‘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.’
‘At present there are only two people on earth know about it – me and you. And that’s the way I’d like to keep it.’
McCulkin took his cap off, ran a hand through his greasy hair. ‘Look, I don’t know ’em, myself. But I know someone who might.’
‘Who?’
‘No names. Not at this stage. But I can set up a meet with him.’
‘Okay. The sooner the better.’
‘This afternoon?’
Heck nodded. He indicated the red phone that McCulkin had found in the waste bin. It was one of the pair that Ballamara had provided the previous night. ‘Use this phone to call. Don’t call me on any number except the one I rang you from earlier.’
McCulkin nodded worriedly. Before he left the tearoom, he glanced back. ‘You’ve started playing dirty, Mr Heckenburg. That isn’t like you.’
‘We all reach our breaking point, Pat.’
‘Well I’m glad you’ve reached yours when you have. From what I’ve heard about the Nice – about these people, you’re going to have to play it even dirtier.’
Des Palliser had been at his desk half an hour, and was checking and signing off on a pile of reports, when the phone rang.
‘Serial Crimes Unit,’ he said, picking up and cradling the receiver under his jaw.
‘Detective Inspector Palliser?’
‘That’s right. Can I help?’
‘It’s Paula Clark again, at Deptford Green.’
Palliser straightened up. ‘Yes, Paula. What can I do for you?’
‘DS Heckenburg’s still on leave, I understand?’
‘Erm … one second.’ He jumped up and closed his door on the bustle of activity in the main detectives’ office. Retrieving the phone, he sat down again. ‘That’s correct. He’s on leave until December.’
‘Maybe you could leave a note on his desk, or something?’
‘Of course.’
‘Or maybe you might want to do something with it, yourself, I’m not sure.’
‘I’ll do whatever I can, Paula.’
Her tone was perfectly normal – there was nothing nervous or conspiratorial about it. Whether she’d got wind that something was going on because of the brief contact they’d had with her the other day, enquiring about Heck, he was unsure.
‘I was wondering,’ she said, ‘have you heard anything about a mis-per called Louise Jennings?’
‘That name doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘I see. Well, she’s a secretary in the City. Seems she’s been missing since last Friday night. As I understand it, Thames Valley are dealing. I only read about it on force bulletins this morning. But it strikes me that her circumstances are very similar to a number of those missing women that DS Heckenburg was investigating.’
Palliser grabbed a spare piece of paper and picked his pen up again. ‘Can you elaborate on that, Paula?’
‘I only glanced at it, but well … she’s not the type, if you know what I mean. Apparently, she’s nothing to run away from. She’s got no lover that anyone knows about, she hasn’t fallen out with her husband or her family. She hasn’t got drugs, drink or mental health problems. She’s got a wide circle of friends and relatives, and none of them have the first idea where she could be.’
‘I get the picture.’
‘It’s probably nothing, but I just thought it seemed very similar to the other cases.’
‘That’s great, Paula. Thanks very much for drawing this to our attention.’
‘No problem. Always glad to help, as you know. Is Mark alright?’
‘Oh yes, he’s fine. Having a right old time of it, I understand.’
‘Mmm.’ She probably knew Heck too well to believe that. ‘Okay, well, you know where I am if you need me. Bye.’
She hung up, and Palliser sat there for several moments, pondering. Paula was right; it was probably nothing at all to do with the case, but then again …? He wondered if he should go down the corridor and speak to Gemma, but finally, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, he picked the phone up and spoke to Janice, one of his unit’s own secretaries.
‘Hello love,’ he said, checking the brief details he’d just scribbled down. ‘Get me Thames Valley, please.’
The Nice Guys Club.
They were a club?
That was what McCulkin had said.
From Mudchute, Heck had taken the DLR to Canary Wharf, then the Jubilee to London Bridge, where he switched to the Northern Line. He was now riding south back towards Elephant & Castle, and puzzling through this latest revelation.
A club obviously meant more than one or two, which he’d already figured. But it could also mean several more than one or two, maybe many more. In a way, that made sense. Given the complexity that had to be involved in these abductions – ordinary, everyday women snatched from view while doing ordinary,