Sacrifice (21 page)

Heck brooded on this for several more minutes, while outside the van the wind sent litter skittering down the street. This was Norfolk Avenue, which in an odd way sounded quite pleasant. Just as Suffolk Avenue – which was the next one along – did, and Cumbria Road beyond that, and then Hampshire Street and Derbyshire Walk. Pity they were all run-down crapholes with rusty, ramshackle cars along their kerbs, broken-down fences and gardens filled with festering heaps of household trash.

The door suddenly thudded open and Andy Gregson climbed back in, in more of a rush than usual. He handed Heck a bag containing a pasty and a can of Coke, and then thrust an evening paper at him. ‘Check that out,’ he said.

Noting the uncharacteristic flush to Gregson’s cheeks, Heck shoved his food onto the dashboard, and unfolded the paper.

Its main image, which filled almost the entire front page, had been recycled from the numerous internet pictures taken of the crucifixion scene by passers-by on the motorway, though now the victims were less blurred than they had been. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The gigantic headline read:

DESECRATION DAY!

Above it, there was a smaller strap:

Cops in desperate hunt for serial killer dubbed ‘Desecrator’

Heck’s hair briefly prickled as he read the opening two paragraphs:

With the blood still drying on the motorway bridge where twin mass murderers Jordan and Jason Savage were killed during a police chase, and the dust still settling after the furore caused by the crucial errors made in that enquiry, the
Herald
can exclusively reveal that a new maniac is on the loose. This latest madman, who has claimed seven lives in a brutal six-month murder spree, is being referred to by the taskforce charged with catching him as ‘the Desecrator’ because he appears to be following a ‘feast day’ cycle.

Despite taking great care to publicise himself, and using disgusting methods designed to desecrate our most beloved holidays and festivals, the unknown assailant has to date been murdering with impunity, the police apparently helpless to stop him.

The recent triple crucifixion on Merseyside, which so appalled the nation, is only a small part of this horrendous chain of events …

‘They’ve got everything,’ Gregson said. ‘They’ve linked each case. They’re even calling him “the Desecrator”. How the hell did they get that detail?’

The name ‘Desecrator’, as unintentionally coined by Shawna McCluskey, had stuck. Nicknames tended to be adopted through force of habit in serial murder cases. In this case especially, with an unknown number of subjects, it had seemed easier for the team to simply refer to ‘the Desecrator’ rather than ‘the perpetrators’ or ‘those responsible’. All along though, given the sensitivity of this investigation, Heck had thought it unwise to create so sensationalist a hook. Now he’d apparently been vindicated.

‘One of your lot probably,’ he said.

Gregson’s cheeks coloured even more. ‘You’re saying someone in Merseyside’s blabbed?’

‘Or someone in SCU. What does it matter? Someone always blabs in the end. The press make it too worth their while. We were never going to keep this quiet for long.’

He laid the newspaper down, only able to imagine the anger on the top floor at Scotland Yard, and wincing at the thought of the phone calls that were now going to bombard Gemma’s office. She got paid a lot more for undertaking such responsibilities of course, and maybe that was some consolation … but he was still glad he wasn’t in her shoes at present.

‘There’ll be an enquiry,’ Gregson warned.

‘So there should be.’ Heck sat up. ‘Not our problem though. On the subject of which, what’s the next big occasion to look forward to?’

Gregson consulted his notebook. ‘St George’s Day … that’s tomorrow.’

Heck mulled it over. St George’s Day. For some reason, that didn’t bode well.

‘The day after that is St Mark’s Eve,’ Gregson added. ‘Don’t know much about that one.’

‘Supposed to be a good day for reading the future.’

‘Great. Maybe they’ll club someone to death with a crystal ball. The real biggie’s in eight days’ time according to Eric Fisher. April 30 … Beltane. Eric reckons it’s a full-blown pagan Sabbath,
whoaaa
…
Boyd’s on the move
!’

‘Can’t see him,’ Heck replied, checking his own mirror.

‘He’s coming this way.’

Heck snatched the newspaper open again and slid down a few inches, so that it concealed him. Gregson bent into the foot-well as if to rummage through an imaginary tool-bag. Boyd sauntered past. They watched him warily as he receded down the road.

‘You walked last time, my turn today,’ Heck said, opening the door, then rolling the paper and stuffing it into his back pocket. ‘Give me five, then bring the van. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.’

Gregson nodded and Heck slipped out. Fifty yards ahead, Boyd crossed the street and vanished down a ginnel. Heck followed as casually as he was able.

Initially, the pursuit took its usual desultory course through the endless warren of flats and maisonettes. But this time, instead of entering the local bookies or off-licence, Boyd pressed on through Longsight into West Gorton, where he entered a small corner shop café. Heck waited at the bus stop opposite, still reading his paper, watching covertly as Boyd sat in the window and wolfed down egg, chips and buttered bread. He used his mobile to summon Gregson, who appeared a few minutes later and parked the van in a side-street.

It was seven o’clock by the time Boyd shifted again, and daylight was waning. Two buses, now with headlights switched on, had passed Heck’s stop without him climbing aboard. To keep up appearances, he’d jumped onto the third, getting off again at the next stop, and jogging back. He approached the café again, just as Boyd stepped out onto the pavement. Heck darted into a doorway, but Boyd headed in the opposite direction, hands jammed into pockets. A second passed before Heck continued the pursuit, calling Gregson and informing him.

Dusk was now turning to darkness; one by one, streetlights flickered to life. Some thirty yards ahead, Boyd entered a pub called The Hayrick. The name evoked an image of rural idyll; a cottage-style inn with a black-beamed exterior and thatched roof. But in fact it was a squalid-looking building, half redbrick and half grey plaster, with grubby windows and a rusted iron bar where the pub sign had once hung.

‘Andy?’ Heck said into his mobile. ‘Where are you?’

‘Hyde Road,’ Gregson replied. ‘Where are you?’

‘The Hayrick on Gorton Lane. I’ll go in and buy a round … like I’m meeting someone. Show up in ten?’

‘Got it.’

The Hayrick’s interior matched its exterior. It was filled with a dull, brownish light; its upholstery looked worn; and even though the smoking ban had been in force for a number of years, there were yellowish marks on the walls and ceiling, indicating how long it was since the place had last been decorated. The sparse clientele suited their environment. A bent old man with stringy, grey/green hair was seated at one end of the bar, nursing a large scotch. Halfway along it sat a middle-aged woman, overweight and wearing too much lipstick; her tight denim miniskirt exposed podgy white thighs encased in fishnet. Two lads, who couldn’t have been a day over seventeen, their hair cut very short and shaved into fanciful patterns at the rear, accosted the fruit machine, arguing and swilling beer as they fed in coin after coin. Seated next to them was a bored-looking girl: again overly made-up, again in a miniskirt and high heels, though she couldn’t have been much more than sixteen, despite the pram she had alongside her. Boyd sat alone in a corner, a lager on the table in front of him.

‘Two bitters please,’ Heck said. ‘Pints of.’

The barman, who was twenty stone at least, with a beaten-up face and long, straggling red hair, served him without comment. Heck glanced sideways at the woman in fishnets. She smiled. It was a pleasant smile actually, warm and friendly; under all that slap she might once have been a looker. But Heck didn’t bother speaking to her. He took the two drinks away, walking past Boyd’s table – the criminal didn’t even glance at him – and through an open door to the pool room, which was currently empty.

Heck chose a berth diagonal to the entrance, so that he could keep an eye on his quarry and, to maintain appearances, set the pool-table up. Five minutes later, Andy Gregson ambled in. During the time they’d been shadowing Boyd, he’d used a variety of watering holes. They hadn’t followed him into this one before, though all were pretty interchangeable in terms of how depressing they were.

‘Really knows how to live, this fella, doesn’t he?’ Gregson said, lowering his voice as they commenced a leisurely game of pool.

‘Want my take?’ Heck replied. ‘He’s laying low between jobs.’

‘Yeah?’

‘No one leads a life this uneventful. Apparently it’s the same with Mullany. Pissed at night, lies in bed all morning, greasy spoon for his lunch, bookies in the afternoon, on the piss again … sees a few people, chats, goes home. Too easy, that. Him and Mullany are best mates. But they haven’t seen each other in a fortnight. That’s suspicious too.’

‘Who’s sitting on Mullany this evening?’ Gregson wondered.

‘Gaz and Shawna.’ Heck downed a stripe. ‘We’ll get a conflab with those two tomorrow, and see what we know. Assuming nothing of interest happens tonight.’

Though a Manchester cop for seven years before transferring to SCU in London, Shawna McCluskey had never worked on the E-Division, which was South Manchester. She’d been located five miles away in Salford, the F-Division, so only knew Cameron Boyd and Terry Mullany by reputation. She’d never dealt with them personally, nor any of the other criminals in this neck of the woods. As such, it had seemed a reasonable option to put her on a plainclothes stakeout here.

It was pure bad luck that Theo Taylor, a gangbanger, otherwise known as ‘Mr Ed’ because he had a mouthful of protruding yellow horse-teeth, should have turned up at this very moment. Over in Salford, Shawna had arrested him three times – once for burglary, once for having an offensive weapon and once for robbery. The latter of those charges ought to have sent him to prison for a couple of years at least, but his barrister had performed intellectual gymnastics over some legal technicality, which the judge had been swayed by, and Mr Ed had walked out a free man. Shawna and everybody else in Salford CID had felt cheated at the time, but the law was the law even if it was sometimes an ass. And ultimately it hadn’t mattered much, because Mr Ed had dropped out of sight shortly afterwards, apparently having moved on, which they were all mightily glad about.

The problem was that he’d moved here, to Rusholme.

‘DC McCluskey, isn’t it?’ Mr Ed shouted. ‘I fucking knew it!’

They were in a supermarket at the time. It was unusual for Terry Mullany to do any shopping. Both Shawna McCluskey and Gary Quinnell had been caught on the hop by it, even if it did transpire that all he was popping into the store for was a case of beer. But it was seriously bad luck that they’d met Mr Ed in there as well.

‘What’re you going to try and fit me up with this week, detective?’ he shouted.

Shawna stared down the aisle at him in disbelief. He was wearing a long yellow coat and a snazzy purple running-suit, an ensemble which looked vaguely ridiculous over his tall, gawky frame. He still hadn’t had his teeth fixed – they were a mismatched bunch of yellow pegs – but he was laughing loudly as he approached, arms outstretched, a bunch of his idiot pals sniggering behind him.

‘What’s it to be?’ he shouted. ‘Shoplifting? Fuck, I haven’t chosen anything yet … but hey, give it a go. I’ll enjoy watching them rip the shit out of you in court again!’

Shawna was less concerned about Mr Ed than she was about Terry Mullany. She gazed the other way along the aisle in the direction of the tills. Mullany was at the rear of the queue with his case of beer, but he, like the other shoppers gathered there, had heard the fracas and glanced around. He fixed on her intently, perhaps finally thinking it odd that he’d glimpsed her, or someone like her, once or twice in the last few days – and suddenly broke from the base of the queue, chucking his goods and running towards her with heavy, clumping steps.

Shawna went rigid, not sure what he intended, but then realising from his thousand-yard stare that he was actually looking
past
her. He was seeking to escape, not attack.

Mullany was a slobbish, toad-like individual, with a wide mouth, a broad, flat nose and eyes buried in pallid flesh. But he was at least six feet tall, and must have held a seven-stone advantage on her. However, Shawna had been raised in the GMP school of thought that the only excuse you could ever offer for letting a scrote escape was if he beat the living crap out of you.

So she stepped into his path.

Mullany kept coming.

She attempted to crouch, throwing her arms out, hoping to rugby tackle him around his legs. But all she caught was his denim-clad knee full in her face. Pain lanced through her head, along with a crackle of cartilage.

And then she was down on her back, the side of her skull smacking the floor.

‘Hey!’ she heard someone shout.

It was that buffoon, Mr Ed; probably bewildered – and not a little upset – that none of this was about him. Blood bubbled into the back of her throat as she craned her head around to look. Mr Ed and his cronies jumped to one side as Mullany’s big frame barged past them, his left shoulder catching Ed in the chest, catapulting him backwards through a neatly-stacked pyramid of spaghetti tins.

‘G– Gary,’ she stammered into her radio. ‘I’ve been clocked. The bastard’s coming out the back …’

Mullany tore through the supermarket stock room, kicking boxes out of his path, cannoning into staff members and sending them flying. He ran outside via a goods door at the rear, jumping down from the concrete platform into a loading bay, fishing the mobile phone from his pocket. An engine roared and tyres shrieked as a dented Volvo swerved into view around the nearest corner.

The call was answered. Mullany didn’t wait to hear his mate’s voice; he just began jabbering. ‘Leg it! They’re onto us! Dunno where you are, just go, fucking go!’