Stalkers by Paul Finch

Author:Paul Finch [Finch, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Tags: Thriller, Mystery
ISBN: 0007492294
Google: BhlUoZPB_rIC
Amazon: B0086VH2QK
Goodreads: 17268840
Publisher: Avon
Published: 2013-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter 26

The men around the table sniggered.

They numbered ten in total, and, as often happened in circles of this sort, there were several types on show: the snivellers – typical Cockney rat-boys with thin features, greased-back hair and suits that looked second-hand even though they probably weren’t; the bruisers – shaven headed, scar-faced, and invariably sporting chunky, tasteless jewellery. Then there were the nondescripts, the quiet ones – they could be smart or casual, and their ages could vary from thirty to sixty. They might be soldiers or lieutenants, but these were the ones you had to be careful of. They didn’t put on a show, because they didn’t need to.

One of these, a youngish chap with a red goatee beard, wearing a blue silk suit and a white silk shirt buttoned to the collar, was the one who’d finally come to the door and let the callers in. He was now back in his seat, checking his hand of cards. As they all were. Heck’s unexpected arrival was only a minor distraction to them.

‘So let me get this straight,’ Bobby Ballamara said slowly. He too was engrossed in his cards, and in smoking a large cigar, but his lips were taut, his eyes lidded – he looked like a lizard about to strike. ‘You want me to help you … because you have fucked up so much that even your own people are out to nail you?’

‘It’s only for one night.’ Heck stood facing him the way a condemned man might face a deliberating judge.

Lauren had been told to wait in a corner, where she now sat, looking alone and nervous. At first glance, she’d had difficulty working out what the purpose of this room actually was. By the unlagged piping running across its ceiling, and the steel girders in some of the walls, it had once been part of an industrial facility, maybe the ground floor of a warehouse. To get in here, they’d walked through several big, empty chambers with bare brick walls and utilitarian wooden boarding for floors, though this one was a little plusher than those. It had a bar at one end, where more of Ballamara’s heavies were lounging. Beside that was a low stage with a steel pole in the middle. An elderly woman in high heels and a leotard was putting two junior strippers through their paces. Music, downbeat jazz – very soothing and romantic, like something from the late 1940s – was playing. It suited the low lighting and rich pile carpet.

‘You are aware, Heckenburg …’ Ballarama said. ‘It’s okay if I call you “Heckenburg”? I don’t have to bother with the “Detective Sergeant” bit anymore?’

There were more sniggers from the rest of the men.

‘Heckenburg’s fine,’ Heck said.

‘Because it wouldn’t strictly be true to call you “Detective Sergeant Heckenburg” anymore, would it? Perhaps it’d be more appropriate if I called you “Prisoner Heckenburg, 48276983” or whatever the fuck your inmate tag ends up reading.’

‘I told you, it’s a misunderstanding. I can sort this out.

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