when she reappeared. ‘Finished, did you say?’
‘Yes. It’s been closed down. And if Mr Ballamara doesn’t like that – as I told him before, he can take it up with Commander Laycock at Scotland Yard.’
‘You mean no one’s looking into it at all?’
‘Someone will be somewhere.’ He sipped his fresh pint, leaving froth on his top lip. ‘But only if they haven’t got something much, much more important to do. Like watch some paint dry.’
He tried to move away, but she grabbed his arm tightly. He turned to face her – and was surprised to see that she was livid with rage. Tears were welling in her eyes.
‘I heard good things about you,’ she said. ‘I thought you were going to help me, but now I can see you’re just another FUCKING DICKHEAD!’ She banged money on the bar-top. ‘That’s for the drink I owe you. Stick it up your arse!’
And she stormed out of the pub, stopping only to grab up her handbag and sling it over her shoulder.
‘You coppers really know how to make friends and influence people,’ the barmaid, who happened to be Phil Mackintosh’s eldest daughter, commented.
Heck was equally bemused. ‘I’m guessing I’ve just cost her a decent commission.’
He went back to his seat, shaking his head. The lowlifes he had to deal with. Mind you, hookers didn’t generally scream and cry when johns turned them down. Now that he looked back on it, the entire meeting had been a little surreal – but what the hell, this was London. Nothing should be a surprise here. He put it from his mind and the evening rolled on tediously. He managed a couple more rounds and a few more brief exchanges of mundane chat with other punters before the bell rang for last orders.
Before leaving, he went for a pee, and then stood looking at himself in the greasy toilet mirror. Considering he was now in his late thirties, he’d kept reasonably well. Some might say he was handsome but he was also rumpled; his black hair didn’t have any grey in it yet but seemed to be permanently mussed, and he did look tired. He was unshaved and his normally piercing blue eyes were bloodshot, though that might be due to drink rather than fatigue. The rest of him was in okay shape. He certainly wasn’t overweight, though that was because during the investigation he hadn’t been eating properly or even regularly enough. But he was still reasonably solid and well-built; years of sports activities in his younger police days had served a purpose after all.
He yawned, scratched his grizzled cheek, then ambled back out and shouted his goodbyes to the bar staff. The muggy atmosphere outside did little to help with his semi-inebriated state, and he tottered across the pub car park to his Fiat. Even leaning against it, he had trouble inserting his key into the lock.
‘You’re not seriously thinking of driving in that state?’ someone asked.
Heck turned around. At first he didn’t recognise Gemma Piper. Her white Coupe was parked about twenty yards away. She’d got out and approached without him noticing. She was wearing jeans, trainers and a lilac running top.
‘I, er … no, my jacket’s in the back,’ he said.
‘Really?’
He opened the door and, with a flourish, pulled a lightweight leather jacket from the rear seat, where it had been dumped earlier. She eyed him sceptically, unconvinced.
‘What’s the matter anyway?’ he asked. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Yeah? Well tough. I’m off duty.’
He turned, stumbled across the car park and onto the pavement, though he hadn’t walked more than thirty yards before he realised that he’d be lucky to make it home. He’d drunk far more that evening than he had in quite some time. The white Coupe pulled up alongside him, and Gemma powered down her window.
‘Stop acting like a kid, Heck, and get in. At the very least, I can give you a ride home.’
Heck fumbled his way around the vehicle, and all but collapsed into the front passenger seat. Gemma leaned across him to check that his seatbelt was secure. As she did, he tried to nuzzle her neck. She pulled back sharply, glaring at him.
‘Don’t even go there. That’s not what this is about, and you know it.’
He shrugged as she put the car in gear and drove them away from the kerb.
‘What is it about?’ he asked sulkily.
‘I wanted to talk some business, but by the looks of it you’re in no fit state.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.’
‘Will you, indeed.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s difficult enough getting you to exercise good judgment when you’re stone-cold sober. It’d be a laugh a minute watching you try to do it tonight.’
Cherrybrook Drive was a cul-de-sac, with Heck’s place situated at its far end, where a ten-foot-high wall of soot-black bricks separated the residential neighbourhood from a stretch of tube running overland. The houses, which faced each other in two sombre rows, were tall and narrow, and fronted straight onto the pavement. Heck occupied an upstairs flat in the last one, accessible via a steep, dingy stairway. When he’d swayed up to the top, he flicked a light on, revealing a threadbare carpet and walls stripped to the plaster.
‘Nothing like living in style,’ Gemma observed.
‘I forgot … you haven’t been to this pad, have you?’ he replied. ‘Well … doesn’t matter, does it? I’m hardly ever here.’
The apartment itself was warm and not quite as gloomy as its entrance suggested. The kitchen was small but modern, and very clean – every worktop sparkled (though this might have been because food was rarely prepared here, as a bin crammed with kebab wrappers and pizza boxes seemed to suggest). There was a basic but surprisingly spacious lounge-diner, which would have been fairly pleasant had it not been for its window gazing down on the trash-filled cutting where the trains passed, a bathroom and a bedroom. The final room, separated from the hall by a sliding screen door, was box-sized and windowless. Its dim interior appeared to be scattered with disordered paperwork, but Heck closed the door on that before Gemma had a chance to check it out properly. It was his office, he said, though at present it was more like a junk room.
‘Coffee?’ he asked. ‘Tea? Something stronger?’
‘Coffee’s fine,’ she said.
He went into the kitchen, filled the kettle and prepared a single mug. As the water boiled, he took a tumbler and a bottle of whisky from a cupboard and poured himself three fingers. Walking back into the lounge, he threw his jacket across the armchair and hit the button on the phone-messaging system. There was only one message. It was from his older sister, Dana: ‘Mark, when am I going to see you? It’s been ages. I mean, if you’re not coming up, you can at least call.’
He pressed ‘delete’.
‘You and
