Heck shrugged again. ‘He’s a bit of a headcase, if I’m honest. Not sure he’s long for this job. But I’ve had a couple of sessions with him … to get the facts straight. Think he’ll be okay.’
Kane shoved his briefcase under his arm. ‘Do you always have to do things the hard way?’ It wasn’t as harsh a question as it sounded. Kane seemed genuinely fascinated to know.
‘We pull them in any way we can, guv. You know that.’
‘Well … Northumbria are happy. These are the results we want, I suppose. Well done.’
Kane nodded and continued down the corridor to the lifts. Heck slouched on through the department. One or two individuals were around, finishing paperwork, waiting on phone calls and such, but the Detectives’ Office, or ‘DO’ as SCU members preferred to call it, was deserted.
He humped his sports bag, currently stuffed with miscellaneous toiletries and unwashed clothing, over to his desk, dumped it in the aisle and slumped into his swivel chair, which, having moulded itself neatly to his buttocks over so many years, was such a relief that it induced an audible sigh.
Heck stretched, switched on his anglepoise lamp, then unlocked one of his lower drawers and rummaged through the bric-a-brac for the half-full bottle of Chivas Regal he usually kept in there. Grabbing a mug from the tea-making table behind, he was about to pour himself a couple of fingers when he noticed Gemma Piper leaning in the doorway.
‘Ma’am …’ he said, making to stand up.
Gemma gestured for him to sit. She looked as tired as he felt, which was not her normal form. Her top two buttons were undone, her sleeves rolled back to her elbows, one blouse flap hanging over the waistband of her skirt. She still looked good of course, but then she always looked good to Heck.
‘Dare I ask what you’re doing here?’ she said.
‘Well … I’m not needed back in the Northeast until the trial, so I thought I’d come home for a bit.’
She arched a pencil-thin eyebrow. ‘Heck … you consider this place home?’
‘It’s a bit functional, but SCU are the only family I’ve got, so … yeah.’
‘Bloody drama queen.’ She entered, suppressing a yawn. ‘Unfortunately, there’s only me here at present.’
‘Don’t worry, ma’am … you’ll do.’
‘You’ve already got a big sister, Heck.’
‘Who’s talking about a sister?’
She regarded him coolly, until he refocused on the whisky bottle, carefully unscrewing its lid.
He glanced up. ‘You mind?’
‘You’re off duty … why should I?’
‘Fancy one?’
‘I’m on duty, I’m afraid.’ Gemma leaned back against the facing desk, while he poured the golden spirit. ‘Sounds like we almost lost you?’
‘Nah, you’re not that lucky.’
She paused for a lengthy moment. ‘Want to talk about it?’
‘It’s okay. It’s just the streets.’ He sipped, unable to conceal the pleasure it gave him. ‘They get dicey.’
She nodded, respecting that. ‘So … Cooper’s banged to rights?’
‘Sure is, but I’ll be amazed if he doesn’t go down for diminished capacity.’
‘They’re already making that call, are they?’
‘No, but he’s evidently three sheets to the wind.’
‘You think?’
‘Do you want to know what I really think, ma’am?’ Heck sat back, puffed out his cheeks. ‘For the first time, I think it’s shades of grey.’
She frowned. ‘This case?’
‘This job. It happens more than we may realise. Some things about Ernie Cooper made him okay. He believed in decency, justice. He had that wartime generation attitude off pat …’
‘Except that he wasn’t of that generation. He just wished he was.’
‘Those guys he murdered were out-and-out scumbags.’
‘They were sadistic crimes, Heck. Cooper enjoyed killing those men … I read that in your own progress report. Plus it was premeditated. Plus he was going to kill you.’
‘I could have been the last casualty of World War Two,’ Heck mused, smiling at the curious thought.
Gemma smiled too – which was a rarity and a treat.
She was famous in the job for her good looks, but also for her efficient and authoritative manner. As head of SCU, Gemma didn’t tolerate fools or slackers. She ran an elite department, which alternately made her proud and frustrated. They were only as good as their worst failure, she would say. She didn’t like loose ends or open cases. She demanded regular results and hard work, but in return would defend her staff to the death if she felt they were in the right. All over Scotland Yard, they called her ‘the Lioness’ – as much for her willingness to scrap as for her wild blonde mane. Gemma didn’t mind that, so long as it was never to her face.
In the past, when they’d been junior detectives working together at Bethnal Green, she and Heck had been lovers. It seemed an age ago from his perspective, but he’d been in her proximity ever since, and it never ceased to enthuse him – in various ways. She drove him mad on occasion and their former relationship had never meant that she wouldn’t severely discipline him if necessary; but she set the standards he aspired to, and yet would still tolerate the instinct and imagination he brought to his investigations, because she also knew the value of those who thought outside the box.
In the words of Gemma’s own mother: ‘They were two peas in a pod; who on earth had thought it a good idea to shell them?’
‘You say you’re on duty,’ Heck said. ‘At this time?’
‘Rochester paperwork,’ she replied. ‘Interpol don’t keep the same hours we do.’
Heck tried not to let the mere mention of the name Peter Rochester – or Mad Mike Silver as he was more often known – ruffle his feathers. He poured more whisky, drank it in a gulp. ‘He may be in Gull Rock, but they say the lifers there get it easy these days.’
‘That isn’t true.’
‘I hear they’ve even given him a Malacca cane to walk around with. Like he’s some kind of plantation owner.’
‘He’s crippled,’ she said. ‘So he needs a stick. To deny him that would be to deny him his basic human rights.’
Heck snorted as he drained his mug. ‘Human rights … he’s lucky he wasn’t in Gull Rock fifty years ago, when it was all treadmills and whipping-posts.’
‘Take it from me, Heck, there isn’t much happens around Mad Mike Silver that has anything to do with luck.’
‘Is he still stonewalling you?’
‘What else?’
‘So he hasn’t even dropped any of the bit-players our way yet … like Jim Laycock for instance?’
‘Even if he had, which he hasn’t – because the Laycock link is a total non-starter, Heck – I wouldn’t tell you.’
‘And no leads on Nice Guys’ underbosses overseas? Nice Guys’ operational bases? Dumping grounds for Nice Guys’ victims in the Baltic, the Med, the Caspian …?’
‘Heck, stop … okay!’
‘Well, you know my feelings on