Читать книгу The Killing Club - Paul Finch - Страница 12

Heck was seated in his favourite breakfast bar at the bottom end of Fulham Palace Road, waiting for eggs Benedict, when his eyes strayed from his morning paper and happened to catch a breaking-news bulletin on the portable TV at the end of the counter.

Thanks to the twisted metal coat-hanger serving as the TV’s aerial, the image continually flickered, but Heck, slumped at the nearest table, was too close to avoid the photographic mug-shot that suddenly appeared on the screen. It portrayed a man in his late thirties or early forties. He was handsome, with a square jaw, a straight, patrician nose and a mop of what looked like prematurely greying hair. Even though the shot had clearly been taken in custody, he wore a sly but subtle grin.

Heck sat bolt upright.

‘Rochester,’ the newscaster intoned, ‘who was convicted of abducting and murdering thirty-eight women across the whole of England and Wales, was serving life at Brancaster Prison when he developed chest pains late yesterday afternoon. It was during his subsequent transfer to hospital when the incident occurred …’

The scene switched to an isolated road, possibly on the coast somewhere, though a barricade of police vehicles with beacons swirling prevented further access to the camera crew. Beyond them, police, forensics and medical personnel were glimpsed moving around in Tyvek coveralls. In front of the barricade stood two firearms response officers, MP5 rifles across their chests.

The gorgeous Jamaican lady behind the counter leaned over to switch the channel.

‘Whoa, no Tamara … please, I was watching that!’ Heck shouted.

She relented, sticking her tongue out at him as she moved away.

Heck remained transfixed on the screen.

‘There are reports of at least sixteen fatalities,’ the newscaster added, ‘though that number is yet to be confirmed, and of course it may increase. None of those listed, or so we’re told, is Peter Rochester … better known to the public of course as Mad Mike Silver. Rob Kent is on site with the latest …’

Rob Kent appeared on screen, a plump reporter with a balding head and wire-framed glasses. He looked pale and harassed. ‘It’s … well, it’s a terrible scene here,’ he began. ‘As you can see, the place is flooded with security personnel. Not to mention ambulances, though I have to say … I’ve yet to see any ambulances leave, though I have seen several undertakers’ hearses moving away, carrying what looked like closed caskets. This obviously means they’re moving, or have started to move, some of the dead …’

‘Do we have a clearer picture of the circumstances, Rob?’

The reporter raised his mike. ‘Well … no one’s saying very much yet, but it seems pretty clear to me. To start with, this is an incredibly bleak spot. We’re over twenty miles from King’s Lynn, nearer thirty miles from Fakenham. There is literally no other habitation anywhere near …’

He walked to his right, the camera panning with him, catching open grassland, ripples of wind blowing across it towards a flat but hazy horizon.

‘So this is the ideal spot to launch an ambush … if indeed an ambush it was. From what we can gather, the security detail taking Rochester to hospital was subjected to a highly disciplined assault. I haven’t had this confirmed by any senior members of the police yet, but those are the words I’m hearing: “a highly disciplined assault”.’

Kent shook his head; doubtless he was a seasoned reporter, a man who’d witnessed the aftermath of many atrocities, but he looked genuinely shaken by what he’d witnessed on the lonely road from Brancaster to King’s Lynn.

‘Can you confirm whether or not Peter Rochester is on the casualty list, Rob?’

‘The official line is that we have no word about Rochester’s location or condition at this time. Of course, he was being transferred to hospital because he was thought to have suffered a heart attack yesterday afternoon, so what state he’s likely to be in now is anyone’s guess …’

Heck stood up, his chair scraping back so loudly that other customers jumped. ‘Tamara, love!’ he shouted. ‘You’re going to have to cancel those Benedicts.’

She turned from the range, dismayed. ‘They’re almost done!’

‘Sorry darling … I’ve got to go. I’m sure someone else’ll appreciate them.’ He hurled the requisite money onto the counter and dashed from the café.

‘Heck … you’re flaming murder!’

Various SCU detectives were present in the DO when Heck barged in, still in his day-off gear of jeans, sweatshirt and trainers. The first one to see him came hurriedly across the office. It was DC Shawna McCluskey. Originally, like Heck, a member of Greater Manchester Police, she was short, athletic and dark-haired, but a toughie too, whose pretty freckled face belied her blunt, blue-collar attitude.

‘I bloody wouldn’t, Heck!’ she advised. ‘I genuinely wouldn’t.’

‘Seriously, pal,’ DS Eric Fisher added, lumbering up. He was SCU’s main intelligence man, and possibly the oldest officer still on the team. He was heavily built and pot-bellied, wore horn-rimmed glasses, and boasted a massive red/grey beard that the average Viking would have been proud of. ‘This has hit Gemma too … like a bombshell.’

‘Yeah, she’s been up half the night and she’s at her wits’ end,’ Shawna said.

‘So she’s in?’ Heck replied.

‘For the next few minutes, yeah. Then she’s off to Norfolk.’

‘She taking point on this?’

‘Deputy SIO,’ Fisher said. ‘They’re putting a taskforce together as we speak.’

Heck gave a wry smile. ‘Let me guess … Frank Tasker’s running it?’

‘He’s in there with her now.’

‘SOCAR …’ Heck shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t pay them in washers. I presume “we have no word about Rochester’s location or condition” is a euphemism for the bastard’s been sprung, flipping us the finger as he went?’

Fisher shrugged. ‘They haven’t got a clue where he is.’

‘And I suppose SOCAR were in charge of the transfer?’

‘Yeah, but that means they’ve taken the most losses,’ Shawna said. ‘Look Heck, Tasker seems an okay bloke … but he’s going to be feeling it today.’

‘I knew we weren’t done with these murdering, raping bastards …’

‘We are done with them,’ Shawna insisted. ‘You’ve heard what Gemma said. You’re not involved.’ But he was already backing to the door. ‘Heck, don’t do this.’

He left the room.

‘Oh shit,’ Shawna said.

‘You got that right,’ Fisher agreed.

Heck walked up the central corridor to Gemma’s cramped little office. The door stood ajar and he could hear voices inside. They weren’t heated or raised, but there was tension there – he could tell that much already. He knocked.

‘This had better be really important!’ came Gemma’s whipcrack response.

‘I’d say it was important, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘Can I come in?’

There was a brief, telling silence.

‘Yeah … come in, Heck.’

He entered, finding Ben Kane in there as well as Frank Tasker.

For her part, Gemma was slumped behind her desk, while Tasker was seated on the edge of it – which posture irked Heck no end. Okay, the guy was likely to be under pressure and probably in mourning for the personnel he’d lost, but from what Heck knew of Tasker’s reputation, he was one of those ultra high-ranking cops who always made themselves at home whoever’s office they were in. His jacket was draped over the only other chair – while Kane stood.

The next thing Heck noticed was that both Gemma and Tasker had drawn pistols from the armoury: Tasker wore his in a shoulder-holster; Gemma’s lay on the desk in front of her, alongside a glossy photograph. Guns were never ever a good thing.

It was still relatively early in the day – Heck had made it from Fulham to New Scotland Yard in near record time – but Gemma was already less than her usual pristine self. A strikingly handsome woman anyway, she didn’t need much makeup, but she believed in appearances, in making a lasting impression; and yet today she looked tired and worn. Tasker, who if Heck recalled rightly, was also known for being a snazzy dresser, was suited, but in a similarly rumpled state. Even his artificially bronzed looks had paled to an ashen hue. Only Kane seemed relaxed, maintaining his usual air of scholarly attentiveness.

‘Heck,’ Gemma said. ‘You know Commander Tasker? Serious Offender Control and Retrieval. He heads up their Special Investigations unit …’

‘I know him, yeah,’ Heck replied.

‘Sergeant Heckenburg,’ Tasker said with a curt nod.

‘Sir.’ Heck turned back to Gemma. ‘What a bloody disaster.’

She sighed. ‘By any standards. Before you ask, we’re working on the basis it’s down to a Nice Guys team who’ve come in from abroad. Somehow or other, they managed to bring an entire arsenal of high-tech weapons with them …’

‘Unless the weapons were already here,’ Heck said. ‘I know two or three underworld quartermasters we can lean on straight away …’

‘For the record!’ she interrupted. ‘We’ve lost sixteen officers, two prison personnel and two ambulance crew. There are no wounded … no survivors.’

‘A courting couple got the chop too,’ Tasker added. ‘Two civvies.’

‘How’s that?’ Heck asked.

Tasker glanced at Kane, who rummaged through his pocket-book. ‘A Jenny Barker and Ronald Withersnap,’ Kane said. ‘Looks like they were out for a late-night canoodle when the Nice Guys ran over their parked car in a JCB, killing them both in the process. They then used their bodies and the wreck of their car to stage the accident.’

‘Jesus Christ …’ Heck breathed.

‘Worst of the worst, this lot,’ Tasker said, his eyes meeting Heck’s – their gaze was cold, distinctly unfriendly. ‘Which of course you won’t need us to tell you about. Anyway, now you’re as clued-in as we are, sergeant.’

It seemed to be a morning for euphemisms. That one clearly meant ‘so fuck off back to your own office’.

Instead of taking the hint, Heck continued to ask questions. ‘What about Silver?’

‘No sign of him,’ Gemma said, with another ill-disguised sigh.

‘They just whisked him away?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘Isn’t he supposed to be ill?’

‘Not “supposed to be”,’ Tasker said. ‘He is ill. The prison infirmary confirmed it.’

‘Is it serious? I mean, how far do we expect him to get?’

‘We don’t know, Heck … okay?’ Gemma replied in a patient tone. ‘It’s too early to say.’

Heck pondered. ‘Well, I suppose the next question is did he actually tell you anything useful before he disappeared? I mean during the prison interviews?’ Their expressions remained blank. ‘Surely you’re allowed to discuss that now he’s gone?’

‘We’re not going to discuss it at this stage,’ Gemma said.

‘Which means he told you nothing …’

‘Which means we’re not discussing it,’ Tasker asserted.

‘Heck,’ Gemma said. ‘You know the kind of intel we were trying to glean from those interviews. We wanted to know about other Nice Guys associates. About Nice Guys operations abroad … how many there are, where they are, who they are. Regardless of where Peter Rochester is now, there’s still a significant amount of sensitivity surrounding that information.’

Heck shook his head. ‘I don’t see why.’

‘Because if you must know, sergeant,’ Tasker interjected, ‘the various law enforcement agencies we’re in contact with overseas are well aware of the damage done to your own enquiry into the Nice Guys by a British police insider. They don’t want their investigations to suffer in the same way.’

Which, Heck had to admit, made a kind of sense.

‘Subsequently, all info related to the prison interviews with Peter Rochester is still being handled on a need-to-know basis,’ Tasker added.

Heck nodded. ‘Okay, okay … but just out of interest, what’s this?’

He indicated the photograph on Gemma’s desk, which appeared to depict a dented car door, marked here and there with bullet holes, but in the centre of which a jumble of apparently meaningless letters had been crudely inscribed in the paintwork.