Paul Finch - Hunted

They’d now reached Gail’s Punto. She regarded him over its roof as she unlocked the driver’s door. ‘Bit heavy-handed, don’t you think?’

‘What was that phrase you used – means to an end?’

The vault of the Ring O’Bells was a small side chamber into which only a corner of the bar protruded. Its low, smoke-browned ceiling was supported by heavy oak beams. Its handsome original features served to create the aura of a confined space, as did the double doors to the beer garden when they were closed – as they were now.

The eighteen members of the Doversgreen Aviators were crammed in like so many sardines, sitting along the benches, standing in corners, clustered around the brass-topped tables. They were exclusively male, but every group was represented, from teenagers to the husky middle-aged. Most looked like countrymen – weather-beaten faces, wild hair, patched woollen jumpers, but there were also shirts and dicky bows on view, even the occasional walking stick.

Not one of them had ordered a drink. Instead they sat or stood perfectly still, regarding Heck in silence as he leaned against the bar. He’d already checked, and found that none of the nervous faces in front of him had a criminal record. That was perhaps to be expected, as he didn’t actually believe that any of these weekend recreationists would be a regular offender.

‘Okay …’ He cleared his throat.

They listened with rapt attention.

He glanced at Gail, who was standing in front of the double doors, equally fascinated to know what was coming next.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Heckenburg from the Serial Crimes Unit. You already know Detective Constable Honeyford, as you’ve all given statements to her in the recent past. Statements in which you acquit yourselves and your fellow club members of any wrongdoing. Which is unfortunate, because I have to tell you that I’m not at all satisfied by that … not least because this sad affair is looking like it may turn into a murder enquiry. I don’t mean it possibly will, I mean it probably

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