looked thoughtful as they strode. ‘Heck … just tell me this. If it turns out that you have blundered into something else, some other naughty business Ron O’Hoorigan had knowledge of – and it’s got nothing to do with Genene or these other women, and you’ve been barking up completely the wrong tree – you’re not just going to give up on them?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘You are going to find them?’
‘Or find what happened to them, yeah.’
She stopped him mid-stride, fixing him with a near-luminous stare. ‘Promise me that, Heck. We’re not doing all this for nothing? You’re not just gonna give up?’
Heck was quite sincere when he replied: ‘That’s something I can always promise.’
She nodded, and followed him as he headed into Richmond tube station. ‘Where we going, anyway?’
‘East,’ he said.
‘You know somewhere we can stay tonight?’
‘I’ve got a vague idea.’
‘It’s just that I’ve got mates all over London. We can crash with one of them.’
He shook his head. ‘Our lot’ll be after you for sure by now. All your known associates will be under surveillance.’
‘So where are we going?’
‘Leave it to me.’
They caught the District Line and rode to Embankment, where they changed to the Bakerloo and headed south again into dingier districts. At this late hour, the train was otherwise empty, and strewn with the debris of the day’s passengers: sweet wrappers, Styrofoam cups, discarded newspapers.
‘Won’t Deke just move his base of operations now he knows we’re onto him?’ Lauren asked.
Heck shrugged. ‘Maybe. But that’s something he won’t be able to do quickly or easily. Even if he does, he won’t be able to go far.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’ve got this.’ He reached under his sweatshirt and produced a book – it was the leather-bound ledger from Ezekial’s loft.
‘Bloody hell!’ she said.
‘It couldn’t be bloodier for him. This amounts to a detailed list of the very, very serious crimes he’s committed.’
‘So he’s going to come after us?’
‘He’s already after us, Lauren. But now it’s personal. In fact, it’s more than personal. If he wants this back, it won’t just be a simple matter of putting the knuckle on us – he’ll have to make a deal.’
‘Or alternatively he’ll scarper for good. You take that to the law now, and they’ve got him.’
‘Not quite.’ They’d now arrived at Elephant & Castle, so Heck slid the book out of sight again and they stepped from the train. ‘We stole it during a burglary, remember. It’s inadmissible as evidence, and Deke knows it. He also knows that, when push comes to shove, we want his paymasters more than we want him.’
‘You really think he’ll be prepared to trade them?’
‘He may have no choice. At present, his arse is in a sling.’
They left the station. Whereas Richmond’s sedate streets had been settling down for the night, this part of London – Southwark – was still noisy with traffic, honking horns and belligerent, drunken shouts. They turned left under a brick arch, and followed a narrow side passage.
‘I can’t believe it’ll be that straightforward,’ Lauren said. ‘We’ve hurt him bad, and you know what they say about wounded animals.’
‘Speaking of which …’
The passage now became a tunnel, and led to a tall steel door. A weak bulb illuminated it, showing where blue paint had flaked away, exposing the raw metal beneath. It had the look of a service entrance, as if it had once connected to a warehouse or factory. The bulb over the lintel buzzed and flickered, threatening to plunge them into blackness.
‘What’s this place?’ she asked.
‘A drinking den,’ Heck said. ‘A card school … a knocking shop. Hopefully our lodgings for the night.’
He hammered on the metal with his fist. It reverberated deep inside, as though through vast, empty chambers. There was no immediate response, so he hammered again.
Lauren glanced behind them uneasily: the tunnel dwindled off into shadow; a mouse scurried across it. ‘Who the hell lives in a place like this?’
‘An old acquaintance of mine,’ Heck replied. ‘Someone you thought you were going to have a chat with yourself at one time. His name’s Bobby Ballamara.’
Gemma read carefully through the print-out that Palliser had just pulled off CrimInt.
‘And this is the last thing he asked Paula Clark to do for him?’ she said.
‘Certainly is,’ Palliser replied.
‘Eric Ezekial? Not the sort of name you’d forget easily.’
Palliser’s office was knee-deep in littered paperwork, most of it having been dragged from the various bags that Heck had brought up from Deptford Green. The larger office beyond the open door, where the Serial Crimes Unit’s detectives had their desks, now lay deserted and dark. Gemma and Palliser, both with collars open and sleeves rolled back, were working by the low light of a single desk lamp.
Palliser yawned. A few moments ago he’d had the sudden inspiration to contact Heck’s former secretary and see if he’d confided anything in her before ‘going on leave’. It had paid dividends, though the woman had torn a strip off him in the process.
‘She wasn’t best pleased when I rang her up at this hour,’ he said.
‘She’ll be even less pleased when I ring her up again, in about two hours, to see if there’s anything she can add,’ Gemma replied. Anyone overhearing this casual comment might have assumed she was joking, but Palliser knew ‘the Lioness’ better than that. ‘This number she faxed it to is definitely up in Manchester?’
He nodded.
Once again, Gemma stabbed Heck’s number into her mobile. Once again, there was no response. Sighing, she put the phone away. She laid the print-out on her desk, alongside a similar print-out for Ron O’Hoorigan and a case file photograph of Genene Wraxford; in trying to pinpoint Lauren Wraxford, the girl Heck was in company with, it hadn’t taken them long to spot that one of the missing women shared the same surname. But she wasn’t their main focus at present. ‘This guy Ezekial is obviously the key,’ Gemma said. ‘Lives in Kingston, I see.’
