Stalkers

— he’d been like a cat on hot bricks from the start — it might be worth someone looking into. The request that Blenkinsop provide a DNA sample had been an on the hoof masterstroke, because it had been refused and why would an innocent man refuse? Of course, this wasn’t Palliser’s case, and to some extent he was breaching protocol getting involved at all. But it wasn’t irrelevant — far from it. What he’d found particularly disconcerting was Blenkinsop’s response to the involvement of the Serial Crimes Unit — that genuinely seemed to have freaked him, and to Palliser’s mind made it seem even less likely that Heck’s theory about multiple connected abductions had been wrong. He would certainly write a report and file it with the mis-per department at Thames Valley, and the Lioness would need to know as soon as he got back to the Yard, but he didn’t think it was significant enough for them to take to Commander Laycock.

Ten minutes after Palliser had left the City, Blenkinsop emerged from Goldstein amp; Hoff, his face grey, his hands jammed in his coat pockets. He’d told Sally he was leaving early because he wasn’t feeling well. Now, he headed with unsteady steps down Cornhill towards Leadenhall. En route, he called at a newsagent and bought himself a packet of cigarettes, the first in fifteen years. He lit one as he continued walking. At Gracechurch Street, he headed south, coming at last to the river, where he sat heavily on a wrought-iron bench close to London Bridge, and gazed, glassy-eyed, across into Southwark. The world was closing in around him, and that was a definite — quite clearly it was no longer his disturbed imagination. Even if the police weren’t onto him as such, they were clearly close. What did he do now? What could he do?

He threw the half-smoked cigarette away and lit another one. His hands were shaking as he put it to his lips. Clammy sweat lay in a fine dew across his forehead. Suddenly he realised he was going to vomit again. He staggered forward, hooking his body over the balustrade. He heaved two or three times before ridding himself of the last vestiges of lunch. When he’d done that, he tottered back to the bench and slumped down. His head was starting to ache, in fact to pound.

That was when he realised that somebody else was sitting on the bench as well. They must have sat down while he was throwing up.

He peeked sideways. It was impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman — they were wearing a waterproof with the hood pulled up, and reading a copy of The Times. Okay — it was nothing to get upset about. There was nothing unusual in this.

But of course there was.

It was a free country, and you could sit anywhere you wanted. But this was a riverfront path with several empty benches dotted along it. Would you really choose the one right next to a man who was being violently sick?

Blenkinsop stood stiffly up and walked east. Only when he’d gone thirty yards or so did he risk a glance back. The hooded figure was still on the bench, still reading the paper. That was a relief — but it was only a temporary relief. For now he felt that someone else was watching him. As he turned into Billingsgate Walk, he spotted an unmarked van parked on the other side of Lower Thames Street. There was no obvious reason for this. Nothing was being unloaded; no one was in the process of climbing in or out. But the driver, who was no more than a shadow in the dim interior of the van’s cab, seemed to be observing him. Blenkinsop couldn’t swear on this, but he felt certain it was true.

He was sure those eyes followed him all the way past the Custom House and up Byward Street. He was now bewildered as well as terrorised. How had his life come to this so quickly? By the time he reached Tower Hill, Blenkinsop was running. He didn’t know where he was running to. There was nowhere he could run to. But he ran all the same, blindly, tears and sweat mingling on his pallid cheeks.

Chapter 34

With the sun setting behind the isolated fort, its shadow lay long and twisted across the surface of the estuary. On the north shore, the fiery glow of the Canvey Island chemical plant was already leaking into the indigo sky. To the south, the mud flats lay spectral beneath a blanket of mist.

Heck stood on the viewing catwalk and absorbed all this without really seeing it. When Lauren appeared behind him, she’d climbed back into her sodden clothes. There was a worried look on her face, but her eyes flashed with defiance.

‘What else could we have done?’ she said. ‘Your plan was to leave him here on this island. He’d have got free and come straight after us again.’

‘That’s hardly the point. He was our only lead.’

‘He was a mercenary scumbag. To think of all the squaddies I knew who were killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. Good men and women trying to do a difficult job. And a piece of trash like that manages to make it back.’

Heck glanced round at her. ‘Nice attempt to change the subject, Lauren. But the reality is that you’ve totally fucked us. One hour ago, we were this close. Now we’ve got nothing. Not only could Eric Ezekial have led us to the Nice Guys, he could have led us to their grass inside the NCG. And let’s not talk about the fact that you’ve just murdered a man in cold blood …’

‘You can’t count him as a man, an animal like that!’

‘You think a court will see it that way?’

‘Heck, we shot him in self-defence.’

‘We — sorry, you — shot him while he was tied up. Any way you cut it, that’s not going to look good.’ Heck shook his head. ‘But I suppose it’s my fault. I should’ve known better than to involve someone like you in this.’

‘What do you mean “someone like me”?’

He jabbed a finger at her. ‘Don’t even think about playing the race card with me, darling. You know exactly what I mean. Someone who flies off the handle, someone who’s too emotional for their own good.’

‘I didn’t see any sign that he was about to help us.’

‘Yeah, well now we’ll never know.’

He went back inside. She followed. They surveyed Deke’s corpse. The sticky crimson pool around his shattered skull was already cooling.

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Lauren said.

‘Sorry? That’s great, that makes it all okay.’

‘What else can I say? He was going to kill us. Emotions were high. If we hadn’t managed to secure him, and he’d been coming at us with a gun, are you saying you wouldn’t have shot him?’

‘The point is he wasn’t.’

‘But he might’ve done. Heck, there was every chance once he started hunting us that we were going to have to kill him. You surely must’ve allowed for that possibility?’

Heck shook his head. ‘I hoped we wouldn’t have to, and, as it turned out, we didn’t.’

‘And like I said earlier, what else would we have done with him? You weren’t serious about leaving him alive here?’

Heck’s expression turned solemn. ‘When we get off this fort, Lauren, we’re going our separate ways. You understand?’

‘But I want to …’

‘There’re no buts. Not anymore. You shouldn’t even be here anyway. And I certainly can’t do this with Calamity Jane in tow.’

‘You think I’m just going home, putting my feet up?’

‘Erm, no. Not before you’ve helped me sort out this bloody mess that you’ve made, however the hell we’re going to pull that off.’ He paused to think. ‘I need one of his knives. And that hand-grenade he had left.’

‘Why?’

‘Why, she says. Try to engage your brain, girl.’

‘Look, we just chuck him in the drink. It’s no big deal.’

‘Of course it’s a big deal.’ Heck finally got angry, finally began shouting. ‘He’ll be found! And if he’s been weighed down, there’ll be serious fucking questions to answer! But even if he isn’t, we can’t afford for him to just