Stalkers

‘Come on.’

They flashed their warrant cards to the uniformed sergeant at the front door, then donned Tyvek coveralls from the sterile container in the porch and pulled on pairs of latex gloves and shoe-covers, before being guided towards an internal door connecting with the garage. Neither of them was quite sure what to expect, but then no officer ever was when he or she first approached a murder scene.

Even to sensibilities as battle-hardened as theirs, the sight of the impaled man was a sobering shock. He was still transfixed mid-way up the steel spike. What looked like several bucketfuls of blood had spilled across the cement floor beneath him, and were now slowly coagulating. The lower section of the spike was crusted crimson. Blenkinsop’s waxen face, which they could only see upside down, was a rigid grimace of agony. Gemma glanced to the ceiling, where someone had gone to great trouble to saw out a large square section of boarding.

‘Whoever set this up wasn’t taking any chances,’ she said.

Palliser couldn’t at first reply. He’d turned a shade green as he surveyed the punctured body. It was always difficult, even with years of CID experience, to be cool about a corpse, which, a few hours earlier, you’d seen walking around and had engaged in conversation.

‘Remind me what it was that bothered you about this fella?’ Gemma said.

‘Well …’ Palliser cleared his throat, making an effort to get it together. ‘He was way too nervous. Wouldn’t even let us take a DNA sample.’

‘He’s hardly the sort to be involved in routine crime.’

‘Nothing routine about this, ma’am.’

‘Agreed. Let’s have a look at the other one.’

They moved through the house, the uniformed sergeant still chaperoning them, and descended to the cellar. This was a more conventional crime scene: wrecked furniture, and a deceased party who had clearly been dispatched by gunshots. Gemma picked her way as close to the body as she dared. A wallet lay open beside it, and personal documents were strewn around. She crouched to get a closer look.

‘Brian Hobbs,’ she said, reading the name on the credit cards. ‘This a genuine ID?’

‘We don’t know that yet, ma’am,’ the sergeant responded. He’d remained on the stairs, not wanting to trespass on the scene.

Gemma nodded, before beckoning Palliser to the far side of the room, where they were out of the uniform’s earshot.

‘How’d you actually get onto this?’ she asked quietly.

‘Force radio. Was on my way home when it came over. Sixteen, Templeton Drive. Remembered it straight away. Blenkinsop.’

‘There was no reference in Heck’s paperwork to Blenkinsop?’

Palliser shook his head.

‘What about this guy, Hobbs?’

‘Not as I noticed.’

‘Because I think I’ve seen him before. On a couple of crime scene glossies in one of Heck’s folders.’

Palliser looked startled. ‘Okay … okay, now I’m getting excited.’

‘Well don’t get too excited. Half this fella’s head’s been blown off. I can’t be absolutely sure.’

‘On the FR they thought this might be a robbery-homicide.’

‘What … Blenkinsop killed one of the robbers then fell through a trapdoor they’d prepared for him earlier?’ She looked scornful as she turned to the uniformed sergeant. ‘Have we found a firearm anywhere?’

‘Not yet, ma’am. We won’t do a thorough search until the Lab get here.’

Palliser nodded towards the wallet. ‘That’s what probably gave the first impression.’

Gemma shook her head. ‘There’s still money in it. Whoever got that wallet out wanted to know who this guy was and where he was from.’

Palliser eyed her. ‘Three guesses who that was.’

She crouched again to analyse the spilled documentation — and to check the address on the driving licence, which was fifty-eight, Rentoul Street, Coventry.

She thanked DS Gibbens on her way out.

‘You done, ma’am?’ he asked, surprised.

‘Absolutely, Tony. Thanks very much.’

‘That’s it?’

‘For the moment.’

‘See you then.’

‘See you,’ she said, climbing into her BMW.

Before Palliser jumped into his Chevrolet, he heard Gibbens muttering to the uniforms on the tape about the privileges of special squads, and how ‘those lucky buggers will be back in bed before one’.

‘I wish,’ Palliser said, as he sped away after his boss.

Chapter 43

Heck pinched the motor from outside a council flat in Finchley belonging to a well-known car thief. It was a Lexus LS, and the property of one Errol Buchanan, who, according to observations by Scotland Yard’s Organised Crime Division, had been involved in car-ringing operations for the best part of a decade. The Lexus, which would initially have been stolen, was now — on paper at least — Buchanan’s property. It would probably have been intended for sale abroad, but Buchanan, a reckless, self-indulgent bastard even by car thief standards, had presumably fallen in love with it and decided to keep it.

This was why Heck had no qualms about taking and driving it away. Not that he’d have hesitated to lift it from a law-abiding citizen if he’d had no other choice.

It was close to one o’clock in the morning and he was bulleting up the M1 motorway. That last telephone message went through his head again and again: he’d been told simply to head north and await further instructions, which he would receive en route. They’d threatened that if they saw any sign the police were following, both Dana and Lauren would suffer unimaginable consequences. There was no gloating this time, no taunting. It had been a quick, straightforward message, delivered in a businesslike monotone.

But to hear Dana’s voice — in pain, in terror …

It had been bad enough that they’d got Lauren, but Lauren was an ex-soldier who’d lived with fear and violence as part of her profession, and, even if she hadn’t, she’d willingly bought into this escapade. Dana on the other hand, was an estate agent and housewife, the mother of his beautiful young niece.

Lauren’s words hadn’t seemed prophetic at the time, that night in Bobby Ballamara’s gaff, about Heck’s sister suddenly not being there anymore. But they had remained in the back of his mind and, to some extent, had started him thinking that he needed to readdress his priorities. Only yesterday, he’d decided he was going to see Dana again when all this was over. Try to be a proper brother to her, try to be an uncle to Sarah, but now …

Heck had trouble keeping below a hundred m.p.h., but knew that he had to because otherwise he’d pick up a traffic patrol and that would defeat the entire object. They’d be watching his progress, the voice on the phone had said. If he tried to pull anything, the outcome would stagger even a hard-ass cop like him. Heck didn’t know exactly what he was headed for here, but it was plain he had no option. He had to go and meet them.

The lights and motorway bridges flipped by like speeded-up cine film. At this time of night, the northbound carriageway was almost empty. He passed Luton, Milton Keynes, Northampton. Then Deke’s phone rang.

Heck banged it to his ear. ‘Yes?’

‘Take the M6. Follow it north. Any sign you’ve got a police tail, on land or in the air, the ladies in your life are carrion.’ The line went dead.

Heck hit the M6 north of Rugby, blazing towards Birmingham. He’d warned Ian Blenkinsop that this thing wasn’t going to end happily. There was now a sinking feeling in his gut that he was fast approaching that denouement.