Читать книгу Ashes to Ashes: An unputdownable thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller - Paul Finch - Страница 8

The quarter of Peckham where Fairfax House stood was not the most salubrious. To be fair, this whole district of South London had once been renowned for its desolate tower blocks, maze-like alleys and soaring crime rates. That wasn’t the whole story these days. It was, as so many internet articles liked to boast, ‘looking to the future’, and its various regeneration projects were ‘well under way’. But there were still some pockets here which time had left behind.

Like the Fairfax estate, the centrepiece of which was Fairfax House.

A twelve-storey residential block, it stood amid a confusion of glass-strewn lots and shadowy underpasses, a textbook example of urban decay. Much was once made in the popular press of the menacing gangs that liked to prowl this neighbourhood, or the lone figures who would loiter on its corners after dark, looking either to mug you or to sell you some weed, or maybe both, but the sadder reality was the sense of hopelessness here. Nobody lived in or even visited this neighbourhood if they could avoid it. Several entire apartment blocks were now hollow ruins, boarded up and awaiting demolition.

At least Fairfax House had been spared that indignity. Darkness had now fallen, and various lights showed from its grotty façade, indicating the presence of a few occupants. There were several cars parked on the litter-strewn cul-de-sac out front, and even a small sandpit and a set of swings on the grass nearby, fenced off by the residents to keep it free from condoms and crack phials. Even so, this wasn’t the sort of place one might have expected to find John Sagan.

A high-earning criminal, or so the story went, Sagan would certainly value his anonymity. Unaffiliated to any gang or syndicate, he was the archetypical loner. He wasn’t married as far as the Local Intelligence Unit knew; he didn’t even have a girlfriend, or boyfriend for that matter. He worked by day as an office admin assistant, and as such seemed to lead a conventional nine-’til-five existence. This, presumably, was the main reason he’d flown beneath the police radar for as long as he had. But even so, it was a hell of a place he’d found to bury himself in. It wouldn’t appeal to the average man in the street. But then, contrary to appearances, there was nothing average about John Sagan. At least, not according to the detailed statement Heck had recently taken from a certain Penny Flint, a local streetwalker of his acquaintance.

Heck, as his colleagues knew him – real title Detective Sergeant Mark Heckenburg – was currently ensconced in Fairfax House himself, though in his case lolling on a damp, badly-sprung sofa on the lower section of a split-level corridor on the third floor. Immediately facing him was the tarnished metal door to a lift which had malfunctioned so long ago that even the ‘Out of Order’ notice had fallen off. On his right stood a pair of fire-doors complete with glass panels so grimy you could barely see through them; on the other side of those was the building’s main stairwell. It was a cold, dank position, only partly lit because most of the bulbs on this level were out.

He’d been here the best part of the afternoon, with only a patched-up jumper, a pair of scruffy jeans, a raggedy old combat jacket and a woollen hat to protect him against the March chill. He didn’t even have fingers in his gloves, or socks inside his rotted, toeless trainers. Of course, just in case all that failed to create the impression that he was a hopeless wino, he hadn’t shaved for a week or combed his hair in several days, and the half-full bottle of water tinted purple to look like meths that was hanging from his pocket was not so wrapped in greasy newspaper that it wouldn’t be spotted.

The guise had worked thus far. Several of the gaunt individuals who inhabited the building had been and gone during the course of the day, and hadn’t given him a second glance. But of John Sagan there’d been no sign. Heck knew that because, from where he was slumped, he had a good vantage along the passage, and number 36, the door to Sagan’s flat, which stood on the right-hand side, hadn’t opened once since he’d come on duty that lunchtime. The team knew Sagan was in there – officers on the previous shift had made casual walk-bys, and had heard him moving around. But he was yet to emerge.

Heck was certain he would recognise the guy, having studied the photographs carefully beforehand. Purely in terms of appearance, Sagan really was the everyday Joe: somewhere in his mid-forties, about five-eight, of medium build, with a round face and thinning, close-cropped fair hair. He usually wore a pair of round-lensed, gold-rimmed spectacles, but otherwise had no distinguishing features: no tattoos, no scars. And yet, ironically, it was this workaday image that was most likely to make him stand out. In his efforts to look the part-time clerk he actually was, Sagan favoured suits, shirts, ties and leather shoes. But that wasn’t the regular costume in this neck of the woods. Far from it.

And yet this was only one of many contradictions in the curious character that was John Sagan.

For example, who would have guessed that his real profession was torturer-for-hire? Who would have known from his outward appearance that he was a vicious sadist who loaned his talents to the underworld’s highest bidders, and performed his unspeakable skills all over the country?

Heck wouldn’t have believed it himself – especially as the Serial Crimes Unit had never heard about John Sagan before – had the intel not come from Penny Flint, who was one of his more trustworthy informants. She’d even told Heck that Sagan had a specially adapted caravan called the ‘Pain Box’, which he took with him on every job. Apparently, this was a mobile torture chamber, kitted on the inside with all kinds of specialist devices ranging from clamps, manacles and cat o’nine tails to pliers, drills, surgical saws, electrodes, knives, needles and, exclusively for use on male victims, a pair of nutcrackers. To make things worse, and apparently to increase the sense of horror for those taken inside there, its whole interior was spattered with dried bloodstains, which Sagan purposely never cleaned off.

Penny Flint knew all this because, having offended some underworld bigwig, she herself had recently survived a session in the Pain Box – if you could call it surviving; when Heck had gone to see her in her Lewisham flat, she’d been on crutches and looked to have aged thirty years. She’d advised him that there were even medical manuals on the shelves in the Pain Box to aid Sagan in his quest to apply the maximum torment, while its central fixture was a horizontal X-shaped cross, on which the victims would be secured with belts and straps. Video feeds of each session played live on a screen positioned on the ceiling overhead, so that the victims were forced to watch in close detail as they were brutalised.

As he waited there on the semi-derelict corridor, and took another swig of ‘meths’, Heck recollected the initial reaction back at the Serial Crimes Unit, or SCU as it was officially known in police circles, when he’d first broken the story. Strictly speaking, a freelance torturer operating inside the underworld wasn’t entirely within their normal remit, but it was anyone’s guess how many people this guy had maimed and/or murdered. It was way too tempting a case to simply hand over. Even so, there had been understandable doubts expressed.

‘Why haven’t we heard about this guy before?’ DC Shawna McCluskey wanted to know.

Shawna had grown increasingly cynical and pugnacious the longer she’d served in SCU. These days she never took anything at face value, but it was a fair question. Heck had asked the same of Penny Flint when he’d been to see her. The primary explanation – that Sagan was an arch-pro and that those he was actually paid to kill were disposed of without trace – was plausible enough. But the secondary explanation – that he’d mostly tended to punish gangland figures who’d betrayed or defied their bosses, and so those who were merely tortured and released again would be unwilling to blab – was less so. Contrary to popular belief, the much-mythologised code of silence didn’t extend widely across the underworld. But then, Penny Flint had been the proof of that. From what she’d told Heck, she’d had no idea who Sagan initially was and had merely thought him another customer. She’d gone off with him voluntarily to perform a sex service, or so she’d expected. When they’d arrived at what she assumed was his caravan sitting on a nondescript backstreet in Lewisham, she’d had no idea what was inside it.

Perhaps if he’d simply beaten her up, Penny would have accepted it as justified punishment for a foolish transgression, but Sagan was nothing if not a meticulous torturer. In her case, after she’d recovered from the chloroform to find herself manacled and helpless, it had been deliberately sexual – the idea being not just to hurt her in a deep and lasting way, but to deprive her of an income afterwards. And that was too much to tolerate.

‘Why is Flint tipping us the wink?’ Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper, head of SCU, asked. ‘What does she have to gain?’

‘In this case I think it’s personal, ma’am,’ Heck replied.

‘That won’t cut it, Heck – we need specifics.’

‘Well … she wasn’t very forthcoming on the details, but she’s got a kid now. A baby – less than one year old.’

‘Bloody great!’ DC Gary Quinnell chipped in. A burly Welshman and a regular attender at chapel, he was well known for tempering his sometimes brutal brand of law-enforcement with Christian sentiment. ‘God knows what kind of life that little mite’s going to have.’

‘The first thing it’s going to get acquainted with is the Food Bank,’ Heck replied. ‘By the looks of Penny, she won’t be working the streets any time soon. Unless she can find some johns who like getting it on with cripples.’

Gemma shrugged. ‘So she’s got a child and suddenly she’s lost her job. Perfect timing. But how does grassing on John Sagan help with that?’

‘It doesn’t, ma’am. But Penny isn’t the sort to go down without a fight. She told me that if she isn’t good for the game any more, she’ll make sure this bastard’s put out of business too.’

‘So it’s purely about revenge?’ Gemma still sounded sceptical.

‘Penny’s an emotional girl, ma’am. I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her.’

It hadn’t been a lot to go on, but it had been a start. Heck had touched other snouts for info regarding Sagan, but none had been prepared to talk. At least, not as much as Penny Flint. She’d given them the suspect’s description, his home address, his place of work and so forth. In fact, just about the only thing she hadn’t been able to deliver was the Pain Box, which he supposedly kept in a lock-up somewhere else in South London, though its actual location was his best kept secret. They’d searched hard, but no avenue had led to his ownership of any kind of vehicle other than a battered old Nissan Primera, which he’d owned since 2005 and which was parked outside Fairfax House at this very moment. Of course, it didn’t help that Penny Flint didn’t know the vehicle registration mark of the Pain Box. It had been late at night when Sagan had taken her to it, and, not knowing what was about to happen, she hadn’t been paying attention to detail.

This was no minor problem.

Even the medical evidence proving that Penny had been severely assaulted was useless on its own; firstly, because there was nothing to physically link this act to John Sagan, but secondly, and mainly, because Penny valued her status as a cash-earning police informer, and had no intention of giving evidence herself – not in open court. The best they could do in this case was ‘respond to information received from an anonymous tip’ by stopping and searching the caravan for items intended for use in criminal activity, and then ‘discovering’ the many bloodstains inside it, which the forensics boys could later, hopefully, link to an extensive list of past crimes – in that event it wouldn’t matter that Penny wasn’t prepared to witness for them.

‘We need that caravan,’ Gemma said emphatically. ‘We could raid his flat, but what would be the point? If this guy’s as careful as Flint says, every incriminating thing in his life is stored in this so-called Pain Box.’

With regard to Sagan himself, it was highly suspicious how clean he seemed to be. No criminal record was one thing, but his employment, financial and educational histories were also unblemished. The guy appeared to have led a completely uneventful life, which was almost never the case with someone involved in violent crime.

‘What we’ve got here is a real Jekyll and Hyde character,’ Heck declared. ‘Openly a picture of respectability, deep down – very deep down – a career degenerate.’

‘Inspired comparisons with cool horror stories don’t make a case,’ Gemma replied. ‘We still need that caravan.’

Short of putting out public appeals, which was obviously a no-no, they’d done everything in their power to locate the Pain Box, but had still come up with nothing. However, when Heck went to visit Penny Flint a second time, now in company with Gemma, it was the prostitute herself who made a suggestion.

‘Why don’t I just piss the local mob off again?’ she said. ‘They’ll send him to teach me another lesson, and you can nab him.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Heck asked her.

‘Christ’s sake, Heck, this is easy. After he finished with me last time, I was half dead, but still conscious enough to listen to his threats. “If I need to see you again, it won’t end so well,” he said. And he really meant it, I’ll tell you.’

‘Who paid him to do that to you?’ Gemma asked.

‘Don’t be soft,’ Penny snorted. ‘I’m not telling you that.’

‘OK, no names, but what did you do to annoy them?’

‘Gimme a fucking break, Miss Piper –’

‘Hey!’ Gemma’s voice adopted that familiar whip-crack tone. ‘We’re not here at your disposal, Miss Flint. Our job is to enforce the law, not pay off private scores. And we can’t do that flying blind. At present we don’t even know who you are, never mind John Sagan. So the least you can do is enlighten us a little.’

Penny glanced at Heck. ‘You gave me your word I’d be immune from prosecution if I helped you out with this …?’

Heck shrugged. ‘Unless you’ve done something very serious, we’re only interested in Sagan.’

‘OK, well …’ She hesitated. ‘Doing a bit of delivering, wasn’t I?’

‘Delivering what?’ Gemma asked. ‘Drugs? Drugs money?’

‘Bit of both. You know the scene.’

‘And let me guess, you were skimming?’

‘What else?’ Penny’s cheeks reddened. ‘Hey, you’re looking at me like I’m some kind of criminal.’

Neither of the two cops commented, though both wanted to. Even so, she detected the irony.

‘Don’t get smarmy on me, Heck. Look at the state I’m in. I’m past forty. Even before that bastard Sagan tore my arse and pussy inside-out, how much shelf-life did I have left? Anyway, I thought I’d been careful. Thought no one’d notice me dip, but they did. And … well, you know the rest.’

‘And you’re seriously saying this firm would trust you with that job again?’ Heck said.

‘Yeah.’ She seemed surprised he’d ask such a question. ‘Sagan’s a scary guy. They’re sure I’ll have learned my lesson.’

‘And what you’re proposing is to commit exactly the same offence all over again?’ Gemma said. ‘Even though you know what the outcome will be?’

‘The difference is this time you lot’ll be sitting on Sagan, won’t you? You can jump on him as soon as he gets his caravan out.’

They were impressed by her courage – in fact they were quietly startled by it. Heck wondered if her desire for revenge was getting the better of her common sense, to which she merely shrugged.

‘Heck – we both want the guy gone. The only way we can make that happen legally is for you to catch him in the act with his Pain Box. This is the quickest and most obvious way to make that happen.’

‘Miss Flint,’ Gemma said. ‘This time you may have pushed things too far. He could just shoot you through the head.’

‘Nah. The firm I’m talking about like to make a show. Besides … Pain Box, gun? Why will it matter? Like I say, you lot’ll jump on him first.’

It had sounded simple initially, but of course there were complicating issues. Even if Penny Flint had been prepared to testify in court, the fact that, by her own admission, she’d been stealing from an underworld bigwig would have made her an unreliable witness. It could even have allowed the defence to accuse the police of conspiracy for ‘encouraging’ her to steal again. It was all the more important, therefore, that the team write up their interest in Sagan as an anonymous tip-off, and go solely on any evidence they found inside the Pain Box, keeping Penny out of it altogether. Despite that, the risks of using a female civilian as bait would be extraordinary. Since the operation had gone live four days ago, Gemma had assigned a round-the-clock armed guard to her flat – all covertly of course, which had added an extra dimension of difficulty.

The same applied to the stakeout at Sagan’s flat.

Thus far, in addition to slumping on this ratty old couch in his state of feigned inebriation, Heck had kept watch for another eight hours from behind a window in the empty low-rise on the other side of the cul-de-sac, and had spent half a day in the back of a shabby old van parked right alongside Sagan’s Primera. Other detectives in the surveillance team had spent hours ‘fixing’ a supposedly broken-down lorry on the same street, while another one – Gary Quinnell of all people, all six-foot-three of him – had donned a hi-vis council-worker jacket in order to sweep gutters and pick litter. The common factors had always been the same: damp, cold, the soul-destroying greyness of this place, and then the smell – that eerie whiff of decay that always seemed to wreathe run-down buildings. The word ‘discomfort’ didn’t cover it; nor ‘boredom’. Even their awareness that at any time they could be called into action – an awareness that was more acute than normal given that every officer here was armed – had gradually faded into the background as the minutes had become hours and, ultimately, days.

Heck shifted position, but in sluggish, slovenly fashion in case someone was watching. He hitched the Glock under his right armpit. It wasn’t a familiar sensation. Though every detective in SCU was required to be firearms-certified, and they were tested and assessed regularly in this capacity, he for one had rarely carried a pistol on duty. But this was an unusual, open-ended operation which no one was even sure would bring a result. Gemma had opted for pistols purely for self-defence purposes, thanks to Sagan’s deadly reputation – though again there was no certainty that reputation had been well earned.

And this lack of overall certainty was the real problem.

There was no way Gemma would commit so many SCU resources to this obbo indefinitely. She was on the plot herself today, having arrived early afternoon, and was now waiting in an unmarked command car somewhere close by. That wasn’t necessarily a good sign – it might be that she’d finally put herself at Ground Zero to get a feel for what was going on, maybe with a view to cancelling the whole show. On the other hand, it could also mean that Sagan’s non-appearance today – all the previous days of the obbo he’d gone to work as usual – might mean something was afoot. They knew he only worked at his official job part-time, so perhaps to maintain the impression of normality he would only indulge in his extracurricular activities on one of his days off.

Heck chewed his lip as he thought this through.

Penny Flint reckoned she’d dipped again into her employers’ funds some four days ago. The retribution could come at any time, but if Sagan was a genuine pro he wouldn’t respond with a kneejerk. He’d strike when the time most suited him – not that they’d want him to leave it too long. That could be inviting the bird to fly.

‘Sorry to break radio silence, ma’am,’ the voice of DC Charlie Finnegan crackled in Heck’s left ear. ‘But two blokes have just gone in through the front door of Fairfax House, male IC1s, well-dressed – too well-dressed if you know what I mean. Can’t help thinking I recognise one of them, but I’m not sure where from, over.’

There was a brief lull, before Gemma’s voice responded: ‘Be advised all units inside Fairfax House – we may have intruders on the plot. Could be nothing, but stay alert. Charlie, did these two arrive in a vehicle, over?’

‘Negative, ma’am, not that I saw. They approached from Parkinson Drive, which lies adjacent to Fairfax House on the southeast side. I’m making my way around there now, over.’

‘Roger that … PNC every vehicle parked, and make it snappy. Heck, you in position?’

‘Affirmative, ma’am,’ Heck replied quietly – he could hear a resounding clump of feet and the low murmur of voices ascending the stairwell on the other side of the fire-doors. He checked his cap to ensure it concealed his earpiece. ‘Sounds like I’m about to get company, over.’

‘Received, Heck … all units stand by, over.’

The airwaves fell silent, and Heck slumped back onto his sofa, eyelids drooped as though he was in a drunken daze. The footfalls grew louder, the fire-doors swung open and two shadowy forms perambulated into view. In the dim light, Heck wasn’t initially able to distinguish them, though from their low Cockney voices he could tell they were both males, probably in their thirties or forties.

‘Q&A session first, all right?’ one said to the other. ‘Don’t let on we know anything …’

For a fleeting half-second the duo were more clearly visible: shirts, sports jackets, ties hanging loose at the collar. And faces, one pale and neatly bearded – he was the taller and younger of the two; the other older and grouchier, with hang-dog jowls.

To Heck they were unmistakeable.

He held his position until they’d passed him, ascending the three steps to the dingy corridor and trundling off along it. He sat upright to watch their receding backs. Once they were out of earshot, he leaned close to his lapel mic. ‘Heckenburg to DSU Piper … ma’am, I know these two. They’re ours. DS Reg Cowling and DC Ben Bishop from Organised Crime.’

In the brief silence, he could imagine Gemma gazing around at whoever else was in the command car, mystified. ‘What the hell are they doing here?’ she’d be asking. ‘How the devil did they get onto this?’ He could also picture the blank expressions that would greet these questions.

‘They’re heading down Sagan’s corridor,’ Heck added. ‘There’ll be other villains living in this building, but if it’s not him they’re here for, ma’am, I’m a sodding Dutchman.’

‘Can you intercept, over?’

‘Negative, ma’am … they’re virtually at his door.’

‘Understood. Heck, hold your position. All we can do now is hope.’

Heck stood up, but slammed himself flat against the wall beside the steps, crooking his neck to look along the passage. He understood her thinking. If he went running down there and tried to grab the two cops, there was every possibility Sagan would open the door and catch all three of them. If he kept out of the way, however, it was just vaguely possible the duo had some routine business to conduct with the guy and might be on their way out again in a minute, with no one any the wiser about the obbo. That latter option was a long shot, of course. Like SCU, the Organised Crime Division was part of the National Crime Group. They didn’t deal with routine matters. There was one other possibility too, which was even more depressing. Suppose Cowling and Bishop were up to no good themselves? Could it be they were here to see Sagan for reasons unconnected with police-work? If so, that would be a whole new level of complexity.

Heck squinted down the gloomy passage. The twosome had halted alongside number 36. They didn’t knock immediately, but appeared to be conferring. He supposed he could try to signal to them, alert them to an additional police presence, but the idea was now growing on him fast that these two might have nefarious motives.

A fist thudded on the apartment door. Heck held his breath. At first there was no audible response, then what sounded like a muffled voice.

‘Yeah, police officers, sir,’ Cowling said. ‘Could you open up? We need to have a chat.’

Heck breathed a sigh of relief. They weren’t in cahoots with Sagan after all. But now he felt uneasy for other reasons. Given the severity of Sagan’s suspected offences, this was a very front-on approach – it seemed odd the two detectives had come here without any kind of support. Did they know something SCU didn’t, or did they simply know nothing? Had ambition to feel a good collar overridden the necessity of performing some due diligence?

The muffled voice intoned again. It sounded as if it had said ‘one minute’.

And then two thundering shotgun blasts demolished the door from the inside, the ear-jarring din echoing down the passage. Cowling and Bishop were blown back like rag dolls. The impacts as their bodies struck the facing wall shook the entire building.

‘This is Heck inside Fairfax House!’ Heck shouted into his radio as drew his Glock. ‘Shots fired – immediate armed support required on the third floor! We also have two officers down with gunshot wounds. We need an advance trauma team and rapid evac! Get the Air Ambulance if you can, over!’

A gabble of electronic voices burst in response, but it was Gemma’s that cut through the dirge. ‘Heck, this is DSU Piper … you are to wait for support, I repeat you are to wait for support! Can you acknowledge, over?’

‘Affirmative, ma’am,’ Heck replied, but he’d already removed his woolly hat and replaced it with a hi-vis, chequer-banded baseball cap. Climbing the three steps, he advanced warily along the corridor, weapon cocked but dressed down as per the manual. ‘Both shots fired through the door from inside number 36. Sounded like a shotgun. Both Cowling and Bishop are down … by the looks of it, they’ve incurred severe injuries, over.’

‘What’s your exact position?’ Gemma asked.

‘Approx thirty yards along the corridor … but I’m going to have difficulty reaching the casualties. They’re both still in the line of fire, over.’

‘Negative, Heck! You’re to get no closer until you have full firearms support. Am I clear?’

‘Affirmative, ma’am.’ More by instinct than design, Heck continued to advance, but ultra-slowly, his right shoulder skating the right-hand wall. At twenty yards, he halted again. Neither of the shotgunned officers was moving; both lay slumped on their backsides against the left-hand wall. The plasterwork behind them was peppered with shot and fragments of wood, but also spattered with trickling blood.

Heck’s teeth locked. In these circs, hanging back felt like a non-option. These were fellow coppers pumping out their last. He pressed cautiously on. And then heard a sound of breaking glass from inside the flat.

‘Crap!’ He dashed forward, only for a door to open behind him. He spun around, gun levelled. The thin-faced Chinese woman who peeked out gaped in horror. ‘Police officer!’ he hissed. ‘Go back inside! Stay there!’ The door slammed and Heck resumed his advance, radio mic to his lips. ‘This is Heck – suspect’s making a break for it through a window. It’s three floors down, so I don’t know how he’s going to manage it. But his flat’s on the building’s northeast side, which overlooks Charlton Court … we’ve got to get some cover down there, over.’

Even as he said it, Heck knew this would be easier said than done. The surveillance team on Fairfax House was no more than eight strong at any time. Even with Gemma on the plot, that only made it nine – so they were spread widely and thinly. On top of that, though armed and wearing vests, they were geared for close target reconnaissance, not a gun-battle. No doubt, Trojan units would be en route, but how long it would take them in the mid-evening London traffic was anyone’s guess. He slid to another halt as a dark shape appeared at the farthest end of the corridor, about twenty yards past number 36. By its size and breadth, and by the luminous council-worker doublet pulled over its donkey jacket, he recognised it as Gary Quinnell, whose lying-up position was on one of the floors above. The burly Welshman had also drawn his firearm, and was in the process of pulling on the regulation baseball cap.

They acknowledged each other with a nod. Heck lowered his weapon and proceeded, stopping again about five yards from the shattered doorway.

‘Armed police!’ he shouted. ‘John Sagan, we are armed police officers! There’s no point in resisting any further! Stop this bloody nonsense, and throw your weapon out!’

There was no reply. No further glass crashed or tinkled.

They waited a couple of yards to either side of the front door. From this close range, it was plain that Reg Cowling was dead. His face had been blown away; in fact, his head had almost detached. However, Bishop, while wounded in the face, which was riddled with gashes and splinters, and the right shoulder, which resembled raw beefsteak through the rents in his smouldering jacket, was vaguely conscious. He was ashen-cheeked, but his eyes, which by some miracle had both survived, were visible beneath fluttering, blood-dabbled lashes.

‘Bastard went for head-shots,’ Heck said. ‘Expected them to be wearing body armour.’

Penny Flint had told them Sagan was a pro. Here was the proof.

‘This is Heck,’ he said into his radio. ‘Update on the casualties … both in a collapsed state and suffering extensive gunshot injuries. DS Cowling appears to be dead, DC Bishop is conscious and breathing – how long for, I can’t say. We still can’t reach them.’

Gemma’s response broke continually and was delivered in a breathless voice, which indicated she was running. Before he could make sense of it, it was blotted out by another explosion of glass from inside the flat.

‘He’s going for it!’ Quinnell warned. ‘Must have decided the coast’s clear!’

‘I repeat, we are armed police officers!’ Heck shouted. ‘Throw your weapon out!’

With a third shuddering BOOM!, what remained of the front door was blasted outward. Again, DC Bishop got lucky. The shot was directed above him, so though he was bombarded by wreckage, he was spared further pellet-wounds.

A loud clunk/clack from inside signified that a fourth shell had been ratcheted into place.

‘Pump-action!’ Heck said.

More glass was struck from its frame. The detectives locked gazes across the open doorway, brows beaded with sweat.

‘We can’t just let him run,’ Heck stated flatly.

Quinnell didn’t argue the point.

Heck swallowed the apple-sized lump of phlegm in his throat, and wheeled partly around into the doorway, only his left arm, left shoulder and the left side of his head visible as he tried to pinpoint the target. Quinnell did the same from the other side.

But the immediate area, which was an actual living room, was bare of life.

There was no sign of the guy. None at all.

They were vaguely aware of plain, simple furnishings, of bookshelves that were empty, of bland pictures on the walls. But there were also doors to other areas, one on the left and one on the right. On the far side of the room stood three tall sash-windows. The left one had been smashed out.

‘Doors first,’ Heck said, running right, but finding only an empty bathroom. ‘Clear!’ he yelled, spinning back.

Quinnell had gone left. He reappeared from the bedroom. ‘Clear.’

Heck darted for the left window, which had had to be broken because, by the look of it, Sagan had only been able to lift the lower panel several inches. He flattened himself against the wall, and risked a glance through it. Some twenty feet below, a figure in dark clothing – what looked like a heavy overcoat – and with the shotgun hung from its shoulder by a strap, scampered away across the tops of five flat-roofed garages standing in a terraced row. It was instantly apparent how he’d got down there. Some five feet to the left of the window, about six feet above it, there was a horizontal steel grating – the platform section of an old-fashioned fire escape. The fire escape stair dropped steeply down on the far side of that. There was no possibility of reaching either the stair or the platform by jumping. But the killer had prepared for this in advance by connecting a knotted rope to the underside of the grating, and looping it over a hook alongside his window, where it would hang down the apartment house wall unobtrusively. All he’d had to do when the time came was get a firm grip, unhook it so that it swung away from the window, thus preventing anyone in pursuit using the same method, and slither down to the garage roofs.

Heck peered dully at the hanging rope a good five feet away. He was vaguely aware of Quinnell appearing alongside him.

‘Bastard!’ the Welshman said, spying the dwindling form of Sagan as he reached the far end of the garages.

About sixty yards to the right of these, a uniformed police car swung over the grass into Charlton Court from the cul-de-sac at the front. Unfortunately, it was only a divisional patrol responding to the call that had just gone out, and it wouldn’t be armed, which rendered it next to useless. Besides, Sagan had now jumped from the left side of the garage roofs onto Bellfield Lane, which led away at a much lower level. As well as the rugged, rubbish-strewn slope slanting down to this, there was a high mesh fence along its edge, which formed an impassable barrier for vehicles. Sagan made a rapidly diminishing shape as he raced away along the lower road. Still there was no sign of a Trojan unit.

‘Check the casualties,’ Heck said tightly.

Quinnell nodded, and went back across the flat.

Heck holstered his Glock and put his mic to his mouth. ‘This is DS Heckenburg … urgent message. Suspect, John Sagan, is at large and on foot … male IC1, mid-forties, fair-haired, wearing glasses and a dark, possibly black overcoat. Currently escaping northeast along Bellfield Lane. Warning, Sagan is armed with a pump shotgun and more than willing to use it. For the cerebrally challenged, that means he’s armed and dangerous. I repeat: John Sagan is armed and very dangerous!’ He bit his lip, and added: ‘In pursuit.’

‘Hey, whoa!’ Gary Quinnell shouted, as Heck climbed up into the casement.

The hanging rope was only five feet away. Heck knew there was a good chance he’d make it, but he also knew that if he stopped to think about this he wouldn’t go any further. So he didn’t think, just launched himself out, diving full-length – and dropping like a stone, maybe ten feet, before managing to catch hold of the rope. Several more feet of cold, greasy hemp slid through his fingers before he brought himself to a halt, ripping both his gloves and the flesh of the palms underneath. Doing his best to ignore the blistering pain, he clambered down and alighted on the garage roof nearest the building.

‘Suspect heading northeast along Bellfield Lane!’ he shouted down to the two uniforms who’d spilled onto Charlton Court from their patrol car, faces aghast at what they’d just seen Heck do. ‘Spread the word!’

Without waiting for a response, Heck ran due north along the flimsy roofs, feet drumming on damp planks covered only in tarpaper, jabbering into his radio again, giving instructions as best he could. At the far end, he dropped onto all fours and swung his body over the parapet. He hung full-length and dropped the last five feet, before careering downhill through grass and clutter onto the road.

‘Bellfield Lane heading northeast,’ he shouted, hammering along the tarmac. ‘Any units in that direction to respond, over?’ But the airwaves were jammed with cross-cutting messages. ‘Shit … come on, someone!’

As he ran, the vast concrete shape of a railway gantry loomed towards him. Above it, stroboscopic lights sped back and forth as trains hurtled between East Dulwich and Peckham Rye. Conversely, the shadows beneath the structure were oil-black. In normal times this would be a muggers’ paradise, but Heck was armed, and besides the night was now alive with sirens – it was just a pity none were in the immediate vicinity.

Beyond the railway overpass, a sheer brick wall stood on the right, but on the left there was wire fencing, and behind that another slope angling down to a glass-littered car park. The fence’s second section was loose, disconnected along the bottom, giving easy access to the other side. Heck swerved towards it – only to find that his quarry, neatly camouflaged in his all-black garb, had secreted himself flat at the foot of the waiting slope. The first Heck knew of this was the muzzle-flash, and the hail of shot that swept the wire mesh.

He threw himself to the pavement, rolling away and landing in the gutter – where he lay on his back, gun trained two-handed on the wall of fencing.

Until he heard feet clattering away again.

He scrambled to his knees.

A dark shape was haring across the car park below, at the far side of which a concrete ramp led down onto yet another housing estate, this one comprising rows of near-identical maisonettes. Heck slid under the fence and gave chase, stumbling down the slope until he reached the level tarmac, all the time trying to get through on his radio.

‘Is no one fucking listening to me?’ he shouted. ‘For what it’s worth … still in pursuit, suspect still on foot, still armed, opening fire at every opportunity. Heading west onto the Hawkwood estate. Listen, this is a built-up area with lots of civvies. Not many around at present, but someone’s got to get over here fast. Over and fucking out!’

At the foot of the ramp, he vaulted a railing and ran along a boulevard faced on two sides by front doors and ground-level windows. Sagan was still in sight at the far end – a minuscule figure, which abruptly wheeled around, levelled the shotgun at its waist and fired twice. Heck was out of lethal range – Sagan was using buckshot rather than solid slugs – but instinct still sent him scrambling for cover behind a bench. When he glanced back up Sagan remained visible, but it went against all the rules to open fire in a residential zone like this. You didn’t even need to be a poor shot; ricochets could go anywhere. To make matters worse, several doors had opened as curious householders peeked out.

Sagan darted left along a side-street. Heck vaulted the bench and gave chase, shouting at the onlookers as he did. ‘Police! Lock your doors! Stay away from the windows!’

He rounded the corner and descended a flight of steps into a covered area. Sagan was visible again, framed in the exit on the other side. He let off two more rounds. Heck dived sideways, smashing through a decayed wooden hoarding and entangling himself in heaps of musty second-hand furniture. He fought his way out through a rear door and sprinted along an alley, hoping to head the bastard off – only to emerge into another car park.

Again, Sagan was waiting, shotgun levelled.

Heck ran low, scuttling behind a row of parked vehicles. Sagan blasted each one of them in turn, bodywork buckling, safety glass flying, before turning, ascending a flight of steps and dashing down a passage between faceless walls. Heck slid over the nearest bonnet and charged up the steps. He entered the passage, which was about fifty yards long; at the far end of it Sagan was rapidly reloading. Before Heck could point his pistol and shout, the bastard fired twice; ear-shattering detonations in the narrow space. This time, as Heck pitched himself down, he pegged off three quick shots of his own, which caromed along the passage, missing their target but sending him ducking out of sight.

Heck retreated around his corner, sucking in lungfuls of chill air. He risked a second glance. The passage still looked empty, but Sagan could be lying in wait, and once Heck was halfway along he’d be a sitting duck. He ran back down the steps, along a row of caged-off shops, and around the base of a tower block. He’d expected to find open space on the other side, but instead the shell of a derelict industrial building stood there.

Swearing, Heck panted the new directions into the radio as he set off running again. At the end of the factory wall there was a net fence and on the other side of that a deep canyon through which another railway passed. The London Overground, Heck realised, though at present it was a good twenty feet below him. He glanced right. The nearest route across it was an arched steel walkover about fifty yards off. A figure was already traipsing over this – slowly, tiredly.

Sagan.

The killer and torturer was an arch-pro. But he was also in early middle age. His energy reserves were finally flagging.

Heck took a short cut along a narrow defile between the factory’s north wall and the railway fence. Initially he had to get through barbed wire, and then found himself negotiating thick, leafless scrub entwined with wastepaper and rubbish. Inevitably, cans and bottles clattered, causing such a racket that the figure on the bridge stopped and looked around – and began to run again. By the time Heck got to the bridge, there was no sign of him.

Exhausted himself, Heck lumbered up the steel staircase and over the top. A train thundered past below, a chaos of light and sound, illuminating the footway to its far end. There was a possibility Sagan could reappear over there – while Heck was hemmed between neck-high barriers of riveted steel. But that didn’t happen. He made it to the other side, descended the stair to half way and halted, hot breath pluming from his body. Open waste-ground lay ahead, on the far side of which stood a cluster of dingy buildings: workshops, offices and garages, with an old Ford van parked at the front. Sagan was almost over there, moving at a fast but weary trudge – about sixty yards distant.

Heck raised his pistol and took aim, but he wasn’t a good enough marksman to ensure a clean shot from this distance. Especially not at night. He continued down, and inadvertently kicked a beer bottle on the bottom step. It cartwheeled forward and smashed.

Sagan twirled around.

Heck scampered down the last couple of steps and veered sideways. Sagan strode back, shooting from the waist like a character out of a western, working the slide again and again, pumping fire and shot. Heck scuttled and crawled, but found no more cover than bits of rubbish and sprigs of weed.

At which point a third party intervened.

‘Drop it!’ came a fierce female voice. ‘Do it now, or I’ll shoot you, you bastard … I swear!’

Heck glanced up, to see a short, shapely figure in jeans, trainers, an anorak and a chequer-banded police cap, circling around from behind the van, her Glock trained with both hands on the back of John Sagan’s head. The gunman froze, the shotgun clasped in his right hand, his left held out to his side.

‘I mean it, you dickless wonder!’ the girl cop shouted in a ringing northern accent. ‘Drop that weapon now, or I’ll drop you!’

Heck’s mouth crooked into a smile as he rose to his feet. It was Shawna McCluskey.

Someone had heard his frantic transmissions after all. And if anyone had, he ought to have realised it would be his old mucker Shawna, who’d started off with him all those years ago in the Greater Manchester Police.

Sagan remained rigid. From this distance, his face was unreadable. Dots of yellow street-light glinting from the lenses of his glasses gave him a non-human aura. His right hand opened and the shotgun clattered to the floor.

‘Keep those mitts where I can see ’em!’ Shawna shouted, approaching from behind. ‘You all right, Heck?’

‘Never better,’ he called, dusting himself down.

‘Kick the weapon back towards me,’ Shawna said, addressing Sagan again. ‘Backheel it … don’t turn around. And keep your hands spread where I can see them … in case you didn’t realise it, you lowlife shithead, you’re under arrest!’

Sagan did exactly as she instructed, the shotgun bouncing past her and vanishing beneath the van. Now Heck could see him more clearly: his black overcoat, a black roll-neck sweater, black leather gloves, black trousers and shoes, his pale face, the thinning fair hair on top, and those gold-rimmed glasses. Yet still the killer was inscrutable, his features a waxen, sweat-soaked mask.

‘DC McCluskey on a lorry park off Camberwell Grove,’ Shawna said into her radio. ‘One in custody. Repeat, one in custody.’

But only now, as she angled around her captive, did Heck spy the possible danger.

Her Glock was trained squarely on Sagan’s body, but side-on, the target’s width had reduced and Sagan’s left hand was suddenly only inches from the muzzle of her weapon – and it was with this hand that he lunged, slapping the pistol aside, and in the same motion, spinning and slamming his other hand, now balled into a fist and yet glittering as if encased in steel – a knuckleduster, Heck realised with horror – straight into Shawna’s face.

Her head hinged backward and she dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

‘Shawna!’ Heck bellowed.

But he was still forty yards away. He raised his pistol, but again had to hesitate – Sagan had dropped to a crouch alongside the policewoman’s crumpled form, merging them both into one. Heck dashed forward as the killer flipped off Shawna’s hat and smashed his reinforced fist several times more into her head and face. Then he snatched up her Glock and fired it once into her chest, before leaping to his feet and bolting towards the parked van.

Heck slid to a halt and fired. The van’s nearside front window imploded as Sagan scarpered around it, returning fire over his shoulder, and proving uncannily accurate. Nine-millimetre shells ricocheted from the ground just in front of Heck. He fired back, but Sagan was already on the other side of the vehicle and shielded from view. A door slammed closed somewhere along the front of the building. Heck scrambled forward, but kept low. The killer was now indoors; he might have any number of concealed vantage points from which to aim.

‘DC McCluskey down with head injuries and a possible gunshot wound,’ Heck shouted into his radio, skidding to one knee alongside her, still scanning the grimy windows overhead.

In the partial protection of the van, Shawna lay limp. Heck tore open her jacket and gasped with relief when he saw the slug flattened on her Kevlar vest – it hadn’t penetrated. However, her face was a mass of bloodied pulp, her splayed hair glutinous with gore. He probed for the carotid artery. Her throat was slick with blood, but at last he found a pulse.

An engine now growled to life somewhere inside. Fresh sweat pinpricked Heck’s brow.

As he leaped to his feet, a pair of double doors some twenty yards to the left exploded outward in a shower of splinters and rusted hinges, and a powerful SUV came barrelling through. Heck backed away from Shawna’s body to get a clear shot. But Sagan was already firing through the open passenger window, wildly, blindly. Heck let off one round before diving for cover, aiming at the SUV’s front tyre but missing by centimetres. In the process he caught a fleeting glimpse of the vehicle’s make and model. A Jeep Cherokee, dark-blue in colour with bull bars across the front, but with its headlights switched off it was impossible to make out the registration number. It was towing a gleaming white caravan, which tilted onto one wheel as the car swerved away across the wasteland, finally righting itself again as it accelerated into the darkness. Heck gave chase for several yards. He even got off one final shot, hitting the caravan’s rear door, which judging by the lack of visible damage, was armoured. And then the target was gone, vanishing around the corner of a warehouse, the roar of its engine rapidly diminishing.

Heck got urgently onto the radio, relaying as much info as he could while rushing back to Shawna. As before, she lay perfectly still, and now the blood had congealed in her hair.

When he felt her carotid a second time, there was no pulse.