Stalkers

‘Chill the fuck out,’ Lauren snapped. ‘Panicking won’t get us anywhere.’

‘Yeah, okay. Like you lot are acting in a level-headed manner.’

They passed Tottenham Court Road, Leicester Square and Charing Cross, and, as they’d expected, passengers began to disperse. Soon they were south of Waterloo and feeling alone again.

Blenkinsop suddenly stiffened, sucked in a tight breath. ‘You said there was a chap in desert fatigues on the previous train?’

‘That’s right,’ Lauren replied.

‘I can see through into the next carriage. He’s in there.’

This time Heck did risk a glance around. There was indeed a figure standing just beyond the glass of the emergency door in the next carriage. He had his back turned, but was clearly wearing combat fatigues. Lauren stole a glance too — and almost froze.

‘It’s the same guy. Shit, Heck, we’re still being followed.’

‘We should go topside,’ Blenkinsop stated flatly. ‘Get a cab.’

‘We’re almost in Stockwell,’ Heck argued. ‘There won’t be many cabs around.’

‘You pair of bloody fools! What have you done to me?’

‘If it wasn’t for us, you’d already be dead,’ Lauren retorted. ‘Heck, I’ll take rearguard.’

He glanced at her, querying such wisdom.

She shrugged. ‘It’s the only way to stop the pursuit. Whatever this idiot knows, it’s obviously vital. That means you’ve got to get him away from here. The next station, you two just go for it — I’ll cover your backs.’

Heck was far from comfortable with this, but the idea made sense in a risky kind of way. They were either being utterly paranoid here, or a team genuinely was tailing them. Either way, the only solution was to engineer a confrontation.

They pulled slowly into Stockwell station.

‘Me and Blenkinsop will go straight across to the northbound, and double back,’ Heck said. ‘You’re absolutely sure about this?’

She nodded. ‘Don’t wait for me. Just go, full speed.’

Heck dug Deke’s phone from his pocket and called up its number. ‘Can you remember this?’

She read it two or three times.

‘It’s the only point of contact we’ll have,’ he said.

‘It’s all we’ll need,’ she replied.

‘Call me as soon as you’re clear.’

She nodded.

The doors slid open, and Heck pushed Blenkinsop out. They headed up the nearest tunnel, which led straight to the northbound platform. It was arched and narrow, and most of its cream tiles were in the process of being replaced, which left much exposed brick and loose plaster. The only light came from temporary bulbs strung along the ceiling. They swung in the warm breeze, throwing shadows back and forth. The northbound was twenty yards ahead — as they approached it a train glided in. Heck grabbed Blenkinsop by the back of the collar and propelled him forward so that soon they were running.

Behind them, Lauren waited alone on the southbound. She peered down the length of the train, which was pulling out again. A couple of people had disembarked further along — an elderly Jewish man, who went straight up the exit staircase, and a short, bullish figure wearing desert fatigues. This latter now ambled towards her, hands in his pockets. He was thickset, with a broad, powerful neck. His hair was cut very short, his face tanned, brutish.

She waited for him. There was still a chance he was an ordinary commuter. But he came straight on, staring at her with such intensity that he might have been seeing through her. When he was five yards away, he took his hands from his pockets — she saw the tattoos on the inside of each wrist. They were black scorpions.

Lauren went for the pocket containing the Glock — only for a hand to tap her shoulder.

She spun around, shocked. She’d been so mesmerised by the approach of the first man that she hadn’t thought to check the two or three carriages behind her. The tall black guy with the pearl earring was there. He smiled at her, the teeth bright in his handsome face. He presented his clenched fist — almost as if he was showing it to her, as if it was something he wanted to sell. It was wrapped in a gold-plated knuckleduster. Lauren made a kick for his groin, but he dodged and she only caught him on the thigh. At which point she was hit in the back of the neck, so hard that nausea engulfed her. She’d convulsed into unconsciousness before she’d even hit the floor.

Heck and Blenkinsop travelled up the Northern Line to Leicester Square, before ascending to the surface. They still didn’t know if they were being followed, but Heck was now thinking that, with an organised pursuit like this, only the teeming multitudes of the West End could provide an adequate shield. They gulped fresh air as they finally emerged from London’s guts — at which point Deke’s phone trilled.

Heck snatched it from his pocket and answered. ‘Lauren?’

‘I like your style,’ said a soft, gloating voice. ‘Letting a woman do the fighting.’

‘You bastards,’ Heck breathed.

‘It was a novel plan, but,’ and the voice chuckled, ‘just in case you were wondering … it didn’t work.’

‘I’ll get you, I swear it.’

‘Gonna send another woman to take care of that for you?’

‘I know all about you now.’

‘Not as much as we know about you. Or rather … as much as we’ll shortly know. You see, that’s what we do, Detective Sergeant Heckenburg. We find out about people. We make it our business to know them better than they know themselves. So very soon — courtesy of this gift you’ve left us — we’re going to know all your strengths and all your weaknesses. Especially your weaknesses.’

The voice chuckled again, and hung up.

Heck had this conversation on the corner of Lisle Street.

Stiffly, like an automaton, he now pocketed the phone, turned to Blenkinsop, grabbed him, twisted his arm behind his back and frog-marched him to the edge of the pavement. Blenkinsop choked with pain and struggled wildly, but, though he wasn’t a small man, he was helpless in Heck’s street-toughened grasp.

‘You’re going to talk to me,’ Heck said. ‘You’re going to tell me everything. Or you’ve got a date with this double-decker.’

He nodded towards a bus picking up speed as it bore down Charing Cross Road towards them.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ Blenkinsop screamed. ‘Someone help me, please!’

But the West End crowds, as was their way, only scurried around the bizarre scene, interested to watch it but more interested to mind their own business.

The bus crashed over a manhole lid. It was twenty yards away and pushing forty.

‘You think I’m not serious!’ Heck shouted, shoving Blenkinsop over the kerb and across the first carriageway.

The bus was almost upon them, the driver staring in amazement, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stop in time.

‘YOU THINK I’M NOT FUCKING SERIOUS!’

Chapter 39

‘It’s a rape club,’ Blenkinsop told Heck. ‘The Nice Guys are a criminal gang who organise rapes for money.’

They were facing each other across a table in the crowded back room of a Covent Garden pub. Both were sallow-faced and nursing treble-whiskies.

‘Say that again,’ Heck whispered.

Blenkinsop, globs of sweat clinging to his brow, stammered out everything he knew: about how the Nice Guys first made contact with him; about how he’d paid them to procure Louise Jennings for him; about how he’d then raped her while she’d lain unconscious. Heck had paled to a deathly milk-grey by the time the story was finished.