Stalkers (11 page)

Somewhere inside a distant voice berated him for attempting to rationalise it in this way, but he wanted to shout the voice down as if it wasn’t his own (good Christ, was he going mad?). He hadn’t
sought
this outcome, he reiterated to himself, but in all honesty how else could his freedom be guaranteed? Alright, there was no doubt it hadn’t been too clever getting himself into this mess in the first place, but you couldn’t roll back time … and Jesus you didn’t want to do or say anything that might antagonise men like this. No Sir, not in any shape or form. You had to
approve
of men like this. He almost cackled, he was so frightened, and again he wondered if shock had driven him mad.

The car now slowed to another halt, disrupting his thoughts.

A door opened and one of the men – by the sounds of it, the driver – climbed out. Blenkinsop knew what this meant, and at that moment it seemed like the greatest relief in his life. When they’d picked him up previously, black tape had been used to mask the vehicle’s registration mark. No doubt, once they’d blindfolded him and put him in the car, they’d stripped it away again. Now they were probably re-applying it. When the driver returned, Blenkinsop was told to climb out.

The two other men went first, one of them lending him a hand.

Initially, his legs were shaking so much that he could hardly stand up – but he’d manage it, because
nothing
was going to keep him here. It was over and he was out of this, and at last he could get away from these people and the terrible thing he’d done. Slowly, they removed his blindfold. It was now dark, there wasn’t even a streetlamp nearby, but he still had to blink until his eyes adjusted.

To one side, he spotted the vehicle he’d just driven in; it was the same white Range Rover with tinted windows that they’d collected him with earlier. But he pointedly didn’t look at it – that was the last thing he wanted; to know any more about these guys than he knew already. In any case, his own car, a new model Audi, was sitting alone in the lay-by. It was in a slightly different position from where he’d left it earlier, but that didn’t surprise him. He’d had to surrender his keys so that they could move it; a car like that left for half the day in a place like this would attract attention. Beyond the Audi, the fields were hidden by the night. The narrow country lane curved off into opaque shadow.

Two of the men now faced him. Despite everything he knew and had already seen, he drew a sharp breath. The hair on his scalp prickled like wildfire.

They were masked again. He hadn’t seen their faces once, which was exactly how he wanted it, but those masks themselves had become a thing of horror – made from orange and purple wool respectively
–
yet fearfully implicit of violent crime. It wasn’t just the masks: their bodies were solid, bulky, powerfully built, and clad in overalls. Their hands were gloved, their feet no doubt booted, perhaps with steel toecaps; the final perfect touch for the modern-day hoodlum’s killing outfit. How often he’d seen figures like these on television or in the newspapers: serial murderers, gangsters, terrorists – and, of course, rapists, a heinous club of which he was now a paid-up member.

At least, he assumed he was paid up.

When the man in the orange mask next spoke, he confirmed that this was the case.

‘Apparently we’re in full receipt of the cash, Mr Blenkinsop,’ he said, slipping a mobile phone back into his overalls pocket. ‘It’s all cleared. So as far as we’re concerned, our transaction is complete. You’ll never hear from us again, except in the occasional discreet mail drop, which is the only way you’ll be able to request our services a second time.’

Blenkinsop nodded. The mere thought of getting involved with these characters again was enough to make him faint. Just having them in such close proximity to him, and knowing what they were capable of, made him want to turn and run for his life.

‘You can drive home from here, yeah?’

Again, Blenkinsop nodded. ‘Yes …’ he whispered. ‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’

‘And your wife won’t ask any questions?’

Good Lord, Yvonne!
Blenkinsop hadn’t thought about her once during today’s activities. Even now that it was all over, it was agony to do so.

‘She’s … er, she’s abroad with my daughter,’ he said.

‘Course, it doesn’t really matter whether she does or doesn’t,’ the one in the purple mask added. ‘It doesn’t matter if anyone asks you any questions. You know the answers you need to give.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re a client of ours, Mr Blenkinsop,’ Orange added. ‘And we respect you for that. Not many men would have the bottle to do what you’ve done. But we’re not in the liking or trusting business. Bear this in mind – you don’t know anything about us, but we know an awful lot about you. Where you live, where you work, where you socialise. And it’s going to stay that way. From now on, we’ll be keeping you under covert surveillance. Not all the time obviously, but you’ll never know when we’re there and when we’re not. This is another of those insurance things, I’m sure you understand.’

Blenkinsop couldn’t speak; he simply nodded again.

‘If there’s any indication that you … shall we say, even feel tempted to discuss things that you shouldn’t be discussing – with anyone at all – then be prepared to suffer a very severe repercussion.’

Blenkinsop would have swallowed, but he had no spittle left in his mouth.

‘That’s not a threat, by the way. It’s just the way things are. So don’t go off disliking us. After all, you’re a man after our own heart.’

Blenkinsop smiled weakly, then lurched around and marched to his Audi. Climbing in, he found the keys in the ignition, switched the engine on and drove away. It was only ten miles from here to London. At this late hour, it should be plain sailing. Yet he already knew it would be the darkest, loneliest road he’d ever taken.

When Heck woke that morning, the first thing he thought was that he was being hit over the head with a plank. The next thing, he was bewildered to hear the sound of someone clattering around in his kitchen. He squinted with pain-fuzzed vision at the bedside clock; it wasn’t yet eight, but there was no doubt there was somebody else here. He got up shakily – slightly nauseous, his mouth lined with fur – and stumbled down the hall, which was filled with the scent of grilled bacon.

‘Morning,’ Gemma said from in front of the range, where she was juggling pots and pans.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘I, er …’ Slowly and sluggishly, his memories of the previous night began to return. ‘Oh, yeah … ouch.’ He touched his forehead delicately.

‘How’s your head?’ she asked, opening and closing the cutlery drawer seemingly as loudly as she could.

‘This is one of those occasions when I think I could live without it.’

‘You smell like a camel.’

He glanced down and saw that he was still wearing his jeans, t-shirt and socks from the night before, all rumpled and sweat soaked. ‘You put me to bed?’

‘Who else?’

‘Didn’t bother getting me undressed then, eh?’

‘Making you comfortable wasn’t a priority. If I was going to sleep on your sofa, I had to get you out of the lounge.’

‘You slept on the sofa?’ Heck could scarcely believe it.

‘How do you like your eggs?’

‘Erm … poached.’

‘Okay, coming up. Bacon, beans, sausage?’

Only now did he notice the food items arrayed along the worktop. Some were still in packages. ‘Where’s this stuff come from? I haven’t got any of this in.’

‘I’ve been round the corner to the supermarket.’

‘So this is the condemned man’s last breakfast, is it?’

‘Just get a shower, Heck, get dressed, and present yourself in a fit state for duty.’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m actually at home here … on holiday?’

She glared at him. ‘You’ve stolen a mountain of police evidence. You’re lucky you’re not enjoying an extended holiday at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Now do as I say.’

Heck did, taking a long shower and climbing into a clean pair of shorts and a vest. When he wandered back, their two breakfasts were on the table, along with a round of toast, a jug of orange juice and a pot of coffee.

‘Just like the old days,’ he said, sitting opposite her.

‘Nothing like the old days,’ she corrected him. ‘Eat, while it’s hot.’

‘Only you could make an invitation to breakfast sound like an order from a concentration camp guard.’ But feeling refreshed and suddenly hungry, he tucked in.

She watched him as he ate, barely picking at her own food. ‘First of all, let’s hear what you’ve got,’ she finally said.

He regarded her over the rim of his coffee cup. ‘What do you mean?’

‘After all these months and months of backbreaking work, with no tangible results, what reason is there to persist with this enquiry? You must have a reason.’

‘I’ve got thirty-eight reasons.’

‘Thirty-eight
possible
reasons.’ She sighed. ‘Heck … we have to face the truth. There’s no guarantee these women haven’t gone off on purpose. There are all sorts of explanations why someone might want to disappear. We don’t know what goes on in people’s lives. Look … remember back in the 1980s, there was the case of the Oxford don? He was about to be awarded a professorship and made head of his department. The kids from his first marriage were all grown-up and successful in their own right. He had another kid on the way courtesy of his second wife, who was a lot younger than him and hot as hell. I mean, this guy had everything to live for. Yet, the morning after the award ceremony he vanished. They found his car in a lane off the M40. The keys were still in it. His wallet was still in it. There was even a solid gold watch, engraved, that his family had bought him in honour of the award – it had been left on the dashboard. Aside from that there was no trace. Then, about six years later, he was found – working under a false name on a sheep farm in the Outer Hebrides. And living rough. I mean, this guy slept in a croft with a peat sod roof.’

‘Remind me why he did that.’

‘I don’t know why. Some kind of breakdown. The point is it happens.’

‘Gemma, that was a one-off. We’re talking nearly forty people … ’

‘None of whom you’d class as vulnerable.’

‘Exactly.’ He took another swig of coffee. ‘There are no children on our list, no OAPs, no mental patients. The youngest was eighteen, the eldest forty-nine. More to the point, they’re mostly professional types, organised, able to look after themselves. Like it or not, that’s a pattern. I mean, it’s an unlikely one, but it’s still a pattern. Not only that, all our women vanished during routine activities … while they were doing something they did every day. None were taken while on holiday for example, or on day trips to other parts of the country …’

‘Heck …’

‘If you’re going to abduct someone, and not make a complete bollocks of it, you’ve got to watch them, memorise their patterns of behaviour. I hate using this analogy but, in nature, predators hunt along game trails. Because then they know exactly when the prey animals are coming, and exactly how many or how few of them there’ll be. After that, all they have to do is pick their moment and intercept …’

‘
Heck!’

He clamped his mouth shut.

‘Funnily enough,’ she said, ‘I read your comparative-case-analysis. You know … the one you left in my in-tray and covered with red marker pen “More urgent than anything else you’re doing today!” I’m fully aware why you fingered these particular cases and clumped them together. But it’s still too thin. Apart from the circumstantial stuff, there’s no evidence of abduction, let alone abduction by the same individual.’

‘So what are we doing here? Why are we having breakfast together?’

For a few moments, Gemma looked as if she didn’t know. She pushed her plate aside, even though it was still full. ‘Tell me about this new lead you’ve got. The one you mentioned yesterday morning.’

‘Oh, yeah … that.’

She jabbed a warning finger. ‘Don’t you dare tell me that was a lie!’

‘It wasn’t, don’t worry. Look … you go through to the incident room. I’ll finish getting dressed.’

While Heck got dressed properly, Gemma took their dirty dishes into the kitchen, scraped them and shoved them into the dishwasher, before drifting through to his so-called incident room. She peered again at the faces ranked on its far wall. So often in her career, she’d perused photographs of victims of violent crime. On first viewing, they nearly always enraged and appalled her. Only later on was she able to click into ‘professional investigator’ mode, and treat them as just another part of the job.

As she’d insisted several times, there was no guarantee that this particular bunch actually
were
victims, but somehow, seeing them all together like this, linked if nothing else by so much painstaking analysis, she began to suspect that they probably
were
, and it had a melancholy effect on her. In almost all cases, they were smiling or laughing, having been photographed among friends and loved ones. The majority were family snapshots, taken on holiday or at functions. How happy they’d all been while posing for these pictures, how bright their world had seemed. How terrified they’d have been to know the darkness that awaited them.

Heck reappeared in jeans, pulling on a sweater.

‘Well?’ she asked.

He started sifting through papers. ‘I actually had two new leads I was going to run with.’ He found a bulging buff folder, checked it was the right one, and then sat on the desk, indicating that she could have the chair. ‘First of all,’ he said, opening the folder, ‘you accept that in some force areas these disappearances were treated as abductions?’

‘Which is why they were passed to us.’

He nodded. ‘Two summers ago down in Brighton, a lady called Miranda Yates dropped out of sight while loading shopping into the boot of her car. Both the car, which was left with its boot open – I’m guessing the abductor hadn’t closed it properly and the wind caught it – and the car park, were treated as crime scenes. This photograph was taken later in the day.’