Stalkers (9 page)

‘Come on, love. You’re not on the pull. If you were, you wouldn’t choose me.’

She folded her arms – an unconsciously defensive gesture, he noted. ‘Maybe I just fancied a chat with someone who looked pleasant.’

‘Same as before. You wouldn’t choose me.’

‘You don’t have a very high opinion of yourself, do you?’

‘My opinion doesn’t count for much, I’m afraid.’

‘Listen, I’m just trying to be friendly.’

‘No you’re not. You’re up to something. Now if I didn’t know better …’ he glanced again at her legs, and then much more closely at her arms, but couldn’t spot any tell-tale needle-tracks, ‘I’d guess you were the sort of lady who Phil Mackintosh doesn’t normally allow into this establishment.’

She stiffened. ‘I’m not a hooker, if that’s what you mean.’

‘So why’re you acting like one?’ He gave her the gaze he normally reserved for the interview room, his eyes boring into her. She became flustered, ill-at-ease.

‘I just wanted some information?’ she finally said.

‘So it’s not my amazing body you’re interested in. Now there’s a surprise.’

‘About your investigation …’

‘Ahhh.’

She now looked very uncomfortable. ‘How – look, how’s it going?’

Heck finished his beer. He shouted across to the bar for another, before turning back to her. ‘So what is this? Mr Ballamara’s decided that, as the rough stuff doesn’t work, he’ll try a gentler touch?’

‘Eh?’

‘Is that the deal? I deliver, and I get a night in the sack with some quality tail?’

She looked totally baffled.

He leaned forward. ‘Go back to your boss and tell him to shove it. Not only do I not take orders from him, I don’t take bribes either. And frankly I’m surprised anyone does. You know why? Because he’s a walking-talking anachronism, a throwback – a gobshite who runs a few South London boozers and thinks he’s Pablo Escobar. Another year and I dare say he’ll be at the beck and call of some sixteen-year-old Romanian, and no doubt he’ll be grateful for it.’

He pushed his chair back and stood up.

‘For someone who doesn’t rate himself, you don’t half like the sound of your own voice,’ she said.

‘For someone who looks as good as you, you keep very trashy company. And just in case he decides to send the heavies round again, tell him not to waste his time. I’m off the case. It’s finished.’

‘Finished?’ She sounded startled. But Heck had gone. He was over at the bar again, paying for his next round, when she reappeared. ‘Finished, did you say?’

‘Yes. It’s been closed down. And if Mr Ballamara doesn’t like that – as I told him before, he can take it up with Commander Laycock at Scotland Yard.’

‘You mean no one’s looking into it at all?’

‘Someone will be somewhere.’ He sipped his fresh pint, leaving froth on his top lip. ‘But only if they haven’t got something much, much more important to do. Like watch some paint dry.’

He tried to move away, but she grabbed his arm tightly. He turned to face her – and was surprised to see that she was livid with rage. Tears were welling in her eyes.

‘I heard good things about you,’ she said. ‘I thought you were going to help me, but now I can see you’re just another
FUCKING DICKHEAD
!’ She banged money on the bar-top. ‘That’s for the drink I owe you. Stick it up your arse!’

And she stormed out of the pub, stopping only to grab up her handbag and sling it over her shoulder.

‘You coppers really know how to make friends and influence people,’ the barmaid, who happened to be Phil Mackintosh’s eldest daughter, commented.

Heck was equally bemused. ‘I’m guessing I’ve just cost her a decent commission.’

He went back to his seat, shaking his head. The lowlifes he had to deal with. Mind you, hookers didn’t generally scream and cry when johns turned them down. Now that he looked back on it, the entire meeting had been a little surreal – but what the hell, this was London. Nothing should be a surprise here. He put it from his mind and the evening rolled on tediously. He managed a couple more rounds and a few more brief exchanges of mundane chat with other punters before the bell rang for last orders.

Before leaving, he went for a pee, and then stood looking at himself in the greasy toilet mirror. Considering he was now in his late thirties, he’d kept reasonably well. Some might say he was handsome but he was also rumpled; his black hair didn’t have any grey in it yet but seemed to be permanently mussed, and he
did
look tired. He was unshaved and his normally piercing blue eyes were bloodshot, though that might be due to drink rather than fatigue. The rest of him was in okay shape. He certainly wasn’t overweight, though that was because during the investigation he hadn’t been eating properly or even regularly enough. But he was still reasonably solid and well-built; years of sports activities in his younger police days had served a purpose after all.

He yawned, scratched his grizzled cheek, then ambled back out and shouted his goodbyes to the bar staff. The muggy atmosphere outside did little to help with his semi-inebriated state, and he tottered across the pub car park to his Fiat. Even leaning against it, he had trouble inserting his key into the lock.

‘You’re not seriously thinking of driving in that state?’ someone asked.

Heck turned around. At first he didn’t recognise Gemma Piper. Her white Coupe was parked about twenty yards away. She’d got out and approached without him noticing. She was wearing jeans, trainers and a lilac running top.

‘I, er … no, my jacket’s in the back,’ he said.

‘Really?’

He opened the door and, with a flourish, pulled a lightweight leather jacket from the rear seat, where it had been dumped earlier. She eyed him sceptically, unconvinced.

‘What’s the matter anyway?’ he asked. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Yeah? Well tough. I’m off duty.’

He turned, stumbled across the car park and onto the pavement, though he hadn’t walked more than thirty yards before he realised that he’d be lucky to make it home. He’d drunk far more that evening than he had in quite some time. The white Coupe pulled up alongside him, and Gemma powered down her window.

‘Stop acting like a kid, Heck, and get in. At the very least, I can give you a ride home.’

Heck fumbled his way around the vehicle, and all but collapsed into the front passenger seat. Gemma leaned across him to check that his seatbelt was secure. As she did, he tried to nuzzle her neck. She pulled back sharply, glaring at him.

‘Don’t even go there. That’s not what this is about, and you know it.’

He shrugged as she put the car in gear and drove them away from the kerb.

‘What
is
it about?’ he asked sulkily.

‘I wanted to talk some business, but by the looks of it you’re in no fit state.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.’

‘Will you, indeed.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s difficult enough getting you to exercise good judgment when you’re stone-cold sober. It’d be a laugh a minute watching you try to do it tonight.’

Cherrybrook Drive was a cul-de-sac, with Heck’s place situated at its far end, where a ten-foot-high wall of soot-black bricks separated the residential neighbourhood from a stretch of tube running overland. The houses, which faced each other in two sombre rows, were tall and narrow, and fronted straight onto the pavement. Heck occupied an upstairs flat in the last one, accessible via a steep, dingy stairway. When he’d swayed up to the top, he flicked a light on, revealing a threadbare carpet and walls stripped to the plaster.

‘Nothing like living in style,’ Gemma observed.

‘I forgot … you haven’t been to this pad, have you?’ he replied. ‘Well … doesn’t matter, does it? I’m hardly ever here.’

The apartment itself was warm and not quite as gloomy as its entrance suggested. The kitchen was small but modern, and very clean – every worktop sparkled (though this might have been because food was rarely prepared here, as a bin crammed with kebab wrappers and pizza boxes seemed to suggest). There was a basic but surprisingly spacious lounge-diner, which would have been fairly pleasant had it not been for its window gazing down on the trash-filled cutting where the trains passed, a bathroom and a bedroom. The final room, separated from the hall by a sliding screen door, was box-sized and windowless. Its dim interior appeared to be scattered with disordered paperwork, but Heck closed the door on that before Gemma had a chance to check it out properly. It was his office, he said, though at present it was more like a junk room.

‘Coffee?’ he asked. ‘Tea? Something stronger?’

‘Coffee’s fine,’ she said.

He went into the kitchen, filled the kettle and prepared a single mug. As the water boiled, he took a tumbler and a bottle of whisky from a cupboard and poured himself three fingers. Walking back into the lounge, he threw his jacket across the armchair and hit the button on the phone-messaging system. There was only one message. It was from his older sister, Dana: ‘Mark, when am I going to see you? It’s been ages. I mean, if you’re not coming up, you can at least call.’

He pressed ‘delete’.

‘You and Dana still not getting on?’ Gemma asked.

‘Everything’s fine. I just can’t be bothered.’

‘Charming.’

Gemma glanced around at the lounge. It was neat enough, but very functional. The word ‘minimalist’ wouldn’t cover it – ‘Spartan’ would be more accurate. The walls were bare of paintings, the sideboard and shelves empty of flowers or photographs. The red and orange flowered curtains, blue vinyl sofa, and mauve carpet were a tasteless mish-mash.

‘Still no sign of a woman’s touch,’ she said.

‘Surely that doesn’t surprise you?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

He swilled his whisky, and went back into the kitchen.

She took in the room again. A few books sat on a sideboard, all recent titles from the bestseller list, covering various genres, which again was no surprise – it suggested Heck had neither the time nor inclination for a more specialised interest. DVDs occupied a wooden tower alongside the television, their cases thick with dust. It was clearly a while since he’d sat down and watched one of them. Next to the sofa there was a newspaper rack, but it contained only one item – yesterday’s edition of the
Standard
. Periodicals and style magazines of the sort that cluttered most people’s lounges were noticeably absent. Heck returned, carrying her coffee. She noticed that he’d poured himself another two fingers.

‘Have you got a drink problem that I don’t know about?’ she asked.

He dropped into the armchair. ‘The only problem I have is that I don’t get enough time to drink. Until now of course. Cheers!’

She placed her coffee down. ‘You know, there are times when a little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘Okay … you’re right. Thanks for the lift home.’

‘You’re as impossible now as you were …’

‘As I was
then
?’

She bit her lip and shook her head, as if suppressing a response that she’d regret.

For some reason, this half-conciliatory act warmed Heck
inside. He added to it by swilling more whisky. ‘Well … I
wouldn’t want to disappoint you.’

Gemma sighed. ‘Heck, I’ve defended your corner for a long time. But there’s only so much even I can do if you insist on winding up Jim Laycock every time you meet him.’

‘Oh, so that’s what this is about …’

‘No, it isn’t. And don’t start giving
me
attitude, Heck . .
. because
I’m
not going to put up with it either.’ She paused, picked her coffee up and took a sip. ‘My God, that’s foul. You know they call me “the Lioness”?’

‘I’d noticed.’

‘Yeah, well that’s except where
you’re
concerned. Where
you’re
concerned, they call me “the Pussy Cat”. Now what do you think that’s doing to my self-esteem, eh?’

‘Alright, I’m sorry.’ He grabbed at his tie to loosen it, only to find that he wasn’t wearing one. ‘But he’s got to get off my back …’

‘For Christ’s sake, Heck! He’s a commander, you’re a sergeant!’

‘Yeah, and I close cases he wouldn’t have the first idea how to approach.’

‘That’s not the point. History’s written by the top brass, not the cannon fodder. So would you mind, now and then, just trying to make my job a little bit easier?’

‘I said I’m sorry.’ The thread of conversation was beginning to elude Heck. No doubt it was the booze. On the subject of which – he drained his glass, and lurched back into the kitchen for a refill.

‘That’s really going to help,’ Gemma said, following him.

‘It helps me,’ he retorted, though the corners of his vision were fogging badly.

‘Good Lord,’ she said, as he filled his glass almost to the brim.

‘It’s not like I’ve got something to get up for in the morning, is it?’

‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion.’

Even in Heck’s state, he detected meaning in those words. He swung round to face her. She was watching him carefully, suspiciously.

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

‘You accepted this enforced leave way too easily in my opinion.’

‘Naw … the idea just grew on me, that’s all.’

‘Heck, this is
me
you’re talking to. Give me some credit, eh!’

Her gaze was suddenly intense. Heck tried to return it, but doubted it would have much effect. He wasn’t just tipsy anymore, he was properly drunk. Which might explain why he suddenly wanted to spill the whole thing, tell her everything about his plans. Not that it was purely because his inhibitions had fled. Partly it was because confiding in someone – anyone – about the worry and uncertainty accrued over so many months of tireless effort and soul-destroying frustration, not to mention the bitterness at the way his gaffers had treated him, would be a kind of release, a burden shared.

Gemma was still talking. ‘You’re planning to continue investigating while you’re on leave, aren’t you?’

‘That would be against every rule in the book and completely unethical.’

‘And you expect me to believe that would make a difference to you?’