‘How about if …’
‘I’m not arguing with you, Heck. I’ve actually done you a courtesy coming down here to tell you in person. I could’ve sent Des, I could’ve told you on the bloody phone. Just deal with it, alright.’
She marched to the door, pulling on her suit jacket.
‘You know, it’s a miracle anyone stays in this job,’ Heck said. ‘And I’ll tell you another miracle — that we ever catch anyone with some of the clowns we’ve got in charge.’
‘Watch it!’ She rounded on him fiercely. ‘Just watch it, Sergeant!’
‘I didn’t mean you …’
‘I don’t give a damn! I won’t have insubordination! Now your work here is done. So do us all a favour, get your paperwork in order and, following that, get your head in order. Then get your scruffy arse back to the Yard, pronto.’
And she was off, storming down the passage to catch up with DCI Slackworth — a burly, foursquare slaphead with flabby cheeks and pig-mean eyes — who was busy chatting up a pretty young female constable from the day- shift.
Heck watched her go, sourly.
‘Do you think anyone’ll mind if I light up in here?’ Palliser wondered, edging out of view of those in the corridor.
‘How should I know?’ Heck replied.
‘It’s
‘Not anymore.’
At the end of the corridor, Superintendent Piper was standing arms folded, yet still managing to wave the notice around, as she gave both barrels to Slackworth. The familiar whipcrack voice came echoing along the passage, and Slackworth, a tough-nut in front of his own crew, was soon shuffling awkwardly and looking abashed.
‘“The Lioness”,’ Heck said. ‘Talk about well named.’
‘She has a softer side.’ Palliser was now beside an open window, blowing smoke. ‘If anyone should know that, it’s you.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘She still cares about you though.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘For one thing, she reckons you need some leave.’
‘What?’
‘You’re in a state, Heck. You haven’t had a break in two years.’
‘I haven’t been able to.’
‘Beside the point.’
‘No it isn’t.’ Heck indicated the empty desks and tables. ‘I used to have six officers working for me in here, Des. One by one, I’ve watched them get shunted to other duties. All I’ve had for the last nine weeks is an admin assistant, part-time.’
Palliser shrugged. ‘Understanding why you’re knackered isn’t really a solution to it. She’s the gaffer and she reckons that your judgment’s become impaired. You’re losing sight of the wood for the trees.’
‘So I’m a burn-out as well?’
‘Not far off.’
‘This is bollocks.’
‘No, she’s genuinely concerned.’
‘I mean this whole thing.’
‘Oh that, yeah. That’s definitely bollocks.’ Palliser suddenly glanced up at the ceiling, wondering belatedly if there was a smoke-detector present, and relaxing when he saw that there wasn’t. ‘You’re a DS, Heck, that’s all. Yet for two years you’ve been working under your own steam, authorising your own hours and resources. It was inevitable someone was going to whinge about it. It’s politics, typical office bullshit. But it’s not unimportant.’
‘Especially not when someone like Laycock’s involved, eh?’
While Superintendent Piper was head of the Serial Crimes Unit, her immediate supervisor, Commander Jim Laycock, was director of the National Crime Group and was, to all intents and purposes, God. Despite this, Heck had managed to bump heads with him on a number of occasions.
‘Laycock’s answerable to a higher power as well,’ Palliser said, as if this was some kind of consolation.
‘He’s a pencil-pushing suit.’
‘Which is all the more reason to fall in line for him. He has to balance the books somehow. Given the history you and him have got, it’s a wonder he’s let it drag on this long.’
Heck walked back to his desk, his head aching with frustration. He sat down heavily. ‘At the end of the day, all I’m concerned about is these missing women. I can crack this, Des. I know it. I can find them, or at least find out what happened to them.’
Palliser chucked his cig-butt from the window. ‘We’ve been through this already, mate. Wrap it up and get some rest. God knows, you need it.’
Chapter 5
When Louise came round, she felt ghastly: headachey and sick to the pit of her stomach.
Initially the awful memory of her abduction eluded her. All she could do at first was puzzle about why she was slumped in a ratty old armchair that smelled of stale urine. But then, when she looked around and realised that she was in a small, windowless room and that the throbbing pain in her right bicep was the result of an injection, everything surged back — and with it, a wild panic.
She tried to leap to her feet, but was still groggy and immediately overbalanced, her shoeless feet sliding on the white linoleum floor. She fell heavily, landing alongside an open cardboard box, which, when she looked inside it, was stuffed to the brim with lingerie: pairs of lacy knickers, silk stockings, suspender belts. She recoiled from it the way she would if it had been full of snakes. Struggling to her knees, she backed away, only to collide with something else: a steel-framed clothes rack, which again was loaded with garments. In this case they were dresses, camisoles and skirts of various sizes and colours, though in all cases they were slinky, flimsy, transparent, the sort of things glamour models would wear. Again the tawdriness of it both revolted and terrified her — in no way could this be good.
Heart thumping, Louise tried to lurch back to her feet, but it wasn’t easy. She’d evidently been sedated for several hours, and now felt as if she was recovering from a fever; every quick or ill-timed move brought on a new flutter of dizziness. But there was one thing at least — whoever had put her here, they’d left her unbound. Tender weals were impressed into her wrists, but thankfully the plastic cuffs had been removed, and, small and stuffy as this room might be, it had to be an improvement on the claustrophobic confines of that car boot. She pivoted around, looking for any means of escape.
The room was lit by a single unshaded bulb and was no larger than a shop fitting-room, but it contained two doors, both made of varnished wood. Louise blundered to the first. It had a lever-handle, which she pushed down. The door opened, but on the other side of it there was only a narrow, white-tiled cubicle, containing a toilet, a wash-bowl and a shower. There was also a mirror, and fleetingly she caught her own reflection — it was so different from any previous mirror image of herself that she jumped backward with a shriek.
Only after a split second of disbelief did she come forward again.
Then she started to cry.
Her face looked like it had been made up for a stage-show of the macabre. Her eyes were red with weeping; her hair hung in rat-tails; what remained of her make-up was smeared and blotched grotesquely; beneath that, her normal healthy complexion had paled to an ashen, almost greenish hue. Even though she’d only been in captivity for a couple of days at the most, she already looked to have lost weight: her cheekbones were painfully prominent. She glanced down at herself and saw that what remained of her clothing was in a disgusting state: stained with engine oil and body fluids. The vile stench of urine was suddenly explainable.
