore myriad tattoos.

‘Yeah?’ he asked, mopping the counter top.

‘Pint of bitter please,’ Heck said.

The man moved to the pumps. Heck glanced around. Having studied O’Hoorigan’s photograph until he’d memorised it, it was evident the guy wasn’t in here. But there were actually two bar counters. Beyond the one he was standing at now, another one opened into a second room, where various men and boys were gathered around a couple of pool tables. The toilet passage probably connected with it.

‘I’ll not be a sec,’ Heck said. ‘Paying a visit.’

The barman nodded indifferently.

Heck went down the passage, but didn’t bother with the toilets. He stuck his head into the pool room. There was no sign of O’Hoorigan in there either, so he returned to the first bar, where his pint was now waiting for him.

‘Two quid, mate,’ the barman said.

‘You Mr Ogburn?’

The barman regarded him suspiciously. ‘Yeah, why?’

Heck handed him the requisite coins. ‘No reason. Always like to know who the landlord is.’

Ogburn didn’t reply.

‘I don’t suppose Ron’s been in?’ Heck asked.

‘Who’s Ron?’

‘You know … Ron O’Hoorigan? He’s a mate of mine.’

Ogburn turned his back. Ostensibly, he was arranging notes in the till. But Heck suspected there was more to it than this. The guy didn’t want to look round for fear that his facial language would reveal a deception.

‘So … has he been in?’ Heck persisted.

‘Don’t know who you’re talking about.’

‘Come on … Ronnie O’Hoorigan. This is his local.’

When Ogburn finally did glance around, his eyes met Heck’s and locked. ‘I don’t know anyone called O’Hoorigan. You got that?’

‘Easy pal, it was only a question.’

‘I’m not your pal. Why don’t you drink up and get off, eh? I’ll be closing soon.’

‘Normally close around tea-time, do you?’

‘I close when I want.’

‘Maybe this’ll help.’ Heck filched the photograph from his pocket and held it up, along with a twenty-pound note.

The landlord didn’t even look at the proffered gift. In fact, he raised his voice so that now the entire pub could hear. ‘What’s your fucking game, eh?’

‘I just want to speak to him.’ Heck pocketed the money. ‘So why don’t you tell me where he is, then we’ll have no problems?’

He’d shifted into tough-assed mode. It wasn’t what he’d wanted, but collecting information in a place like this wasn’t possible if you went at it nervously. All other conversation in the room had ceased. Ogburn was about to say something else when the door to the toilet passage burst open and a man came in, zipping up the fly on his green canvas trousers.

It was Ron O’Hoorigan.

He was taller than Heck had expected, but also leaner. He came to a standstill when he saw everyone looking; his eyes flirted to the photograph in Heck’s hand. Whether or not he spotted his own image there was unclear. Perhaps his reaction came through force of habit. Either way, he bolted for the outside door. Heck gave immediate chase, only for someone to stick a foot out and send him flying. He crashed over a table, winding himself. When he clambered back to his feet, several of the punters had got up and were confronting him.

The one immediately in his face, the one who’d tripped him, might have been sixty; he had grey hair, a grey beard and a moustache, but he had a bull neck and a massive body. To his right there was a younger guy, his hair carroty red and spiked up; he had a scar across his top lip, which gave him a permanent sneer. To his left, there was a biker type – long, ratty, black hair hung down over motorbike leathers; he was pock-marked and broken-toothed. Chair legs scraped as other men got to their feet. Heck sensed Ogburn lifting a hatch so that he could come out from around the bar.

Clearly, there’d be no time for explanations.

Close to Heck’s right hand, an empty Newcastle Brown bottle sat on a table-top. It seemed an obvious move to snatch it up. The forehead of the burly sixty-year-old with the grey beard was its obvious destination.

The bottle exploded, and the guy went down as though poleaxed. Heck ducked a swinging punch and caught Scar-Lip in the stomach with a left hook, only to take a head butt on the cheek from Rat-Hair. Again, he fell over a table. Figures closed in from all sides. When Heck got back to his feet, he grabbed a chair and swung it full on at Ogburn, who blocked it with a meaty forearm. Scar-Lip came in with a flying kick. Heck caught his ankle, dropping him onto his back and smashing an elbow down into his groin – only for Rat-Hair to catch him with a stinger in the mouth. Heck’s head jerked sideways, and two burly arms wrapped around his neck in a choke-hold. He was dragged backward until he overbalanced. Struggling to breathe, he saw Ogburn grinning down at him, his fat, red face beaded with sweat.

The solution was two sharp, upward blows, a thumb striking each eyeball. The landlord shrieked, dropping Heck and staggering away.

Heck rolled over to avoid another flying kick. It was Rat-Hair, his steel-capped leather boot crashing into the wall, hacking out a chunk of plaster. Again, Heck got back to his feet. He grabbed a pint glass, pegged it at Rat-Hair. Another guy threw a punch. Heck blocked it, slamming his knuckles onto the guy’s nose. Rat-Hair swerved back into view. He’d pulled off his biker belt, which was heavy with steel. Heck raised a defensive arm, and the belt coiled around it. A shocking concussion then followed on the side of Heck’s head.

It was Grey Beard. Though his face was a bloodied mask riddled with glinting shards, he’d got himself a broken chair leg and swung it. When Heck fell, they were all over him. Fists thundered down from all sides, pounding his head and body.

‘Kill the fucker!’ one of them growled. ‘Cripple him! Do his fucking neck!’

They only noticed that Lauren was among them when Rat-Hair was hit so hard in the face that his left eye ruptured in its socket. Grey Beard spun to face her, only for Lauren to flick out her blade and slash him across the face, laying it open to the cheekbone.

A circle cleared as the hoodlums fell back. Lauren pivoted around, blade at the ready. Heck lay at her feet in a groggy heap.

‘Who wants it next?’ she challenged them.

‘You black bitch,’ someone snarled.

‘Ooooh, that hurts. White pussy arseholes! You’re a fucking joke!’

It might have ended there; an alley might have cleared towards the doorway. Heck clambered dizzily back to his feet, anticipating this. But then a new problem arrived. It – or rather they – came in from the next bar.

The pool players, maybe twelve of them, filed in from the toilet passage. They were an even worse crowd than the first lot; they were younger, meaner, noticeably fitter. Those of them that weren’t carrying pool cues were carrying socks clicking with pool balls. Heck smeared blood across his face with his forearm. He glanced towards the door. A couple of guys shuffled in front of it. The stale air was suddenly foul with the stench of sweat, blood and bad, beery breath.

The mob was about to charge in – when two of them disappeared under a table, which was slammed down on top of their heads from behind. The guy who’d done it was someone nobody had previously noticed. He’d been sitting in a corner, reading a paper. But now that he was standing at full height, he looked as wrong for this place as Heck and Lauren did. He was about six feet three, and of trim, athletic build. He was also handsome and sunburned, with a mop of blond hair. His clothing consisted of a green sweat top cut off at the elbows, a pair of tracksuit pants and training shoes. He was wearing gloves, and both his wrists, which were thick and powerful, were banded with leather.

There was a stunned silence at this intervention, before the louts twirled around to face him. But he’d already grabbed a pool cue, and now laid it on them with brutal force. Skulls were smacked like baseballs, arms were broken. When the cue snapped, Grey Beard tried to grapple hand-to-hand with the newcomer, only to be hoisted up by the crotch and throat, and thrown bodily across the bar counter. A deluge of destruction followed as bottles and glass shelves cascaded on top of him.

Scar-Lip lunged at Lauren, catching her with a full-blooded punch, but, though she tottered, she managed to keep her feet, and stepped around his second attack, ripping the blade in a zigzag across his back. Ogburn, his eyes like raw plums, tried to put another headlock on Heck, but Heck caught the bastard with a hard left and a harder right, and as he staggered backward, swung a broken chair frame into his midriff, drawing a shrill squeal from his blood-spattered mouth.

The big blond man was still wreaking havoc. They came at him relentlessly, but he smashed their faces or threw them across the room. Head, fists, feet, knees – he used them all with amazing skill and ferocity. They were a rough crowd in the Dog & Butcher, but it was unlikely they’d ever experienced anything like this bloke. A couple had now escaped, leaving the front door wide open. Heck snatched Lauren by the collar and hauled her towards it.

After the roiling atmosphere inside, the fresh air was almost cold. They toppled across the pavement towards the Fiat. Another of the hoodlums came staggering out after them. Lauren brought him down with a karate kick to the face. He fell into the gutter, gasping.

‘That’s enough,’ Heck shouted, spotting that she still had the knife, which was glinting crimson.

The next person to come out was the big blond man. He wiped his gloved hands on his sweatshirt as he approached.

‘You folks alright?’ he said with a grin.

Heck was leaning on the car to get his breath. He glanced up. ‘We owe you one.’

‘Nah, you don’t. Spot of useful exercise, that’s all.’

‘Who are you?’ Lauren asked.

He surveyed them, hands on hips. In full daylight, he was surprisingly good looking. His fair hair, bronze tan and trim physique gave him ‘film star’ appeal. ‘Mates call me “Deke”. You can too, if you want.’

‘That was a timely intervention, Deke,’ Heck said, straightening up. ‘Any particular reason why you put your neck on the line for us?’

‘Hardly put my neck on the line. Chocolate soldiers, that lot.’

At which point, the pub door was kicked open again. Grey Beard was there, covered head to foot in blood and broken glass. The part of his face Lauren had slashed hung off as though it had been unzipped. He swore and gesticulated at them, but he did not come outside.

‘Want more, you old fucker?’ Deke laughed. ‘Put one toe over that step, and I’ll teach you a real fucking lesson.’

The door banged closed as Grey Beard disappeared back inside.

Deke laughed again. ‘See what I mean.’

‘You still took a hell of a risk,’ Heck said.

‘It was nothing.’

‘Maybe, but I’m the sort of bloke who likes to know who’s saving his life.’

‘It’s nothing personal. I just don’t like seeing shitheads get on top. Never have.’

Heck nodded, not buying this at all, as he suspected Deke knew full well. ‘Well, no offence, Deke … but we’re out of here. Don’t want to sound ungrateful, but our business in this part of town is definitely concluded.’

‘You were looking for Ron O’Hoorigan, weren’t you?’

‘You know him?’ Lauren asked.

Deke shrugged. ‘Who doesn’t round here?’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘He lives on Lady Luck Crescent, but I don’t think he’s there very often. Any reason why you’re looking for him?’

Lauren glanced at Heck, who quickly replied: ‘Just a business thing. Gambling debt.’

Deke looked amused. ‘You two collect gambling debts?’

‘Yeah,’ Lauren said. ‘So?’

‘Forget it.’ Deke chuckled and waved away the explanation, which he clearly regarded as nonsensical. ‘Listen, you take care of yourselves.’ He edged off. ‘But when you’re collecting in future, don’t go barging into places where the debtors are likely to outnumber you ten to one. Oh, and if it helps … try sixty-nine, Regina Court.’

‘What?’ Heck called after him.

Deke was walking away, but he glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Gallows Hill flats. It’s a squat where O’Hoorigan used to buy gear. I think he kips there now and then.’

‘Gallows Hill,’ Heck said to himself.

‘You know that place?’ Lauren asked.

‘I’ll say.’

He glanced after Deke again, but the guy was now out of hearing range. Meanwhile, a crescendo of angry voices was rising inside the wrecked pub. Heck moved to the car, and ushered Lauren inside. As they pulled away from the kerb, the beaten-up rabble, newly armed with staves and pool cues, came spilling out onto the pavement. Heck watched them in the rearview mirror as the Fiat cruised away. Glancing left, he spotted Deke sauntering down into an underpass, vanishing from view.

‘Who the hell was he?’ Lauren wondered.

‘Dunno. But he can kick arse like I’ve never seen. You okay?’

‘Yeah.’ She dabbed at her bloodied nostrils with a handkerchief.

‘Par for the course in the Royal Ordnance Corps?’

‘Not exactly. Chapeltown maybe.’ They pulled off the desolate estate and rejoined the main road network. ‘We going to this Gallows Hill place now?’

‘We’re not going anywhere. You’re going back to the railway station.’

‘In this state? They’ll think I’m a right yob.’

‘If the cap fits …’

‘I just helped you out in there! Big time!’

Heck couldn’t argue with that, so he didn’t try.

‘Look, Heck … it’s okay if I call you that?’

‘Yes, you can call me “Heck”.’

‘Heck … you can’t force me to go anywhere.’ She shook her head adamantly. ‘I don’t care what you say, this is a free country. You can’t make me get on a train to Yorkshire.’

‘Okay, that’s true. But if you’ve got no money and you’re not prepared to go home, where are you going to spend the night?’

‘I’m not exactly new to sleeping outdoors.’

‘Up to you. You certainly won’t be alone in this town.’ He drove on, circumnavigating a series of concrete roundabouts.

‘What about this Gallows Hill place?’ she said. ‘If O’Hoorigan used to buy drugs there, it sounds a bit rough.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘So … are you going to call back-up?’

If only he could, he thought. As things were, he wasn’t even planning to report what had just happened. He wanted to; he knew he ought to. But the moment Gemma learned he’d been involved in a bar room brawl where civilians had been knifed, her kneejerk reaction would be to pull him back in. She might pull him in anyway, if the word reached her from other sources.

‘Well?’ Lauren asked again.

‘We’re not going to Gallows Hill just yet. I don’t fancy another fight straight away. Do you?’

‘Suppose not.’ She dabbed at her nose again. ‘So where are we going?’

Heck followed signs towards the motorway junction. ‘Somewhere we can get patched up.’

‘Who is this O’Hoorigan guy, anyway?’

‘He may know something.’

‘So we’ve got to speak to him?’

‘Correction. I have to speak to him.’

‘And while you’re getting patched up, what if he moves on?’

‘Then he moves on. It’s not like I haven’t learned anything.’

‘Eh?’ Lauren looked baffled.

‘You think we just got lucky Deke intervened when he did?’

‘He wasn’t being a good Samaritan?’

‘You don’t find many of those in that neck of the woods.’

‘He didn’t sound local, I must admit.’

‘More East Anglian, I’d say.’

‘Still doesn’t tell us much.’

Heck shook his head. ‘It tells us that we’re onto something. Trouble is, at the moment I’m not sure what.’