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 Dana still not getting on?’ Gemma asked.
‘Everything’s fine. I just can’t be bothered.’
‘Charming.’
Gemma glanced around at the lounge. It was neat enough, but very functional. The word ‘minimalist’ wouldn’t cover it – ‘Spartan’ would be more accurate. The walls were bare of paintings, the sideboard and shelves empty of flowers or photographs. The red and orange flowered curtains, blue vinyl sofa, and mauve carpet were a tasteless mish-mash.
‘Still no sign of a woman’s touch,’ she said.
‘Surely that doesn’t surprise you?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
He swilled his whisky, and went back into the kitchen.
She took in the room again. A few books sat on a sideboard, all recent titles from the bestseller list, covering various genres, which again was no surprise – it suggested Heck had neither the time nor inclination for a more specialised interest. DVDs occupied a wooden tower alongside the television, their cases thick with dust. It was clearly a while since he’d sat down and watched one of them. Next to the sofa there was a newspaper rack, but it contained only one item – yesterday’s edition of the Standard. Periodicals and style magazines of the sort that cluttered most people’s lounges were noticeably absent. Heck returned, carrying her coffee. She noticed that he’d poured himself another two fingers.
‘Have you got a drink problem that I don’t know about?’ she asked.
He dropped into the armchair. ‘The only problem I have is that I don’t get enough time to drink. Until now of course. Cheers!’
She placed her coffee down. ‘You know, there are times when a little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘Okay … you’re right. Thanks for the lift home.’
‘You’re as impossible now as you were …’
‘As I was then?’
She bit her lip and shook her head, as if suppressing a response that she’d regret.
For some reason, this half-conciliatory act warmed Heck inside. He added to it by swilling more whisky. ‘Well … I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.’
Gemma sighed. ‘Heck, I’ve defended your corner for a long time. But there’s only so much even I can do if you insist on winding up Jim Laycock every time you meet him.’
‘Oh, so that’s what this is about …’
‘No, it isn’t. And don’t start giving me attitude, Heck … because I’m not going to put up with it either.’ She paused, picked her coffee up and took a sip. ‘My God, that’s foul. You know they call me “the Lioness”?’
‘I’d noticed.’
‘Yeah, well that’s except where you’re concerned. Where you’re concerned, they call me “the Pussy Cat”. Now what do you think that’s doing to my self-esteem, eh?’
‘Alright, I’m sorry.’ He grabbed at his tie to loosen it, only to find that he wasn’t wearing one. ‘But he’s got to get off my back …’
‘For Christ’s sake, Heck! He’s a commander, you’re a sergeant!’
‘Yeah, and I close cases he wouldn’t have the first idea how to approach.’
‘That’s not the point. History’s written by the top brass, not the cannon fodder. So would you mind, now and then, just trying to make my job a little bit easier?’
‘I said I’m sorry.’ The thread of conversation was beginning to elude Heck. No doubt it was the booze. On the subject of which – he drained his glass, and lurched back into the kitchen for a refill.
‘That’s really going to help,’ Gemma said, following him.
‘It helps me,’ he retorted, though the corners of his vision were fogging badly.
‘Good Lord,’ she said, as he filled his glass almost to the brim.
‘It’s not like I’ve got something to get up for in the morning, is it?’
‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion.’
Even in Heck’s state, he detected meaning in those words. He swung round to face her. She was watching him carefully, suspiciously.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.
‘You accepted this enforced leave way too easily in my opinion.’
‘Naw … the idea just grew on me, that’s all.’
‘Heck, this is me you’re talking to. Give me some credit, eh!’
Her gaze was suddenly intense. Heck tried to return it, but doubted it would have much effect. He wasn’t just tipsy anymore, he was properly drunk. Which might explain why he suddenly wanted to spill the whole thing, tell her everything about his plans. Not that it was purely because his inhibitions had fled. Partly it was because confiding in someone – anyone – about the worry and uncertainty accrued over so many months of tireless effort and soul-destroying frustration, not to mention the bitterness at the way his gaffers had treated him, would be a kind of release, a burden shared.
Gemma was still talking. ‘You’re planning to continue investigating while you’re on leave, aren’t you?’
‘That would be against every rule in the book and completely unethical.’
‘And you expect me to believe that would make a difference to you?’
‘Do you want a drink yet?’ he asked, reaching for the bottle.
‘No.’ She snatched it away. ‘And you don’t either.’
They stared at each other, Heck having to lean on the kitchen units to stay upright. He rubbed at his face. It was numb, damp with sweat.
‘What’s in that room?’ she asked.
‘Which room?’
‘The room you didn’t want me to look in when we first got here.’
‘Have you come as a friend or a boss, Gemma?’
She looked surprisingly torn by the question. ‘Heck, I can’t be one or the other. Not when the stakes are as high as this.’
He nodded gravely, as if there was no point denying reality any longer, and levered himself upright, beckoning her to follow him out of the kitchen. In the hall, he yanked open the screen door he’d hurried to close on arriving. Again, a mess of heaped paperwork met their gaze. He switched the light on, bringing it into full clarity.
It was, as he’d said, an office. There was a desk, a swivel chair and a computer terminal. All were swamped with documents – official police documents by the looks of them, covered in typing and handwritten notes – but also maps, wanted posters, newspaper clippings. Two of the walls were occupied by noticeboards hung with further paperwork. A closer glance at this revealed witness statements, progress reports, criminal intelligence print-outs. The facing wall was more neatly arrayed with glossy photographs: the blown-up headshots of various different women. Lines and arrows had been drawn between them with a blue marker pen; captions and notations had been scribbled on the wallpaper.
‘Jesus H. Christ,’ Gemma said with slow disbelief. ‘You’ve set up your own incident room.’
‘Sorry boss, but I couldn’t let this go. I don’t care what anyone says.’
She picked a few documents up – gingerly, almost as if she wanted to check they were real but was hoping they weren’t. ‘You haven’t done all this in one evening. I know you haven’t … not when you were in the bloody pub getting wasted.’
Heck shrugged. ‘I had a feeling this was coming. I’ve been making copies of everything and bringing them here for weeks.’
‘You understand what this means, Heck?’ She turned to look at him with an expression that was more fear than anger. ‘This isn’t just a bit of indiscipline, this is an actual crime. This is all Laycock will need to bounce you right out of the job.’
Heck offered her his wrists. ‘You’d better take me in then, hadn’t you?’
Gemma gazed back into the makeshift incident room, at the thirty-eight lovely, smiling faces on its far wall. Even now, after seeing them so many times, their effect on her was physically sobering. Each one didn’t just represent a human life snatched away in its prime, but a devastated family: sorrowing children, tortured parents, a bereft spouse.
‘You may recall I drew up this profile some time ago,’ Heck said. ‘Women who were never likely to go off under their own steam. Career women, graduates, young mothers. Girls who’ve all got a good family life, good prospects, that sort of thing. You’ll notice there are no hookers or drug addicts here …’
‘Heck, I’m familiar with the facts!’ she snapped, sounding furious but still pale with shock. Her voice dropped to an intense whisper. ‘What I’m not familiar with is a level of disrespect for the chain of command that knocks everything else you’ve ever done into a cocked hat! In God’s name, what did you not understand about me telling you this case was closed?’
‘Every part of it,’ he replied brazenly. ‘Every single word.’ He wheeled around and tottered back into the lounge, where he slumped into the armchair. When she reappeared in the doorway, he picked up the telephone. ‘Shall I call for prisoner transport, or will you?’
She shook her head. ‘You have put me in some difficult situations, Mark Heckenburg, but this is …’
‘I’m sorry, Gemma,’ he slurred. ‘But we are where we are.’
‘Oh great. The philosophy of the drunk. That’s all I bloody need.’ She paced back and forth, rubbing at her brow with a carefully manicured finger. ‘You know, Heck, when we were hotshot young DCs at Bethnal Green, you were always three or four steps ahead of the game. You ran rings round the scrotes, the guv’nors. You were a risk-taker, but you so knew what you were doing. That’s what made it exciting to work with you. The angles and tangents we went off at – we never knew where we were going to finish up. It was like living in a high-octane cop movie. And then one day, DCI Jewson – remember him, fat belly, shaggy beard – we used to call him Grizzly Adams? A real old-stager, he was. He took me to one side and said: “Darling, you’ve got a great future. But you’re too close to young Heckenburg for your own good. That lad’s running before he can walk and he’s got way too many tricks up his sleeve. Mark my words, when he goes down – and he will – he’s going to take a chunk of the service with him.” Those were his exact words, Heck. I’ve never forgotten them. How could I? Because that’s when I decided that enough was as good as a feast, and that maybe me and you should cool things a little …’
A gentle snore from the other side of the room interrupted her.
She turned, to find Heck asleep in the armchair. She regarded him for several anguished moments, before shaking her head, taking him by the armpits and lugging him out of his seat, across his lounge and down the hall. Finally, with no little grunting and struggling, she deposited him on his bed, where she stared at him again for several long seconds. ‘Damn it, Heck, why do you always do this to me?’
He didn’t respond. So she switched the light out, before leaving the room.