The Killing Club. Paul Finch

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      The uniform in question was one of a group of three, all loaded down with trays of food. The other two were younger, somewhere in their mid-to-late twenties, but this one was older, paunchier and of a vaguely brutish aspect: sloped forehead, flat nose, a wide mouth filled with yellowing, misaligned teeth. When he took off his hi-viz waterproof and hung it over the back of his chair, he was barrel-shaped, with flabby, hairy arms protruding from his stab-vest; when he removed his hat, he revealed a balding cranium with a thin, greasy comb-over. He ignored Heck further, exchanging more quips with his mates as they too sat down to eat.

      Uniform refreshment breaks wouldn’t normally coincide with lunchtime, which on Division was reserved for the nine-till-five crowd, so this presumably meant the noisy trio had been seconded off-relief for some reason, most likely to assist with Operation Bulldog. Heck relapsed into thought, though at shoulder-to-shoulder proximity it was difficult for their gabbled conversation not to intrude on him, despite the strength of their accents. Heck was a northerner himself. He’d initially served in Manchester before transferring to the Metropolitan Police in London. Even though he’d now been based in the capital for the last decade and a half, there were many ways in which the north still felt more familiar than the south, though the north was hardly small – and Sunderland was a long way from Manchester.

      The PC who’d nudged his arm was still holding the floor. Heck could just about work out what he was saying. ‘Aye t’was. Weirdest lad I’ve ever seen, this one.’

      ‘Ernie Cooper, you say?’ a younger colleague with a straight blond fringe replied.

      ‘Aye. Bit of an oddball.’

      ‘You were H2H off Wear Street?’ asked the other colleague, who was Asian.

      ‘Aye.’

      ‘Bet you didn’t get much change there?’

      ‘Wouldn’t think you’d find Ernie Cooper there,’ the older PC added. ‘Two-up-two-down. Bit of a shithole outside. Aren’t they fucking all, but that’s by the by. He answers the door – suit, tie, cardy. Like he’s ready to go to church or something.’

      ‘I know what you’re gonna say,’ the blond said. ‘It’s inside his house, isn’t it?’

      ‘Aye.’

      ‘Was in there last year. Reporting damage to his windows. Bairns chucking stones.’

      ‘Thought he was off to work, or something,’ the older PC explained, ‘so I says “Caught you at a bad time?” He says, “no, come in.” What a fucking place.’

      ‘Shrine to World War Two, isn’t it?’ the blond agreed.

      Heck’s ears pricked up.

      ‘Everywhere,’ the older PC said. ‘Never seen as much wartime stuff. And it’s neat as a new pin, you know. It’s orderly. Like it matters to him.’

      The blond mused. ‘Bit of an obsessive, I think. His dad, Bert, was a commando or something. Got decorated for bravery.’

      It was a simple association of ideas, but Heck had been brooding on his own comments from earlier and the thought processes behind them – ‘they may dress like commandos, but whatever else they are, they aren’t that.’

      ‘And then there’s that bloody big knife on his living-room wall,’ the older PC added. ‘Enough to scare the crap out of you.’

      Heck turned on his chair. ‘Say that again?’

      At first the three PCs didn’t realise he was talking to them. When they did, they gazed at him blankly.

      ‘Sorry … DS Heckenburg. I’m on Bulldog too.’

      ‘Aye?’ the older PC said, none the wiser.

      ‘I’ve been attached from the Serial Crimes Unit in London.’

      ‘Oh aye?’ This was Blondie. He sounded less than impressed.

      ‘It’s what you were saying about this bloke … Something Cooper?’

      ‘Ernie Cooper.’

      ‘His father was a veteran, yeah?’ Heck asked.

      ‘Was, aye,’ Blondie said. ‘Been dead five years.’

      ‘How old is the younger Cooper?’

      The older PC, who wasn’t bothering to conceal how irked he felt that his meal had been interrupted, shrugged. ‘Late fifties … more.’

      ‘You know him?’

      ‘Not well.’

      ‘Has he got form?’

      The older PC frowned. ‘Bit. From way back.’

      ‘Violence?’

      ‘Nothing serious.’

      ‘But now you say he’s got a big knife?’

      ‘Aye, but it’s not what you think. It’s a wartime memento … something his dad brought home. A kukri knife, you know. Antique now.’

      Heck’s thoughts raced. The kukri knife – or khukuri, to be accurate – was that sharp, heavy, expertly curved weapon still used by Gurkha battalions in the British Army. It was infamously well designed to deliver a fatal stab wound, but was also known as a powerful chopping tool. And what was it one of the medical officers who’d examined the three murder victims had recently said? Something like: ‘The lacerations are deep – they’ve gone clean through the muscles of the oesophagus in a single incision. We’re talking a finely honed, but very heavy blade …’

      ‘Was Ernie Cooper a military man himself?’ Heck asked.

      The older guy shrugged. ‘Not that I know of.’

      ‘Factory worker,’ the Asian PC said. ‘Retired early.’

      ‘Is he fit?’ Heck wondered. They exchanged glances, now more bewildered than irritated by the protracted nature of the interrogation. ‘What I mean is … can he run? Seriously fellas, this could be important.’

      Blondie shrugged. ‘Seen him jogging. Used to be part of the Osprey Running Club, I think … ultra-distance. Probably knocking on a bit for that now.’

      ‘Nah, I still see him running,’ the Asian PC said. ‘On his own, like. Don’t see him running with anyone else. Never have, to be honest.’

      ‘And you say his dad was a commando?’

      ‘Aye …’ Blondie confirmed. ‘Bert Cooper. Well-known character up the East End. War hero like.’

      ‘Commando?’ Heck said. ‘Don’t suppose you can be any more specific?’

      ‘He wasn’t a commando,’ the Asian replied. ‘I read his obit in the paper. He was a para. He was in the desert and at Pegasus Bridge.’

      ‘Aye, Pegasus Bridge,’ СКАЧАТЬ