rumpled suit, while his face was puffy and cut in several places, as though he’d recently been in a car crash. He subjected McCulkin to a quick but thorough body search, before stepping back and saying: ‘You’ve not heard what’s going on, then? I mean with me?’
‘Am I supposed to have?’
Heck was pleased. That meant they were keeping it need to know. ‘Thanks Gemma, I owe you one. Okay, let’s walk.’
They headed north, keeping a brisk pace.
‘What about Charlie Finnegan?’ Heck asked. Finnegan – a DC in the Serial Crimes Unit, wasn’t someone Heck got on with easily, but he was McCulkin’s other official ‘handler’. ‘Has he said anything to you about me?’
McCulkin shrugged. ‘Haven’t spoken to him for about three weeks.’
Heck nodded, again pleased.
‘What’s all the cloak and dagger stuff?’
‘Tell you in a minute.’
Heck glanced behind them several times, and took one or two detours down deserted side streets, before finally ushering his guest into another tearoom, this one attached to Mudchute DLR station.
‘I need some help,’ he said, as they nursed cups of coffee and faced each other across a table. ‘Trouble is it’s got to be off the clock.’
McCulkin pulled a face. ‘You mean I don’t get paid?’
‘You’ll get paid. It just won’t necessarily come from the grass fund. If I have to, I’ll cough up from my own pocket.’
‘Sounds a bit irregular.’
‘All you need to know is that I’m in deep cover, and that, whoever asks – whoever – you haven’t seen or spoken to me.’
‘That include your lot?’
‘Especially my lot.’
‘I don’t like the sound of this.’
‘It’s just another job. No different from any of the others you’ve done.’
McCulkin sipped thoughtfully at his coffee, before replying: ‘What do you need?’
‘Anything you’ve got, or can find, on the Nice Guys.’
‘Never heard of them.’ McCulkin sipped his coffee again.
Heck knew immediately that he was lying. It wasn’t just McCulkin’s body language – the coffee, which was tepid and rather foul, was subconsciously being used as a shield – it was in his face too, which remained blank but had paled a little. McCulkin had also been way too quick to deny knowledge. His normal form would be curiosity. If he genuinely hadn’t heard about a firm with a cryptic name like ‘the Nice Guys’, he’d almost certainly want to know more, yet he’d asked no questions at all.
Heck was discomforted. Pat McCulkin was his main South London informant, and one of the best in the capital; he’d produced leads that had led to convictions for numerous serious offences. This was a mystery, and another mystery was something Heck didn’t need. So he cut to the chase.
‘You’re a lying little git!’
‘Whoa …’ McCulkin looked taken aback.
‘You think I’m on work experience here? Don’t jerk me around, Pat!’
McCulkin got to his feet. ‘I’m not getting up at this time of the morning to—’
‘Sit the fuck down!’ Heck shouted, his voice a whipcrack. It was so loud that the girl behind the counter looked around, startled.
Unnerved to see such fury in a man who was usually so affable, McCulkin did as he was told.
‘This is a non-negotiable situation,’ Heck said, quieter but with the same intensity. ‘I need to know who the Nice Guys are, and I need to know where they are. Right now.’
‘I’ve never heard of any Nice Guys.’
‘Don’t gimme that crap.’
‘You’re not listening to me!’ McCulkin hissed. ‘I don’t know who they are, and that’s my last word on the matter.’
‘Yeah?’ Heck smiled dangerously. ‘Well here’s mine – you’ve had a contract with the National Crime Group for several years now, haven’t you? You’ve done very well out of us. In fact, you’ve made yourself quite wealthy at the expense of your fellow criminals. Maybe it’s time the word got out.’
McCulkin swallowed; working his wet, thin lips together.
‘Poor reward for your services, I know,’ Heck added. ‘But all good things come to an end.’
‘You’re breaching the rules doing this,’ McCulkin replied.
‘That should give you an idea how serious I am.’
‘You do not fuck around with the Nice Guys Club.’
‘So you do know them?’
‘I’ve heard of them. But only like I’ve heard of Jack and the Beanstalk or Jason and the Argonauts. It’s legend, a myth.’
‘Why are you frightened of them then?’
‘I’m not frightened, it’s just …’
‘What?’
McCulkin laced his tattooed, nicotine-stained fingers in a tight, tense ball. ‘There are red flags all over this, Mr Heckenburg. Any time it comes up in conversation, it’s like “you don’t talk about this”, or “do not even go there”.’
‘That’s Halloween stuff, Pat. It’s designed to stop people asking questions.’
‘Look, these people are bad news.’
‘And I’m not?’ Heck leaned forward. ‘These bastards are going to find out different. Now you tell me every single thing you know.’
‘You really going to spread it that I’m a snitch?’
‘Just watch me.’
McCulkin clawed at his brow, which was suddenly glazed with sweat. He looked tortured by indecision, which impressed Heck no end. Among other tough outfits, McCulkin had once grassed on a team of blaggers who’d been doing banks and post offices across southern England and had killed at least twice, and on a car-ringing operation that had involved the import into London of high-end motors stolen from all over the UK. If he wasn’t frightened of firms like these, just what level of threat did the Nice Guys pose?
‘What do you think is going to happen?’ Heck asked him. ‘Nothing will come back to you. It never does.’
McCulkin shook his head. ‘You’d better keep Finnegan out of this, because he’s got a gob on him when he’s pissed.’
