Stalkers

heard a click as a firearm was cocked somewhere behind him. The sweat on his brow turned swiftly to ice.

It was the guy with the Uzi who came forward first. He raised the weapon and pointed it directly at Heck’s face. As he did, his sleeve cuff slipped away from his glove, and Heck saw the tattoo of a black scorpion on the exposed wrist.

This was the kick-starter. Before a shot could be fired, Heck had thrown himself sideways and dived into the canal.

It was rank, brackish, filled with weeds and floating rubble, but he’d got used to such discomforts over the last few days and didn’t surface again until he’d swum clear to the other side. There he pounded on the hull of the narrow-boat and shouted at the top of his voice for help. To his surprise, there was an immediate response. A door banged open and he heard the sound of feet coming out onto the upper deck. A figure gazed down over the gunwale, finally extending a hand towards him. Heck took it, and was hauled up. But then moonlight fell on the face of his rescuer — it was a raddled patchwork of scar tissue. There was no nose; there were no eyelids. The mouth, though crimped in an amused grin, was a monstrous parody of humanity.

‘Klim!’ Heck shouted, trying to drag himself free.

But Klim wouldn’t release him; in his other hand he held a heavy implement, something like a monkey wrench. Heck tried to flinch away, but it was impossible to avoid the crashing blow that impacted on his cranium.

Chapter 44

Heck remained dazed even after he’d regained full consciousness. The top of his head throbbed, his vision was blurred and strands of blood-gluey hair dangled in front of his eyes.

‘Detective Sergeant Heckenburg,’ a vaguely familiar voice said. ‘I must say, I’m impressed.’

Heck jerked upright, so quickly that it made him nauseous. He was briefly blinded by the well-lit room, which seemed to be long, narrow and sparsely furnished. The floor was bare wood; he thought there might be steel shutters over the windows. Gradually, he became aware that five people were standing in front of him. One was the grey-haired man with the stick who’d confronted him on the tow-path. The others were equally recognisable: the tall black guy with the pearl earring — the one he’d seen on the Victoria Line, though now he was wearing a hoodie top and dark overalls; the swarthy, bullish guy in desert combat fatigues, who they’d also encountered on the Victoria, also now in a hoodie and overalls; and Shane Klim — with his hideously scarred visage, dressed in a sweatshirt, jeans and trainers. The fifth person was positioned behind them, and she wasn’t standing up. She was hanging by the wrists from a hook in the ceiling. She was unconscious and naked; her sleek brown body blotched from head to toe with livid bruises. It was Lauren.

When Heck finally focused on Lauren, he struggled to get up — only to find that he too was naked and fastened into place, though in his case he was seated and bound by his wrists and ankles to an iron chair that appeared to have been bolted to the floor.

‘You’re part of a police unit that covers the entire country,’ the walking-stick man said. He smiled almost benignly: he wasn’t as old as his grey hair made him appear from a distance; probably in his late thirties. He could only be Mad Mike Silver. As Blenkinsop had said, there was a steely air about him; he was handsome like an actor — lean featured but with a strong, square jaw, a bronze tan and penetrating blue eyes. His walking stick was of thick bamboo, with an ivory skull for its handle. He was smartly dressed in tan chinos and a crisp, white shirt buttoned to the collar beneath a navy-blue blazer. ‘And I can see why, sergeant. You’re here, there, everywhere.’

‘So are you people,’ Heck retorted. ‘But personally I’m not impressed.’

‘You’ve no need to be. We’re nothing special, just a bunch of fellows making a living. It’s all about supply and demand.’

‘Where’s my sister?’ Heck said.

‘She’s not too far away,’ Silver replied. ‘Don’t worry, she’s safe … for the moment.’

‘Why we talking to him and not doing him?’ one of the men muttered — it was Klim; he spoke awkwardly as if his disfigured mouth was stuffed with soggy bread. ‘He’s fucking trouble. Soon as I saw his face, I knew we’d have problems.’

‘Says you,’ Heck snorted.

Silver raised his bamboo on high and swung it down, dealing a hard, stinging slash to Heck’s shinbone. Heck just managed to restrain a bellow of agony.

‘Mr Klim may not have been one of us originally, but he’s more than proved his worth since,’ Silver said. ‘Even if he did make a few unwise comments while he was in prison …’

If it was possible for Klim’s mangled features to blush, they did so now. Highly likely, Heck thought, he’d already been made to pay for those comments.

‘Not to worry,’ Silver added. ‘That’s now been taken care of. Either way, I won’t hear him mocked.’

‘No, but you’ll see women and girls raped and killed!’ Heck gritted his teeth on the lingering pain. ‘You fucking animals!’

Silver made an airy gesture. ‘Casualties of war … collateral damage, and … I don’t know … there are lots of other euphemisms they’ve invented for those kinds of unfortunates.’

‘I can see why they call you Mad Mike!’

If Silver was surprised that Heck had identified him, he didn’t show it, but neither did he deny that this was his name.

‘You might have made this crackpot scheme work in lawless banana republics,’ Heck said. ‘When you were using tough squaddies that you’d once led in battle. But just because you’re back in Blighty you resort to hiring Johnny Handsome here …’ he indicated the scowling Klim, ‘who’d stand out even among the rank-and-file dickheads? Some pro you are!’

Silver regarded Klim’s ravaged face almost fondly. ‘We value expertise more highly than anything, but sometimes an enthusiastic amateur can be just as useful.’

Heck had pored over many case files detailing the sort of grisly enthusiasms that Shane Klim specialised in. ‘You weren’t just wounded in the leg, were you, Silver?’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve lost your fucking marbles.’

Silver pondered. ‘I’ve had a high-stress career, I’ll admit.’

‘You’re nothing but a cold-blooded murderer.’

‘An interesting comment from a man whose own hands are not entirely clean. I’m assuming you killed Trooper Ezekial? There’s no other reason why he’d simply drop from sight like this.’

Heck sat back as the ache in his leg eased. ‘Hey … another of those unfortunate casualties of war.’

‘And I’m sure a fair one. After all, Trooper Ezekial attempted to ruin your life by framing you for a serious crime. He got exactly what he deserved, yes?’

Heck didn’t reply. Behind them, he saw Lauren’s eyes flutter open. They were bloodshot, watery, but when they fixed on him he could see that she was cognisant of what was happening.

‘Except that Trooper Hobbs here doesn’t share that view.’ Silver indicated the guy who’d worn the desert fatigues. Not only did Heck recognise him from the Underground train, but now — having heard the name ‘Hobbs’ — he recognised similarities in him to someone else. Okay, he looked older, tougher and more rugged than the ‘Kid’ currently lying dead in Belsize Park, and he was a lot more suntanned, but there was no denying that overly prominent forehead.

‘We’re a small outfit at heart,’ Silver added. ‘A tight-knit bunch. Trooper Ezekial wasn’t really part of that — he was an outside contractor, who it suited us to use now and then. But he was also a friend. Trooper Hobbs and he were very close when they were back in Scorpion Company — and what kind of skipper would I be if I didn’t respect comradeship? So …’ Silver sighed as if it pained him, ‘when all this is over, I’ll have to let Trooper Hobbs have the final say.’

Trooper Hobbs moved his gloved hands to his belt and gripped the hilts of two large, hook-bladed knives.

Heck eyed the blades nervously, but still tried to tough it out. ‘He couldn’t have been very handy with those