Stalkers (10 page)

‘Do you want a drink yet?’ he asked, reaching for the bottle.

‘No.’ She snatched it away. ‘And you don’t either.’

They stared at each other, Heck having to lean on the kitchen units to stay upright. He rubbed at his face. It was numb, damp with sweat.

‘What’s in that room?’ she asked.

‘Which room?’

‘The room you didn’t want me to look in when we first got here.’

‘Have you come as a friend or a boss, Gemma?’

She looked surprisingly torn by the question. ‘Heck, I can’t be one or the other. Not when the stakes are as high as this.’

He nodded gravely, as if there was no point denying reality any longer, and levered himself upright, beckoning her to follow him out of the kitchen. In the hall, he yanked open the screen door he’d hurried to close on arriving. Again, a mess of heaped paperwork met their gaze. He switched the light on, bringing it into full clarity.

It was, as he’d said, an office. There was a desk, a swivel chair and a computer terminal. All were swamped with documents – official police documents by the looks of them, covered in typing and handwritten notes – but also maps, wanted posters, newspaper clippings. Two of the walls were occupied by noticeboards hung with further paperwork. A closer glance at this revealed witness statements, progress reports, criminal intelligence print-outs. The facing wall was more neatly arrayed with glossy photographs: the blown-up headshots of various different women. Lines and arrows had been drawn between them with a blue marker pen; captions and notations had been scribbled on the wallpaper.

‘Jesus H. Christ,’ Gemma said with slow disbelief. ‘You’ve set up your own incident room.’

‘Sorry boss, but I couldn’t let this go. I don’t care what anyone says.’

She picked a few documents up – gingerly, almost as if she wanted to check they were real but was hoping they weren’t. ‘You haven’t done all this in one evening. I know you haven’t … not when you were in the bloody pub getting wasted.’

Heck shrugged. ‘I had a feeling this was coming. I’ve been making copies of everything and bringing them here for weeks.’

‘You understand what this means, Heck?’ She turned to look at him with an expression that was more fear than anger. ‘This isn’t just a bit of indiscipline, this is an actual
crime
. This is all Laycock will need to bounce you right out of the job.’

Heck offered her his wrists. ‘You’d better take me in then, hadn’t you?’

Gemma gazed back into the makeshift incident room, at the thirty-eight lovely, smiling faces on its far wall. Even now, after seeing them so many times, their effect on her was physically sobering. Each one didn’t just represent a human life snatched away in its prime, but a devastated family: sorrowing children, tortured parents, a bereft spouse.

‘You may recall I drew up this profile some time ago,’ Heck said. ‘Women who were never likely to go off under their own steam. Career women, graduates, young mothers. Girls who’ve all got a good family life, good prospects, that sort of thing. You’ll notice there are no hookers or drug addicts here …’

‘
Heck, I’m familiar with the facts!
’
she snapped, sounding furious but still pale with shock. Her voice dropped to an intense whisper. ‘What I’m not familiar with is a level of disrespect for the chain of command that knocks everything else you’ve ever done into a cocked hat! In God’s name, what did you not understand about me telling you this case was closed?’

‘Every part of it,’ he replied brazenly. ‘Every single word.’ He wheeled around and tottered back into the lounge, where he slumped into the armchair. When she reappeared in the doorway, he picked up the telephone. ‘Shall I call for prisoner transport, or will you?’

She shook her head. ‘You have put me in some difficult situations, Mark Heckenburg, but this is …’

‘I’m sorry, Gemma,’ he slurred. ‘But we are where we are.’

‘Oh great. The philosophy of the drunk. That’s all I bloody need.’ She paced back and forth, rubbing at her brow with a carefully manicured finger. ‘You know, Heck, when we were hotshot young DCs at Bethnal Green, you were always three or four steps ahead of the game. You ran rings round the scrotes, the guv’nors. You were a risk-taker, but you
so
knew what you were doing. That’s what made it exciting to work with you. The angles and tangents we went off at – we never knew where we were going to finish up. It was like living in a high-octane cop movie. And then one day, DCI Jewson – remember him, fat belly, shaggy beard – we used to call him Grizzly Adams? A real old-stager, he was. He took me to one side and said: “Darling, you’ve got a great future. But you’re too close to young Heckenburg for your own good. That lad’s running before he can walk and he’s got way too many tricks up his sleeve. Mark my words, when he goes down – and he will
–
he’s going to take a chunk of the service with him.” Those were his exact words, Heck. I’ve never forgotten them. How could I? Because that’s when I decided that enough was as good as a feast, and that maybe me and you should cool things a little …’

A gentle snore from the other side of the room interrupted her.

She turned, to find Heck asleep in the armchair. She regarded him for several anguished moments, before shaking her head, taking him by the armpits and lugging him out of his seat, across his lounge and down the hall. Finally, with no little grunting and struggling, she deposited him on his bed, where she stared at him again for several long seconds. ‘Damn it, Heck, why do you always do this to me?’

He didn’t respond. So she switched the light out, before leaving the room.

Ian Blenkinsop sat in silence as he was driven down what he presumed were dark and empty roads. He presumed, because he couldn’t actually see. He was wearing a blindfold, a leather strap pulled tightly around his head, but with a cotton wool pad fitted over each of his eyes to prevent any possible chink of vision. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was unnerving, as was the presence of the two men who sat one on either side of him.

They never spoke, except to make the odd laconic comment about other road users, or the state of the towns and villages they passed through. Noticeably, they never once put a name to any of these places. Neither did they name each other. They were clearly aware that Blenkinsop was listening.

Not that he had much interest in their conversation at present.

He was physically weak, drained of energy and emotion. He was also nauseous; his gut tightened progressively until soon the muscles in his back and sides were tense and aching. His mouth had gone dry; his throat was constricted, and chill sweat bathed his cheeks. The motion of the car wasn’t responsible: it glided smoothly, without as much as a jolt. It was also air-conditioned, its interior fragrant of leather and felt.

‘Excuse me, I’m sick,’ he finally said. ‘Can we stop the car?’

‘Funny how so many of them want to be sick on the way back,’ one of the men remarked.

‘I’m serious. I’m going to throw up.’

‘Wait a minute.’

Slowly, the vehicle eased to a halt. There was a click as the handbrake was applied but the engine was allowed to continue running. Blenkinsop felt cool air as the door on his left-hand side was opened. Feet clumped on tarmac as one of the men climbed out.

‘Lean over this way, Mr Blenkinsop. And don’t even think about taking that blindfold off.’

Blenkinsop wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone, but now he did exactly as instructed. The man on the right-hand side took hold of him by the collar of his coat, so that he wouldn’t fall out of the car completely.

‘Okay, let it go,’ the first man said.

Blenkinsop felt a surge in his belly, as though everything inside him was about to explode out of his mouth in a torrent. But to his surprise, it was only a trickle, and it felt frothy, light. It didn’t even taste of vomit. Rather disgustingly, he realised, it was the champagne he’d drunk earlier; that was all he’d taken into his system in the last few hours. He retched again – another trickle, this one even thinner than the first. The next one was a dry-heave.

‘That it?’ the man asked. ‘Okay, back in with you.’

Blenkinsop was pulled back into the vehicle. The man climbed in alongside him. The door was closed, and the car moved on.

The journey seemed endless. It had been lengthy when he’d been coming the other way – somewhere between two and three hours by his reckoning; and on that occasion he’d been in a state of eager anticipation. Now that he was riddled with horror and fear, it seemed infinitely longer. They’d first picked him up in a rural lay-by near Tring. In the amount of time it had taken to reach their destination, they could have visited almost any part of southern or central England. Of course, by the same token, they may have taken him no more than a few miles, but had driven round and round in deliberate circles to throw him off the trail.

He tried to put these thoughts from his mind. What did he think he was doing, for Christ’s sake: collating evidence? The best thing now was to keep his mouth shut. As soon as they released him, he’d head for home and not look back once. But that would be easier said than done.
That horrendous thing .
. .

Blenkinsop was still shaking with disbelief at what he’d just participated in. At what – for Christ’s sake – he’d actually
purchased
. Oh, he was under no illusions about himself: he liked to think that he was a family man, but when it came to sex there were some real quirks in his character. He’d discovered that on umpteen trips overseas on behalf of the bank – to the Gulf and North Africa, to developing countries with unstable governments, where just about anything was available if you were prepared to pay for it. He’d often tried to reconcile these dark inner traits with the knowledge that this was the anything-goes twenty-first century, and that sexual experimentation was no longer frowned upon the way it once had been. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel dirty and wretched whenever his lust had been sated – not that any previous experience, no matter how extreme, compared with this one.

He wondered if he was going to be sick again, and struggled to fight it down. It seemed unlikely that the men in the car would tolerate another unscheduled stoppage.

He had to put it all from his mind. That was the only solution. Time healed everything. Even the most dreadful things faded from importance eventually. Another few weeks and it wouldn’t matter to him a jot, he was sure. He could relax again, get on with his life. It was all behind him. But still he had to wrestle with himself, to silence the voice of his conscience that was calling shame upon him, to shut the image of Louise’s frightened, child-like face from his mind’s eye.

If only they hadn’t made him stay behind afterwards.

‘Just a bit of extra insurance, Mr Blenkinsop,’ the one in the orange mask had said, as the one in purple had laid a body-length PVC bin-bag on the bed alongside Louise’s unconscious, naked form, and then produced a coil of what looked like piano wire. Blenkinsop knew he’d never forget the heart-stopping shock of that moment. As Purple unravelled the wire, he’d noticed that it was fitted with wooden grip-handles, one at either end.

Orange had chuckled. ‘You being here –
involved
, if you like – means you’re even less likely to go telling tales, doesn’t it?’

Blenkinsop had been half-dressed at the time and still coming down from the rapture of thoroughly enjoying the woman who had taunted him for so long. But he’d never expected to be made to witness the winding of that gleaming wire around her soft, white neck. He’d never imagined having to listen to the grunting efforts of the man in purple as he used the wooden handles to twist and twist and twist, exerting incredible pressure. Most of all, he’d never expected the inert body to start moving slightly, the leaden limbs jerking and twitching.

‘Amazing how they do that, isn’t it?’ Orange had remarked. ‘Out for the count, but there’s still something inside that’s aware she’s about to snuff it. Still, kinder than if she was fully conscious, eh?’

The contents of Blenkinsop’s gut lurched into his mouth again, but again – thankfully – there was nothing there of note, and he was able to gulp it back.

When she’d finally gone limp – had just flopped down lifeless – that was probably the most horrible part of it. Of course, he’d seen that a dozen times in the movies: a body fighting to survive for torturously long moments and then abruptly giving up the ghost; but in real life it was the most numbing, hair-raising thing he’d ever seen. Even then it had felt unreal – probably because at some subconscious level he couldn’t bring himself to accept what he was seeing – though now, in retrospect, it seemed naive to have expected the situation with Louise to be resolved any other way. They always undertook to ensure the crime would go unreported. That was their firm guarantee; they had dozens and dozens of satisfied customers who were still free men, who were at no risk of losing their liberty, and if he asked no questions about how this was brought about, he’d be told no lies – so he hadn’t asked. Of course he hadn’t. And even now, appalled again by the memory of Louise’s final, futile death struggles, he didn’t think he’d necessarily have wanted them to take a different course of action. He hadn’t known the girl well enough to like her, much less care about her, but he wouldn’t have wished such a fate upon her – that was never his intention, and he needed to keep reassuring himself of that; it had never been his plan to …
murder
(yes, like it or not, that was the word). And yet, loath to admit it though he was, it suited his purpose. Now there was absolutely
no
danger she would talk – you could never say that about someone you’d paid off or simply threatened.

Oh, it was hideous; there was no denying it – her eyes frozen in a lovely face turned purple and disfigured; her body, once young and supple, now cold, broken, stiffening, being wrapped in soulless plastic, bound with fishing twine like some demonic Christmas package – but it was for the best. Louise Jennings was now gone. It was over for her. But for him, life must go on.