located her here in this scum-hole apartment. Cops who knew her less well than Heck might never have traced her, but the underworld would, and sooner rather than later. So it was definitely in her interest to skedaddle out of the capital as soon as possible. But if she didn’t – and she was a silly, obstinate bitch – he didn’t really intend to strike her off the grass register. Penny had long been one of his most reliable informers. He knew this indiscretion of hers had been a one-off. She’d never pulled a stunt like this before, and would be unlikely to do so again; Sagan had hurt her in a uniquely terrible way, after all – Heck understood her desire for revenge. On top of that, there might be even more she could tell him about Sagan – she clearly had her ear to the ground in the right places.
But then again, should this level of chicanery really go unpunished?
Another problem lay with the Organised Crime Division. While the Serial Crimes Unit were still officially heading up the enquiry into John Sagan – now entitled Operation Wandering Wolf – with Gemma herself as lead investigator, OC were still going ballistic about the shooting of detectives Cowling and Bishop and constantly harassing her with demands for information and requests to get involved. Gemma had resisted up until now because she didn’t want a bunch of hot-headed cowboys compromising her investigation, though OC were well connected at Scotland Yard and the pressure was growing on her daily. At present, Heck’s SCU colleagues were currently staking out Penny’s empty flat in Lewisham. The trouble was that if he revealed her new hiding place, Gemma would go by the book, dragging her in and leaning on her hard. Penny would hold out – it was inconceivable that she’d admit she’d deliberately created that confrontation at Fairfax House. Do that, and the very least she’d expect was to be charged with obstructing an enquiry, but maybe with conspiracy to commit murder as well. Most likely she’d just clam up and refuse to offer anything further.
This whole thing was a confused mess, and he was torn with indecision.
The arrival of another text broke into his thoughts. Again it was from Gemma.
ETA?
He texted back:
10
He drove east along Coldharbour Lane, eventually pulling into the visitors’ car park of King’s College Hospital. Gemma was waiting for him, leaning against her aquamarine Mercedes E-class. By pure luck, he was able to find a parking bay close by.
She straightened up, hands stuffed into her overcoat pockets.
There were few more striking figures in Heck’s life than Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper. Tall, only a couple of inches shorter than he was, athletic and good-looking in a lean, fierce, feline sort of way, she’d been a key fixture throughout his police service – as a fellow junior detective back in their days at Bethnal Green together, so many years ago now it seemed, for a brief time as his girlfriend, and more recently as his senior supervisor at the Serial Crimes Unit. She didn’t look best pleased as he approached, but she rarely looked best pleased anyway. Gemma was renowned throughout the National Crime Group for her ultra-no-nonsense attitude. Anyone getting on the wrong side of her was likely to be mown down in the ensuing tirade. This was partly the reason she was known behind her back as ‘the Lioness’ – her roar was legendary, though her famously unmanageable mane of wild ash-blonde hair was another reason for that, even if at present she was wearing it stylish and short.
‘What’ve you been up to all morning?’ she asked.
Heck pocketed his keys. ‘I had half an idea how Bishop and Cowling might have got onto Sagan.’
‘And …?’
‘Didn’t pan out.’ It cut him to lie to her, but at present he had to make a finely balanced judgement call. She pondered that as they walked towards Intensive Care.
‘Bishop’s playing schtum,’ she finally said. ‘I mean, he’s not all there at present. Still high on medication. But he reckons Cowling got the tip-off and didn’t share the source.’
‘The Devil protects his own,’ Heck murmured, wondering if Penny Flint had any clue just how much luck she was enjoying.
‘Well, I got shot in the legs two years ago, along with getting my nose broken,’ Shawna McCluskey said. ‘Last year, I got suspended for serious disciplinary offences I didn’t even commit, and now I wake up to find I got my brains beaten in over three weeks ago and that I’ve been lying in a coma ever since. Am I supposed to just carry on, ma’am? Is this all supposed to be in a day’s work for me?’
Her eyebrows were still swollen and discoloured, covered by railway lines of stitching. Her nose, which had needed to be completely reconstructed, was buried under a pyramid of dressings and gauze. Her scalp had been partly shaved, so that numerous other lacerations could be sutured. She’d suffered extensive fractures to her left eye-socket and cheekbone, and in consequence a perforated left eardrum, while the blow delivered to her chest by the point-blank impact of a 9mm bullet from her own Glock pistol had broken her sternum and three ribs. She currently lay at an angle, supported in an orthopaedic framework made from bars and straps, which looked more like a medieval torture device. She was also attached to a drip, which fed her a constant supply of painkillers. This might have been the cause of her slurred, frothy voice, or on the other hand that might have been down to her broken teeth. Once she was out of intensive care, a dental surgeon was going to look at her mouth.
‘For two minutes back there I was technically dead,’ she added. ‘If Heck hadn’t given me the kiss of life …’
Heck shrugged. ‘I knew it was the only way I’d ever get any action with you.’
But the patient didn’t smile.
‘If you really want to collect your ticket, Shawna,’ Gemma replied, ‘I’m not going to try and talk you out of it. But I don’t think you should make this decision hastily.’
‘I love this job, ma’am … it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. But at present, I’ve not got much choice. I’ve no feeling at all in my left arm and left leg, much less any movement.’
‘But if they’ve told you that’ll be OK eventually …?’ Heck offered.
‘Eventually, yeah. But when’s eventually? No one can say.’
‘Shawna, come on …’
‘Heck, I’m tired of getting hurt!’ She said this with such force that it brought a cringe of pain to what remained of her pretty face. ‘Seriously, Heck … ma’am. Me and Todd were looking to get married next year. He’s now wondering if he’ll be standing at the altar next to someone in callipers and a body-brace.’
‘Why don’t you look for a transfer?’ Gemma said. ‘Just take yourself off the frontline for a bit?’
‘Yeah,’ Heck said. ‘Something with a community brief maybe.’
‘At present, I’m not even fit to make cuppas for little old ladies,’ Shawna replied. ‘Mind you, might be a welcome change – going into a nice person’s house to say hello and have a chat, instead of picking over their mutilated corpse.’ If it was possible with a face as black and blue as hers, Shawna blushed, turned sheepish. ‘Sorry, ma’am
