Sacrifice (47 page)

A couple of days after her operation, Gemma woke up in a private room attached to the surgical recovery ward, to find sunshine streaming through the half-open blinds, bouquets of flowers at the end of her bed, and Heck sitting alongside her, popping seedless grapes into his mouth.

She eyed him for several moments. Moving anything else wasn’t easy, as she was heavily patched and padded, her right arm and shoulder fastened in stiff orthopaedic supports. She was still attached to a drip, which was supposedly feeding her anaesthetic as well as nutrition, though it perhaps wasn’t feeding it fast enough, because she ached from head to toe.

‘Those grapes are mine, you know,’ Gemma finally said, wincing.

‘I know.’ He popped another into his mouth. ‘They’re good too.’ As usual, he looked like he’d just come in from a lengthy shift: tie loose, collar unbuttoned, jacket rumpled.

‘Apparently, this time you’re the only one who didn’t get hurt?’ she said.

‘Give me a break. What about that dog bite?’

‘Don’t be so soft.’

‘They went down fighting, that’s for sure.’

She pondered that. ‘We got all of them, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What about Enwright?’

Heck shrugged. ‘Two fractured vertebrae, but he’ll recover. That said, I’m not sure he’ll ever be deemed fit to plead. He’s not undergone any evaluation yet, but … I dunno, the guy’s as mad as a hatter.’

‘So long as he’s locked away.’

‘I don’t think there’s any danger there. He’s got Broadmoor written all over him.’

‘And what’s the damage? I mean to us.’

‘Oh … extensive.’

‘Who’s the worst?’

‘You, probably.’

‘Not Shawna?’

‘Not as bad as first feared. Mainly it’s splinters. She’ll be off her feet for a few weeks.’

‘How about Gary?’

‘Headache.’

‘Andy Gregson?’

‘A worse headache, but getting better.’

‘Garrickson and Finnegan?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘You’re all heart, Heck. How’s Claire?’

‘Well …’ He paused, lips pursed, trying not to look too saddened by the near-tragedy that had befallen their former press officer. ‘She’s hurt and she’s shaken up … badly. But there’s no lasting physical injury. She’s a tougher lass than she looks.’

‘Something to tell her grandkids about?’ Gemma suggested.

‘Yeah … sure. But we won’t be seeing her again. I assume you know that?’

Gemma nodded, and grimaced with pain. ‘I … I should never have brought her into this in the first place.’

‘She’d probably have coped in almost any other circumstance.’

‘Maybe.’ She eyed him again. ‘I know you said that you and her were just mates, but I kind of thought, if she’d stayed with us long term … that, well, things between you might have changed?’

‘Thought or hoped?’

‘Wondered.’

‘Some chance.’ He gave her his best wolfish smile. ‘You know there’s only ever been one woman for me.’

‘Trying to catch me when I’m vulnerable?’

He regarded her thoughtfully. It could never be less than alarming to see Gemma in this condition. She was ghostly white; her eyes had circles underneath them so dark they looked like bruises. For someone who normally radiated strength and fire, she was listless, fragile, so feeble she could barely move. But it was important to remember the words of the senior surgeon who’d removed the arrow and at the same time had saved her right arm: ‘I couldn’t have done it without her. The shock alone would have killed most people. She’s a battler, this one.’

‘You’re never vulnerable,’ he said. ‘Take this, for example …’ He took a document from his pocket and unfolded it. ‘It’s a copy of a memo sent from NCG Director Joe Wullerton to the Home Office, dated yesterday.’ He began to read: ‘“In light of the successful conclusion to this enquiry, but also with regard to the exceptional numbers of casualties incurred by the Serial Crimes Unit, the evidence would suggest that, far from being a waste of taxpayers’ money, the SCU in actual fact provides a vital service, despite clear evidence that it is undermanned, under-resourced and lacking in logistical support. It is my firm recommendation that, instead of closing the department down or merging it, we take all necessary action to boost its strength and facilities so that it may continue its essential work …”’

‘Nice,’ Gemma replied, nodding, as if this was something she’d expected.

‘Joe rang this morning to say it’s too early to claim a result, but the signs are good.’

She nodded again, contented.

‘I thought you’d be jumping around the room in paroxysms of glee,’ he said.

‘Sorry … bit under the weather for that.’

‘Now who’s being soft?’

‘Heck, I’ve been thinking … as Des Palliser and Bob Hunter are gone, I’m in desperate need of a new DI.’

‘No worries there. They’ll be queuing up to work with you.’

Her tone remained patient. ‘You know what I’m saying.’

‘Course.’ He smiled again. ‘And the answer’s no. I prefer my roving commission.’

‘You know, Sergeant Heckenburg … you’re never going to get close to me again unless you start climbing the ladder.’

‘Wanna bet?’ He leaned down and kissed her forehead. ‘Got to go. Duty calls.’

‘See you later,’ she said, as he moved to the door.

Outside in the corridor, he met Gemma’s mother. She was hanging her coat in an alcove. He’d once heard it said that if you wanted to see the future self of the girl in your life, you needed only to look at her mother. If that was true, the signs were good for anyone who finished up with Gemma Piper. Melanie Piper was as tall as her daughter, equally trim, equally handsome, equally blonde, though that blonde hair was running a little to silver. As usual, she was attractively dressed, in a flower-patterned frock and heeled sandals.

‘Hello Mrs Piper,’ Heck said.

‘How many times have I told you, Mark?’ she replied admonishingly. ‘It’s “Mel”. Anyway, how’s our girl today?’

‘After a wound like that, most folk would be up and about in around six weeks. With Gemma, it’ll be about six days.’

‘I’ll make sure she doesn’t do anything silly, like go back to work early.’

‘I doubt the insurance will cover her until she’s seen out her doctor’s note.’

‘And how are you, Mark?’

‘I’m okay … good.’

She eyed him critically. ‘Quite a hair-raising case.’

‘That’s the job.’

‘You and Gemma should be together, you know that? It would make you stronger.’

He shrugged, smiled. ‘We’re both pretty strong already.’

‘I said stronger.’

‘Maybe.’

‘There are no maybes about it. See you soon … I hope.’ She bustled past him into her daughter’s private room.

Heck headed outside into the midday sun. He wasn’t sure whether this merry month of May would ever seem quite the same again, though that had been at least part of the motive behind the recent desecrations, so he determined to put such depressing thoughts from his mind. As he climbed into his car, his mobile rang.

‘Heckenburg,’ he said, placing it to his ear.

‘Hello,’ came an uncertain voice. ‘This is DI Strickand, Nottinghamshire. I understand you’re the Serial Crimes Unit?’

Heck almost laughed. ‘I am at the moment, yeah.’

‘I’ve got something I’d like you to take a look at. But I warn you in advance … it’s a weird one.’

‘That’s okay,’ Heck said, getting a pen out. ‘Weird is what we do.’

As with
Stalkers
, the first novel in this series, there are an awful lot of people I owe a debt of thanks to for this book. However, it is largely the same crowd, so it would seem a bit repetitive to namecheck them all again. In which case, perhaps you can allow me this opportunity to make a brief but rather personal acknowledgement.

My late father, Brian Finch, a very fine author in his own right, and a lifelong inspiration to me, departed this world in 2007 at the tragically young age of 70, having risen from very humble origins in our home town of Wigan, a sooty coal-mining borough back in those days, to embark on a career in television that, quite remarkably, would span almost four decades. He contributed numerous scripts to almost every popular TV show of the 1970s, 1980s, 1990s and 2000s, including such classic crime series as
Z Cars
,
Public Eye
,
Hunter’s Walk
,
Shoestring
,
Juliet Bravo
,
The Gentle Touch
,
Bergerac
and
Saturday Night Thriller,
though his crowning glory was his loving adapation of Michelle Magorian’s
Goodnight Mister Tom
for Carlton Television in 1998, which deservedly won a BAFTA.

All through this time, my dad was an invaluable source of advice, encouragement and ultra-close friendship. I think he’d always harboured hopes that I would follow him into the writing game, but when I joined the Greater Manchester Police he was as supportive as ever. Many years later, when it became obvious that I too had a desire to put pen to paper, he was there at my shoulder again, a font of thoughts and enthusiasm. It was my dad’s suggestion that I should write about what I knew best, police work. Of course, there was no shortage of cop stuff on the telly and an awful lot of authors wanted to participate, but my dad reckoned, correctly, that I would have an advantage over most of them in that I’d actually been out there and had done the job for real.

The rest, as they say, is history.

I have no doubt that my authentic police experience secured me my first script work on ITV’s long-running police series,
The Bill
, and it was there, in one of the slickest script departments in modern television, where I learned my craft and honed my skill. And yet it remained the case until my dad’s final days that he was always the first port of call whenever I had writing ideas to kick around, writing problems to resolve, or simply wanted a good old chinwag about the strange world we’d both bought into.

So there we go, Dad. You were the spark who lit the blue touch-paper and the warm breath who kept it burning during lean times. These books, which sadly you never saw, are the eventual outcome. It probably wouldn’t be going too far to say that Mark Heckenburg, their central character, has many of your traits – an affable nature, a crafty street-wisdom and an indomitable spirit forged in the industrial north. What can I say but thanks a ton. I could never have done it without you.

Dazzer and Deggsy didn’t give a shit about anyone. At least, that was the sort of thing they said if they were bragging to mates in the pub, or if the coppers caught them and tried to lay a guilt-trip on them.

‘We do what we do, innit? We don’t go out looking to hurt people, but if they get in the way, tough fucking shit. We pinch motors and have a laugh in ’em. And we’re gonna keep doing it, because it’s the best laugh ever. No one’s gonna stop us, and if they get, like, really pissed off because we’ve just wrecked their pride and joy, so what? We don’t give a shit.’

Tonight was a particularly good night for it.

Alright, it wasn’t perishing cold, which was a shame. Incredible though it seemed to Dazzer and Deggsy, some numbskulls actually came outside, saw a bit of ice and snow and left their motors running for five minutes with the key in the ignition, while they went back indoors for a cuppa; all you had to do was jump in the saddle and ride away, whooping. But if nothing else, it was dank and misty, and with it being the tail-end of January, it got dark early – so there weren’t too many people around to interfere.

Not that folk tended to interfere with Dazzer and Deggsy.

The former was tall for his age; just under six foot, with a broad build and a neatly layered patch of straw-blonde hair in the middle of his scalp, the rest of which was shaved to the bristles. If it hadn’t been for the acne covering his brutish features, you’d have thought him eighteen, nineteen, maybe twenty – instead of sixteen, which was his true age, though of course even a sixteen-year-old might clobber you these days if you had the nerve to give some indication that his behaviour affronted you. As was often the way with juvenile duos, the second member of the tag-team, Deggsy, though he wasn’t by any means the lesser in terms of villainy, looked more his age. He was shorter and thinner, weasel-faced and the proud owner of an unimpressively wispy moustache. His oily black thatch was usually covered by a grimy old baseball cap, the frontal logo of which had long been erased by time and had been replaced with letters written in dayglo orange highlighter, which read:
Fuck off
.

There wasn’t thirty years of experience between them, yet they both affected the arrogant swagger and truculent sneer of guys who believed they knew what was what, and were absolutely confident they did what they did because the world had been a bastard to them and fully deserved whatever they gave it back.

It was just around nine o’clock that night when they spied their first and most obvious target: a Volkswagen estate hatchback. A-reg and in poor shape generally – grubby, rusted around the arches, occasional dents in the bodywork – but it ticked all the boxes.

Posh motors were almost impossible to steal these days. All that top-of-the-range stuff was the sole province of professionals who would make a fortune from ringing it and selling it on. No, if you were simply looking for a fun time, you had to settle for this lower quality merchandise. But that could also be an advantage, because if you went and smacked a bit of rubbish around on the streets, the coppers would tow it away afterwards but would rarely investigate. So, if they didn’t catch you in the act, you were home free. In addition, this one’s location was good. Leatherhead boasted several sprawling industrial estates with lots of service and retail parking, not to mention numerous supermarkets, pubs, clubs and restaurants in the town centre, which also had ‘own risk’ parking lots attached. Most of these were covered by cameras, which made the punters feel it was relatively safe to leave their motors overnight, and in many cases that was true – it was certainly safer in Leatherhead than it had been in the pre-CCTV era – but there were black spots as well, all of which Dazzer and Deggsy were intimately informed about. And lucky for them the old Volkswagen estate was sitting right in the middle of one.