Paul Finch - Stalkers

‘You want me to come in with you?’ Lauren asked.

‘Best if you don’t.’

‘Danger round every corner here as well, hey?’

‘No, but local plod will be looking for you too by now.’

‘Me?’ she said, surprised.

‘You’re ex-services, Lauren. They’ll have your prints on file.’

‘I didn’t leave any prints at that crime scene. I made sure of it.’

‘But you might have done during the bar fight.’

‘Heck, this is ridiculous …’

He opened his door. ‘Don’t underestimate cops, Lauren. It’s easy these days to read the newspapers and believe they’re a bunch of politically correct do-gooders, who spend every shift at diversity seminars rather than fighting crime. But that isn’t the case. They’re as smart and efficient as they ever were. If they’re looking for me, they’ll very likely be looking for the black chick who’s with me. Better if you stay here.’

‘Alright.’

‘There’s one thing you could do for me.’

‘What?’

‘Got any spare change?’

‘Change?’

‘Yeah, you know … as in shrapnel, cash?’

She handed him all the silver she had, and waited in the vehicle while he sloped across the car park to the library entrance. Inside, there was a photocopier/fax machine, which the librarian — a curt lady with glasses on a chain — said he could use so long as he paid twenty pence per sheet. Outside the main room, in the lobby, he found a payphone and put a call through to the CID Admin office at Deptford Green Police Station. To his relief Paula Clark answered.

‘It’s Heck,’ he told her nervously — not sure what kind of reaction he would get.

‘Oh hi,’ she replied. Clearly she wasn’t yet aware that anything was amiss. ‘I thought you were on leave?’

‘I am, sort of. I want to clean up some paperwork first.’

‘Okay, well … what can I do for you?’

‘If you’ve got a spare minute, I’d like you to access CrimInt for me. Just to check someone out.’

‘Can’t you do that yourself?’

‘Not at this moment, no.’

In fact, Heck could have. The library also had a computer with an internet connection, but if he’d accessed the Metropolitan Police’s main criminal intelligence network with his own password, they’d trace it back to the terminal he’d used, and that would be another clue to his whereabouts.

‘Is this important, Heck?’ Paula asked. ‘Only I’m a bit busy.’

She’d never been the most cooperative woman, even when officially his secretary. Well aware where her responsibilities began and finished, she rarely did anything beyond those limits, so it was probably expecting a lot of her to help him now.

‘It would be really useful to me if you could do it,’ he pleaded.

‘The thing is I can’t. Can you call me back a bit later?’

Heck bit his lip. There was never any point antagonising civilian employees. They could make your life hell. Unimpressed by your police status because they worked alongside you every day, to them you were just someone else in the office. In addition, they always seemed to have the ear of the top brass, especially if they were female (usually this was because the top brass in question, who were nearly always male, thought they might get a bit in return).

‘Paula,’ Heck said, in his most insipid voice, ‘I would take it as a personal favour if you could do this for me.’

‘I’ve told you I can’t.’

He knew full well that she could. She could access the CrimInt network via the computer that was sitting right in front of her. It was a couple of button pushes away. At the most, this request would take two or three minutes out of her day.

‘Look, please … I’m trying to progress something. And I can’t get any further unless you help me out with this.’

‘I thought you were clearing up paperwork?’

‘I am. You know what a pain that can be.’

She’d agree with that. Even civilian employees in the police were overwhelmed by paperwork these days.

She sighed melodramatically. ‘Okay, okay. What is it?’

‘I want a quick search on any faces we might know who served in the British army during the last ten years, specifically with the Special Desert Reconnaissance unit. There shouldn’t be too many.’

He waited, listening to her manicured fingernails tapping the keyboard. It went on for several seconds, before she said: ‘We’ve got a hit.’

‘Just the one?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. That’s all I need.’

Lauren had been alone in the car less than five minutes when Heck returned. He crossed the lot quickly, several sheets of paper in his hand.

‘Check these out,’ he said, jumping in.

He handed her the sheets, which were faxed copies of a computer print-out. The mugshot at the top of the first was very grainy, but it clearly depicted the guy who’d helped them in the bar. She read through the accompanying text.

Heck chattered on: ‘That’s all the info we’ve got on a certain Eric Ezekial, thirty years old and, before you ask, a particularly nasty individual. He’s got form for assault, demanding money with menaces and threatening to kill. He’s also ex-army, a paratrooper who served with Scorpion Company for three years, which included two tours of Iraq and one of Afghanistan. His service record is full of incident, but we’d have to go to the MOD to get that. All we need to know is that he was dismissed from the service three years ago on grounds of mental instability.’

‘“Eric Ezekial”,’ Lauren said, reading aloud. ‘“AKA … Deke”.’

Heck put the car in gear. ‘We’ve got him.’

‘Christ, you seen this? “Believed active as a syndicate enforcer.” What the hell is he doing walking the streets?’

Heck drove out onto the road. ‘That suspicion’s probably based on intel supplied by an informant. If he’s not wanted for anything in particular, there’s nothing we can lift him for.’

‘Whatever he’s doing, it must pay. “Last known address — six, Redbrook Close, Kingston upon Thames”.’

‘You don’t get that kind of bread standing on pub doors in a monkey suit.’

‘I wonder what he’s been doing up in Manchester?’

‘I aim to ask him.’

She glanced around.

‘Solves a problem, actually,’ Heck said. ‘I wasn’t sure whereabouts in London we were going to crash tonight. I am now — Kingston.’

It was late afternoon, and another balmy August evening was in the offing.

Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper was seated in a corner of The Barrow Boy, a narrow brick building tucked away in a nook just off Tothill Street, yet famous the city over for its cosy, wood-panelled interior and diverse range of real ales. She sipped at a glass of wine and, for the sixth or seventh time since leaving the office, tried to place a call to Heck — only to get no response. Frustrated, she laid her phone back on the table. She’d ordered a ham salad sandwich for her tea, but it hadn’t yet been delivered. When a shadow fell across her, she glanced up, thinking it was the waiter.

It wasn’t. It was DI Des Palliser. He threw his coat over the back of a chair, but remained standing, giving her an unconvincing smile.

‘Greater Manchester CID have been in touch,’ he said. ‘They’re a bit confused — as am I, I must admit. They want to know if Mark Heckenburg’s apparent involvement in a mutilation-murder on their patch this morning should be registered as a blue-on-blue, or whether they ought to consider him a suspect?’

Gemma was vaguely aware of her jaw dropping. ‘ What? ’

‘Just that. Mind if I go and get a drink?’

When Palliser returned, pint of beer in hand, his boss was still in a state of acute shock. He sat across the table from her, lips pursed as he awaited a coherent response.