Paul Finch - Ashes to Ashes - An unputdownable thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Heck said. ‘I’m gonna drive you into a normal, everyday life if it kills me. And to do that, I first need to ensure that no copper in Greater London ever makes the mistake of using you as an official informant again.’

‘Well … cool. I lose half my income in one fell swoop, and now you’re taking the other half too.’

‘Try getting a proper job … you need to do that anyway if you’re gonna bring that kid up decently.’ Heck’s mobile chirped in his pocket. He checked it and saw a text from Gemma.

Shawna’s come round. Meet at KCH

‘Me – sat on a supermarket till!’ Penny scoffed. ‘You having a laugh, or what?’

‘It could be worse.’ Heck headed for the door. ‘You could be lying on an intensive care bed, like a very good friend of mine.’

‘I’ve been there .’

He glanced back. ‘Or alternatively, you could be on a slab. Like Reg Cowling. You thank your lucky stars it’s me you’re dealing with, Pen, and not some other coppers I could name. Now, I’m pretty certain John Sagan’s employers, these people whose identity you’ve so jealously protected, will already be asking lots and lots of questions about how the police discovered who the bastard was. You’ve already twigged that, else you wouldn’t be hiding out in a shithole like this. But that won’t be enough. They might have you marked as a tough chick who even gangsters shouldn’t mess with, but you’re still a flyspeck at the end of the day. So at a rough guess, love, I’d say you need to get yourself and, more importantly, your kid out of London. Right the way out. Right now.’

‘Everyone I know is down here, Heck!’ she shouted as he stepped out onto the balcony.

‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘Some of them might even miss you.’

‘Piss off, you flatfoot bastard!’

Back in his car, he sat brooding. Penny had easily slipped the armed guard Gemma had posted at her flat the previous month. He’d spent the last two weeks looking for her before he’d finally learned she had a loser of a brother and had located her here in this scum-hole apartment. Cops who knew her less well than Heck might never have traced her, but the underworld would, and sooner rather than later. So it was definitely in her interest to skedaddle out of the capital as soon as possible. But if she didn’t – and she was a silly, obstinate bitch – he didn’t really intend to strike her off the grass register. Penny had long been one of his most reliable informers. He knew this indiscretion of hers had been a one-off. She’d never pulled a stunt like this before, and would be unlikely to do so again; Sagan had hurt her in a uniquely terrible way, after all – Heck understood her desire for revenge. On top of that, there might be even more she could tell him about Sagan – she clearly had her ear to the ground in the right places.

But then again, should this level of chicanery really go unpunished?

Another problem lay with the Organised Crime Division. While the Serial Crimes Unit were still officially heading up the enquiry into John Sagan – now entitled Operation Wandering Wolf – with Gemma herself as lead investigator, OC were still going ballistic about the shooting of detectives Cowling and Bishop and constantly harassing her with demands for information and requests to get involved. Gemma had resisted up until now because she didn’t want a bunch of hot-headed cowboys compromising her investigation, though OC were well connected at Scotland Yard and the pressure was growing on her daily. At present, Heck’s SCU colleagues were currently staking out Penny’s empty flat in Lewisham. The trouble was that if he revealed her new hiding place, Gemma would go by the book, dragging her in and leaning on her hard. Penny would hold out – it was inconceivable that she’d admit she’d deliberately created that confrontation at Fairfax House. Do that, and the very least she’d expect was to be charged with obstructing an enquiry, but maybe with conspiracy to commit murder as well. Most likely she’d just clam up and refuse to offer anything further.

This whole thing was a confused mess, and he was torn with indecision.

The arrival of another text broke into his thoughts. Again it was from Gemma.

ETA?

He texted back:

10

He drove east along Coldharbour Lane, eventually pulling into the visitors’ car park of King’s College Hospital. Gemma was waiting for him, leaning against her aquamarine Mercedes E-class. By pure luck, he was able to find a parking bay close by.

She straightened up, hands stuffed into her overcoat pockets.

There were few more striking figures in Heck’s life than Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper. Tall, only a couple of inches shorter than he was, athletic and good-looking in a lean, fierce, feline sort of way, she’d been a key fixture throughout his police service – as a fellow junior detective back in their days at Bethnal Green together, so many years ago now it seemed, for a brief time as his girlfriend, and more recently as his senior supervisor at the Serial Crimes Unit. She didn’t look best pleased as he approached, but she rarely looked best pleased anyway. Gemma was renowned throughout the National Crime Group for her ultra-no-nonsense attitude. Anyone getting on the wrong side of her was likely to be mown down in the ensuing tirade. This was partly the reason she was known behind her back as ‘the Lioness’ – her roar was legendary, though her famously unmanageable mane of wild ash-blonde hair was another reason for that, even if at present she was wearing it stylish and short.

‘What’ve you been up to all morning?’ she asked.

Heck pocketed his keys. ‘I had half an idea how Bishop and Cowling might have got onto Sagan.’

‘And …?’

‘Didn’t pan out.’ It cut him to lie to her, but at present he had to make a finely balanced judgement call. She pondered that as they walked towards Intensive Care.

‘Bishop’s playing schtum,’ she finally said. ‘I mean, he’s not all there at present. Still high on medication. But he reckons Cowling got the tip-off and didn’t share the source.’

‘The Devil protects his own,’ Heck murmured, wondering if Penny Flint had any clue just how much luck she was enjoying.

‘Well, I got shot in the legs two years ago, along with getting my nose broken,’ Shawna McCluskey said. ‘Last year, I got suspended for serious disciplinary offences I didn’t even commit, and now I wake up to find I got my brains beaten in over three weeks ago and that I’ve been lying in a coma ever since. Am I supposed to just carry on, ma’am? Is this all supposed to be in a day’s work for me?’

Her eyebrows were still swollen and discoloured, covered by railway lines of stitching. Her nose, which had needed to be completely reconstructed, was buried under a pyramid of dressings and gauze. Her scalp had been partly shaved, so that numerous other lacerations could be sutured. She’d suffered extensive fractures to her left eye-socket and cheekbone, and in consequence a perforated left eardrum, while the blow delivered to her chest by the point-blank impact of a 9mm bullet from her own Glock pistol had broken her sternum and three ribs. She currently lay at an angle, supported in an orthopaedic framework made from bars and straps, which looked more like a medieval torture device. She was also attached to a drip, which fed her a constant supply of painkillers. This might have been the cause of her slurred, frothy voice, or on the other hand that might have been down to her broken teeth. Once she was out of intensive care, a dental surgeon was going to look at her mouth.

‘For two minutes back there I was technically dead,’ she added. ‘If Heck hadn’t given me the kiss of life …’