Kiss of Death

To her abject horror, Nan still couldn’t react.

‘I’ll be honest,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t think of anything more exciting. Getting a blowjob off Toothless Mary. I’d have asked you nicely, like … if you’d let me catch up with you. But you kept running and squawking … you know, like some typical fucking idiot lass who doesn’t know what side her bread’s buttered on. But it’s all right … I know you’re not like that really. I know you’ll co-operate …’

She sensed rather than saw him rise to full height next to her, and then felt the weight of him across her chest as he straddled her and knelt there. With a slow, metallic slither, his zipper was drawn down.

‘Won’t you?’ he chuckled.

Nan screeched as she leapt from the bed, arcing though the air, landing knees-first, then slamming the thickly plastered palms of her hands on the carpet.

She didn’t know which was the more painful, the smarting of recent flesh wounds, or the agonising thumping of her heart. She looked up, eyes goggling, mouth drooling, sweat dabbling her brow. What seemed like an age passed before her tear-glazed eyes were able to focus on the neon numerals of the clock on the dresser. It read: 5:28 a.m.

It was still early. In winter, it would feel like the middle of the night. But this was summer, and dawn light penetrated the curtains, revealing the bedroom’s meagre furnishings: Nan’s mirror, her wardrobe, the chair with her anorak draped over the back, two library books on an otherwise empty shelf.

But nothing else.

No hooded figure skulking in a corner or crouching to keep low.

A dream, then. Nothing but a dream. But good Lord … a dream from Hell, if ever there was such a thing!

She rose shakily to her feet, hands still smarting. A tugging at her side revealed that part of her nightie had adhered to her left hip, probably where it had caught on the Elastoplast she’d applied to the gouge wound from the old pram.

Nan had taken a long shower before coming to bed. She’d paid particular attention to that gash on her hip, because of the dirt and germs. But now she felt as if she needed another one. She brushed rat-tails of hair from her eyes as she turned to look at her bed. It was a foul nest, the sheets stained and messy. The last thing she wanted to do was climb back in there. Not, in truth, that sleep was a viable option. Not now.

It might only be half-past five, but she switched the bedroom light on and inserted her feet into her slippers. She really had to do something about her ‘coming home from work’ arrangements, she thought, as she opened the bedroom door. She couldn’t afford a taxi home every day, though even if she could, she’d still have to go out to the front of the shop to get it, which would defeat the object. Alternatively, perhaps she could arrange to work ordinary day shifts from now on. Though that wouldn’t be easy, because all the other ladies employed at the Spar were the same: they didn’t like walking home late either.

Nan crossed the hall to the kitchen, to make herself a cup of tea, when she spotted something lying at the foot of the front door. Something had been pushed through the letter box.

Her breath shortened again, her chest began to tighten. She took a couple of steps forward.

The dull light from her bedroom showed a relatively small object, two or three inches long, narrow, bright green. From this distance, it resembled a cigarette lighter.

‘Good … good God!’ she stammered.

Had someone put petrol through, and then had they tried to light it? It was beyond belief, but you heard about horrific things like that happening.

She blundered forward, heart trip-hammering. But as she approached, she realised that it wasn’t a cigarette lighter. Nothing so sinister, in fact. She ventured all the way up to it, and there was no mistake.

A pen drive lay on her welcome mat.

Nan wasn’t the kind of person one might automatically expect to be electronically proficient. ‘Dim’ was one term she’d heard people using for her. She’d been regarded as a ‘dunce’ at school. But in fact, in adult life, Nan had become familiar with computers, the internet and such because she’d needed to while she was working at the Spar. She’d even bought herself a second-hand laptop in order to practise at home. And though she wasn’t an expert yet, she certainly knew what she was doing.

She’d been so momentarily petrified by the thought of petrol that now she mainly felt relief, but she was mystified too. Why would someone stick something like this through your letter box in the middle of the night? If it was someone well-intentioned, wouldn’t they have attached a note? Perhaps not if it was a friend playing some elaborate but harmless joke – but Nan wasn’t friendly enough with anyone for that to be a possibility.

As she took her laptop from the shelf in the living room, it occurred to her that the pen drive might contain a virus. But she had nothing on her computer that she would miss if it was lost. She sat on the couch, set the laptop on her knees, opened it and switched it on. When it came to life, she inserted the pen drive, which immediately appeared as a smiley face icon on her desktop. When she touched it with her cursor, it opened, and she saw that it contained a single file: an MPEG, which someone had entitled: Greetings – from the Devil’s Messenger.

Even more mystified, she clicked on it.

A window opened, and a black-and-white video commenced playing. Nan watched it for twenty seconds or so, slack-jawed.

Before she began to scream.

Chapter 9 (#ulink_0959a0c2-dd05-5347-b14d-e297d2cc4a45)

Setting off at around six from his Fulham flat, Heck made it to Staples Corner before seven, hoping to get some breakfast in the canteen, only to find even at this ungodly hour that it was busier than usual.

Lots of people appeared to have set off early to avoid being late for the briefing. Not just from SCU, but from the Cold Case team as well, while Gemma and her joint SIO, Gwen Straker, had secured the attachment of extra personnel, both police and admin, to do the legwork and provide office back-up. This meant that the queue to the service counter stretched halfway around the room.

Disgruntled, Heck went to the vending machine instead, to get himself a coffee-to-go. While he waited for his Styrofoam cup to fill, he glanced left – and saw Gemma in the far corner, facing Jack Reed across a tabletop, conversing with him in intent but friendly fashion. The body language alone was fascinating. The twosome cradled a cuppa each and leaned towards one another – not exactly the way lovers do, though it would be easy to picture Reed reaching out an affectionate hand and brushing aside a stray lock of Gemma’s flaxen hair.

Heck was more than surprised. Behaviour like this, not just in full view of her own team but of the Cold Case officers too, who’d be arriving here under the impression that their new joint boss was a hard-ass of legendary proportions, underlined the sea change in Gemma since Reed had come on board. She would never normally have been this lax in her manner. Quite clearly, other things were now on her mind.

Other things that were making her smile.

‘You’ll not win her favour by glaring at her in public,’ a voice behind him said.

Heck spun around and found Detective Chief Superintendent Gwen Straker waiting her turn at the vending machine.

‘Oh, ma’am …’ he stuttered. ‘Sorry … I’m done here.’

He stepped aside, and she moved forward.

‘I wasn’t glaring,’ he said. ‘I’m, erm … I’m actually waiting for the new DC I’m working with. Wanted a quick chat before the briefing.’

‘Why don’t you go and find us a table, Mark,’ she said.

‘Thing is, ma’am … I was going back to the office. Wanted to get some stuff sorted.’

‘Couple of minutes won’t hurt. Go and find us a table.’

This was easier said than done, so the first time a couple of seats facing each other became free, Heck pounced on them. When Gwen arrived, she sat down in neat, non-fussy fashion. Not atypically, she’d got herself a herbal tea rather than the milky, sugary coffee that Heck preferred.

One of the first black female detectives in the Met to actually make rank, Gwen was now in her mid-fifties. She wasn’t especially tall, around five-seven, and the little weight she’d put on over the years gave her a buxom-to-heavy build. But otherwise, age had been kind to her; she still possessed thick, shoulder-length hair, and, unmarked by wrinkles, boasted soft, pretty features. Back during her days as Heck and Gemma’s divisional DI at Bethnal Green, Gwen had favoured street casuals: denims, sweatshirts, leather jackets and the like, earning her the soubriquet ‘Foxy Brown’, after the gorgeous, hard-hitting heroine of the 1970s blaxploitation movie. But today, in reflection of her new, high-powered status, she wore a charcoal-black skirt suit, which fitted her snugly, though such a severe look didn’t quite match her personality, which was famously warm, at times almost maternal.

Gwen sipped her brew, before grimacing.

‘Ma’am, like I said, I have some stuff—’

‘So, you’ve been getting reacquainted with Gail Honeyford?’

Heck was surprised. ‘You know her?’

Gwen sipped her tea again, slowly but surely finding it tolerable. ‘You worked with her once, I believe?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And it went well?’

‘We got a result.’