‘I’m fine.’ He stripped his coat off, sat at his desk and forced a smile.
‘You work too hard, Ian. Should’ve gone on holiday with your family.’
‘Rarely have truer words been spoken.’
When she closed the door, he had to struggle to fight back tears. That wouldn’t do — someone was about to come in and chat with him. But the tears flowed anyway, and as they were mainly tears of self-pity — for the mess he’d got himself into, and the fear and insecurity he’d ushered into his family’s life — he hated himself all the more for it.
Chapter 13
Heck began to suspect the van was following him when he spotted it on the M6 motorway. He’d first observed it on the M1, about sixty miles further south, where it had appeared to be keeping a steady pace a hundred yards behind him. It was a hire van, a transit, high-sided and brown in colour, but so covered in oil and grime that no insignia was visible on its bodywork.
The first occasion he noticed it, he thought nothing of it. It was now midday on a Monday, and the traffic flow from south to north was, as usual, heavy and relatively slow moving. In addition, there was nothing in the vehicle’s demeanour to make him suspicious. It was proceeding along the motorway like so many others — what else was there to say? But when he spotted it on the M6 as well, still close behind, having passed numerous slip roads that it could have turned down, he had his first misgiving.
He pulled into the slow lane and reduced his speed to about forty m.p.h. The transit van cruised slowly past. It was impossible to see who was driving it or how many there were, but soon it was a significant distance ahead. He relaxed and eased his foot back onto the gas. However, ten minutes later, he saw that the van had also pulled into the slow lane — for no apparent reason, as there were open spaces in front of it. Once he’d overtaken it, it slid casually back into the middle lane and began to speed up, as though to keep up with him. Initially, Heck wondered if Gemma had given him a guardian angel. But he soon dismissed that idea. She would have told him; it would serve no purpose for her not to. He picked up his mobile and was about to tap in her number, to enquire — but then decided that if she’d had nothing at all to do with this, she might be panicked to learn that his cover had already been compromised, and pull the plug.
The next possibility was that Commander Laycock suspected he might be up to something. Heck dismissed this idea too. Laycock would consider that he had far more important things to do than keep tabs on a damned ranker like Heck, and even if he didn’t, had he the slightest inkling that the enquiry might be continuing, he’d have called Heck to his office by now and demanded an explanation.
Of course, there was still a chance that the brown van was completely innocent. By two o’clock in the afternoon, Heck was in Cheshire, and about forty miles from the junction with the A580, the East Lancashire dual carriageway connecting the motorway with Manchester and Liverpool; the brown van was still an ominous presence at his rear. As the traffic at last began to break up, he got his foot down — he didn’t race away, but accelerated slowly and purposefully. The dingy brown shape fell further and further behind, making no obvious attempt to hurry in pursuit.
Even after he’d lost sight of it, Heck continued to accelerate. When he reached the A580, he swerved down the exit ramp, gunning the engine hard to get through the traffic lights at the bottom, and circled the large roundabout, finally peeling off and heading east towards Manchester. He still wasn’t sure whether or not somebody had been tailing him, but if they had been he felt that he’d lost them now — not that this incident was something he could dismiss as unimportant. Ten miles later, he pulled into a petrol station to fill up and buy himself a bottle of water. It was only when he’d got back into his Fiat and was inserting his key into the ignition that he glanced across the forecourt and saw the brown van parked near the station entrance.
Heck was tempted to get out and walk over there, but he resisted. He appraised it. Again, its driving cab was too filled with shadow for him to work out who was in there, though someone was clearly sitting behind the steering wheel.
Casually as he could, Heck started his engine and pulled back out onto the dual carriageway. He drove at a steady fifty for three miles, but at the next junction pulled off onto a B-road, entering Highworth, one of several Greater Manchester townships he remembered from his youth; former coal-mining districts that were now heavily unemployed and run down. At this time of day, there was still plenty of traffic and Heck was forced to slow down to accommodate it. He continued to watch his rearview mirror, and it wasn’t long before the brown van reappeared. Now he was sure it was following him. He slowed until it was about thirty yards behind. At the next island, he halted, giving way to traffic from his right. When he finally pushed forward into the flow, the brown van followed. They halted at the next ‘give way’ line together, the brown van directly behind him.
This time vehicles came piling past from the left. Heck would normally have nosed his way out carefully, but he waited until a minuscule gap approached, and suddenly rammed his accelerator to the floor, screeching out into it. A blue Toyota had to break sharply and tooted with annoyance, but the purpose was served. Heck accelerated hard as he swung right the way around the traffic island, and then braked again. Their positions had been neatly reversed; now he was sitting behind the brown van.
Its reaction pleased him. A split second later it had the opportunity to pull out into the traffic, but it simply sat there, its engine chugging, as if the driver was uncertain about where he was and what he should do next. Heck waited patiently. At length, the van pulled right, taking a town centre road, moving carefully and slowly — too slowly. It stopped at each set of lights, its handbrake applied, and then set off again, always keeping a steady pace, making no attempt to turn — being driven without aim or direction, Heck realised. As the town centre fell gradually behind them, a sixth sense made him check that his seatbelt was secure.
Up ahead there was open land. Several drab-looking housing estates stood to the left, but on the right lay the grey hummocks of slag heaps. The traffic was thinning quickly. From sheer instinct, Heck felt for his pocket where, under normal circumstances, there would be a police radio by which he could inform Comms that he was about to embark on a chase; finding nothing there was an ugly reminder that he was going it alone. They cruised on for a mile before halting at the next set of lights — and that was when the van suddenly lurched forward, rocketing through the red, causing cars to scream to standstills both from left and right.
Heck sped after it, following a road that was suddenly open and half empty, which was massively to his advantage. His Fiat, though ancient and battered, was more than a match for a ramshackle old hire van. He hadn’t hit seventy before he was close behind it. Frantic, the other driver swung across the opposing carriageway without indicating — causing yet more vehicles to scream to halts, a couple sliding off the tarmac onto the grass verge — and then bounced and jolted its way down an unmade track, which ran straight as a ribbon across the spoil land.
Heck wasn’t able to follow immediately. There was a confused blaring of horns as the opposing traffic tried to force its way past. Seconds ticked by while he watched the brown van slowly diminish, drawing a trail of dust behind it. Swearing, he finally worked his way through onto the dirt track, where he too jolted over ruts and potholes, each one a crashing impact beneath his feet. Despite this, he was gaining ground fast. He saw the van spin left onto another unmade track. However, this one was so bad that it was barely distinguishable from the surrounding clinker. The van swayed dangerously, rubble spurting from its wheels. Heck veered after it. Up ahead there was a dead end; what looked like an old car park attached to a row of prefabricated industrial buildings, all derelict and blackened by fire. The van screeched into this area and tried to pull a handbrake turn, in order to double back as Heck came dashing in after it. But if the van had
Heck slammed his brakes to the floor, skidding sideways, a stench of melted rubber filling his nostrils. He leapt out. As he did, a lithe figure wormed its way through the van’s shattered windscreen. It was clad entirely in black — black gloves, black boots, black combat trousers, and a black ‘hoodie’ sweat top with the hood pulled up.
‘Police officer!’ Heck shouted, running forward. ‘Stay where you are!’
The hooded figure tried to dart for the line of derelict buildings, but whoever he was, he was limping and
