Читать книгу Stalkers - Paul Finch - Страница 10

Deptford Green Police Station was built in the 1970s, and, typically of that soulless era, was a monolithic structure of grey, faceless cement. It was three floors high and sat with its back to the Thames on a toe of land jutting out into the part of the river that looped south around the Isle of Dogs. From the front it had a relaxed air: there was a blue lamp over its tall, wide entrance and blinds in its windows.

However, the appearance of life at Deptford Green and its reality were two different things. At the rear of the station, its three impounds, which were crammed to bursting with vehicles recovered after theft or use in crime, and the official personnel car park, were surrounded by nine-foot-high steel fences that were covered in anti-climb paint and had security lights located at regular intervals along their parapets. Also around the rear of the station, offensive, anti-police graffiti was much in evidence (the local commander only insisted on its prompt removal when it appeared at the front), alongside a litter of bricks and broken bottles, which had all been used as missiles on various occasions. There were even bullet-holes in some parts of the station’s exterior, though these too tended to be repaired quickly.

Deptford, once a thriving dockland, had gone through various incarnations in its past. In the present post-industrial era it had become an urban waste, and even though at the same time it had developed a lively arts and cultural scene, crime and poverty were rampant behind its colourful façade. As a result, though things had improved a little since the dawn of the twenty-first century, there was still an aura of ‘Fort Apache’ about Deptford Green nick, and this was reflected inside as well as out. Even by normal London standards, it was an extraordinarily busy police station. Both uniform and plain clothes officers tended to scramble about its cramped rabbit-warren of passages and rooms as though in a ‘life or death’ hurry. There was a constant trilling of telephones and barking of orders. The custody suite was never less than full of prisoners waiting to be processed.

Of course, Sunday morning could be an exception. Even the bleakest corners of the inner city tended to be quiet in the soporific hours following the weekly Saturday night booze-fest.

For this reason, when Heck drove in just after ten that morning, he was surprised to see several more cars parked up than usual, and one in particular – a white BMW Coupe. He stood looking at it for a moment, before going wearily in through the personnel door. The first person he met on entering was Paula Clark, his civilian admin assistant. She was a short, buxom lady, a local lass – bleached-blonde and busty, very much in the Barbara Windsor mould – who’d been loaned to him from local CID Admin.

‘What are you doing here?’ he said, surprised to see her at the weekend.

Paula appeared to be on her way out. She was carrying her coat and a handbag under one arm, and a bundle of reports, which she presumably intended to type up at home, under the other. She didn’t smile when she saw him – not that she smiled very much – though on this particular occasion she looked even more irate than usual.

‘I had to come in and sort some papers out because you weren’t answering your phone,’ she said.

He filched his mobile from his jacket pocket and saw that it was dead. ‘Bastard thing’s on the blink again.’

‘Superintendent Piper’s here,’ she added.

‘I know. I’ve just seen her car outside. What does she want?’

‘You.’ Paula gave him a long, meaningful look, then bustled past on her spike-heels and exited the building.

Heck ascended to the second floor via the back stairs. The office he currently worked from was located in what he was sure was the most under-used and least accessible corner of the building. Local officers here still referred to it as ‘the spare parade room’ even though Heck had now occupied it for over two years.

He headed down the corridor towards it, only stopping when he saw that the door was already open and the tall shape of Detective Inspector Des Palliser standing there. Palliser was fifty-five now and a hard-bitten cop of many years’ experience, though his lean, grizzled appearance – he was leathery skinned and had sported a scraggy grey beard and moustache for as long as Heck could remember – belied a genial personality. He spotted Heck immediately and beckoned. Heck slouched on towards him, in no hurry. There was someone else in the office, pacing around behind Palliser. By the statuesque shape, pearl blouse, tight black skirt and mass of tawny hair (she wasn’t known as ‘the Lioness’ for nothing), he knew it was Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper. Not atypically, she had a pile of documents in her hand and was discarding them irritably, one after another, as she read speedily through them.

‘Morning at last,’ Palliser said, when Heck reached him.

Heck didn’t say anything. He’d just spotted a notice that someone had hung on the outside of the office door, which read:

WDFA Squad

(We Do Fuck All)

He could have done without that at a time like this, he thought.

Detective Superintendent Piper was now regarding him from the other side of the room. Locks of hair, which she tended to wear up during the day, had come loose and hung to either shoulder, making her look rather fetching. But she was pale in the cheek and her steel-blue eyes blazed.

‘Do you know we’ve been waiting nearly two hours?’ she said.

‘Er … no, I didn’t.’

‘What do you think you’re playing at, Heck?’ she demanded. Heck was six foot, but Superintendent Piper wasn’t a great deal shorter than him; even if she had been, her force of personality was colossal. She stalked the room in anger. ‘You think I want to spend my Sunday mornings sifting through your chaotic trash?’

‘My phone’s not working.’

‘Well get one that does!’

‘I will … if I can include it on my expenses.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘You what?’

‘I’ve worn it out on this job, so if I have to buy another one …’

‘Are you deliberately winding me up?’

‘No, it’s just that …’

‘Because I’m not in the mood.’

‘I can see that.’

She jabbed a finger at him. ‘And don’t smart-mouth me either.’

‘An apology might be in order, Heck,’ Palliser said. ‘You have kept us waiting.’

‘I know, sorry. But I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘That’s plainly obvious,’ Superintendent Piper replied, gesturing at the piles of disorderly documentation stacked between the computer terminals, at the unwashed coffee mugs, at the overflowing in-trays. ‘Look at this place; it’s like a bomb site. And while we’re on the subject …’ She crossed the room and snatched the notice from the outside of the door. ‘What’s this supposed to be?’

Heck gave a wry smile. ‘Wouldn’t be a normal day without one of these appearing.’

‘You been rubbing people up the wrong way?’

‘I don’t get close enough to rub anyone up any way,’ he said. ‘Not anymore. I’m pretty sure it was one of this nick’s detectives who tipped off Bobby Ballamara that his daughter’s disappearance is being treated as part of a series. Don’t see how else he could have found out. He’s made my life hell ever since.’

‘Have you got proof of that?’ Palliser asked, looking shocked.

‘Course I haven’t.’

‘And in the meantime, what does this mean?’ Superintendent Piper asked, still brandishing the notice.

Heck shrugged. ‘You know what Division are like – they don’t think anyone works as hard as they do. According to them, I’m on a very cushy number here.’

‘Unfortunately, they’re not the only ones who think that.’ There was a brief silence. Superintendent Piper suddenly looked awkward, uncomfortable.

‘Oh,’ Heck replied. ‘So that’s how it is?’

‘You must’ve known something like this was coming,’ Palliser said.

‘Rumblings at the Yard, are there?’

‘Your comparative-case-analysis didn’t have the desired effect,’ Palliser explained.

Heck slumped into a chair, making no effort to disguise his irritation. ‘Three bloody weeks I worked on that.’

‘The effort was clearly there,’ Superintendent Piper said, sitting opposite. ‘But that’s all. Considering the time put in, the evidence is too thin. How long have you been on this case now?’

‘Two years, four months.’

‘And ground gained – zero.’

‘I need more men,’ he protested.

‘Well you’ve got one less from today.’

Heck sat up slowly. ‘How can I have one less than none?’

‘The one less is you, Heck,’ Palliser said.

Heck glanced from one to the other, finally fixing on Superintendent Piper. ‘You’re not shutting it down?’

‘It’s not my choice.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Laycock. What a surprise.’

‘It’s a nothing case,’ she retorted. ‘You’ve admitted that yourself.’

‘In moments of frustration I may have admitted that.’

‘There seems to be more frustration than anything else.’

He stood up. ‘Look, what’s the problem? I’m working every hour God sends, but most of it’s for free. I haven’t made any unreasonable requests for overtime.’

‘The problem is you could be better used elsewhere,’ she said. ‘Crime doesn’t stop just because you’re involved in something you find more interesting.’

‘“Interesting”?’ Heck could hardly believe what she’d just said. ‘We’ve got thirty-eight missing women here! Surely it’s more than “interesting”?’

Superintendent Piper responded by rifling through a few files and print-outs, of which there were plenty strewn across the desk. ‘Where’s the evidence they’re connected? Where’s the pattern? Some of them are four hundred miles apart, for God’s sake! Sorry … I’ve trusted you on this for nearly two years, but that’s it. The trust’s run out.’

‘Look, ma’am …’

‘Don’t give me the usual blarney, Heck. You’re one of the best detectives I’ve got, but these hunches of yours are proving an expensive luxury. And look at the bloody state of you! For God’s sake, tidy yourself up!’

‘Don’t you even want to know why I’m in this state?’ he wondered.

‘No.’

‘I’ve been on an all-night surveillance operation. And guess what, I had to do it all myself because there’s no one else to help.’

Voices could now be heard out in the corridor; one of them had a distinct South London twang, distinguishing it as that of DCI Slackworth, who ran the CID office here at Deptford Green.

‘I’ve got one new lead in particular, which is looking really good,’ Heck added. ‘But I haven’t even had a chance to start following it yet.’

‘Put it all on paper,’ Superintendent Piper said, half-listening to the voice outside and looking again at the notice that had been pinned to her officer’s door. ‘Each case is being referred back to the divisional CID or mis-pers department that originally dealt with it. Your new stuff can go with them.’

‘Thirty-eight missing women, ma’am.’

‘You think,’ Palliser said.

‘But how can we just close it down?’ Heck asked. ‘We’re the Serial Crimes Unit, for Christ’s sake!’

Superintendent Piper stood up. ‘We’ll keep it under review. But at present we haven’t got the resources.’

‘How about if …’

‘I’m not arguing with you, Heck. I’ve actually done you a courtesy coming down here to tell you in person. I could’ve sent Des, I could’ve told you on the bloody phone. Just deal with it, alright.’

She marched to the door, pulling on her suit jacket.

‘You know, it’s a miracle anyone stays in this job,’ Heck said. ‘And I’ll tell you another miracle – that we ever catch anyone with some of the clowns we’ve got in charge.’

‘Watch it!’ She rounded on him fiercely. ‘Just watch it, Sergeant!’

‘I didn’t mean you …’

‘I don’t give a damn! I won’t have insubordination! Now your work here is done. So do us all a favour, get your paperwork in order and, following that, get your head in order. Then get your scruffy arse back to the Yard, pronto.’

And she was off, storming down the passage to catch up with DCI Slackworth – a burly, foursquare slaphead with flabby cheeks and pig-mean eyes – who was busy chatting up a pretty young female constable from the day-shift.

Heck watched her go, sourly.

‘Do you think anyone’ll mind if I light up in here?’ Palliser wondered, edging out of view of those in the corridor.

‘How should I know?’ Heck replied.

‘It’s your office.’

‘Not anymore.’

At the end of the corridor, Superintendent Piper was standing arms folded, yet still managing to wave the notice around, as she gave both barrels to Slackworth. The familiar whipcrack voice came echoing along the passage, and Slackworth, a tough-nut in front of his own crew, was soon shuffling awkwardly and looking abashed.

‘“The Lioness”,’ Heck said. ‘Talk about well named.’

‘She has a softer side.’ Palliser was now beside an open window, blowing smoke. ‘If anyone should know that, it’s you.’

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘She still cares about you though.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘For one thing, she reckons you need some leave.’

‘What?’

‘You’re in a state, Heck. You haven’t had a break in two years.’

‘I haven’t been able to.’

‘Beside the point.’

‘No it isn’t.’ Heck indicated the empty desks and tables. ‘I used to have six officers working for me in here, Des. One by one, I’ve watched them get shunted to other duties. All I’ve had for the last nine weeks is an admin assistant, part-time.’

Palliser shrugged. ‘Understanding why you’re knackered isn’t really a solution to it. She’s the gaffer and she reckons that your judgment’s become impaired. You’re losing sight of the wood for the trees.’

‘So I’m a burn-out as well?’

‘Not far off.’

‘This is bollocks.’

‘No, she’s genuinely concerned.’

‘I mean this whole thing.’

‘Oh that, yeah. That’s definitely bollocks.’ Palliser suddenly glanced up at the ceiling, wondering belatedly if there was a smoke-detector present, and relaxing when he saw that there wasn’t. ‘You’re a DS, Heck, that’s all. Yet for two years you’ve been working under your own steam, authorising your own hours and resources. It was inevitable someone was going to whinge about it. It’s politics, typical office bullshit. But it’s not unimportant.’

‘Especially not when someone like Laycock’s involved, eh?’

While Superintendent Piper was head of the Serial Crimes Unit, her immediate supervisor, Commander Jim Laycock, was director of the National Crime Group and was, to all intents and purposes, God. Despite this, Heck had managed to bump heads with him on a number of occasions.

‘Laycock’s answerable to a higher power as well,’ Palliser said, as if this was some kind of consolation.

‘He’s a pencil-pushing suit.’

‘Which is all the more reason to fall in line for him. He has to balance the books somehow. Given the history you and him have got, it’s a wonder he’s let it drag on this long.’

Heck walked back to his desk, his head aching with frustration. He sat down heavily. ‘At the end of the day, all I’m concerned about is these missing women. I can crack this, Des. I know it. I can find them, or at least find out what happened to them.’

Palliser chucked his cig-butt from the window. ‘We’ve been through this already, mate. Wrap it up and get some rest. God knows, you need it.’