Sacrifice (8 page)

To call the winter that had just passed ‘bitter’ would have been a big understatement. An arctic air-stream had caused record lows and persistent whiteouts across the whole of the UK from mid-December until well into February. Great fun, of course, for the kiddies, whose schools were repeatedly closed. But there were an awful lot of people for whom those conditions were a living hell. The flotsam of the city – the lonely, the homeless, the sick, the drug-addled – did well to get through their average day and keep warm, dry and fed, but rotting cardboard boxes, piss-stained sleeping bags and windy concrete underpasses offered scant protection when the ice and snow bit with that much savagery.

Kate chuffed on her cig, and considered it a miracle that any of her charges had survived this last winter at all – and they weren’t totally out of the woods yet. It was seven o’clock now and today’s inclement weather appeared to be clearing at last, though it still felt dank and chilly.

She was in the process of closing up, loading bundles of plastic-wrapped second-hand clothing, all cleaned and pressed, into the boot of her battered old Ford Fiesta. The backstreet on which the charity shop was located, which was unused by any other businesses, became a deep, dark canyon once night fell. Only a single yellow lamp glowed at the far end, and as the street was narrow and the industrial buildings running down either side of it were tall, gloomy and mostly windowless, no more than a thin slice of sky was visible overhead. Kate shivered as she loaded the last bundle into the boot. She would get all this lot down to the Whitechapel Centre on Langsdale Street and then hang around to see if they needed a spare volunteer for the evening. She’d put in a lot of hours recently, but she didn’t care. She wouldn’t sleep easily tonight knowing there were people out of doors who’d be neither warm nor dry.

She stubbed her cigarette out, pulled her Afghan coat on, wove a scarf around her neck and was about to switch the lights off inside, when she heard a loud, metallic
clank
from somewhere to the rear of the shop. She stopped what she was doing to listen. No additional sound followed. Assuming something in the kitchen had fallen over, she wandered into the shop to check, remembering that she needed to empty the bin while she was at it – but nothing looked to have been disturbed. Her knife, fork and dinner plate were stacked on the draining board, where she’d left them that lunchtime. Her coffee cup was in its usual place alongside the kettle, which was safely unplugged, its cable wound around it. The doors to the fridge and microwave were both closed; the dishcloth and sponge were in the washing-up bowl, the Fairy Liquid on the windowsill.

Shrugging, Kate lugged the bulging plastic sack from out of the bin, tying its neck in a knot, and opened the back door – and only then did it occur to her that perhaps the sound she’d heard had come from outside. That wouldn’t be unusual, even though she worked here alone; this was a city, people did things at all hours, there were loud noises. And yet, fleetingly, she was hesitant to go and investigate the murky yard. The only light out there came from the interior of the shop via its grimy window and narrow back door. There was a faint ambient glow in the sky – the residue of surrounding street lighting, though no lamps shone directly down on the yard.

Kate hovered on the step. From what she could see, everything looked to be in place: the wheelie-bin, the bucket and mop, the row of empty plant-pots. There was nothing suspicious here.

Except that the back gate was open.

That wasn’t a big thing in itself, though Kate was sure she’d closed it earlier. Was that the sound she’d heard? Had someone climbed over the gate to case the place, and had they then opened it to get away again?

Good luck to them, she thought; it wasn’t like there was much here worth stealing.

Her eyes had now adapted to the dimness, and she could see that she was alone. There was no dilapidated shed for someone to hide behind, no concealed corner where they might crouch unseen. Deciding she was being daft, she went boldly forward, throwing the rubbish sack into the bin and walking over to the gate. She even stepped outside it. The cobbled alley beyond wasn’t too salubrious, but they never were in this part of town. There were no other vehicles of course; no one was packing or unpacking goods. But at least that meant she could see clear down to either end of the alley. On the left it ran forty litter-strewn yards before halting at a wall of sheer bricks. On the right it ran further, eighty yards or more, and then opened into an adjacent road. Even down there, the street lighting was restricted to a narrow gap, where a caul of mist was slowly twisting.

That was spooky for sure, but it wasn’t unusual either – even if Kate did stare at it for several seconds, as though mesmerised. They were very near the river. And it was only April, as she kept reminding herself. The main thing was that there was no one skulking about. She went back into the yard, this time ensuring to close and bolt the gate, then re-entered the building, locking the back door behind her, before turning the lights off and leaving the shop.

Her car was years old, so it would take an age for the radiator to warm up. Kate pulled her mittens on, twisted the key in the ignition and steered the chugging old motor along the street. That sound she’d heard would have been nothing, but it was strange how even though you’d worked in the heart of the city for so many years, its dreary facades and bleak, empty passages could occasionally menace you. Perhaps it was the way the light leached into its stones, the way shadows seemed to clot at its every nook and corner. You were surrounded by people in the inner city, yet it was the easiest place in the world to feel isolated and threatened. How much worse it must be, of course, for those who roamed it endlessly with no place to call their own.

In perfect sync with these thoughts, and before Kate had even reached the next junction, her headlights swept over another pathetic specimen of humanity huddled in a trash-filled doorway. All she saw at first was a dingy quilted blanket, frayed around its edges and odiously stained. The shape curled up beneath was visibly shuddering.

She pulled up at the kerb and applied the handbrake, but left the engine running to try and warm the vehicle’s interior. She climbed out amid clouds of exhaust made thick and pungent by the dampness. The poor sod must have known she was there, but made no effort to look up.

‘Hi,’ Kate said, approaching cautiously. Even someone with experience had to be a little bit careful – some of these cases were so damaged that they were almost animalistic in their reaction when frightened or disturbed. ‘Can I help?’

There was no response. The shrouded form continued to shudder. God alone knew how long the miserable creature had been out here.

‘My name’s Kate. I run the outreach shop at the end of the road there. Look … there’s nothing to be scared of. I’m sure I can assist.’ Kate hunkered down. ‘I’m on my way to one of the shelters in the centre of town right now. Why don’t you hop in and I’ll give you a lift? In half an hour you’ll be drinking hot soup and have a proper bed to sleep in. You can have a wash, a change of clothes …’ Whoever was under there stopped shuddering, as if they were suddenly listening. ‘Here,’ Kate said, encouraged. She reached forward to peel the ragged blanket away. ‘Let me help you …’

The figure sprang.

Kate never saw this – before she knew it,
she
was the one swathed in filthy material. The pavement hit her in the back. She gasped with shock, but could barely draw a breath as the blanket was wrapped tightly around her – as if she was being quickly and efficiently packaged. Something cinched her waist – a rope or belt – binding her arms tightly to her sides. Effortlessly, she was scooped into someone’s arms.

Kate made muffled screams, even though she knew no one could hear her. She was flung into the back seat of her own vehicle, where what felt like further straps were fixed in place and another blanket was tossed over her. A split second later someone climbed into the driving seat, closed the door and put the car in gear.

She screamed again, futilely. The traitorous vehicle rumbled on along the narrow street as though the brief, terrifying interlude had never occurred.

‘Get stuffed, Heck!’ Shawna McCluskey said. ‘That wasn’t me.’

‘It was,’ Heck assured the bunch of detectives crammed around them in the pub vault. ‘I drive round the back to try and cut these idiots off. I look up, and there’s two uniforms coming down the other side of the pub. One of them’s Shawna. These two lads they’re chasing see me in the panda car, and cut across this patch of grass. Shawna veers over it to intercept. Best rugby tackle you’ve ever seen. She took this big bastard right out, almost killed him.’

There was laughter.

‘That wasn’t me,’ Shawna informed everyone for the umpteenth time.

‘And what had he done again?’ Des Palliser asked.

‘He’d only bitten some bugger’s nose and ear off in a fight in the pub,’ Heck said. ‘The other one had kicked the shit out of the landlord when he objected. Anyway, she takes out Jaws, and then wallops the other one as well. Puts him down with one punch.’

There was more laughter.

‘That wasn’t me either,’ Shawna said tartly. ‘It was Ian Kershaw. “Dreadnought”, we used to call him. He didn’t want the lock-up because it was ten minutes to finishing time and it was his sister’s wedding the next day. I took the prisoners for him.’

‘What did the two scrotes say?’ Gary Quinnell asked.

‘Nothing,’ Heck replied. ‘They were out cold. They didn’t know
who’d
hit them.’

There were further roars of laughter.

The Chop House
was located under the arches on the edge of Borough Market, and was redolent with Victoriana: leaded windows, etched mirrors, elegant hardwood décor, and an open fire. Its various rooms were packed with off-duty police and police civilian staff, the booze was flowing and there was an atmosphere of bonhomie.

Shawna shook her head as though tolerating the boyishness around her, and handed Heck her empty glass. ‘For that, it’s
your
round.’

Heck nodded and threaded his way through to the bar, taking a rash of orders en route. Bob Hunter was leaning there, a treble scotch in his hand. He looked rumpled and sour-faced; his tie hung in a limp knot.

‘Everyone’s having a good time, I see,’ he said as Heck put the order in.

‘Gotta give Des a send-off, haven’t we?’ Heck replied.

‘No sign of the Lioness yet?’

Heck looked around. ‘Thought she’d be in by now.’

It was possible that Gemma was in one of the other rooms – she always had a lot of flesh to press at police functions – but the bulk of SCU were squashed into this one, so he’d have expected her to come in here first, probably to buy Des Palliser a drink.

‘Second round of interviews this afternoon for the Media Liaison job, wasn’t it?’ Hunter said.

‘Oh yeah, that.’

‘Yeah …
that
. What a fucking joke, eh? This is the way they repay us for taking nutjobs off the street.’

Heck shrugged. ‘Won’t interfere with our work, will it?’

‘Says who?
I’ve
been demoted to fucking duty-officer!’

‘It’s only temporary.’

‘How temporary is temporary, Heck?’ Hunter barely acknowledged the double scotch that Heck placed in front of him. ‘Fucking Lioness wants me out, I can tell.’

‘She doesn’t,’ Heck said.

‘Why, has she told you that?’

‘No, but …’

‘Exactly … no.’ Hunter swallowed whisky. ‘Suddenly the way I work doesn’t suit her anymore. I wonder why that is? I’d say it was because some over-decorated twat on the top floor had her by the gonads … but as a bird she hasn’t got any, has she?’

‘Bob … it was a fuck-up. We should never have spoken to the press.’

‘Alright, I accept that.’ Hunter looked surprisingly contrite. ‘But it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Christ’s sake, Heck … we’d just topped and tailed the fucking M1 Maniacs. Some kind of result, that. No wonder we were all a bit excited. I’ll tell you, I’m fed up with this fucking job.’

Heck had heard such a sentiment before, of course; he’d expressed it himself.

‘You may as well know, I’m putting my papers in for a transfer,’ Hunter added.

‘Where to?’

‘I don’t know. Anywhere out of NCG.’ Hunter wrinkled his nose, as though the whole thing literally stank. ‘Could’ve been the best gig in town, this, but now it’s going like everything else. It’s all politics these days. I mean, you of all people ought to be pissed off by that.’

Heck was; he’d had his share of reprimands over the years, and when in his cups he too was inclined to make such comments, though in reality he kept soldiering on.

‘Just don’t do anything hasty, Bob,’ he said. ‘We don’t know how long this duty-officer thing’ll last. At least you’re working nine-till-five again.’

‘Why should that appeal to me? I’ve nothing to go home to. Sal took the kids yonks ago.’ Hunter shook his head as if that was someone else’s fault too. ‘Fucking Lioness! Sorry, Heck, I know you and her were an item.’

‘That was a while ago.’

‘But when she bites …’

‘She’s
here
,’ Heck said, spotting that Gemma had entered the pub in company with a slim young woman in a smart skirt-suit. ‘Keep it down, eh?’

Hunter took another big swallow. ‘Don’t worry, pal. I’m not stupid enough to give her any more ammo than she needs …’

‘Drink ma’am?’ Heck said, stepping away from the bar to hand out the rest of the round he’d just bought.

‘Perrier please, Heck,’ Gemma said, taking her raincoat off. She turned to the woman beside her. ‘Claire?’

The young woman, who was girlishly pretty – her black hair was cut to shoulder-length in a cute ‘pageboy’ bob, she had a fresh complexion and startling peppermint-green eyes – smiled nervously. ‘Same for me please,’ she said.

Gemma nodded. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Heckenburg, by the way. Heck, this is Claire Moody, our new Media Liaison.’

Heck was caught by surprise. He hadn’t expected a candidate to be selected so quickly. ‘Oh … you got the job then?’