Paul Finch - Sacrifice

Claire frowned. ‘GMP … that’s Greater Manchester Police?’

Shawna laughed. ‘Bang on. The pride of the northwest.’

‘And you both ended up in London?’

‘We didn’t come down together,’ Shawna replied, burping. ‘Sorry. Heck transferred to the Met while he was still in uniform. It was a few years later with me. I joined CID in Manchester, then the Major Crimes Squad. When I heard SCU had a vacancy, I jumped at it. I arrived here and stone me, Heck’s on the next desk … a bloody DS! Mind you, I shouldn’t have been surprised. When he was in uniform he did more locking-up than the rest of the relief put together. If he fell over a wall he’d find two tea-leaves on the other side waiting to do a job.’

‘Yeah, I’m so lucky I passed my inspector’s exam fourteen years ago, and I’ve never had a sniff of an interview,’ Heck replied.

Shawna slapped his shoulder. ‘Too gobby, pal, that’s your trouble. Always too gobby.’ She turned to Claire. ‘He’s not like me – I’m not gobby. I’m just crap. Not be a mo … gotta pee.’

Shawna blundered away, leaving her half-drunk bottle in Claire’s hand.

‘She’s not actually,’ Heck said. ‘She’s a pretty good detective. She wouldn’t be in SCU otherwise.’

‘I was a bit intimidated about that,’ Claire admitted; her accent was refined South Coast, which was rather fetching. ‘I mean, you chaps are not just any old police unit are you? I heard you’ve cracked some really big cases.’

‘Well, things haven’t gone totally swimmingly for us in recent times.’

‘I heard about that too. And … I’m hoping that’s something I can help you with.’

‘Claire!’ someone else shouted. Gary Quinnell, minus jacket and tie, lurched towards her. Beefy red faces grinned behind him. ‘Can we have you over here?’

‘Sure,’ she replied, handing Shawna’s bottle to Heck, giving him a nervous glance.

‘There’s something you need to know about if you’re going to work with us,’ the burly Welshman said, leading her away. ‘But it isn’t covered in any manual.’

‘Okay …?’ She still sounded nervous.

‘It’s called the Ways And Means Act …’

‘I’m going to miss all this,’ Des Palliser said, appearing at Heck’s shoulder.

‘Don’t beat yourself up too much,’ Heck replied. ‘It’s not like we roll out the barrel every week.’

‘We should. Reminds everyone what life’s really about.’

Briefly, Palliser looked pensive. He was a grizzled oldster with a lean frame and a scraggy grey beard. A knowledgeable detective with good political acumen, he knew how to play the game but, with such long service in, he’d had little personal ambition left and thus had become something of a ‘father-figure’ in SCU; a font of wisdom and reliable advice for those junior officers he regarded as his protégés.

‘What I meant was I’m going to miss you lot,’ he said. ‘Bunch of scruffy urchins. Who’s going to knock you into shape if I’m not there?’

‘Enough, thank you!’ Gemma’s voice carried across the pub. In one corner, Detective Constable Charlie Finnegan was standing on a table with his trousers around his ankles. ‘Remember who we are and where we are, please!’ Finnegan got down, abashed.

‘Who do you think?’ Heck said.

Palliser smiled fondly. ‘Taught her everything she knows.’

‘I always knew we had to thank you for something.’

‘I’m glad you could come, pal.’

Heck glanced around at him. ‘No one had to drag us here, Des. You’ll be missed too.’

‘I want you to do something for me.’

‘Name it.’

‘Be careful, okay?’ Palliser regarded him gravely. His face was a nest of wrinkles, his teeth gnarly and yellowed by decades of smoking, yet all of this served to give him character. ‘No more go-it-alone heroics like we saw during the Nice Guys enquiry. No job’s worth putting your life on the line for.’

Heck smiled. ‘It’s not something I plan to make a habit of.’

‘And that M1 Maniac thing was almost as bad. You got some kind of death-wish?’

‘Just the way the cards fell, Des.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Palliser put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Heck, you’ve got a good boss in Gemma. Make use of that. Try and forget you and her once had a thing going. Unless of course, well …’ he almost sounded hopeful, ‘unless you feel like going there again?’

Heck glanced towards Claire, who, though she was besieged by shouting, guffawing coppers, was also laughing. Gary Quinnell made some jibe, but she responded sharply and they fell about again.

‘I don’t think so,’ Heck said slowly.

Palliser followed his gaze. ‘Something more interesting on the horizon?’

‘Who’s to say?’

‘Well … if it gives you a reason to go home at night, all to the good.’

‘Who are we kidding, Des? She’s probably got a boyfriend with a Ferrari.’

‘Just remember what I said, eh? Do what you do, Heck … you’re bloody good at it. But be sensible and be safe.’

Heck nodded, surprised by the depth of feeling in his colleague’s voice.

‘Anyway, what’re you having?’ Palliser lurched away to the bar.

‘Bitter please,’ Heck said to his retreating back. ‘Pint of.’

Gemma strode up. She looked as cool and unruffled as ever, despite the heat and noise. She glanced after Palliser. ‘He sorry to be going?’

‘Thinks SCU will fall apart without him,’ Heck replied.

‘The perceptiveness of old age.’

Heck nodded towards Claire. ‘Our new recruit looks comfy already.’

‘Good.’ Gemma sipped her mineral water. ‘Because there’s no point us handling her with kid gloves. This’ll be a testing job.’

‘Presumably she’s well qualified for it?’

‘Worked for a major financial house in the City and at least two government departments.’

‘When does she start?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘That soon?’

‘She might as well get her feet under the table while things seem to be fairly quiet.’

Heck pondered that, wondering if they were challenging fate. He wasn’t superstitious, but one thing he’d learned during his seventeen years as a police officer was that you didn’t make any decisions based on an assumption that nothing tumultuously crap was about to happen. Because, almost invariably, it was.

‘Look … whatever happened to you in your past, whatever it is that’s making you do this, I beg you to reconsider.’

Kate wasn’t sure how much her abductor could hear. He hadn’t actually gagged her, so, although she was swathed in this dirty old blanket which stank of sweat and stale urine, there was nothing to prevent her trying to project words. No doubt they’d be muffled, while the ongoing rumble of the engine and the vibration of the tyres on the road might blot them out altogether. But given that she was still bound and that no matter how much she wriggled, she remained tightly trussed, she had no option but to keep trying.

‘Please listen to me,’ she begged. It had been two hours at least, and at no stage had she received a single reply. ‘I understand that someone was once cruel to you. Maybe they tortured you – over months, perhaps years. But what you’re doing now is in no way going to make up for that. You won’t be getting even with them, you won’t be punishing them. You’ll just be hurting an ordinary person who bears you no ill will, doing exactly the same thing as was done to you …’

She was more terrified than she’d ever been in her life. The revolting stench inside the blanket would only get worse as her own sweat of fear mingled with it; it was highly possible she’d add her own urine to it, maybe her own vomit, and the temperature didn’t help. The heater in the car had activated some time ago and now was at its stultifying worst, but she couldn’t afford to let it fog her reason – not yet. The only weapon available to her was her intellect – so she had to continue with this, trying to appeal to his better nature, if he had one.