Dead Man Walking (37 page)

Slowly, quietly as he could, Heck started forward, still moving at a crouch, leaves and twigs barely rustling as he slid past them – only to realise, some twenty-five yards later, that he wasn’t headed back for the road.

He halted again, trying to think.

And a black-gloved hand clapped his shoulder.

Inadvertently, Heck gave a hoarse yelp. He twisted around, but another hand clapped across his mouth and forced him backward to the dirt, a strong body pressing on top of him.

‘Shhhhhh!’ Mary-Ellen hissed into his ear.

‘What the hell?’ he spluttered. ‘Jesus, you almost gave me a coronary!’

‘Heck, this guy’s a fucking lunatic!’

‘No shit, Sherlock …’

‘No, listen!’ Her bright green eyes bugged almost unnaturally. Her face had turned waxy-pale. ‘There’s a marked police car about seventy yards from here, just off Cragwood Road. Half-hidden in the undergrowth.’

‘A marked car … anyone inside it?’

She nodded dumbly. ‘I think it’s the firearms team.’

By her tone alone, he knew this wasn’t going to be good.

‘You must see this kind of thing all the time?’ Hazel asked.

They were seated opposite each other at the kitchen table, stirring mugs of tea. Gemma watched quietly as Hazel rubbed at her brow. Now the pub landlady had had some time to reflect on the events of earlier, she almost looked dazed. For a second or two, fresh tears had trickled from her eyes.

‘I suppose the answer you want, Hazel, is “yeah, sure … but we always get the right result in the end”.’ Gemma shrugged. ‘Thankfully, this kind of extremely violent psychopath is a rarity. Most of the criminals we encounter are desperate nobodies who’ve just lost their way in life.’

Hazel arched a scornful eyebrow. ‘So they murder people as a solution?’

‘The majority don’t murder anyone. Even hardened career criminals basically want an easy time. They’re a bunch of pathetic losers who haven’t got the personal integrity to do any work. They prefer to acquire stuff they want by taking it from others, be it money, property, sexual gratification, personal dignity. But ultimately, they all pay for it. They do long stretches inside, they get criminal records that’ll hang around their necks for the rest of their lives, preventing them ever getting a proper job, a bank loan, or ever being able to live anywhere again without the police knocking on their door each time there’s an incident. I mean, they come out of jail acting the big “I am”, but the reality is they’ve been shagged in the showers, got a habit they won’t shake off easily, and the only people who still know them are the last guys on Earth you’d ever want to be your mates.’

‘But we’re not talking about those people, are we?’ Hazel said. ‘Not up here. Not tonight. We’re talking about that other small per cent: the weirdos, the aberrations.’

‘We don’t know
what
we’re dealing with here, Hazel. Truth is, we never really knew what we were dealing with during the Stranger enquiry. Our psychological profile was way off …’

‘You think it could be the same person? Seriously? After all this time?’

Hazel wasn’t sure what response she hoped to get. Whoever it was out there, they were doing horrible things, but the thought it might be some kind of monster from the distant past was somehow even more disturbing, perhaps because it hinted at an unnatural longevity.

Gemma shrugged again, affecting an air of nonchalance – the public always felt safer if their police officers were calm and analytical.

‘It could be the same person. The evidence suggests it is. But common sense says something else. The real issues at present are not who he is, but
what
he is … why is he doing this? How much is he actually capable of? Will he decide enough’s enough, or just carry on? I’m sorry … for all my experience, I just don’t know.’

Hazel nodded and sniffled. Gemma noted that her earlier tears had been short-lived. She’d endured a terrible experience this night, the sort few civilians could emerge from unscathed, but thus far at least she was on top of it.

‘I never thought this kind of thing would ever come up here,’ Hazel said. ‘I mean don’t get me wrong, the Lake District isn’t Fairy Land … we have problems up here, of course we do. But people murdered in their homes, a madman roaming the fog!’

‘Like you called it before, it’s an aberration. It probably won’t happen again in your lifetime.’

‘But it shows how fragile the world is, doesn’t it? Every morning, I get up and go outside. I see the tarn lying flat as a millpond, reflecting the sky and the clouds. I see our beautiful mountains. The stillness, the serenity. It feels so good to be alive. But is all that a façade? Is it just a pretty smokescreen?’

Gemma leaned forward. ‘Hazel, I’ve dealt with hundreds of murders, rapes, woundings … and I’ve met thousands of victims. I’ll say to you what I always say to them: it happened, it’s real, we can’t pretend otherwise, but don’t be frightened to enjoy life just because of this. The moment you do that, these petty, inadequate bastards have won.’

‘I won’t be frightened,’ Hazel said, perhaps not looking totally convinced. ‘When it’s over, I mean. At least, I don’t think I will. I’m not a coward, Gemma.’

‘Never said you were.’

‘I’m not easily scared …’

‘You proved that when you went up to the farm.’

‘I don’t know … maybe. I’m a fighter by origin. My dad, Will, was a farm-hand who worked every hour God sent, labouring in all kinds of weather. His older brother was Jim Barrett. Played loose forward for Workington Town … they used to call him “the Mangler”. Once smashed the Australian Rugby League captain’s jaw in an absolute bloodbath of a Test match in Sydney. That’s my line of descent, Gemma. But, hell …’ Hazel paused long and hard. ‘After tonight I’ll feel a little bit safer if Mark’s here too.’

‘Heck is a handy guy to have around,’ Gemma admitted. ‘But he’s no white knight. You need to know that.’

‘I do know it.’

‘He’s always got his own agenda – though some would call it an “obsession” – and it rarely involves anyone else.’

‘I also know he’s going to leave at some point. Or he’s contemplating leaving …?’

Gemma shrugged as if she couldn’t help with this.

‘I heard everything you said about him earlier,’ Hazel said. ‘Marooning himself up here to punish you, cutting off his nose to spite his face and all that. And I’ve no reason to disbelieve any of it. But at some point soon he’s going to make a decision. The thing is …’ her tone became earnest, ‘now that
you’re
here, Gemma, there’s no conceivable way you won’t be part of it.’

‘That’s not why I’m …’

‘
Why
you’re here is irrelevant. When a guy talks about a previous girl in his life as much as Mark does about you, that’s not because you were just friends. He’s a warrior, and I can see you are as well. And that’s got to be an enormous attraction to him … even if he won’t admit it to himself. So he’s going to make his decision, and you’ll be part of it.’

‘Okay.’ Gemma sat back tiredly, sensing the ball was still in her court. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘If you want to offer him his old job back because you value his work, you want a good man on your team … that’s okay. I can’t quibble with that. But please guarantee me one thing. That you’re not going to offer him something you can’t or, after what you were saying up on the fell,
won’t
deliver. Please give me that guarantee, Gemma. Because it’d hardly be fair on Mark, would it?’

Gemma eyed her with fascination. ‘Heck doesn’t bloody deserve you, Hazel.’

Before Hazel could respond, there was a thunderous knocking on the pub’s front door. They stared at each other blankly, then struggled to their feet. By the time they’d entered the taproom, all the others had woken. Burt Fillingham and Ted Haveloc were already at the door.

‘Who is it?’ the postmaster asked through the wood.

‘McGurk,’ came a muffled voice. ‘PC McGurk … I need either PC O’Rourke or DS Heckenburg.’

‘Why?’ Fillingham asked.

‘Just open the sodding door, alright!’

‘It’s okay, thank you, Mr Fillingham,’ Gemma said, sliding past and turning the lock, but ensuring to keep the door on its chain, only releasing this when she saw McGurk outside. He was bug-eyed and rubbing tiredly at the back of his neck.

‘What’s the problem?’ she asked.

‘I’ll tell you wha’ the problem is, ma’am … the power’s out up at the nick.’

‘What … a full blackout?’

‘Yeah, the whole thing’s gone. I’m not so bothered about the lights, because I’m not using them anyway. But the electric heaters are on the same circuits, so it’s like a deep freeze inside there, and it’s getting worse …’

‘Mark’s said that’s happened before,’ Hazel said, appearing at Gemma’s shoulder. ‘It was designed to be a house not a police station, so the circuits get overloaded.’

‘Whatever, it’s pitch-dark and I can’t find the breakers,’ McGurk replied.

‘The breakers will be in the cellar,’ Burt Fillingham said, standing close by. ‘It’s the same all over the village. There’s a cellar underneath, and all the circuits and meters and such are down there. But if it’s anything like our house, you can’t get into it through the actual building. There’ll be a doorway around the back.’

‘Same at my place,’ Ted Haveloc agreed. ‘But it won’t be easy to find in the dark.’

‘I’ll find it,’ McGurk said. ‘Cheers …’

He backed away, but Gemma followed him out, pulling on her coat. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘It’s okay, ma’am …’

‘No, two pairs of eyes are better than one.’ She glanced at the half-open pub door, and then specifically at Hazel, who seemed the most likely to assume an effective leadership role in her absence. ‘You guys going to be alright for a couple of minutes?’

Hazel simply nodded.

The door banged closed, and Gemma and McGurk set off up Truscott Drive.

‘No disrespect, ma’am, but I don’t need babysitting,’ he muttered.

‘We’ve already lost one officer tonight. What kind of guv’nor would I be if I sent another one into a dangerous situation alone?’

‘I’m looking for a switch so I can turn the power on. Hardly gonna be dangerous.’

‘That depends on how the power was turned off, doesn’t it? How long before you realised, anyway? You look frozen.’

‘I don’t know. But I’m alright.’

She believed that, even though he
did
look frozen. McGurk might be a taciturn individual, but there was something vaguely elemental about him. He had granite features, a burly, apelike stance. As he walked now, he’d hunched forward, hands thrust into his pockets as if this whole late-night business at Cragwood Keld was more a personal inconvenience than a ferocious crime-spree that had claimed five lives. Presumably this owed to his past as a Royal Marine and combat veteran. In some ways it was reassuring he could be so fearless, but though he’d actually said very little since she’d first met him – that exchange at the pub door had been the first proper conversation they’d had – Gemma couldn’t help thinking there were deep, dark currents inside McGurk.

‘I’m guessing you’ve seen a bit of action?’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘Some.’

‘Comrades getting slotted left, right and centre?’

‘Some.’

It was difficult, if not impossible, to read anything into such determinedly monosyllabic responses.

‘Well I don’t need to remind you of all people about procedure when an offender’s carrying firearms,’ she said. ‘But let’s remember … Heggarty got shot through the head from point-blank range. This suspect is for real.’

‘We’ll see how real he is, ma’am, when I get my hands on him.’ That was the closest thing to an emotional statement she’d heard from McGurk all night, though again it was delivered in a flat monotone that was vaguely unnerving.

She remembered the unconfirmed story that McGurk had been demoted from the rank of detective sergeant for ill-treating prisoners. She thought about those numerous members of the military who’d also been disciplined for this kind of offence, and she wondered if McGurk had only been continuing a habit he’d picked up in the theatre of war. She also wondered what this kind of thing revealed about a man’s character. Did he not handle tough experiences well, or was it more a case that life in the security services gave him opportunities he wouldn’t otherwise have to do exactly what lurked in his nature?

You could never tell at first glance, especially with a laconic figure like Mick McGurk.

Heck and Mary-Ellen moved through the wood for about seventy yards, though it might have been further. Mary-Ellen admitted that she’d only guessed the actual distance. The first they saw of the wrecked police car were rotating spears of misted blue light flickering through the undergrowth.

They slowed down as they approached.

The vehicle, which was about three yards off the blacktop on this side of Cragwood Road, thinly concealed by leafy branches, was exactly as Mary-Ellen had described: a Ford Focus bearing Cumbria Constabulary markings, with extra roof details to indicate it was an armed response car. It was now sitting on four flat tyres.

Almost immediately an answer to one of Heck’s earlier questions struck him. Why had the killer not used a silencer before? Maybe because he hadn’t been able to – until a police firearms unit had provided him with all the additional kit he needed.

As with most of the other vehicles, the car’s tyres looked as if they’d been repeatedly sliced, reducing them to ribbons, negating any possibility it could be driven anywhere else.

Up close, Heck noticed the front passenger window had been powered down. Someone had probably appeared on the verge, waving to the vehicle as it had cruised through the fog. It had braked alongside them. Down went the panel as the firearms lads sought an explanation.
Bang bang bang
went the assassin’s gun.

Heck stuck his head inside.

It was another abattoir, blood and brain spatter streaking the dashboard, the upholstery, the insides of all the windows, even the ceiling. The officer in the passenger seat, a youngish, stocky guy with a shaven head, had taken one in the left temple and one in the throat. The officer behind the wheel looked about the same age, but was slimmer; his face was unrecognisable because most of it had been blown away. There was one other officer in the back, an older man with a mop of iron-grey hair. He’d taken one in the forehead and one through the cheek.