Stalkers

After that, they presented her with the sandwich, holding it to her mouth, though despite her hunger pangs she was still so sick with fear that she could do no more than nibble at it. As she did, she eyed her surroundings again, wondering if there was any possible means of escape. Far to her right, what looked like an exit/entry ramp sloped down from above, but now that her vision was fully attuned, there were other shattered cars on view: mangled masses of burned or rusty metal, dumped in forgotten corners and thick with dust and cobwebs. It had entered her head that, wherever she was, someone might unknowingly venture down here and prove her accidental saviour, but the more dankness and dereliction she spied, the less likely this seemed. In addition, there was nowhere for her to run to, even in the unlikely event she got free. God knew how many exit ramps she’d have to scramble up before she reached the surface, and she was so weak from her confinement that she doubted she could even stand. Once again, that sense of horror and despair overwhelmed her.

Giving up on the sandwich, Orange scrunched it in its wrapper and tossed it. He screwed the top back onto the bottle and shoved it into his pocket. ‘Now for dessert,’ he said, delving into the haversack again and taking out a small steel box.

He opened it to reveal two slim objects, one of which he handed to his compatriot, the other which he kept hold of himself. Louise felt her heart miss a beat when she saw that the objects were hypodermic syringes. The fluid in the one in Purple’s hand was transparent, whilst the one in Orange’s hand was a dark, brackish red.

‘We’re going to inject you,’ Orange said matter-of-factly. He showed her his syringe. ‘As you can see, this one’s dirty. It’s been used loads of times, and currently contains blood that was recently extracted from a heroin-addicted prostitute. However, the one my mate here’s got is sterile and contains a medically-approved sedative. It’s up to you which one we use?’

There was a brief silence, during which Louise tried to speak but could only gag. Once she’d dry-heaved a couple of times, she glanced up again, but said nothing. She inclined her head slightly to indicate that she’d give them no trouble.

‘Smart move,’ Orange said, replacing his blood-filled syringe in the box and putting it away, then clamping a hand across her mouth and pushing her back down into the boot. ‘I knew you’d be sensible.’

Behind him, Purple removed the cap from the sterile needle and flicked steadily at it with his gloved finger.

‘Just lie still,’ Orange added, ‘and think of England.’

Chapter 4

Deptford Green Police Station was built in the 1970s, and, typically of that soulless era, was a monolithic structure of grey, faceless cement. It was three floors high and sat with its back to the Thames on a toe of land jutting out into the part of the river that looped south around the Isle of Dogs. From the front it had a relaxed air: there was a blue lamp over its tall, wide entrance and blinds in its windows.

However, the appearance of life at Deptford Green and its reality were two different things. At the rear of the station, its three impounds, which were crammed to bursting with vehicles recovered after theft or use in crime, and the official personnel car park, were surrounded by nine-foot-high steel fences that were covered in anti-climb paint and had security lights located at regular intervals along their parapets. Also around the rear of the station, offensive, anti-police graffiti was much in evidence (the local commander only insisted on its prompt removal when it appeared at the front), alongside a litter of bricks and broken bottles, which had all been used as missiles on various occasions. There were even bullet-holes in some parts of the station’s exterior, though these too tended to be repaired quickly.

Deptford, once a thriving dockland, had gone through various incarnations in its past. In the present post-industrial era it had become an urban waste, and even though at the same time it had developed a lively arts and cultural scene, crime and poverty were rampant behind its colourful façade. As a result, though things had improved a little since the dawn of the twenty-first century, there was still an aura of ‘Fort Apache’ about Deptford Green nick, and this was reflected inside as well as out. Even by normal London standards, it was an extraordinarily busy police station. Both uniform and plain clothes officers tended to scramble about its cramped rabbit-warren of passages and rooms as though in a ‘life or death’ hurry. There was a constant trilling of telephones and barking of orders. The custody suite was never less than full of prisoners waiting to be processed.

Of course, Sunday morning could be an exception. Even the bleakest corners of the inner city tended to be quiet in the soporific hours following the weekly Saturday night booze-fest.

For this reason, when Heck drove in just after ten that morning, he was surprised to see several more cars parked up than usual, and one in particular – a white BMW Coupe. He stood looking at it for a moment, before going wearily in through the personnel door. The first person he met on entering was Paula Clark, his civilian admin assistant. She was a short, buxom lady, a local lass – bleached-blonde and busty, very much in the Barbara Windsor mould – who’d been loaned to him from local CID Admin.

‘What are you doing here?’ he said, surprised to see her at the weekend.

Paula appeared to be on her way out. She was carrying her coat and a handbag under one arm, and a bundle of reports, which she presumably intended to type up at home, under the other. She didn’t smile when she saw him – not that she smiled very much – though on this particular occasion she looked even more irate than usual.

‘I had to come in and sort some papers out because you weren’t answering your phone,’ she said.

He filched his mobile from his jacket pocket and saw that it was dead. ‘Bastard thing’s on the blink again.’

‘Superintendent Piper’s here,’ she added.

‘I know. I’ve just seen her car outside. What does she want?’

‘You.’ Paula gave him a long, meaningful look, then bustled past on her spike-heels and exited the building.

Heck ascended to the second floor via the back stairs. The office he currently worked from was located in what he was sure was the most under-used and least accessible corner of the building. Local officers here still referred to it as ‘the spare parade room’ even though Heck had now occupied it for over two years.

He headed down the corridor towards it, only stopping when he saw that the door was already open and the tall shape of Detective Inspector Des Palliser standing there. Palliser was fifty-five now and a hard-bitten cop of many years’ experience, though his lean, grizzled appearance – he was leathery skinned and had sported a scraggy grey beard and moustache for as long as Heck could remember – belied a genial personality. He spotted Heck immediately and beckoned. Heck slouched on towards him, in no hurry. There was someone else in the office, pacing around behind Palliser. By the statuesque shape, pearl blouse, tight black skirt and mass of tawny hair (she wasn’t known as ‘the Lioness’ for nothing), he knew it was Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper. Not atypically, she had a pile of documents in her hand and was discarding them irritably, one after another, as she read speedily through them.

‘Morning at last,’ Palliser said, when Heck reached him.

Heck didn’t say anything. He’d just spotted a notice that someone had hung on the outside of the office door, which read:

WDFA Squad

(We Do Fuck All)

He could have done without that at a time like this, he thought.

Detective Superintendent Piper was now regarding him from the other side of the room. Locks of hair, which she tended to wear up during the day, had come loose and hung to either shoulder, making her look rather fetching. But she was pale in the cheek and her steel-blue eyes blazed.

‘Do you know we’ve been waiting nearly two hours?’ she said.

‘Er … no, I didn’t.’

‘What do you think you’re playing at, Heck?’ she demanded. Heck was six foot, but Superintendent Piper wasn’t a great deal shorter than him; even if she had been, her force of personality was colossal. She stalked the room in anger. ‘You think I want to spend my Sunday mornings sifting through your chaotic trash?’

‘My phone’s not working.’

‘Well get one that does!’

‘I will … if I can include it on my expenses.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘You what?’

‘I’ve worn it out on this job, so if I have to buy another one …’

‘Are you deliberately winding me up?’

‘No, it’s just that …’

‘Because I’m not in the mood.’

‘I can see that.’

She jabbed a finger at him. ‘And don’t smart-mouth me either.’

‘An apology might be in order, Heck,’ Palliser said. ‘You have kept us waiting.’

‘I know, sorry. But I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘That’s plainly obvious,’ Superintendent Piper replied, gesturing at the piles of disorderly documentation stacked between the computer terminals, at the unwashed coffee mugs, at the overflowing in-trays. ‘Look at this place; it’s like a bomb site. And while we’re on the subject …’ She crossed the room and snatched the notice from the outside of the door. ‘What’s this supposed to be?’

Heck gave a wry smile. ‘Wouldn’t be a normal day without one of these appearing.’

‘You been rubbing people up the wrong way?’

‘I don’t get close enough to rub anyone up any way,’ he said. ‘Not anymore. I’m pretty sure it was one of this nick’s detectives who tipped off Bobby Ballamara that his daughter’s disappearance is being treated as part of a series. Don’t see how else he could have found out. He’s made my life hell ever since.’

‘Have you got proof of that?’ Palliser asked, looking shocked.

‘Course I haven’t.’

‘And in the meantime, what does this mean?’ Superintendent Piper asked, still brandishing the notice.

Heck shrugged. ‘You know what Division are like – they don’t think anyone works as hard as they do. According to them, I’m on a very cushy number here.’

‘Unfortunately, they’re not the only ones who think that.’ There was a brief silence. Superintendent Piper suddenly looked awkward, uncomfortable.

‘Oh,’ Heck replied. ‘So that’s how it is?’

‘You must’ve known something like this was coming,’ Palliser said.

‘Rumblings at the Yard, are there?’

‘Your comparative-case-analysis didn’t have the desired effect,’ Palliser explained.

Heck slumped into a chair, making no effort to disguise his irritation. ‘Three bloody weeks I worked on that.’

‘The effort was clearly there,’ Superintendent Piper said, sitting opposite. ‘But that’s all. Considering the time put in, the evidence is too thin. How long have you been on this case now?’

‘Two years, four months.’

‘And ground gained – zero.’

‘I need more men,’ he protested.

‘Well you’ve got one less from today.’

Heck sat up slowly. ‘How can I have one less than none?’

‘The one less is you, Heck,’ Palliser said.

Heck glanced from one to the other, finally fixing on Superintendent Piper. ‘You’re not shutting it down?’

‘It’s not my choice.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Laycock. What a surprise.’

‘It’s a nothing case,’ she retorted. ‘You’ve admitted that yourself.’

‘In moments of frustration I may have admitted that.’

‘There seems to be more frustration than anything else.’

He stood up. ‘Look, what’s the problem? I’m working every hour God sends, but most of it’s for free. I haven’t made any unreasonable requests for overtime.’

‘The problem is you could be better used elsewhere,’ she said. ‘Crime doesn’t stop just because you’re involved in something you find more interesting.’

‘“Interesting”?’ Heck could hardly believe what she’d just said. ‘We’ve got thirty-eight missing women here! Surely it’s more than “interesting”?’

Superintendent Piper responded by rifling through a few files and print-outs, of which there were plenty strewn across the desk. ‘Where’s the evidence they’re connected? Where’s the pattern? Some of them are four hundred miles apart, for God’s sake! Sorry … I’ve trusted you on this for nearly two years, but that’s it. The trust’s run out.’

‘Look, ma’am …’

‘Don’t give me the usual blarney, Heck. You’re one of the best detectives I’ve got, but these hunches of yours are proving an expensive luxury. And look at the bloody state of you! For God’s sake, tidy yourself up!’

‘Don’t you even want to know why I’m in this state?’ he wondered.

‘No.’

‘I’ve been on an all-night surveillance operation. And guess what, I had to do it all myself because there’s no one else to help.’

Voices could now be heard out in the corridor; one of them had a distinct South London twang, distinguishing it as that of DCI Slackworth, who ran the CID office here at Deptford Green.

‘I’ve got one new lead in particular, which is looking really good,’ Heck added. ‘But I haven’t even had a chance to start following it yet.’

‘Put it all on paper,’ Superintendent Piper said, half-listening to the voice outside and looking again at the notice that had been pinned to her officer’s door. ‘Each case is being referred back to the divisional CID or mis-pers department that originally dealt with it. Your new stuff can go with them.’

‘Thirty-eight missing women, ma’am.’

‘You think,’ Palliser said.

‘But how can we just close it down?’ Heck asked. ‘We’re the Serial Crimes Unit, for Christ’s sake!’

Superintendent Piper stood up. ‘We’ll keep it under review. But at present we haven’t got the resources.’

‘How about if …’

‘I’m not arguing with you, Heck. I’ve actually done you a courtesy coming down here to tell you in person. I could’ve sent Des, I could’ve told you on the bloody phone. Just deal with it, alright.’

She marched to the door, pulling on her suit jacket.

‘You know, it’s a miracle anyone stays in this job,’ Heck said. ‘And I’ll tell you another miracle – that we ever catch anyone with some of the clowns we’ve got in charge.’

‘Watch it!’ She rounded on him fiercely. ‘Just watch it, Sergeant!’

‘I didn’t mean you …’

‘I don’t give a damn! I won’t have insubordination! Now your work here is done. So do us all a favour, get your paperwork in order and, following that, get your head in order. Then get your scruffy arse back to the Yard, pronto.’

And she was off, storming down the passage to catch up with DCI Slackworth – a burly, foursquare slaphead with flabby cheeks and pig-mean eyes – who was busy chatting up a pretty young female constable from the day-shift.

Heck watched her go, sourly.

‘Do you think anyone’ll mind if I light up in here?’ Palliser wondered, edging out of view of those in the corridor.

‘How should I know?’ Heck replied.

‘It’s your office.’

‘Not anymore.’

At the end of the corridor, Superintendent Piper was standing arms folded, yet still managing to wave the notice around, as she gave both barrels to Slackworth. The familiar whipcrack voice came echoing along the passage, and Slackworth, a tough-nut in front of his own crew, was soon shuffling awkwardly and looking abashed.

‘“The Lioness”,’ Heck said. ‘Talk about well named.’

‘She has a softer side.’ Palliser was now beside an open window, blowing smoke. ‘If anyone should know that, it’s you.’

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘She still cares about you though.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘For one thing, she reckons you need some leave.’

‘What?’

‘You’re in a state, Heck. You haven’t had a break in two years.’

‘I haven’t been able to.’

‘Beside the point.’

‘No it isn’t.’ Heck indicated the empty desks and tables. ‘I used to have six officers working for me in here, Des. One by one, I’ve watched them get shunted to other duties. All I’ve had for the last nine weeks is an admin assistant, part-time.’

Palliser shrugged. ‘Understanding why you’re knackered isn’t really a solution to it. She’s the gaffer and she reckons that your judgment’s become impaired. You’re losing sight of the wood for the trees.’

‘So I’m a burn-out as well?’

‘Not far off.’

‘This is bollocks.’

‘No, she’s genuinely concerned.’

‘I mean this whole thing.’

‘Oh that, yeah. That’s definitely bollocks.’ Palliser suddenly glanced up at the ceiling, wondering belatedly if there was a smoke-detector present, and relaxing when he saw that there wasn’t. ‘You’re a DS, Heck, that’s all. Yet for two years you’ve been working under your own steam, authorising your own hours and resources. It was inevitable someone was going to whinge about it. It’s politics, typical office bullshit. But it’s not unimportant.’

‘Especially not when someone like Laycock’s involved, eh?’

While Superintendent Piper was head of the Serial Crimes Unit, her immediate supervisor, Commander Jim Laycock, was director of the National Crime Group and was, to all intents and purposes, God. Despite this, Heck had managed to bump heads with him on a number of occasions.

‘Laycock’s answerable to a higher power as well,’ Palliser said, as if this was some kind of consolation.

‘He’s a pencil-pushing suit.’

‘Which is all the more reason to fall in line for him. He has to balance the books somehow. Given the history you and him have got, it’s a wonder he’s let it drag on this long.’

Heck walked back to his desk, his head aching with frustration. He sat down heavily. ‘At the end of the day, all I’m concerned about is these missing women. I can crack this, Des. I know it. I can find them, or at least find out what happened to them.’

Palliser chucked his cig-butt from the window. ‘We’ve been through this already, mate. Wrap it up and get some rest. God knows, you need it.’

Chapter 5

When Louise came round, she felt ghastly: headachey and sick to the pit of her stomach.

Initially the awful memory of her abduction eluded her. All she could do at first was puzzle about why she was slumped in a ratty old armchair that smelled of stale urine. But then, when she looked around and realised that she was in a small, windowless room and that the throbbing pain in her right bicep was the result of an injection, everything surged back – and with it, a wild panic.

She tried to leap to her feet, but was still groggy and immediately overbalanced, her shoeless feet sliding on the white linoleum floor. She fell heavily, landing alongside an open cardboard box, which, when she looked inside it, was stuffed to the brim with lingerie: pairs of lacy knickers, silk stockings, suspender belts. She recoiled from it the way she would if it had been full of snakes. Struggling to her knees, she backed away, only to collide with something else: a steel-framed clothes rack, which again was loaded with garments. In this case they were dresses, camisoles and skirts of various sizes and colours, though in all cases they were slinky, flimsy, transparent, the sort of things glamour models would wear. Again the tawdriness of it both revolted and terrified her – in no way could this be good.

Heart thumping, Louise tried to lurch back to her feet, but it wasn’t easy. She’d evidently been sedated for several hours, and now felt as if she was recovering from a fever; every quick or ill-timed move brought on a new flutter of dizziness. But there was one thing at least – whoever had put her here, they’d left her unbound. Tender weals were impressed into her wrists, but thankfully the plastic cuffs had been removed, and, small and stuffy as this room might be, it had to be an improvement on the claustrophobic confines of that car boot. She pivoted around, looking for any means of escape.

The room was lit by a single unshaded bulb and was no larger than a shop fitting-room, but it contained two doors, both made of varnished wood. Louise blundered to the first. It had a lever-handle, which she pushed down. The door opened, but on the other side of it there was only a narrow, white-tiled cubicle, containing a toilet, a wash-bowl and a shower. There was also a mirror, and fleetingly she caught her own reflection – it was so different from any previous mirror image of herself that she jumped backward with a shriek.

Only after a split second of disbelief did she come forward again.

Then she started to cry.

Her face looked like it had been made up for a stage-show of the macabre. Her eyes were red with weeping; her hair hung in rat-tails; what remained of her make-up was smeared and blotched grotesquely; beneath that, her normal healthy complexion had paled to an ashen, almost greenish hue. Even though she’d only been in captivity for a couple of days at the most, she already looked to have lost weight: her cheekbones were painfully prominent. She glanced down at herself and saw that what remained of her clothing was in a disgusting state: stained with engine oil and body fluids. The vile stench of urine was suddenly explainable.

The shock of all this was simply too much. Louise had tried to maintain her composure, tried to rationalise her way through this entire kidnapping ordeal rather than keep surrendering to panic, but surely she was insane to think that remaining calm would serve any purpose now? Good God, she’d been in these animals’ clutches no time at all, and she resembled a corpse already! Suppose they kept her for weeks, months, maybe longer?

There was no option. She had to escape from here, any way she could, whatever it cost her.

She backed into the main room again, turning frantically. She’d been correct in her first impression that there were no windows in here. She glanced up: the ceiling, which comprised bare wooden boards, was only about two feet above her head. She reached up and pressed it; it was unyielding. What she’d been expecting, she didn’t know – that it would lift like a lid? Ridiculous. But for some reason she pressed again, even harder, exerting all her strength, then overbalanced, almost fell.

At first she assumed that she was having a relapse; that maybe the drugs were kicking in for a second time. But then she realised something bizarre: she wasn’t the one who’d overbalanced – it was the room itself. The floor had tilted. It tilted again and she had to stagger to keep upright. The entire room was swaying – not hugely, but noticeably.

So what in Christ’s name was this? Where the hell was she?

Panic once again nagged at her to get out of here, insisting that, whatever this horrendous situation was, she needed to get out – for Christ’s sake, she just had to get out!

There was still the remaining door.

Louise had no doubt that this one would be locked. And indeed, when she pushed against it and tried the handle – in this case a brass knob – it wouldn’t budge. She swore under her breath, struggling to suppress whimpers of despair. She tried again, but couldn’t even get the knob to turn.

‘Goddamn,’ she moaned, thrusting her shoulder against the wood, but only succeeding in hurting herself. ‘Goddamn it!’ Her voice rose to a desperate cry. ‘Goddamn it, someone please help me!’

Abruptly, the handle turned in the opposite direction. There was a loud click as a lock was disengaged. Louise retreated. The door virtually flew open, and a man came through, closing it behind him. It was the tall black man in the overalls, gloves and day-glo orange ski-mask, an ensemble he was still wearing. He eyed her up and down. As before, it was not the way she’d been eyed by men in the past. There was no hunger there, no arousal – it was strictly professional; a cool, clinical appraisal. When he finally spoke, she was so astonished by what he said that at first she thought she’d misheard.