Best of British Crime 3 E-Book Bundle. Paul Finch

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СКАЧАТЬ like this Gemma bird was a very fine swan indeed.’

      ‘Well you’re no ugly duckling, you don’t need to worry.’

      Lauren glanced up at him, but he was now concentrating on pouring them each a glass of wine, so she let the remark pass. Once they’d eaten, they returned to the living room and sat with Dana to watch evening television. More small talk followed; polite, almost convivial, though between Heck and his sister it was all rather stiff, if perhaps a little loaded. When a news item concerning a male skeleton found in an inner city flat in the Midlands mentioned that the occupant had been a misanthrope who had lived alone by choice, as a result of which nobody had noticed he was missing for over three years, Dana commented: ‘What a strange thing to do. Cut yourself off from all your loved ones to the point where you barely exist to them anymore.’

      Heck didn’t look round, but replied: ‘Maybe he didn’t have any loved ones.’

      ‘Maybe he did but just didn’t realise it.’

      ‘I think the fact that he’d rather be a pile of bones than be part of their social network meant he realised it all too well.’

      After several such brief, acidic exchanges, Lauren was thankful when the evening finally ended, and she and Heck went upstairs together, leaving Dana to lock the doors and turn out the lights. When they reached the top of the stairs, both their bedroom doors stood open, awaiting them. Lauren pondered Heck’s ‘ugly duckling’ comment. She knew he’d liked what he’d seen when she put everything on show for him in the pub, but with the high stress of the last day his priorities had no doubt changed. Though that afternoon’s fight paled compared to the shoot-outs she’d experienced in Afghanistan, you never got used to a confrontation as intense as that. Whoever those bastards in the pub had been, they’d been determined to beat the crap out of them, to hammer them into the dirty, beer-drenched floor. God knows where it could have ended. Heck was still pale, still bruised, but he’d cleaned up nicely – more nicely than she had. Of course, men could carry cuts and bruises as a mark of their masculinity. And Heck, now that she was this close to him, seemed more masculine to her than at any time so far. But if he was having similar thoughts about her, he kept them hidden.

      ‘I still don’t know what I’m going to do with you,’ he said. ‘Are you going to keep this stolen van thing hanging over me all through the enquiry?’

      ‘Only if I have to.’

      ‘It’s not that big a deal, you know. I could shake you off like a flea if I really wanted.’

      ‘So why don’t you?’

      He shrugged tiredly. ‘Perhaps the thought of going to Gallows Hill alone isn’t too attractive.’

      ‘I don’t understand why you don’t just call your office.’

      ‘It’s called deep cover. You can’t break it just because you get scared.’

      ‘You don’t have a handler … a manager?’

      Heck thought on this. Time was ticking by and for the last hour he’d again felt guilty about not updating Gemma, though at present it was still the case that what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Resignedly, he shook his head.

      ‘The main thing is you’re still going after O’Hoorigan?’ Lauren said.

      ‘He’s my best bet.’

      ‘You said he knows something … you mean about Genene?’

      Heck didn’t see it could do any harm to give her a little bit of information. He owed her that much, at least. ‘O’Hoorigan knows someone called Shane Klim. They were in jail together, but Klim escaped and went to ground. He’s now one of my suspects.’

      ‘In Genene’s disappearance?’

      ‘Possibly.’

      ‘So will O’Hoorigan tell us where this guy Klim’s hanging out?’

      ‘He may.’

      ‘Shit!’ she said. ‘I can see why you want to speak to him.’

      ‘On the other hand, O’Hoorigan may know nothing.’

      ‘So it’s tenuous?’

      ‘Tenuous is the name of this game, Lauren. As each lead crops up, you have to follow it as far as you can. If I had a hundred detectives, I could be doing a hundred other things at the same time. But I haven’t.’

      ‘Do you at least feel we’re getting somewhere?’

      Heck shrugged. ‘O’Hoorigan ran away from us – which likely means he’s got something to hide, so it’s promising. But I’d like to know more about this guy, Deke. Did you notice he never took his gloves off once in that pub?’

      ‘Probably because he didn’t want to bust his knuckles.’

      ‘Or because he didn’t want to leave any prints. It’s August. Why would he be wearing gloves?’

      Lauren pondered. ‘Perhaps he’d been working on a site somewhere?’

      ‘What, and he was still wearing them in the pub? Did he even look like he belonged in that place?’

      ‘Okay, I admit it. Deke’s a mystery man. But he’s not the guy we’re after.’

      ‘True,’ Heck agreed.

      ‘Which means we’ve no choice but to go to Gallows Hill?’

      He nodded, but looked discomforted by the prospect. ‘I hear it’s unoccupied these days, which is probably a good thing.’

      ‘Where is it?’

      ‘Just off the M602 motorway. It was built as a series of apartment blocks, but it always looked more like a prison to me. Except …’

      ‘Except what?’

      ‘Except that no prison was ever so bloody grim.’

       Chapter 17

      City of London bars were rarely busy on weekday evenings. The old days, when the City had purely been a place of work, and when tomb-like silence had filled the glass and concrete canyons after nightfall, were long gone. These days there were almost as many wine bars and restaurants as there were financial institutions. But Monday nights were not really the time for socialising, especially late on.

      As such, by half past eleven, Ian Blenkinsop found himself almost alone at the bar in Mad Jack’s. Anyone who knew him would say that he cut a dishevelled, rather mournful figure. He was still in his daytime suit, but over the last few hours it had become crumpled. His tie was loose, his collar undone. His briefcase lay at his feet, while his coat was draped messily over the bar alongside him. He was pale-faced and sweaty, as he ordered yet another large gin and tonic, maybe his eighth of the evening.

      ‘It’s just no good is it,’ he mumbled.

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