Ashes to Ashes: An unputdownable thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller

‘I’ll take care of it,’ Heck said. ‘I’m at the Old Bailey for a couple of days from tomorrow, but I can sort it after that. Don’t fret.’

‘Shawna?’ Gemma asked again. ‘Are you sure this is what you want?’

Shawna took a deep, painful breath, and nodded.

‘OK … well, it’s your call. When you due to get out of here?’

‘I’ve not asked, ma’am.’ Shawna’s eyelids fluttered, as if fatigue was overtaking her – as well it might, given the cocktail of drugs she was on. ‘And I’m not bothered. Thanks for coming to see me, though. Sorry I’ve nothing better to tell you.’

They left, walking without speaking back to the hospital exit.

‘You know she doesn’t really want to leave?’ Heck said when they arrived in the car park. ‘She’s probably just in shock.’

‘Sometimes when you’re in shock you get greater clarity of vision,’ Gemma replied.

‘I thought Sagan had killed her for sure. If he hadn’t been panicking himself, he would have. He’d have put that bullet straight between her eyes.’

‘Most normal folk would have thought they’d done enough damage cracking her skull open.’

‘I think we can safely say there’s nothing normal about John Sagan, ma’am.’

Gemma eyed him sidelong as they strode, appraising his pale, tense features, his taut body-language.

‘We’re going to handle this investigation professionally, aren’t we?’ she asked.

‘As always.’

‘We’re not going to go looking for payback?’

‘Do I ever, ma’am?’

‘It’s just that you seem, I dunno … edgy?’

‘What can I say, ma’am. It’s been a disappointing morning. For all sorts of reasons.’

‘We’re not thinking of going solo on this, are we?’

She halted and probed him with those penetrating blue eyes of hers. Heck smiled in response, which, from her expression, didn’t look as if it reassured her much. Heck and Gemma had clashed several times in the recent past over his preference for working on his own, though he’d often argued that this stemmed from his either mistrusting those around him or finding them inadequate – he’d argued this point unsuccessfully, it had to be said.

‘No chance.’ He shrugged, walking on, as if it was ridiculous that she’d have any doubts. ‘Shawna’ll pull through. Plus, this time we’re frying a much bigger fish. It isn’t personal.’

‘And I’ve told you not to. That would be even more of a reason, wouldn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘Lots of motivation to keep this one by the book.’

Gemma still looked unconvinced. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d soft-soaped her to try and buy himself extra leg-room. She knew perfectly well that Heck and Shawna were more than just work colleagues. They’d never been lovers, but they’d known each other virtually since the commencement of their two careers, and that was a huge thing in cop terms; on top of that, as fellow natives of the Northwest exiled in London, they’d drawn additional strength and comfort from each other’s presence in that curious, indefinable way that only those of close heritage did when thrown together as strangers in a strange land.

‘That’s as long as the Organised Crime Division don’t muscle their way in,’ he felt it necessary to add, though immediately he could have kicked himself for saying this. Whatever your inner turmoil, you didn’t give Gemma Piper conditions. It could literally be a red rag to a bull. But on this occasion – despite working her lips together tightly, as if she was strongly tempted to say something sharp in response – her reply was cool and measured.

‘They won’t. They’re making a lot of noise at present, but they’re also a bit shamefaced about blundering in on our operation. They know they’re walking on thin ice.’

‘Who’s doing the shouting?’

‘DSU Garrickson.’

‘Garrickson, eh. For a minute then I thought it’d be some clueless, inept tosser.’

She glanced sidelong at him, and he raised his hands.

‘I know, ma’am, I know. It’s completely wrong and unforgivable to discuss a senior officer in such irreverent terms. But wasn’t Mike Garrickson the one you spoke to when you first logged with OC that we were looking into syndicate activity in Peckham?’ Gemma’s lack of response implied that it was. ‘And it somehow slipped his mind to inform the rest of his team?’

‘I expect he assumed that if they had any leads on new cases they’d have come to him before acting on them,’ she said. ‘And with some justification. Reg Cowling was out of order, Heck. He’s the one who blew that obbo. No one else.’ They stopped beside Gemma’s Merc. ‘Mind you –’ she remained cool, but frustration lay visible underneath ‘– it would have helped if all I’d had to do was walk upstairs and tell them. Like I used to be able to.’

There was a time when all departments of the National Crime Group had been based in the same building at Scotland Yard, and very convenient it had been. As Gemma said, it was certainly easier back then to exchange intel. But cost-saving changes were under way all across the British police service. Though both squads still came under the umbrella of the National Crime Group, Organised Crime had been moved to new, state-of-the-art offices at London Bridge, while the Serial Crimes Unit had relocated to a somewhat less remarkable building at Staples Corner in Brent Cross. SCU had only been in place there a couple of months, and it still felt a long way from anywhere, though, situated at the heart of the North London transport infrastructure, it was actually well placed to house a national investigation team.

‘Anyway,’ she said, pointedly changing the subject – Heck was a devil for teasing out her true feelings regarding her fellow top brass – ‘remind me why you’re in court again?’

‘Regina versus Wheeler.’

‘Oh, yeah … that charmer.’

The previous spring SCU had arrested the so-called ‘Wimbledon Rapist’, a masked predator responsible for raping two young women and one schoolgirl at knifepoint after accosting them while they were crossing the Common early in the morning. The team had first homed in on local man Charlie Wheeler when his taxi was spotted on CCTV several times in the right area and at roughly the right time, but they only became actively suspicious when Heck noted that Wheeler never seemed to be transporting any passengers.

‘He’s banged to rights,’ Heck said. ‘Two days and he’s topped and tailed.’

‘Well, let’s make sure. You can put all this aside until it’s done.’

He nodded.

‘Mark,’ Gemma said, ‘I don’t want to fall out with you on this one.’ She regarded him carefully, still spoke in that measured tone. ‘Whatever happens, whatever Shawna decides, she’s a grown woman, and if she leaves the job it’s because she wants to.’

‘Yeah, but … we owe it to her to get this right.’

‘We do indeed. So we’re onside, yes?’

‘Ma’am, this was my case from the beginning. I want John Sagan, and not just for Shawna.’ He shrugged awkwardly. ‘Look, he could’ve tortured a hundred people for all we know. He could’ve murdered that many too. OK, they might be worthless vermin just like him, but that doesn’t give him a free pass. In fact, we don’t even know for sure that they’re all worthless. He may not draw the line anywhere. What’s to stop him targeting regular citizens if the price is right? Trust me, I’m giving no one any reason to kick me off this case.’

She nodded and climbed into her Merc.

And yet here he was, he thought, watching her reverse out and drive away – already withholding from her the whereabouts of the grass who’d deliberately set the disaster up in the first place. Whether protecting Penny Flint in this way was likely to pay any kind of dividend he simply didn’t know. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to wait too long to find out.

Chapter 6 (#ulink_6271b2bd-4b1e-5b68-8bbb-41e350432722)

Following one behind the other, Heck and Gemma crossed the Thames at Tower Bridge and cut northwest through the City, Shoreditch, Islington, Camden Town and Finchley, before heading west on the North Circular. It all sounded quick and straightforward on paper, but in midday traffic it still took close to two hours, and the new HQ at Staples Corner was a very unrewarding sight for those who’d had to fight through rivers of exhaust fumes and contraflows to get there.

It had previously been some kind of transport office, and it looked the part: a functional, flat-topped structure resembling three stacks of overlarge shoeboxes jammed unceremoniously together, its roofs covered with dishes and TV antennae. It wasn’t exactly prefabricated, but it had the distinct air of something that had never been intended to last. Its once weedy car park had been tarmacked over, and, as a beefed-up security measure, the rusty metal fence that had formerly encircled it had been replaced by a tall perimeter of slatted, spike-headed steel. But its best defence was still its anonymity. It could have been any one of the thousands of nondescript semi-official buildings dotted across the various boroughs of Greater London, blending perfectly into its drab but noisy location.

Heck and Gemma parked next to each other, and headed in through the personnel door, which was at the back. The ground floor housed the SCU garages, equipment and evidence store, and armoury. Admin and civvie staff were located on the first floor, while the detectives’ office, or DO as it was known in the unit, was on the second. The Command Centre and Press and PR Suite were on the third. There was also a conference room up there, but that had now been co-opted by Wandering Wolf as an Incident Room.