The Killing Club (41 page)

One of the bastards, thinking them cowed, ran around the front end of the Chevrolet, boots slamming the tarmac. ‘Hold your fire, boys!’ he shouted in loud, brash Cockney. ‘I got ’em!’ He was tall and lean, with an oval, eerily skullish face split crosswise by a deranged grin. He hefted a Steyr TMP, taking careful aim.

But Heck was already shooting.

The Cockney’s visage exploded as five rounds hammered through the middle of it, the sixth smacking him on the left temple, his blood and brains ejecting every which way as he tottered backwards.

‘How’s that for a rearranged fizzog?’ Heck said under his breath, continuing firing, hitting the bastard four times more before he crash-landed – though in retrospect that had been a mistake. He only had seventeen shots in this clip, while the others were still in his coat, which was out of reach.

The fallen Nice Guy had his Steyr of course, but that had clattered a few yards across the road towards Ben Kane, who had recovered sufficiently to go lumbering after it. Heck pegged a shot at him, punching it through his left shoulder, spinning him like a toy. Twirling back, he spotted another Nice Guy peeking around the rear end of the Land Rover. Heck pegged two shots at him as well, forcing him to retreat.

By luck rather than design, he and Farthing had finished up in a defensible position. The two half-wrecked vehicles had created a chevron across the junction, blocking off the southeast exit, thus providing them with a retreat but at the same time creating a barricade – though the Nice Guys were now giving it all they’d got, systematically shooting the two vehicles to pieces. Fleetingly, Farthing’s face came into Heck’s eye-line: white, sweat-drenched, but not haggard the way it had been in Sunderland, not sickly with fear. The dumpy copper was kneeling, cringing, but his jaw was set, his mouth clamped with determination.

Another flicker of movement caught Heck’s eye. He spun, seeing Nice Guys attempting to flank them through undergrowth on the west side. He blasted wild shots in their general direction, again forcing them to cover. In the same motion, he hunkered down, scuttled after the Steyr and tossed it at Farthing, who caught it smartly.

More Nice Guys sidled to the rear of the Range Rover, only to fall back as Farthing, still kneeling, sprayed lead at them. Heck meanwhile, crawled over to Ben Kane, who lay on his back, his glasses skewwhiff; blood seeped copiously from the back of his shoulder, and he writhed slowly – as though only semi-conscious. When Heck began rifling his pockets, he tried to speak, but a swift head-butt to the mouth put him out for the count. Heck continued searching, finding first the list and then mobile phone, both of which he shoved into his own pockets.

He turned back. The crossroads was now a battlefield, thick with the stink of gun-smoke, wreckage and shell-casings littered everywhere. Farthing had moved closer to the narrow gap between the two car-wrecks, still returning fire as the Nice Guys scampered across the road, but now in short, sharp bursts. Heck fired a couple more shots in support of him, emptying his clip.

‘Get out of here!’ Farthing shouted over his shoulder.

‘What?’

‘If you’ve got what you need, whatever you came for … just go!’

Heck hovered there, helpless. To leave Farthing behind was the last thing he wanted, but it was all true. He had everything he needed to take the Nice Guys down for good. But he wouldn’t have it long if he stayed here. And they wouldn’t be able to fight it out much longer, either. Heck was out of ammo. Farthing couldn’t be far off the end.

‘Go!’ Farthing shouted again. ‘While the coast’s clear.’

Heck went, running low along the southeast road, diverting into the southern line of underbrush about forty yards along, discarding his empty pistol en route.

PC Jerry Farthing wasn’t quite sure what it was that had possessed him.

Something about being a coward, being a failure, being a loser. Something about being forty-five years old, with nothing but a lifetime of daytime telly to look forward to – if he was lucky. More important than that, it was something about his dad: the genial giant, the working-class hero, the iron man with the heart of gold, who’d been so proud that day of his son’s passing-out parade at Durham, when Jerry had emerged into the world as a young policeman, that he’d taken the lad and his mum for dinner, a meal they couldn’t really afford, in honour of ‘the first among us to really make something of himself’.

For all that, it was still a bit of a dream; Farthing’s body deadened, his hair standing on end, the Steyr jerking in his hands, its heat embracing him.

‘Bastards!’
he howled, horrified and delighted at the ease with which these notorious killers were driven to cover. Allegedly, there were more than a few combat soldiers among them, experienced guys. But they’d been professional bully boys for the last few years. Maybe they’d forgotten what it was like to take fire in return. He was so absorbed that he never really saw Ben Kane come lurching up at his rear, stooping to pick up a broken strut of steel from the flattened telephone booth. Farthing glanced around at the last second, just as his weapon ran dry – but it was too late. The impact on his skull was a bomb going off.

He managed to get to his feet and swing the Steyr at the tottering, bloodied figure. But fleetingly, Farthing’s world had turned searing white. He tried to focus on the Nice Guys advancing beyond the smashed cars, gazing at him along their barrels.

When five rapid shots followed, each striking Farthing’s midriff, he barely felt them. But they still knocked him down in a twisted, tangled heap.

‘After Heckenburg!’
Klausen barked, vaulting over the Discovery’s bonnet. Three of his men set off at a gallop, vanishing through the bushes. Kane lumbered forward, grey-faced and bloody. ‘You didn’t tell us Heckenburg had a partner,’ the Dane snarled, kicking at Farthing’s crumpled body.

‘I don’t know who that moron is,’ Kane stammered, spitting crimson phlegm.

‘Are you alright?’

‘The wound’s superficial, but I’ve also had half my sodding teeth knocked out …’

‘It’s less than you deserve. This is a fuck-up!’

‘Listen … Heckenburg’s got one of your phones …’

The Dane’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that you say?’

‘It had a lot of foreign contacts in it. I got it off him, but he snatched it back …’

Klausen turned to Cullen. ‘Was he in the house?’

Cullen’s face fell. ‘If he was … Goddamn, that’s the company phone!’

‘
Lort!
All of you …
QUICKLY!
’

Chapter 33

The woods ended abruptly. Which wasn’t really ideal.

Heck had woven maybe half a mile through dense trees and undergrowth, to suddenly see open space ahead. He increased his pace, breaking from cover – only to pitch forward over a low dry-stone wall. He found himself sitting half-winded on open grassland, which slanted several hundred yards down to the thundering coastline of the North Sea. The only living things in his immediate vicinity were sheep, all of whom glanced at him with mild curiosity.

The sound of voices in the woods behind jerked him to his feet.

Red-faced and sweaty, he stumbled on downhill, the flock bleating as it cantered away. It was late afternoon, but the sun poked through lacy cloud, and cast a mellow light over the sloping pasture, bringing out its verdant green, turning the sea a livid royal-blue. Of course, in that typical deceiving way of coastal scenery, the crashing waves weren’t quite as close as Heck had initially thought. He tottered down over a grassy ridge, only to see that it was another several hundred yards to the next ridge, and another several hundred to the one after that.

‘Gemma, Gemma,’ he chunnered as he scrambled on. ‘We’re gonna have a chat, me and you. We really are.’

As well as the shouts behind him, he could now hear voices in front.

Beyond the final ridge, it was only fifty yards to the water’s edge, the heavy surf blasting spray along a shoreline mainly comprised of jumbled rocks and natural granite pavement. Just inland from this was a straggling procession of people, maybe two hundred strong. Heck halted, panting. They combined numerous ages, and wore variously coloured cagoules and walking boots, and in many cases were equipped with backpacks and staffs. They moved single file, or in twos and threes, and stretched out southward along the beach for a very considerable distance. None initially noticed him, because they were mostly wearing headphones and appeared to be engrossed in whatever it was they were listening to.

Heck’s initial response was fright for these innocent passersby.

Whatever happened, the Nice Guys couldn’t afford to let him escape. What was more, they were in a kill-frenzy, trigger-happy beyond belief. But there had to be a point where common sense kicked in. If he went and joined these walkers now, would his pursuers really come after him, still shooting, mowing down anyone who got in their way? Heck’s heart hammered at the horror of such a thought. But surely they wouldn’t be so rash as to create as big an incident as that? They were unmasked, with fully exposed faces – and most of these people would have mobile phones with them; they could raise the alarm instantly.

He glanced again at the people roving past, trying to work out exactly who they were. At their head, he sighted a kind of point-man, a diminutive, bespectacled scarecrow, also in a cagoule, his bare brown legs like pipe-stems between overlarge boots and baggy, khaki shorts. If that wasn’t ludicrous enough, he had a mop of white, wind-tossed hair and a bushy white beard. He didn’t notice Heck as he strode on, talking energetically into a microphone.

Angry voices again drew Heck’s attention to his rear. A significant number of humped ridges now lay between himself and the wood, so he couldn’t see its edge, only the tops of its trees. But he knew the Nice Guys’ frontrunners had emerged, and were now probably baffled as to his whereabouts.

It was a terrible risk, but in truth there was no other option.

He hurried down the final slope, still unnoticed by the coastal walkers as he tagged on halfway along, hands in his pockets, assuming an air of innocence.

Surreal moments followed. A strong salt tang blew from the rocks to Heck’s right, which he saw were covered in weed and bladder wrack. With each explosive impact, foam surged through their nooks and crannies, droplets of spray hitting him. Meanwhile, on the left were the Nice Guys – three or four of them, the blond-haired figure of Klausen among them. They moved parallel to the walkers along the last ridge, watching in silence. They’d opted for caution – at least for the time being. Not that this really improved Heck’s position.

Casually, he increased his speed, one by one overtaking the others, most of whom were still too fascinated with their tour guide’s discourse to notice. Directly ahead, maybe a quarter of a mile away, there was an immense headland crowned by the ruins of a medieval castle, its sandstone walls glowing gold in the late afternoon sun.

‘Dunstanburgh Castle is one of the highlights of the Heritage Coastal Walk,’ came the cultured voice of the guide. He was still forty yards ahead, his wiry legs setting an impressive pace, but his voice carried on the sea wind. ‘It was built in 1313 by Earl Thomas of Lancaster, not so much as a bastion against Scottish raiders … which was the cover story, but in defiance of King Edward II.’

Heck glanced left again. More Nice Guys had appeared, and were keeping pace with him – but Klausen had trailed down the slope. He was going to join the tour, and was already close enough for Heck to see the repressed rage in his face.

Heck increased his pace, again overtaking people. He was now past halfway up the straggling line. On the ridge, the American was on a phone. Despite the vast openness around him, Heck couldn’t help but feel boxed in. More breakers erupted to his right; there was no escape that way. In front, the castle was now a hugely impressive chunk of ancient architecture, its eroded outer wall and soaring, broken towers filling his vision.

‘Most of the destruction you see today resulted not from the border wars with Scotland,’ the guide’s voice added, ‘but from the Wars of the Roses a century later. Yorkist forces all but annihilated it during two separate sieges.’

Heck hurried forward. As he did, he glanced over his shoulder. Klausen had fallen in line with the rest of them, but he too was walking at pace, passing one preoccupied tourist after another.

‘What happened to Earl Thomas?’ Heck asked, now almost at the front.

‘Oh, he met a singular fate,’ the guide replied, glancing airily back. ‘He finally rebelled in 1321, but was defeated in battle.’

‘Here?’ Heck wondered.

‘At Boroughbridge near York. If he’d made it back here, he may have evaded capture and his subsequent execution, which was decapitation by axe … it apparently took the headsman nine blows.’

Heck looked around again. Klausen was about five yards behind, walking alongside a thirty-something couple. The tubby, bearded father had a baby suspended on his chest in a papoose.

‘There are some things you don’t do, eh?’ Heck said, ostensibly addressing all three of them. ‘Challenging the king. Imagine thinking you can get away with that?’

‘They breed ’em tough up north,’ the father said laconically. By his accent, he was a Londoner.

‘He considered he had a legitimate grievance,’ the tour guide explained. ‘Edward II was weak and famously ill-advised. His court was filled with self-interested schemers. They too were torn down eventually.’

‘What do
you
reckon?’ Heck asked Klausen. ‘Worthwhile sacrifice … a hero who brought down a bunch of nasty little sods?’

‘I think some people bite off more than they can chew,’ Klausen said quietly.

‘We’re almost there,’ the tour guide said aloud, his tone implying he was less interested in discussion than he was in making announcements. Ahead of them, the ground ramped slowly up towards the castle. ‘We’ll take a break once we get inside. You can wander around and look at the ruins, and then get out your flasks and your sandwiches and what-not.’ He treated Heck to a chirpy grin. ‘Bet you’ll be glad to take the weight off, eh?’