Sacrifice (49 page)

‘What do we know about Devlin?’ Heck said. ‘I mean above and beyond what the paperwork says.’

‘Not a player anymore, apparently. His son Wayne’s a bit dodgy.’

‘Dodgy how?’

‘General purpose lowlife. Fighting at football matches, drunk and disorderly, robbery.’

‘Robbery?’

‘Took some other kid’s bike off him after giving him a kicking. That was a few years ago.’

‘Sounds like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.’

As part of the National Crime Group, specifically the Serial Crimes Unit, Mark Heckenburg had a remit to work on murder cases across all the police areas of England and Wales. He and the other detectives in SCU tended to have a consultative investigating role with regard to the pursuit of repeat violent offenders, and would bring specialist knowledge and training to regional forces grappling with large or complex cases. They were usually allocated to said forces in groups of four or five, sometimes more. On this occasion, as the Nottinghamshire Police already had access to experienced personnel from the East Midlands Special Operations Unit, Heck had been assigned here on his own.

SCU’s presence wasn’t always welcomed by the regional forces they were assisting, some viewing the attachment of outsiders as a slight on their own abilities – though in certain cases, such as this one, SCU’s advice had been actively sought. At the outset, Heck had been personally contacted by Strickland on the orders of Taskforce SIO Detective Chief Superintendent Max Grinton, who had solved many crimes off his own bat, but was a keen student of those state-of-the-art investigations carried out by other bodies, SCU figuring highly on his list.

Grinton was a big man with silver hair, a distinguished young/old face and a penchant for sharp-cut suits, though his most distinctive feature was the patch he wore over his left eye socket, having lost the eye to flying glass during a drive-by shooting fifteen years earlier. He was now holding court under the hard halogen glow of the car park lights at the rear of St Ann’s Central. Uniforms clad in full anti-riot gear, and detectives with stab vests under their jackets, stood around him in attentive groups.

‘So that’s the state of play,’ Grinton said. ‘We’re moving on this quickly rather than waiting till the crack of dawn tomorrow, firstly because the obbo at Devlin’s address tells us he’s currently home, secondly because if Jimmy Hood is our man there’s been a shorter cooling-off period between each attack, which in plain English means that he’s going crazier by the minute. For all we know, he could have done two or three more by tomorrow morning. We’ve got to catch him tonight, and Alan Devlin is the best lead we’ve had thus far. Just remember … for all that he’s a scrote from way back, Devlin is a witness, not a suspect. We’re more likely to get his help if we go in as friends.’

There were nods of understanding. Mouths were set firm as it dawned on the Taskforce members just how high the stakes now were. Every man and woman present knew their job, but it was vital that no one made an error.

‘One thing, sir, if you don’t mind,’ Heck spoke up. ‘I strongly recommend that we take anything Alan Devlin tells us with a pinch of salt.’

‘Any particular reason?’ Grinton asked.

Heck waved Devlin’s sheet. ‘He hasn’t been convicted of any crime since he was a juvenile, but he wasn’t shy about getting his hands dirty back in the day – he was Jimmy Hood’s right-hand man when they were terrorising housing estates around Hucknall. His son Wayne is halfway to repeating that pattern here in St Ann’s. Try as I may, I can’t view Alan Devlin as an upstanding citizen.’

‘You think he’d cover for a killer?’ Strickland said doubtfully.

Heck shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir. Assuming Hood is the killer – and from what we know, I think he probably is – I find it odd that Devlin, who knows him better than anyone, hasn’t already come to the same conclusion and got in touch with us voluntarily.’

‘Maybe he’s scared?’ someone suggested.

Heck tried not to look as skeptical about that as he felt. ‘Hood’s a thug, but he’s in breach of license conditions that strictly prohibit him from returning to Nottingham. That means he’s keeping his head down and moving from place to place. He’s only got one change of clothes, he’s on his own, he’s cold, damp and dining on scraps in bus stations. Does he really pose much of a threat to a bloke like Devlin, who’s got form for violence himself, has a grown-up hooligan for a son and is well ensconced on his own patch?’

The team pondered, taking this on board.

‘We’ll see what happens,’ Grinton said, zipping up his anorak. ‘If Devlin plays it dumb, we’ll let him know that Hood’s mug shot is appearing on the ten o’clock news tonight, and all it’s going to take is a couple of Devlin’s neighbours to recognise him as someone they’ve seen hanging around. The Lady Killer is going down for the rest of this century, ladies and gents. Devlin may be the hardest bastard in Nottingham, but he won’t want a piece of that action.’

They drove to the address in question in a bunch of unmarked vehicles; five cars, one of them Heck’s metallic-blue Peugeot 306, and one plain-clothes APC. They did it discreetly and without fanfare. St Ann’s wasn’t an out of control neighbourhood, but it wasn’t the sort of place where excessive police activity would go unnoticed, and mobs could form quickly if word got out that ‘one of the boys’ was in trouble. In physical terms, it was a rabbit warren of crumbling council blocks, networked with dingy footways, which, at night, were a mugger’s paradise. To heighten its atmosphere of menace, a winter gloom had descended, filling the narrow passages with cloying vapour.

The address was 41 Lakeside View. It was a boxy, redbrick structure, accessible by a short cement ramp with a rusty wrought iron railing, and then a single corridor running through from one side to the other, to which various apartment doors – 41a, 41b, 41c and 41d – connected.

Heck, Grinton and Strickland regarded it from a short distance away. Only the arched entry was visible in the evening murk, illuminated at its apex by a single dull lamp; the rest of the building was a gaunt outline. A clutch of detectives and armour-clad uniforms were waiting a few yards behind them, while the troop-carrier with its complement of PSU reinforcements was about fifty yards further back, parked in the nearest cul-de-sac. Everyone observed a strict silence.

Grinton finally turned around, keeping his voice low. ‘Okay … listen up. Roberts, Atherton … you’re staying with us. The rest of you … round the other side. Any ground floor windows, any fire-doors, block ’em off. Grab anyone who tries to come out.’

There were nods of understanding as the group, minus two uniforms, shuffled away into the mist. Grinton checked his watch to give them five minutes to get in place, then glanced at Heck and Strickland and nodded. They detached themselves from the alley mouth, ascended the ramp and entered the brick passage, which was poorly lit by two faltering bulbs and defaced end to end with obscene, spray-painted slogans, which also covered three of its four doors. The only one that hadn’t been vandalised in this fashion was 41c – the home of Alan Devlin.

There was no bell, so Grinton rapped on the door with his fist. Several seconds passed, before there was a fumbling on the other side. The door opened as far as its short safety chain would allow. The face beyond was in its mid-thirties, but pudgy and pock-marked, one eyebrow bisected by an old scar. He was squat and pot-bellied, with a shaved head. He’d answered the door in a grubby t-shirt and purple Y-fronts, but even through the narrow gap they spotted neck-chains and cheap, tacky rings on nicotine-yellow fingers. He didn’t look hostile so much as puzzled, probably because the first thing he saw was Grinton’s eye-patch. He put on a pair of thick-lensed, steel-rimmed glasses, so that he could scrutinize it less myopically.

‘Alan Devlin?’ the chief superintendent asked.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

Grinton introduced himself, displaying his warrant card. ‘This is Detective Inspector Strickland and this is Detective Sergeant Heckenburg.’

‘Suppose I’m honoured,’ Devlin grunted, looking anything but.

‘Can we come in?’ Grinton said.

‘What’s it about?’

‘You don’t know?’ Strickland asked him.

Devlin threw him an ironic glance. ‘Yeah … I just wondered if
you
did.’

Heck observed the householder with interest. Though clearly irritated that his evening had been disturbed, his relaxed body language suggested that he wasn’t overly concerned. Either Devlin had nothing to hide or he was a competent performer. The latter was easily possible, as he’d had plenty of opportunity to hone such a talent while still a youth.

‘Jimmy Hood,’ Grinton explained. ‘That name ring a bell?’

Devlin continued to regard them indifferently, but for several seconds longer than was perhaps normal. Then he removed the safety chain and opened the door.

Heck glanced at the two uniforms. ‘Wait out here, eh? No sense crowding him in his own pad.’ They nodded and remained in the outer passage, while the three detectives entered a dimly-lit hall strewn with crumbs and cluttered with piles of musty, unwashed clothes. An internal door stood open on a lamp-lit room from which the sound of a television emanated. There was a strong, noxious odour of chips and ketchup.

Devlin faced them square-on, adjusting his bottle-lens specs. ‘Suppose you want to know where he is?’

‘Not only that,’ Grinton said, ‘we want to know where he’s been.’

There was a sudden thunder of feet from overhead – the sound of someone running. Heck tensed by instinct. He spun to face the foot of a dark stairwell – just as a figure exploded down it. But it wasn’t the brutish giant, Jimmy Hood; it was a kid – seventeen at the most, with a mop of mouse brown hair and a thin moustache. He was only clad in shorts, which revealed a lean, muscular torso sporting several lurid tattoos – and was carrying a baseball bat.

‘What the fucking hell?’ He advanced fiercely, closing down the officers’ space.

‘Easy, lad,’ Devlin said, smiling. ‘Just a few questions, then they’ll be gone.’

‘What fucking questions?’

Strickland pointed a finger. ‘Put the bat down, sonny.’

‘You gonna make me?’ The youth’s expression was taut, his gaze intense.

‘You want to make this worse for your old fella than it already is?’ Grinton asked calmly.

There was a short, breathless silence. The youth glanced from one to the other, determinedly unimpressed by the phalanx of officialdom, though clearly unused to folk not running when he came at them tooled up. ‘There’s more of these twats outside, Dad. Sneaking around, thinking no one can see ’em.’

His father snorted. ‘All this coz Jimbo breached his parole?’

‘It’s a bit more serious than that, Mr. Devlin,’ Strickland said. ‘So serious that I really don’t think you want to be obstructing us like this.’

‘I’m not obstructing you … I’ve just invited you in.’

Which was quite a smart move
, Heck realised.

‘We’ll see.’ Grinton walked towards the living room. ‘Let’s talk.’

Devlin gave a sneering grim and followed. Strickland went too. Heck turned to Wayne Devlin. ‘Your dad wants to make it look like he’s cooperating, son. Wafting that offensive weapon around isn’t going to help him.’

Scowling, though now looking a little helpless – as if having other men in here chucking their weight about was such a challenge to his masculinity that he knew no adequate way to respond – the lad finally slung the baseball bat against the stair-post, which it struck with a deafening
thwack
, before shouldering past Heck into the living room. When Heck got in there, it was no less a bombsite than the hall: magazines were scattered – one lay open on a gynaecological centre-spread; empty beer cans and dirty crockery cluttered the table tops; overflowing ashtrays teetered on the mantel. The stench of ketchup was enriched by the lingering aroma of stale cigarettes.

‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ Grinton said. ‘Is Hood staying here now?’

‘No,’ Devlin replied, still cool.

Too cool
, Heck thought.
Way too cool
.

‘So if I come back here with a search-warrant, and go through this place with a fine-tooth comb, Mr. Devlin, I definitely won’t find him?’

Devlin shrugged. ‘If you thought you had grounds you’d already have a warrant. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve got my permission to search anyway.’

‘In which case I’m guessing there’s no need, but we might as well look.’ Grinton nodded to Heck, who went back outside and brought the two uniforms in. Their heavy boots thudded on the stair treads as they lumbered to the upper floor.

‘How often has Jimmy Hood stayed here?’ Strickland asked. ‘I mean recently?’

Devlin shrugged. ‘On and off. Crashed on the couch.’

‘And you didn’t report it?’

‘He’s an old mate trying to get back on his feet. I’m not dobbing him in for that.’

‘When did he last stay?’ Heck asked.

‘Few days ago.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘What he always wears … trackie bottoms, sweat-top, duffel coat. Poor bastard’s living out of a placky bag.’

The detectives avoided exchanging glances. They’d agreed beforehand that there’d be no disclosure of their real purpose here until Grinton deemed it necessary; if Devlin had known what was happening and had still harboured his old pal, that made him an accessory to these murders – and it would help them build a case against him if he revealed knowledge without being prompted.

‘When do you expect him back?’ Heck asked.

Devlin looked amused by the inanity of such a question (
again false
, Heck sensed). ‘How do I know? I’m not his fucking keeper. He knows he can come here anytime, but he never wants to outstay his welcome.’

‘Has he got a phone, so you can contact him?’ Strickland wondered.

‘He hasn’t got anything.’

‘Does he ever come here late at night?’ Grinton said. ‘As in … unusually late?’

‘What sort of bullshit questions are these?’ Wayne Devlin demanded, increasingly agitated by the sounds of violent activity upstairs.

Grinton eyed him. ‘The sort that need straight answers, son … else you and your dad are going to find yourselves deeper in it than whale shit.’ He glanced back at Devlin. ‘So … any late-night calls?’