The Killing Club

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‘You fucking little shit, Heckenburg,’ she snarled, ruining the illusion – Gemma rarely used profanity. ‘Get on your face now, or I’ll put you there permanently.’

Behind her, more of the arrest team were piling into the crowded bedroom, several armed with staves as well as handguns. Heck supposed he ought to be flattered, but he was too busy listening to the crashing and banging elsewhere in the apartment.

‘What’s the matter with you people?’ he asked. ‘You obviously know who I am!’

‘I said get on your face!’ she reiterated. ‘Ignore me one more time, and I swear I’ll put a bullet straight through that empty braincase of yours.’ Her eyes were a piercing cat-green; her gloved finger tightened on the trigger of her Glock, which she pointed straight at Heck’s face.

He rolled over, arms outspread.

‘Too right we fucking know you!’ she said. ‘Hands behind your head!’

He complied, and then they were onto him – she and several others landing knees-first, driving the wind out of him.

‘Lie still!’ she said. ‘Keep your hands away from the bat!’

‘You idiots have screwed up,’ Heck grunted. ‘Whatever intel’s brought you here, it’s either fake or very flawed.’

She holstered her Glock, and twisted his arms behind his back, quickly and efficiently inducing two painful goosenecks, which suggested she knew her martial arts. She slipped his hands into a pair of nylon cuffs, and cinched them tight.

‘Save that famous motormouth of yours for the judge,’ she said into his right ear – in the same gloating tone he’d heard in his dream, which gave him a mild jolt, though of course the accent was different; this one was Home Counties, strictly Middle England.

They lifted him roughly to his feet.

‘I’m DS Fowler from the Serious Offenders Control and Retrieval unit,’ the girl said, ‘and I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.’ She gave him the full caution. ‘Any questions?’

‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘What do you do for an encore?’

One of her male colleagues punched him in the side. Heck winced but managed to stay upright. Though he was still barefoot, dressed only in shorts and a sweat-damp t-shirt, they frogmarched him into the corridor, where personal items and bits of furniture were already being tossed out from the other rooms. By the continuing roar of destruction, they were leaving no stone unturned. Someone Heck recognised stood in the midst of it, apparently supervising. He was a short, paunchy man, with podgy, hog-like features scrunched under his helmet, though his general proportions – which were globular in shape – seemed equally uncomfortable squashed into his black coveralls. His name was Derek O’Dowd, and he was an officious little twerp formerly of the Met’s Accident Investigation department. It was no surprise that he’d wound up in SOCAR. More unexpected, perhaps, were the inspector’s pips on his shoulders.

‘Just remember, guv,’ Heck said to him, ‘… anything you break, you buy.’

O’Dowd swung around, his mouth fixed in its usual O of outrage when someone had disputed with him. Immediately, he began shouting. ‘Have you ever – ever in your fucking life! – tried showing respect for rank, Heckenburg!’

‘You ever tried ringing a doorbell? What did you think I was going to do, flush myself down the toilet?’

‘Good Christ!’ O’Dowd bellowed. ‘Get this fucking sociopath out of my sight! If he opens his trap one more time, one of you stick your fist in it!’

DS Fowler and the guy called Nick, who apparently was another sergeant, a DS Gribbins – hustled Heck to the top of the stairs, and walked him down between them, though Gribbins cringed as he rotated his wrist and flexed his fingers.

‘Looks like you’ve got full movement,’ Heck said. ‘Not broken, at least.’

‘Don’t push me, Heckenburg,’ Gribbins snarled.

They arrived outside, where the presence of several police vehicles, including a couple of divisional units, and numerous other armoured SOCAR personnel, ensured that, despite the early hour and milky light of dawn, curtains would be twitching up and down Cherrybrook Drive, a typical nosy Fulham street.

‘I’m just saying it’ll be okay,’ Heck added.

Even though they were out in full public view, Gribbins spun around, snatching Heck by the collar of his t-shirt. Briefly they were nose to nose. Gribbins’s thick brown moustache made him resemble some TV cop from the 1970s. But he was currently flushed with anger and streaming sweat.

‘It may have escaped your notice, pal! … but we’re not taking this as lightly as you seem to be.’

‘I kind of got that,’ Heck replied. ‘But just out of interest … maybe as a common courtesy to my fellow-police status, who am I supposed to have murdered?’

‘No one important,’ Fowler said, stepping between them. ‘Just a DI in the Met.’

Heck’s mouth dropped open. ‘What …?’

‘Laycock.’

‘You mean Jim Laycock?’

‘Why … how many Laycocks are there on your personal hate list?’

‘You …’ Heck was only fleetingly lost for words. ‘You better had take me in.’

‘Oh … had we?’

‘Right now.’ Shaking free of their grip, he turned and headed to the prisoner transport parked at the kerb, climbing straight into the back of it.

There was no cage inside this one, so when Fowler climbed in as well, looking a little bemused, she sat on the facing bench and pointed a warning finger at him. ‘Don’t even think about trying something. I’m a karate fifth dan.’

‘Suppose that makes me feel a bit safer,’ Heck replied.

‘And that smart mouth is going to make things even tougher on you.’

The engine started, the vehicle lurching away.

‘I’m totally serious.’ Heck glanced up at her. ‘The only thing is, I’m not sure a bit safer is gonna be enough.’

Chapter 10 (#ulink_ae53ca44-3730-551a-826e-b670c27280de)

‘I’m guessing interrogation’s a skill you guys haven’t mastered yet?’ Heck said. ‘Because in the last five minutes, your questions have revealed to me that Jim Laycock was abducted last night from a pub in Kilburn at roughly eleven p.m. … that he died sometime between twelve and one, and that his body was found this morning in an abandoned vehicle in Hornsey. All stuff which, if you’d kept it quiet, you could have used to trip me up.’

‘And in return you’ve told us nothing,’ DS Fowler said. ‘Which hardly looks good from your point of view, does it?’

‘I’ve told you nothing you want to hear,’ Heck replied. ‘But it happens to be the truth … which is sometimes pretty boring, I’ll admit.’

He was clad in a paper custody suit, and slumped in an interview room at Hammersmith police station. On the other side of the table sat SOCAR detectives Gribbins and Fowler, first names Nick and Steph. Though now in civvies, the former of these appeared no less a thug, his brutish looks topped by a curly brown mop. His corduroy jacket and open-necked plaid shirt somehow accentuated his big, powerful frame. Also out of battle-dress, the latter had a rather cool ‘Mrs Peel’ kind of aura. Her slim-fit pinstripes hugged her athletic form, but she wore her jet-black hair gathered in a severe bun. Detective Inspector O’Dowd was nowhere to be seen, though he was probably watching through the two-way mirror on the wall. Maybe Frank Tasker was through there as well, though Heck hadn’t seen the SOCAR boss in the custody suite when he’d first been brought in.