moved wearily towards it, bending down to peek through. On the other side, he saw a small garden, a little bedraggled – as if it didn’t get much attention. On the far side of that, dim lights were visible in other sections of the hospital. Yet again, all was still and extremely quiet. Deciding that now he was taking things a little too far, he rose up again and turned – and was hit in the face by a gloved fist that was more like a mallet of flesh and bone.
With one punch, it crushed his nose to pulp and shattered both his cheekbones.
Five minutes later, Hallam was still struggling to stay awake. He continually readjusted his position but it was having progressively less effect. When he finally heard the heavy feet tramping back down the corridor and into the room, he thanked his lucky stars. Hot coffee – that would do the trick. He looked up, smiling, and just had time to glimpse two figures in green surgical gowns, glaring maniacally down at him over masks stretched taut across noses and mouths, before receiving that scalding hot coffee right in his eyes.
Hallam didn’t get a chance to scream before PC Belshaw’s baton smashed down on his cranium. Not once, but two, three, four times; on each occasion with greater savagery, so that when he finally dropped from the chair his blood crossed the entire room in a thick, flowing stream.
The men around the table sniggered.
They numbered ten in total, and, as often happened in circles of this sort, there were several types on show: the snivellers – typical Cockney rat-boys with thin features, greased-back hair and suits that looked second-hand even though they probably weren’t; the bruisers – shaven headed, scar-faced, and invariably sporting chunky, tasteless jewellery. Then there were the nondescripts, the quiet ones – they could be smart or casual, and their ages could vary from thirty to sixty. They might be soldiers or lieutenants, but these were the ones you had to be careful of. They didn’t put on a show, because they didn’t need to.
One of these, a youngish chap with a red goatee beard, wearing a blue silk suit and a white silk shirt buttoned to the collar, was the one who’d finally come to the door and let the callers in. He was now back in his seat, checking his hand of cards. As they all were. Heck’s unexpected arrival was only a minor distraction to them.
‘So let me get this straight,’ Bobby Ballamara said slowly. He too was engrossed in his cards, and in smoking a large cigar, but his lips were taut, his eyes lidded – he looked like a lizard about to strike. ‘You want me to help you … because you have fucked up so much that even your own people are out to nail you?’
‘It’s only for one night.’ Heck stood facing him the way a condemned man might face a deliberating judge.
Lauren had been told to wait in a corner, where she now sat, looking alone and nervous. At first glance, she’d had difficulty working out what the purpose of this room actually was. By the unlagged piping running across its ceiling, and the steel girders in some of the walls, it had once been part of an industrial facility, maybe the ground floor of a warehouse. To get in here, they’d walked through several big, empty chambers with bare brick walls and utilitarian wooden boarding for floors, though this one was a little plusher than those. It had a bar at one end, where more of Ballamara’s heavies were lounging. Beside that was a low stage with a steel pole in the middle. An elderly woman in high heels and a leotard was putting two junior strippers through their paces. Music, downbeat jazz – very soothing and romantic, like something from the late 1940s – was playing. It suited the low lighting and rich pile carpet.
‘You are aware, Heckenburg …’ Ballarama said. ‘It’s okay if I call you “Heckenburg”? I don’t have to bother with the “Detective Sergeant” bit anymore?’
There were more sniggers from the rest of the men.
‘Heckenburg’s fine,’ Heck said.
‘Because it wouldn’t strictly be true to call you “Detective Sergeant Heckenburg” anymore, would it? Perhaps it’d be more appropriate if I called you “Prisoner Heckenburg, 48276983” or whatever the fuck your inmate tag ends up reading.’
‘I told you, it’s a misunderstanding. I can sort this out. I just need a little time.’
Briefly, Ballamara was too occupied with his hand to reply. He finally played it.
‘You see – Heckenburg, one of the problems I have is that your usefulness to me only lasts as long as you’re looking for my daughter. So if you now can’t do that, which you clearly can’t – because you’re too busy looking after your own arse – then as far as I’m concerned you’re a non-person. You don’t matter.’ He glanced up with those grey, coin-like eyes. ‘And you coming here uninvited is a right fucking liberty.’
‘I can still find your daughter,’ Heck said. ‘At least, I can find out what happened to her.’
‘I’ve got six private dicks working on that now. I fail to see how you – in your current reduced state – could be a better bet than them.’
‘I very much doubt they’ve even got close.’
‘And how would you know?’
‘Because I am close, and they’re not in the picture.’
Ballamara looked at his cards again. ‘Three days ago you didn’t have a fucking clue.’
‘A lot can happen in three days.’
Ballamara played his next hand. For Heck, the delay seemed torturous.
‘And this is how you expect to bribe your way into my protection, is it?’ the gangster said. ‘By teasing me with what you think you’ve learned … after stringing me along for the last two years?’
There were no sniggers from the rest of his crew now. They could sense when their boss was becoming agitated, even though his body language remained calm.
Heck held his nerve – this was always going to have been the tough bit. ‘I’m offering a straightforward trade, Mr Ballamara. Refuge for me and Lauren here – for one night. In exchange, I’ll give you everything I’ve got. Down to the last detail.’
Ballamara stubbed his cigar in an ashtray and laid his cards down. ‘And what’s to stop me having it beaten out of you right now?’
‘Feel free to try,’ Heck said. ‘I’ll crack at some point, sure. But how much will I crack? How do you know what I’ll be telling you is kosher? How do you know I won’t give you the best run-around you’ve ever had?’
Their eyes locked as Ballamara contemplated this.
‘All I’m asking is a bed for the night,’ Heck said. ‘Is that so steep?’
‘I can give you a bed for the night, Heckenburg – and your skirt. But tomorrow morning you’d better be ready to spill your guts.’ Ballamara spoke in a low monotone – he was almost droning, but there was no mistaking the intensity there. ‘You don’t tell me everything I want to hear, I’ll make sure that whoever messed your face up yesterday looks like an absolute novice.’
Heck nodded and tried to swallow, but
