during their fight. There was another workbench in the corner, underneath a shelf laden with jars of screws, nails and so on. There was also a hook from which a bundle of rope was suspended. That would do nicely. It was a bit Spiderman-like, but Heck couldn’t think of a better outcome than calling this incident in and leaving the culprit bound at the scene of the crime.
He walked over there — and heard a noise behind him.
Yet again, because it was absolutely imperative that the Kid saved this situation, he’d somehow revived himself. When Heck turned, the Kid was halfway across the cellar, a razor-tipped wood chisel raised above his head. He screamed with homicidal rage.
Heck pulled the gun and fired four times.
It wasn’t what he’d planned to do. It wasn’t even what he’d wanted. It was pure instinct, sheer self- preservation.
The first three bullets tore into the Kid’s torso, stopping him as if he’d run into a brick wall, while the fourth — just in case he too was secretly armoured — was directed at his massive forehead, in which it blasted a hole the size of a fifty-pence piece.
The Kid again flopped to earth, this time with blood venting in spurts from his chest, his back, and the right side of his imploded skull.
Heck leaned on the bench to regain his breath. He tried to console himself with the knowledge that he hadn’t just done what he’d earlier berated Lauren for doing. This wasn’t an execution, it was simple self-defence. But he didn’t feel particularly bad about it … until about ten seconds later, when he heard the approach of sirens.
He whirled around in a panic. This was Belsize Park of course; not the sort of neighbourhood where gunshots would go unreported.
He took the stairs three at a time, and emerged into the hall to see a blue spinning light outside the front windows. He dashed into the kitchen, where he halted to think. A sensible patrol officer would have sent his partner around to the back before trying to gain entry at the front, but they’d only
Only when he was four or five streets away and thoroughly exhausted, the sweat swimming into his eyes, did he halt and double over, hacking out coughs. Almost on cue, there was a ring-tone from his pocket. It was Deke’s mobile phone.
He took it out. By the number on the screen, the call was coming from the same phone that had called him on Lisle Street. He put it to his ear.
‘Talk to me,’ he said.
‘Mark?’
‘Ye-yeah, who is …?’
‘Oh Mark … oh God, Mark … who are these awful people?’
The voice was cut off as though a hand had been slapped over a mouth. It had been tearful, totally terrorised — but there was no doubt who it belonged to.
Dana, his sister.
Chapter 42
Gemma’s eyes snapped open to the trilling of a telephone bell.
She lay confused for a few moments, before focusing on the neon numerals of the clock on the other side of the darkened bedroom. It was just past midnight — she’d turned in relatively early because she’d wanted a quick start the following morning. She fumbled on the bedside table and finally found the offending article.
She put it to her ear. ‘Yes, Piper.’
‘Ma’am, it’s me.’ It was Des Palliser.
Gemma sat up. ‘Have we got something?’
‘Yeah … I think we do.’
‘Well?’
‘How soon can you get over to Hampstead?’
‘Hampstead?’
‘Belsize Park, to be precise?’
‘Belsize Park?’ Gemma’s thoughts were still fuddled. What on earth could take them to that exclusive neck of the woods? ‘This is related to Heck, yes?’
‘I think it could be.’
‘
‘Ma’am, this is serious.’
Gemma was now fully awake. Palliser’s tone was one of suppressed excitement, but she didn’t like the sound of that last comment. ‘How serious, Des?’
‘As in … “do you want to check a fresh murder scene yourself before local plod get their dirty paws all over it” serious.’
She leapt from the bed. ‘I’m on my way.’
Gemma made it to Belsize Park in record time. She lived in Highbury, but a blue spinning beacon on top of her BMW meant that she could hurtle down Camden Road and up Haverstock Hill without being intercepted by uniforms, and allowed her to pull straight in alongside the crime scene tape now deployed across the driveway entrance to sixteen, Templeton Drive.
‘Ma’am?’ one of the local detectives said. He’d been standing behind the tape, jawing with a couple of uniforms, and looked astonished to see her.
‘Hello Tony,’ she replied.
Detective Sergeant Tony Gibbens was close to retirement. His stained tie, scruffy brown mac and cynical attitude indicated that he was a creature from another era. He was balding, with tufts of white hair behind his ears. He scratched at one of these as she approached.
‘Fancy letting me take a look, Tony?’
‘Yeah, course. Surprised to see you, though, ma’am.’
‘What have we got?’
Gibbens turned and regarded the house, every window of which was now brightly lit. ‘Well … it’s a two- hander. Unusual circs. But if someone’s called your mob in, they were a bit previous. Lab team haven’t even got here yet.’
‘Who’s Crime Scene Manager?’
‘DI Jeffries. When he arrives.’
‘Alex won’t mind me having a quick shuftie, will he?’
‘Don’t suppose so, ma’am.’ Headlights flooded over them. ‘This is probably him.’
But the beaten-up Chevrolet that pulled in alongside Gemma’s BMW did not belong to DI Alex Jeffries. When DI Des Palliser climbed out, Gibbens looked even more surprised.
‘Something we should be told about, ma’am?’ he asked, looking suspicious.
‘If there is, Tony, you’ll be the first to know. Okay?’
‘Sure.’ He lifted the tape.
‘So what is this?’ Gemma asked, as she and Palliser headed up the gravel drive.
‘That bloke I interviewed at Goldstein amp; Hoff?’ he said quietly.
‘Blenkinsop … yeah?’
‘This is his house. And apparently he’s one of the APs.’
She stopped and stared at him. ‘Are you serious?’
He nodded.
