The Killing Club. Paul Finch

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      He walked to his right, the camera panning with him, catching open grassland, ripples of wind blowing across it towards a flat but hazy horizon.

      ‘So this is the ideal spot to launch an ambush … if indeed an ambush it was. From what we can gather, the security detail taking Rochester to hospital was subjected to a highly disciplined assault. I haven’t had this confirmed by any senior members of the police yet, but those are the words I’m hearing: “a highly disciplined assault”.’

      Kent shook his head; doubtless he was a seasoned reporter, a man who’d witnessed the aftermath of many atrocities, but he looked genuinely shaken by what he’d witnessed on the lonely road from Brancaster to King’s Lynn.

      ‘Can you confirm whether or not Peter Rochester is on the casualty list, Rob?’

      ‘The official line is that we have no word about Rochester’s location or condition at this time. Of course, he was being transferred to hospital because he was thought to have suffered a heart attack yesterday afternoon, so what state he’s likely to be in now is anyone’s guess …’

      Heck stood up, his chair scraping back so loudly that other customers jumped. ‘Tamara, love!’ he shouted. ‘You’re going to have to cancel those Benedicts.’

      She turned from the range, dismayed. ‘They’re almost done!’

      ‘Sorry darling … I’ve got to go. I’m sure someone else’ll appreciate them.’ He hurled the requisite money onto the counter and dashed from the café.

      ‘Heck … you’re flaming murder!’

      Various SCU detectives were present in the DO when Heck barged in, still in his day-off gear of jeans, sweatshirt and trainers. The first one to see him came hurriedly across the office. It was DC Shawna McCluskey. Originally, like Heck, a member of Greater Manchester Police, she was short, athletic and dark-haired, but a toughie too, whose pretty freckled face belied her blunt, blue-collar attitude.

      ‘I bloody wouldn’t, Heck!’ she advised. ‘I genuinely wouldn’t.’

      ‘Seriously, pal,’ DS Eric Fisher added, lumbering up. He was SCU’s main intelligence man, and possibly the oldest officer still on the team. He was heavily built and pot-bellied, wore horn-rimmed glasses, and boasted a massive red/grey beard that the average Viking would have been proud of. ‘This has hit Gemma too … like a bombshell.’

      ‘Yeah, she’s been up half the night and she’s at her wits’ end,’ Shawna said.

      ‘So she’s in?’ Heck replied.

      ‘For the next few minutes, yeah. Then she’s off to Norfolk.’

      ‘She taking point on this?’

      ‘Deputy SIO,’ Fisher said. ‘They’re putting a taskforce together as we speak.’

      Heck gave a wry smile. ‘Let me guess … Frank Tasker’s running it?’

      ‘He’s in there with her now.’

      ‘SOCAR …’ Heck shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t pay them in washers. I presume “we have no word about Rochester’s location or condition” is a euphemism for the bastard’s been sprung, flipping us the finger as he went?’

      Fisher shrugged. ‘They haven’t got a clue where he is.’

      ‘And I suppose SOCAR were in charge of the transfer?’

      ‘Yeah, but that means they’ve taken the most losses,’ Shawna said. ‘Look Heck, Tasker seems an okay bloke … but he’s going to be feeling it today.’

      ‘I knew we weren’t done with these murdering, raping bastards …’

      ‘We are done with them,’ Shawna insisted. ‘You’ve heard what Gemma said. You’re not involved.’ But he was already backing to the door. ‘Heck, don’t do this.’

      He left the room.

      ‘Oh shit,’ Shawna said.

      ‘You got that right,’ Fisher agreed.

      Heck walked up the central corridor to Gemma’s cramped little office. The door stood ajar and he could hear voices inside. They weren’t heated or raised, but there was tension there – he could tell that much already. He knocked.

      ‘This had better be really important!’ came Gemma’s whipcrack response.

      ‘I’d say it was important, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘Can I come in?’

      There was a brief, telling silence.

      ‘Yeah … come in, Heck.’

      He entered, finding Ben Kane in there as well as Frank Tasker.

      For her part, Gemma was slumped behind her desk, while Tasker was seated on the edge of it – which posture irked Heck no end. Okay, the guy was likely to be under pressure and probably in mourning for the personnel he’d lost, but from what Heck knew of Tasker’s reputation, he was one of those ultra high-ranking cops who always made themselves at home whoever’s office they were in. His jacket was draped over the only other chair – while Kane stood.

      The next thing Heck noticed was that both Gemma and Tasker had drawn pistols from the armoury: Tasker wore his in a shoulder-holster; Gemma’s lay on the desk in front of her, alongside a glossy photograph. Guns were never ever a good thing.

      It was still relatively early in the day – Heck had made it from Fulham to New Scotland Yard in near record time – but Gemma was already less than her usual pristine self. A strikingly handsome woman anyway, she didn’t need much makeup, but she believed in appearances, in making a lasting impression; and yet today she looked tired and worn. Tasker, who if Heck recalled rightly, was also known for being a snazzy dresser, was suited, but in a similarly rumpled state. Even his artificially bronzed looks had paled to an ashen hue. Only Kane seemed relaxed, maintaining his usual air of scholarly attentiveness.

      ‘Heck,’ Gemma said. ‘You know Commander Tasker? Serious Offender Control and Retrieval. He heads up their Special Investigations unit …’

      ‘I know him, yeah,’ Heck replied.

      ‘Sergeant Heckenburg,’ Tasker said with a curt nod.

      ‘Sir.’ Heck turned back to Gemma. ‘What a bloody disaster.’

      She sighed. ‘By any standards. Before you ask, we’re working on the basis it’s down to a Nice Guys team who’ve come in from abroad. Somehow or other, they managed to bring an entire arsenal of high-tech weapons with them …’

      ‘Unless the weapons were already here,’ Heck said. ‘I know two or three underworld quartermasters we can lean on straight away …’

      ‘For the record!’ she interrupted. ‘We’ve lost sixteen officers, two prison personnel and two ambulance crew. There are no wounded … no survivors.’

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