Stalkers (6 page)

At first she assumed that she was having a relapse; that maybe the drugs were kicking in for a second time. But then she realised something bizarre:
she
wasn’t the one who’d overbalanced – it was the room itself. The floor had tilted. It tilted again and she had to stagger to keep upright. The entire room was swaying – not hugely, but noticeably.

So what in Christ’s name was this? Where the hell was she?

Panic once again nagged at her to get out of here, insisting that, whatever this horrendous situation was, she needed to get out – for Christ’s sake, she just had to get out!

There was still the remaining door.

Louise had no doubt that this one would be locked. And indeed, when she pushed against it and tried the handle – in this case a brass knob – it wouldn’t budge. She swore under her breath, struggling to suppress whimpers of despair. She tried again, but couldn’t even get the knob to turn.

‘Goddamn,’ she moaned, thrusting her shoulder against the wood, but only succeeding in hurting herself. ‘Goddamn it!’ Her voice rose to a desperate cry. ‘
Goddamn it, someone please help me!
’

Abruptly, the handle turned in the opposite direction. There was a loud
click
as a lock was disengaged. Louise retreated. The door virtually flew open, and a man came through, closing it behind him. It was the tall black man in the overalls, gloves and day-glo orange ski-mask, an ensemble he was still wearing. He eyed her up and down. As before, it was not the way she’d been eyed by men in the past. There was no hunger there, no arousal – it was strictly professional; a cool, clinical appraisal. When he finally spoke, she was so astonished by what he said that at first she thought she’d misheard.

‘I said you’re size four, yeah? Your feet, I mean?’

Hardly knowing what to say, Louise nodded.

‘Good. These are for you.’

He pushed a pair of shoes into her hands. With a sense of unreality, she looked down at them: heeled sling-backs, black patent with red trim, evidently brand new. Under normal circumstances, they’d be far too trashy for Louise’s taste. Yet somehow she didn’t think that they were intended as a gift for her.

‘And for Jesus’s sake, take a shower,’ he added. ‘You’re stinking the entire place out.’

She glared up at him, the injustice of the situation finally firing her spirit. ‘Surely that doesn’t bloody surprise you?’

He pointed to the shower-room. ‘In there. You’ll find a toothbrush and toothpaste in the cabinet next to the mirror, so clean your teeth as well. And freshen your breath.’

‘
What?
’

‘You’ve got two hours. Better do a good job.’

‘What’re you talking about?’

‘Pretty yourself up, you silly tart!’

Perhaps the fact that they still hadn’t killed her, proving that she was of more value alive, was giving her extra courage. Or maybe, in some basic animal way, she now realised they were approaching the main event and that all bets were off. Either way, Louise was suddenly angry rather than afraid.

‘I’m not going to do any such thing,’ she stated.

The man lurched towards her. ‘Listen girl, you have no say here. You have no opinions. You have no views. You just do as you’re told. Understand?’

‘You’re not going to get away with this!’

‘No?’

‘The police will be looking for me.’

‘Occupational hazard for us, darling.’ And he smiled, showing white, shark-like teeth. ‘But I have to say, not much of one.’

She made a dash to get past him.

He caught her before she could even open the door, clamping one gloved hand to her throat and throwing her violently back across the room. She landed in the armchair with sufficient force to drive the wind from her. For all his size, he advanced like a cat – lithe, sinuous. He sprang onto her, thrusting his face into hers. This close, the whites of his eyes were red-rimmed; his breath reeked of garlic. She craned her neck to look away from him, but his weight pinned her down.

‘You stupid bitch!’ he hissed. ‘I’m under orders not to mess you up until this is all over, but I won’t hesitate to do it afterwards! So don’t try that shit again!’

‘My name is Louise Samantha Jennings,’ she said in a quaking but determined voice. ‘I am thirty years old. You may think my family are rich because I work in the City and live in South Buckinghamshire. But I was born in North London. My father is a taxi-driver, my mother a day-care worker. I have two older sisters and one little brother. We see each other all the time. We’re a very close-knit family. I also have a niece and nephew, one on my side and one on my …’

‘What am I supposed to do?’ he snickered. ‘Fall on the floor blubbing?’

‘I’m a human being. I don’t care what you think you’re going to get from this, you can’t treat human beings this way …’

He slapped her across the left side of her face – not hard; to humiliate rather than hurt. ‘How about
this
way?’ he wondered. Then he slapped her across the right side. ‘How about
that
way?’

She mashed her lips together, determined not to cry out, trying desperately to show that she wasn’t the crumpled wreck she must have appeared. But her mouth trembled and fresh tears brimmed from her eyes. ‘I … I want to speak to your boss …’

‘Really?’

‘If I can’t reason with the oily rag, I’ll try with the engine driver.’

He gazed down at her for several long moments, licking his lips with a sharp, pink tongue. ‘Well … who knows,’ he finally said, ‘you may get that chance.’ He seemed excited by the resistance she’d shown: sweat greased the flesh around his eyes; he panted rather than breathed. But perhaps thinking that he was starting to enjoy himself too much here, he now released her and rose slowly, reluctantly to his feet. ‘Not yet though … first you’ve got some business to attend to. These clothes, these undies.’ He pointed at the jumbled garb. ‘Get yourself something sexy and pretty on.’ While Louise watched in amazement, he reached down and pulled a foot-locker out from under the rack of dresses. ‘There’s make-up in here, perfume and what-not.’ He kicked at a second locker. ‘This one’s jewellery. Help yourself. Just make sure you look and smell good.’ He moved to the door, but turned to face her one more time. ‘You’ve got two hours. Do not disappoint us.’

‘Dis— disappoint you?’ she stammered in near-disbelief. And then she laughed, though it was actually more like a deranged cackle. ‘And … and if I do?’

‘Ask the women all this stuff used to belong to.’

He closed the door behind him. And locked it.

The National Crime Group was based at New Scotland Yard, where it shared several floors with the Metropolitan Police’s Specialist Crime Directorate. Its own Serial Crimes Unit, whose remit was primarily to consult on nationwide crime sprees and, where necessary, to elicit and organise multi-force cooperation, was on the sixth floor, and basically comprised one corridor. The DO – or Detectives’ Office, the hub of all activity – was located part way along it, next door to the admin room where the NCG’s civilian secretaries worked. At this late hour on a Sunday afternoon its various desks and computer monitors were deserted, with half the unit off duty and the rest out on enquiries. In fact, the only person present when Heck began humping his sacks of paperwork and boxes of disks up from the car park was DI Palliser, who, given his age, was these days more a duty officer than an investigator, and tended to remain at base, working as coordinator for all SCU operations.

At present, he stood, hands in pockets, in the doorway to his own office which, like the offices belonging to the other three detective inspectors in the department, was separated from the main area by a glazed partition wall. ‘That the lot?’ he asked.

Heck dumped down the last heavy bag of documentation, and nodded. He mopped sweat from his brow. ‘It’s in no particular order, I’m afraid.’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll sort it.’

There was a brief silence as they surveyed the immense pile of materials now spilling out all over the floor of the department’s tea making area.

‘You know, none of this work will get wasted,’ Palliser said. ‘All these cases will continue to be investigated.’

‘Yeah, but as the lowest of low priorities.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘You know they will,’ Heck said glumly. ‘I spent months zeroing in on each one of these, and now they’ll just get thrown back in with the runaway teens and the absentee fathers.’

‘Well … it’s not your problem now.’

‘The trouble is, Des, it won’t be anyone’s problem. Apart from the families who are missing their loved ones.’

Palliser didn’t even try to argue with that assessment. ‘Whatever … the Lioness wants to see you.’

Heck nodded and went out into the corridor. Detective Superintendent Piper’s office was at its far end. He knocked on the door and when she called him, went in.

She was seated at her desk, writing what looked like a lengthy report. ‘Take a seat, Heck. I’ll not be a moment.’

There were two chairs to one side. Heck slumped down into one. He glanced around. It wasn’t a particularly showy office for so senior a rank. In fact, it was quite small. With its row of filing cabinets, single rubber plant and dusty Venetian blind over the window, it was like something from the 1970s; the only concession to modernity being the quiet hum of the air-conditioning. It was a far cry from the palatial residence upstairs enjoyed by Commander Laycock and his PA.

‘Our office at Deptford Green has now been closed down, yes?’ she asked.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She continued writing. Heck waited, ruminating on whether or not, if he’d centred his investigation here at the Yard and had not set up a separate incident room down at Deptford, thus saving them some expense, it might have bought him a little extra time. The problem was that the first cluster of disappearances he’d linked together had all occurred, probably by coincidence, in South London – Peckham, Greenwich, Lewisham and Sydenham – and he’d wanted to be ‘on-site’. At the time, of course, he hadn’t realised the enquiry would soon widen to cover most of the country.

Not that any of this mattered now.

‘Is that it, ma’am?’ he asked.

She glanced up. ‘You got somewhere else you need to be?’

He shrugged. ‘Well … I presume I’m being reassigned.’

‘Yes you are. You’re being reassigned to Cornwall. Or the Lake District. Or Spain or the Florida Keys, or even your own back garden. Anywhere you fancy taking a long vacation.’

‘I don’t get you.’

‘You’re going on extended leave.’ She pushed the top sheet of paperwork she’d been working on across the desk towards him. ‘All I need now is your signature on the request form.’

Heck stood up as he read it. Only slowly did the reality sink in.

‘December?’ he said. ‘That’s three months off.’

‘I don’t want to see you back a day sooner.’

‘But three months!’

‘Heck, your willingness to work, work and work is well known. But it’s hardly healthy.’

‘I don’t need three months.’

‘That’s entirely a matter of opinion, and mine carries more weight than yours. You’ve been under massive pressure this last year, and it’s showing – in your work, your appearance, your general demeanour.’

‘This is bollocks!’

‘
Especially
your demeanour.’

‘Gemma, please …’

‘Can you honestly say, hand on heart – bearing in mind that, on occasion, lives may depend on how fit you are to work – that you don’t need a decent break? That your batteries will go on forever without being recharged?’ She waited for an answer. ‘Or is it just that you think the Serial Crimes Unit will fall apart without you?’

Heck was lost for words. Then, very abruptly, he shrugged and took a pen from his inside pocket. ‘No, it’s okay. In fact it’s great. Three months is extremely generous.’

He scribbled his signature on the form and handed it back.

She eyed him with sudden suspicion. ‘So you’re happy with this?’

‘Sure.’

‘Good. In that case …’ though she still didn’t seem convinced, ‘bye for now.’

Heck nodded and moved towards the door.

‘Mark, before you go,’ she said – and that was a red-letter moment, because these days she hardly ever called him ‘Mark’. He glanced back. She softened her tone, which was also highly unusual. ‘Mark, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry the case you were building didn’t work out.’

‘It’s alright. I know it wasn’t your fault.’

‘It was nobody’s fault. This job’s about balancing time and resources, you know that. You’re needed on other cases.’

‘Which is why I’m being discharged from duty for the entire autumn?’

‘You’re no good to anyone running on empty. Least of all yourself.’

‘No, I guess not.’

‘So what’re you planning to do?’

He mused. ‘Fool around, I suppose.’ Mischievously, he added, ‘See if I can pull a bird.’

She didn’t rise to that bait and began filing his completed paperwork in her out-tray. ‘You could do with getting some sun on your back. And start eating properly; you look underweight to me.’

‘You care?’ he asked.

She glanced up again, almost looking hurt by the question. ‘Of course I care.’

‘I mean more than just because I’m part of your team?’

‘Why should my personal feelings matter to you?’

Heck couldn’t reply. She’d reversed the situation very neatly.

‘Take yourself on holiday, Heck,’ she said, resuming business mode. ‘Relax, have a good time. Pull yourself a bird, if you must. But when you’re back in this office on December first, I want you full of piss and vinegar, okay?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Off you go.’

And he went.

Heck peeled his jacket off and strolled into the rec room to see if there was anyone to shoot some pool with. But it was empty. Instead, he got himself a coffee from the vending machine and stood by the window, looking down on Victoria Street. The hot drink had a soothing effect. Gemma had been right about one thing – at present he was running on empty, but even so, being forced to take a holiday for three months was the last thing he’d wanted. If anyone asked why, he’d tell them that this was because he was a workaholic, but in his more honest, introspective moments he’d admit that it probably owed more to there being nothing else going on in his life. There was no question that Heck
loved
the job. Catching criminals, putting them away, slamming cell doors on those who brought terror and misery to the lives of the innocent gave him a buzz that he didn’t get anywhere else.