The Killing Club (36 page)

‘What about the others’ accents?’

‘Various. Some British, others European …’

‘Australian?’

Ken nodded. ‘There
was
an Aussie. Big fella too. He was last in quite a few days ago. Haven’t seen him since.’

Heck knew why that was. If it was the same Aussie who’d tried to kill him in London, his flattened nose would now be one distinguishing feature that every police force in the UK could look out for. The risk of being spotted also probably lay behind the Yank’s change of appearance. He knew Gary Quinnell had survived, which meant there’d at least be a rudimentary description out on him.

‘So what does our American friend look like now?’ Heck asked.

‘Hair’s very short,’ Ken said. ‘Flattened off. Pale-faced too. Light freckles.’

‘How old exactly?’

‘Mid-to-late thirties.’

‘Build?’

‘Well … athletic.’ Ken turned to his wife, who was furtively glancing at her watch. ‘We’ll have him on film, won’t we, love?’

She nodded, but reluctantly, as if there were other things she needed to be doing. ‘We have a CCTV over the counter.’

‘Can I look at the footage now?’ Heck asked.

‘Does it need to be now?’ she said. ‘Only it’s lunchtime, you see, and …’

‘This is a murder enquiry.’

She paused, mouth open. Then glanced at her husband, who looked equally discomforted by the revelation. ‘Are these fellas dangerous then?’ he asked.

‘They’ll pose no danger to the public unless someone confronts them,’ Heck said. ‘So if you do see them again, it’s business as usual. It might not even be the same people, but I need to check the footage to know that for sure.’

Ken glanced again at his wife. ‘Yes, well I think we’d better take care of that now.’

A couple of minutes later, he was seated in front of a computer, tapping on its keyboard. Mrs Broadhurst stood nervously by. If she had things she needed to be doing elsewhere, she was in no rush to attend to them now.

‘If you could find some with the Aussie lad too,’ Heck said, ‘that would help.’

Ken continued tapping. ‘Ah ha …’

The relevant footage appeared. It was in black and white, but surprisingly clear in quality. It had been shot from overhead, so all it initially portrayed was the usual jumble of customers at the counter, primarily the tops of their heads. In the midst of this chaos, one man stood out for the sheer breadth of his denim-clad shoulders. Heck leaned forward, squinting. It was possibly the brawny Aussie he’d tangled with on the Underground. The figure sported a distinctive buzz-cut, but it was difficult to be sure.

‘That’s the American we were talking about.’ Ken pointed to the person alongside the big shape. ‘Before he had his crop.’

This was a slighter, leaner man. As they’d said, he had collar-length locks and thick facial hair. He was wearing a khaki flak-jacket. With a cold thrill, Heck now remembered the ambush at Shacklewell Street, and the beard he’d glimpsed on the khaki-clad figure advancing from the bus stop. They watched the footage for several minutes, while the two suspects bought what looked like a dozen packages of food, but at no stage were their faces clearly visible. When it finished, Heck dug an ID card from his wallet, took a biro from the desktop, underlined his personal email address and handed it over. ‘Can you email this particular file to this address?’

‘I suppose so,’ Ken said.

‘Just out of interest. How do they arrive here? I don’t suppose you’ve noticed what kind of vehicle they come in?’

‘I saw the one they came in yesterday. It was a maroon Ford transit van, a flatbed.’

‘Registration number?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t suppose you’ve got exterior CCTV?’

‘On the car park, but yesterday they didn’t park there. They pulled up out front.’

‘Presumably they’ve parked in the car park on other occasions?’

‘Well, yeah,’ Ken said, ‘but we’d have to go back through the files and that would take time.’

‘We can do that.’ Heck indicated the card. ‘Can you email all the files to that address – say for the last four weeks?’

Ken glanced at his wife. ‘It would still take time. I mean, they’re big files.’

‘Look …’ Heck chose his next few words carefully. ‘I don’t want to alarm you unduly, but the men we’re looking for may be involved in more than one murder. Several more. As I say, there’s no threat to the everyday public, but more lives may be forfeited if we don’t start making ground on them. Seriously folks, we need those files as soon as possible.’

‘Okay … erm, right.’ Ken exchanged another discomforted look with his wife. ‘Erm … well I’ll get onto that straight away.’

‘Thanks. That would be helpful.’

Sensing that he’d outstayed his welcome, Heck thanked his hosts again and made his way outside, having to suppress his excitement. Not only had the bastards been in this area, they were
still
here. There was a payphone at the foot of the steps. He popped into it to call Gemma. As before, it cut to her messaging system. Frustrated, he hung up and lurched outside.

And that was when he saw the van.

The maroon Ford transit.

It was parked directly in front of him, about twenty yards away.

Heck went rigid. How long had they been here? Had they been inside the café while he was there? Would they recognise him if they’d spotted him? Highly likely, given that he’d been made a priority target.

With a judder, the van’s engine was shut off.

That was a break – it looked as if they’d only just arrived. Even so, Heck could barely move. He watched, half-paralysed, as the van’s driver and passenger doors opened. Only at the last second was he able to spin around and re-enter the booth, where he slammed the phone to his ear and began wittering in mock-Geordie. His neck hairs stiffened as two pairs of feet clumped across the car park.

He had the Glock under his coat. But he could hardly use it out here, with truck-stop customers everywhere. Sweat greased his forehead as the feet approached him.

And then passed by. Ascending the steps to the diner’s front door.

He shot a glance in their direction. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but the one on the left was nondescript – no one Heck had seen before. The one on the right, however, wore a khaki jacket, walked with a pronounced limp, and though his red hair was all but shaved to bristles, Heck knew him straight away.

The door closed behind them, and he darted from the booth. By a no-risks estimate, he had four minutes tops during which time the Nice Guys would queue at the counter, place their order, get served and return to their vehicle. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t casually turn around while waiting and glance out through the window. If they did that, he’d be in clear view, but this was too good an opportunity to miss.

He walked quickly over to the flatbed van, throwing a brief signal in the direction of Farthing’s Chevrolet, which was parked diagonally opposite some forty yards to the right. Whether his nervous chaperone had noticed what he was up to, Heck was unsure, but there was no time to find out. He circled to the rear of the van – which was clearly a hire-truck of some sort, probably for use in the farming trade. A blue tarpaulin lay over its rear deck. When he glanced under this, he saw tools, old empty feed-sacks and the like. There was plenty of room.

Heck hovered there, ripped by an indecision that was almost painful. The obvious thing to do was to return to the Chevrolet and either cajole Farthing into following the bastards, or push the guy out of the way and take charge of the wheel himself. But the chance of not being noticed on these empty moorland roads was poor.

It really was a no-brainer.

Heck threw a quick glance in the direction of the diner, then clambered over the van’s tailgate and squirmed beneath the tarpaulin. It was dank and musty under there, redolent of compost and swelteringly hot. He also had to insinuate himself between rough-edged spades and forks. After that, all he had to do was lie and wait. Within a couple of minutes, he smelled the two men approaching before he heard them: the aroma of fresh fish and chips, the tang of vinegar. They chatted together as they reached the car. It sounded as if the American had brought a Brit with him today, but no actual dialogue was discernible.

A second later, the engine started and the vehicle shuddered to life. It was still possible they’d noticed him and were now taking him away to some private place of execution. His muscles tensed at the thought, and he felt at the Glock. If nothing else, he’d take both the sons of bitches with him.

They drove for quite a few miles, apparently headed north. When they swung off the dual carriageway, it was in a westerly direction, the van jolting along what felt like an unmade track. Heck lifted the tarpaulin and risked a glance over the tailgate. The A1 bisected his vision horizontally, rapidly receding as they followed a dirt road away from it. There was loud juddering as they passed over a cattle-grid. After that trees and thickets closed in, and they swerved around bends and curves. Heck was thrown back and forth, the tools rattling and clashing. So noisy was it that he couldn’t hear any conversation in the driver’s cab. All of a sudden, this felt like a bad idea. His breath came hard and ragged as he drew the Glock and cocked it. They wouldn’t expect him to be armed. The moment that tarpaulin was ripped away, they’d each get a nine-millimetre slug in the face.

The brakes screeched as the vehicle suddenly slowed to a halt. Heck twisted around so that he lay sideways across the deck, but in a good position to aim the Glock with both hands.

A voice sounded, and this one wasn’t muffled by the driver’s cab. Heck recognised those dulcet Aussie tones, but he still couldn’t distinguish what was being said, even though he listened intently, drenched head to toe in freezing sweat.

A metallic rattle suggested a chain being removed. He realised they’d stopped at a gate, probably with a guard on it.

It had to be now. Or it was never.

Heck fumbled for the bolts at either side of the tailgate, sliding them loose. Gripping the top of the tailgate with his left hand, he lowered it gently, and clambered out, pushing it back into place and managing to slide one of its bolts home before dropping to a crouch on a dirt road. There were only woods to his rear, but he felt horrendously exposed – especially as the vehicle edged forward again.

Heck’s thoughts raced. Whoever had opened the gate ought to be standing on the left – so he went right, still at a crouch, plunging headlong into a mass of brambles and nettles. They plucked at his face and hands, but then he was through into a leafy dell, where he halted again, listening hard. There were no immediate sounds of pursuit. In fact, a clang signified the gate had closed. It was followed by a metallic rattle as the chain was replaced.

It was still two or three minutes before Heck dared to breathe normally, let alone move. He slotted the Glock back under his coat, and pushed forward on hands and knees through more tangled foliage. It was five or six yards before he reached the footing of a dry-stone wall. Warily, he rose to three-quarter height.

On the other side of the wall, there was open ground. In the midst of it, only partly obscured by a belt of birch trees, stood a large, rambling farmhouse. From what Heck could see, it didn’t look like a working farm. There were no animals; there was no sign of traditional farmyard activity. But a number of vehicles were parked in front of it, including the maroon van, and various figures moving around – all of them youngish men. About thirty yards to Heck’s left, another youngish man – a burly, big-shouldered guy with a distinctive buzz-cut and an almost comically broad sticking-plaster across what could surely be no more than a stub of nose – leaned on a gatepost, picking at an open bag of chips. He wore a thigh-length waxed coat, beneath the lower hem of which protruded the stubby steel barrel of an automatic rifle.

It was an unnerving sight, but also a reassuring one. Because now there was no doubt in Heck’s mind – he’d found the Nice Guys’ hideout.

Chapter 30

It was a difficult journey back to the A1.

Not so much because of the distance – it was probably no more than a mile and a half – but because Heck didn’t want to stay on the road. Another Nice Guy vehicle could easily happen along. In addition, there had to be sentries, though he was making a guess there wouldn’t be too many. The Nice Guys were team-handed, but they had a lot of targets to hit, so how many men could they realistically spare to put on guard in the woods – especially when no one else knew they were here? Most likely, there’d be one or two, and they’d probably be watching the main approach.

This meant he should veer far from the actual road, and stick religiously to the undergrowth, which he did, moving cautiously and at a crouch, constantly scanning the high branches for vantage platforms and the surrounding ground cover for anything resembling a woodland hide – and thankfully seeing nothing of the sort.

When he came unexpectedly to another road, he sank to his haunches and waited. Only after several minutes did it occur to him that this one was different. For one thing, it was laid with tarmacadam. Plus, as far as he could tell, it ran north to south rather than west to east. He still hung back, but moved parallel with it in a northerly direction. About four hundred yards further, he reached a crossroads with signposts and a payphone.

The place-names on the signs meant nothing to Heck: Christon Bank, Stamford and Dunstan. But the phone was a godsend. Again, he attempted to call Gemma. As before, there was no reply, but this time he had a contingency plan. Under normal circumstances, Ben Kane would be the last person Heck would confide in. He was the archetypal by-the-book man. But if nothing else, he would put the machine in motion. Okay, once Kane knew, the rest of the office would also know – word would hit the mole in record time, but as long as it also meant there were armed units from Northumbria en route ASAP, it wouldn’t really matter.

‘Serial Crimes Unit, DCI Kane,’ came the clipped voice.

‘Boss … it’s Heck.’

‘Heck …?’ Kane stuttered.
‘HECK … WHAT THE DEVIL ARE YOU PLAYING AT?’