Sacrifice

The M1 southbound was busy at the best of times. Now, at the tail-end of rush hour, it was heaving. The average speed was still about sixty miles per hour, but it was a fast- moving log-jam. Despite this, the van forged ruthlessly ahead, ramming and shunting, ignoring the honking horns and shaking fists. Heck hit his own horn repeatedly, but had to swerve and skid as vehicles were sideswiped into his path.

The bastards were trying to cause a pile-up, he realised. Their plan was to create a barricade of car-wrecks. And on top of that, they were still armed. He glimpsed more flickering blue lights in his rear-view mirror, but they were far behind and nobody in the control room seemed to be answering his messages – at which point his quarry suddenly attempted the craziest manoeuvre Heck had ever seen.

There was a double-sided crash barrier down the motorway’s central reservation. A fleeting gap appeared – and the van jack-knifed into it, attempting a U-turn.

A U-turn! At sixty miles an hour! On the motorway!

By instinct rather than logic, Heck did the same. The next junction was a good fifteen miles away, and he couldn’t take the chance that the felons might escape.

But even though Heck jammed his brakes on as he turned, he lost control crossing the northbound carriageway, skidding on two wheels and slamming side-on into the grass embankment with such bone-shuddering force that his Fiat rolled uphill … before rolling back down again and landing on its roof, its chassis groaning, glass fragments tinkling over him. The white van had also lost control, but whereas Heck had lost it at thirty, the Savage brothers had lost it at sixty. Their vehicle didn’t even manage to turn into the skid, but ploughed headlong across the carriageway – straight into the concrete buttress of a motorway bridge. The resulting impact boomed in Heck’s ears.

That sound echoed for what seemed like seconds as Heck lay groggily on his side.

At length, in a daze akin to the worst hangover in history, he began to probe at his body with his fingertips. Everything seemed to be intact, though his neck and shoulders ached, suggesting whiplash. His left wrist was also hurting, though he had full movement in the joint. With an agonised grunt, Heck released the catch of his seatbelt, crawled gingerly across the ceiling of his car and tried to open the passenger door, only to find that it was buckled in its frame and immovable. For a second he was too stupored to work this out; then slowly, painfully, he shifted himself around and clambered feet-first through the shattered window.

When he finally stood up, he found himself gazing across the underside of his Fiat, which was gashed and dented and thick with tufts of grass and soil. Clouds of steam hissed from his busted radiator. Passing vehicles slowed down, the faces of drivers blurring white as they gawked at him. Multiple sirens approached from the near-distance.

Clamping a hand to his throbbing neck, he had to turn his entire body to gaze along the debris-strewn hard shoulder. Thirty yards away, the smouldering hulk of the white van was crushed against the concrete buttress, reduced to about a third of its original length. Heck hobbled towards it, but when he got within ten yards the stench of fuel and rubber and twisted, melted metal was enough to make him sick.

So was the sight of the Savage brothers.

Whichever one of them had fired the shots from out of the back had been catapulted clean across the van’s interior, bursting through its windscreen, his head striking the buttress of the bridge and splurging several feet up the concrete in a deluge of blood, brain and bone splinters. The driver had been flung onto the steering wheel, and now lay across it like a bundle of limp rags. From the crimson rivers gurgling out underneath him, the central column had torn through his breastbone and punctured his cardiovascular system.

Heck tottered queasily away from the wreck.

Other police vehicles were now drawing in behind his Fiat. The first of their drivers, a young Motorway Division officer in a bright orange slicker, came running up. ‘Is that him?’ he asked. ‘The Maniac?’

Heck slumped backwards onto the grass. ‘Let’s hope so,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody hell … let’s hope so.’

Chapter 3

The ‘M1 Maniac’, to use the nickname the press had given him (or ‘them’, as it turned out), had terrorised southern England for the previous six months, primarily targeting teenage boys.

His hunting ground was confined to the vicinity of the M1 motorway, but this was not small. In geographic terms, his attacks ranged from Luton in the south to Northampton in the north; from Aylesbury in the west to Bedford in the east. He claimed nine victims, all older teenagers, all abducted from public places – usually when they were walking home from pubs or nightclubs. Eight of these were later found bound with wire, raped anally and orally, and killed by an execution-style gunshot to the back of the head. Their bodies had been dumped in ditches or roadside culverts.

The victim who survived was fourth in terms of the running order. His name was Lewis Pettigrew, and he was a nineteen-year-old Oxford University student who was on a visit to his parents’ home in Milton Keynes. Like the others, he was found bound, badly assaulted and with a bullet-wound to the back of the head, but in his case, possibly because of the angle at which it was fired, the bullet had lodged in his skull rather than penetrating his brain. Pettigrew, though he’d lost the power of speech, was able to write and thus informed the police that he had been standing at a bus stop just around midnight when a white van pulled up alongside him. The hooded driver climbed out and produced a handgun, forcing the boy into the back, where his wrists and ankles were tied with wire which was pulled so tight that he feared it had cut off his blood supply.

The van was then driven around for an estimated half-hour or so. When it finally stopped, the abductor climbed from the driving cab and re-entered the vehicle through its rear doors, still armed with his pistol, at which point he forced Pettigrew to perform fellatio on him. When this was over, the abductor climbed out of the van, only to climb back in again a few minutes later and sodomise the prisoner. When this second sex act was complete, the van’s rear doors were opened again, Pettigrew was forced to kneel up, facing outwards – into what looked like isolated woodland – and was shot in the back of the head. It was a miracle he survived, but an entire day passed before a woman walking her dog discovered him; like the others, he had been dragged into a ditch and covered with branches and moss.

This was a major break for the police, because it explained the M1 Maniac’s modus operandi. There was no DNA, just as there never was with any of the other cases, because the killer always wore protection, but at least Pettigrew was able to describe the van and the assailant, even if this latter description amounted to little more than a man with blue eyes and red hair, wearing a black anorak hood.

Unfortunately, none of this did much to make the public less frightened, because the murders continued. The fact that it was red-blooded young men who were the object of the viciousness made it all the more disturbing. There were athletes among them; one had even been a junior boxing champion. Additionally terrifying, the Maniac’s victims had been grabbed off the street while going about their everyday business. A criminal psychologist on the radio exacerbated the situation when he voiced a theory that the perpetrator was probably not gay; that in fact he was straight and that his sexual sadism was simply a means to assert his dominance. Women could be next, he said.

Needless to say, others were less sure about this, and as the panic rose the public order situation deteriorated: anti-gay graffiti appeared, gay nightspots were stoned. Vigilante justice became ever more brutal and indiscriminate – a prominent gay spokesman was dragged from a podium and beaten while attempting to address a public meeting.

In the midst of all this, the police came under mounting criticism. It was noted in the popular press that speed-cameras had assisted in the prosecution of thousands of motorists in the time since the reign of terror had begun, but that they seemed incapable of playing any role in the apprehension of this ‘real criminal’, even though road-use was integral to his method.

Such an incendiary atmosphere was soon going to explode. It looked increasingly unlikely that the hunt for the M1 Maniac would end in anything less than a disaster.

Though perhaps no one realised how much of a disaster, Heck thought, as he sat in A&E, trying not to wince while an orthopaedic collar was carefully fitted around his neck. Even now, the bodies of the Savage brothers were being brought to the mortuary here at the Milton Keynes Hospital. He grunted his thanks as the nurse told him he was done and moved away. As well as the neck-brace, his left arm had been strapped and fixed in a sling; a doctor had checked it earlier and concluded that it was only sprained but that it needed rest – which was always easier said than done. Heck shuffled to the lavatory. When he’d finished his ablutions, a surprisingly complex procedure with one hand, he regarded himself in the mirror over the washbasin. He’d looked better. His black hair was a sweaty mop, his lean, rugged features cut and bruised. He was thirty-eight later this year and still in reasonable nick, but time waited for no man, and whenever he got a little beaten-up these days, it seemed to take that much longer to recover.

When he went back into A&E, two other officers from the Serial Crimes Unit were waiting for him.

Detective Constable Shawna McCluskey was of short stature, in her mid-thirties, and of shapely, athletic build – ‘a neat little package’, as she’d written on a file for the personnel department when asked to describe herself. She was pretty, but in tough, tomboyish fashion, with a dusting of freckles on her turned-up nose, hazel eyes and lush, dark hair which she nearly always wore up. A broad Manchester accent, which she’d never moderated despite working in the south for several years, revealed solid blue-collar origins. Detective Constable Gary Quinnell was formerly of the South Wales Police. He was six-foot-three, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered. He’d have been handsome in a wholesome ‘family man’ sort of way, had a few too many Rugby Union forwards not kept breaking his nose for him. Despite being younger than Shawna, he was already thinning on top, so kept his reddish hair cropped very close. Had he realised that this combined with his cauliflower ears to give him a vaguely criminal aspect, he’d have been more upset than he could say.

Both had been into A&E once already, firstly to check that Heck was okay and then to congratulate him, which Shawna did by hugging him and Quinnell did by slapping his shoulder hard – the latter causing Heck to yelp in pain.

‘Press are gathering outside,’ Shawna said.

‘Shit,’ Heck groaned. ‘How did they find out?’

Quinnell chuckled. ‘How do you think? Half of Milton Keynes just got trashed.’

‘No supervision here yet?’

‘No one,’ Shawna said. ‘You sure you’re alright?’

Heck nodded.

‘Your Fiat’s a write-off,’ Quinnell observed.

‘Something good came from this then.’

‘And the word is they’ve found the gun,’ Shawna added.

Heck glanced up. ‘Yeah?’

‘In the back of the van.’

‘Thank Christ for that!’

Quinnell laughed again. ‘So even if they’re not the murderers, at least we could have done them for using you and Thames Valley for target practice, eh?’

Heck was about to respond when Shawna nodded past him. He turned. Detective Inspector Bob Hunter was approaching.

Hunter was in his mid-forties but hadn’t yet gone to seed. His short blond hair was running to grey and he’d thickened around the middle, but he was bull-necked, square-jawed, and his grey eyes brooked no nonsense. His jacket and tie were uncharacteristically dishevelled, though that wasn’t a surprise. He’d been off-duty this evening – it was his first evening off in months; apparently they’d traced him to a local health club, where he’d been in the process of having a swim and a sauna.

‘Sir,’ Heck said.

Hunter glanced at the other two. ‘Security are having problems with the press … why don’t you give ’em a hand?’ They nodded and left. ‘Sit down, Heck,’ Hunter said.

Heck pulled up the chair in the treatment bay and lowered himself into it. Hunter half-drew the curtain before getting straight to the point.

‘What made you think there were two of them?’ he asked.

‘It was just a thought,’ Heck replied. ‘It struck me as odd the perp was always able to perform sex twice so quickly in succession.’

‘Some blokes can.’

‘Like I say, sir, it was just a thought.’

‘And that led you to the Savage twins?’

‘Not straight away.’ Heck adjusted his position. It seemed that every part of his body had taken a beating during the crash. ‘Given we both agreed the investigation was stagnating … I took it on myself to go back through the case notes to see if we’d missed anything.’

He had to be careful how he worded this; he didn’t want to imply that Hunter had handled things incompetently. Hunter had not been the official boss of the enquiry, but once the Serial Crimes Unit had been brought in – and that had been at a relatively early stage – he’d taken over the whole show.

‘You’ll recall that Jordan Savage was one of several persons formerly of interest to us but later dismissed,’ Heck said.

Hunter shrugged. ‘Don’t even remember him.’

‘Well … it seems Savage was interviewed last October because he was stopped driving late at night on the outskirts of Leighton Buzzard, where, as you know, two of the early murders took place. The patrol that stopped him felt his description matched the suspect – blue eyes, red hair. Anyway, a stop-and-search was performed. When he was found to be in possession of burglary tools, he was arrested for going equipped, though as this was his first offence and there was nothing else to link him to the murders, he got cautioned and bailed.’

‘What motor was he in when he was stopped?’

‘A green Mondeo, not a white van. That was the problem.’

‘Okay … go on.’

‘I assessed that stop-and-search again, sir. That was when I observed that Jordan Savage was actually going equipped with a pair of pliers.’

Hunter looked puzzled. ‘Pliers?’

‘If you remember, the medical examiner told us the wire bonds on the victims had been drawn so tight that it might have been done with a tool. I got thinking … pliers.’

Hunter pondered this.

‘That’s why I looked at Savage more closely,’ Heck said. ‘When I found out that he had a twin brother, Jason, I started wondering … did the two of them trawl the streets together but maybe in separate vehicles? Suppose the one in the van actually secured the victim and performed the oral rape? The second one then arrived a short time later – in the green Mondeo – to perform the anal? That would have explained the Maniac’s apparent virility.’

‘And this is what led you to Jordan Savage’s door?’

‘It was a theory, sir. I had nothing that wasn’t circumstantial. So I was only planning to speak to him, tell him we had a couple of things to clear up about the stop-and-search, and see how he reacted to learning that he was still a suspect …’

‘And that was when you caught them going on the prowl?’

‘That was a stroke of luck.’

‘“Give me lucky generals,” said Napoleon,’ Hunter mused. Then smiled, which was alarming because it didn’t happen very often. ‘That was excellent work, Heck. On-the-hoof, but still bloody excellent.’

Heck acknowledged the compliment, but couldn’t help thinking that it should not have come to ‘on the hoof’. As only one of dozens of junior and mid-ranking detectives attached to the Maniac taskforce, Heck couldn’t possibly be blamed that this vital clue about Jordan Savage had slipped through the net at an early stage, but Bob Hunter could. As deputy SIO, it was his job to keep everything under review. That Hunter had made this error in the first place was worrying, but his apparent unawareness of it was more worrying still.

‘Two of the worst bits of scum the Home Counties ever saw have been taken off the streets,’ Hunter said in a satisfied tone.

‘We need to be sure it’s them,’ Heck cautioned.

‘Don’t worry, we’re sure. The van’s been towed off for forensic – but I’ve already had word that its interior matches the description of the vehicle in which Pettigrew was abducted. On top of that, they’ve found rolls of wire in there, spent bullet-casings, and the not insignificant matter of the gun.’

‘I thought they’d have tossed the gun at the first opportunity.’

‘Wanted to go down fighting, didn’t they?’

‘That chase was a bit Wild West, boss. Sorry about that. Didn’t plan it.’

‘Bollocks. You had more than enough justification. There’d likely be a ton of physical evidence in that van. What if they’d torched it?’

‘That’s what I was thinking.’

‘How you feeling anyway?’

‘Stiff, but that’s all.’

‘Well you’ve done a cracking job.’ Hunter stood up. ‘We’re all in your debt.’ He turned as Quinnell came ambling back across A&E.

‘Going like a chippie out there, sir,’ the big Welshman said.

‘No sign of Humphreys?’ Hunter asked.

‘Not yet.’

Hunter snorted, as if this was no more than he’d expect. ‘Hang fire, Heck,’ he said over his shoulder as he headed out. ‘But don’t dash off.’

‘I won’t, sir.’

When Hunter had gone, Quinnell grinned. ‘Did I hear that right? He reckons he’s in your debt? He can’t have said that to many people.’

‘It was a general term, not him in particular.’

‘He’s chuffed to buggery, I’ll bet.’

Heck sat forward. ‘It’s a result, but it would have been nice to know a bit more about them, eh – the Savage brothers? I mean why they did the things they did.’

Shawna reappeared. ‘Heck – the boss wants you out front.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s decided he’s making a statement to the press.’

Heck felt vaguely alarmed. ‘What about? We don’t know anything yet … not for sure.’

‘He’s got to say something. There’s a whole raft of journos.’

‘What about Chief Superintendent Humphreys?’

‘Won’t surprise you to know he’s still not available.’

‘What’s Bob saying?’

‘If you come out, like he’s asked you to, you’ll know?’ Shawna said.

Heck allowed her to hustle him to his feet and steer him out of A&E to the front of the hospital steps, where DI Hunter was standing in front of a bank of mikes, Dictaphones and video cameras. Flash-bulbs went off constantly. At least fifty journalists were present, with more streaming across the car park to join the throng.

Heck stood nervously to Hunter’s rear. Shawna and Quinnell stood even further back.

‘So you’re attached to the Maniac taskforce, sir?’ one of the journos shouted.

‘Correct … I’m with the Serial Crimes Unit at Scotland Yard,’ Hunter replied. ‘As you’re probably aware, we regularly get seconded to regional forces in the event of major crimes like this.’

It was rare the DI allowed himself any displays of emotion while on duty, but as a clear indication of the immense pressure that had been removed from his shoulders, he was beaming like the Cheshire Cat – though maybe it went a little further than that. Heck wondered if Hunter had perhaps finished his sauna and had been in the health club bar when the team had reached him.

‘Can you identify the two fatalities?’ another journalist asked.

‘Not at this stage, no.’

‘Is there anything you can tell us?’

‘You must understand, these events have only just occurred. We’re still assessing the situation, gathering evidence and so forth, but I will say this … we’re very happy.’

‘When you say “we”, DI Hunter … do you mean the Serial Crimes Unit or the Maniac taskforce?’

‘All of us. There has been a double fatality and that’s always a tragedy, but I must reiterate … we are very pleased with developments to date. Ah …’ He noticed Heck lurking at the rear, and ushered him forward. ‘Here’s one of the officers who attended the scene. This is Detective Sergeant Heckenburg, also from the Serial Crimes Unit. As you can see, he’s had a tough evening, but let me assure you this is one top-notch officer who has more than done his job today.’

‘Were you involved in the pursuit, Sergeant Heckenburg?’ a reporter shouted.

Heck hesitated before replying. He didn’t have the first idea how much Hunter had revealed about the car chase, though given the severity of it, it was likely the press had already discovered an awful lot.

‘I was in one of the cars pursuing the suspect vehicle,’ he admitted.

‘Can you tell us what happened?’

‘As I’ve told you,’ Hunter interrupted, ‘we can’t say any more about that at present.’

‘Were you in the vehicle that rode the two suspects off the motorway, DS Heckenburg?’ a different voice asked.

‘There were a number of police units involved,’ Heck replied.

‘When was it that you realised you were chasing the M1 Maniac?’

‘I’ve told you, we can’t say anything yet,’ Hunter answered for him.

‘Did you know from the beginning there were two murderers?’

‘Please gentlemen!’ Hunter said. ‘We’ve told you all we can.’

‘And that would be that you’re very happy two men have died in a car crash, sir?’

Hunter’s smile tightened, but he retained his cool. ‘I think you know what I mean …’

‘Sir,’ Heck whispered, ‘we’ve probably said enough.’

Hunter raised his voice one final time. ‘All you need tell the public at present is that there’s been a major development in the M1 Maniac enquiry – a major development – and that we are very, very encouraged by it.’

He and Heck turned and walked back into the hospital, ignoring all further questions. Once they were safe in A&E, Hunter dabbed sweat from his brow with a handkerchief but still looked satisfied. ‘That gave them something to chew on at least.’

Heck didn’t say what he was thinking: Yes, sir … your arse.

Chapter 4

Todd really liked Cheryl, and Cheryl really liked Todd. In fact, if they were honest, it went a lot further than that. The first time Todd had told Cheryl he loved her it had been just before Christmas, while they were walking Monty, her parents’ pet Labrador, over the snowy ridges of Rivington Moor. She’d simply replied: ‘I know.’

Which had thrown him a little.

Todd could only muster small-talk all the way back to the car park. But once Cheryl had installed Monty on the blanket in the back of her boyfriend’s periwinkle-blue Volkswagen Polo, and had climbed into the front passenger seat alongside him, she kissed him on the cheek. Not just any old kiss, not just a peck; it was long and moist and warm. He turned to face her, and their lips entwined and their tongues snaked together, and there’d been no going back really from that point on.

They hadn’t told anybody yet, especially not their respective parents, but they planned to marry in about two years’ time, depending on their ability to save up for a mortgage. Of course they were only nineteen and twenty, so they weren’t rushing anything.

Even so, they were electric together.

That was what Cheryl told her girlfriends: ‘We’re electric.’ If Todd so much as touched her hand, a warm jolt passed through her. And in one of their more intimate moments, he confessed the same about her.

They couldn’t wait to see each other that Valentine’s Eve.

As always, Todd arrived at Cheryl’s parents’ house bang on time, looking spick and span in his dark jeans, his bold striped sport shirt and well-pressed blazer. His gleaming, newly-washed Polo waited at the end of the drive – her chariot. That was one thing Cheryl’s parents really liked about Todd. He nearly always drove, so he rarely drank, which was a good thing in itself and in addition meant their lovely daughter was always assured of getting home safely.