The Killing Club, Part 2 by Paul Finch

Author:Paul Finch [Paul Finch]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2014-04-24T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

Heck was headed through Clerkenwell when he heard the news.

He was en route to a rendezvous with Detective Constables Reynolds and Grimshaw at Stoke Newington police station. Both officers had been busy until late evening, but were still keen to speak to him about the series of face-slashings they were investigating, so he gunned his Citroën along Old Street, speeding through the darkened streets. ‘There’s an appalling news story breaking,’ the DJ said, interrupting his late-night music show in an uncharacteristically solemn tone. ‘Reports are coming in about a mass shooting in a village just outside Oxford. Details seem sketchy at the moment, but witnesses have apparently reported hundreds of rounds fired and a considerable number of casualties. It’s not known whether there are any fatalities, but the epicentre of the incident is believed to be a private house on the outskirts of Stanton St John …’

The small hairs on the nape of Heck’s neck stiffened.

Hundreds of rounds fired.

Twice in the same week? Both incidents unrelated? Not bloody likely.

‘That’s all we’ve got at the moment,’ the DJ added. ‘But obviously we’ll keep you updated …’

Heck swerved into the first parking zone he came to. He fished his mobile out and went through his contacts. When he found the one he wanted, he placed a call.

‘Thames Valley Major Crimes Unit,’ came a gruff response. ‘DC Forester.’

‘Mal … it’s Heck. SCU.’

‘Heck … what a surprise.’ But Malcolm Forester didn’t sound surprised.

‘What’s going on, mate?’

‘What isn’t? It’s kicking off here tonight.’

‘I mean in Stanton St John?’

‘Ah … thought you’d be interested in that. We’ve never had anything like it in the past, I’ll tell you that. It’s thrown us.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Hard to say for sure. The lads on the scene tell me it’s a fucking abattoir.’

‘Come on, Mal. Give me any details you can.’

‘Well, I mean …’ Even Malcolm Forester, a twenty-year veteran of specialist CID operations, and before that a soldier who’d served in the Falklands, briefly struggled to produce a coherent description of events. ‘It’s a place called Woodhatch Gate, halfway along the road to Worminghall. In a nutshell, Heck, we’ve got a home-invasion that’s turned into the nightmare of fucking nightmares. Some bunch of lunatics wiped out an entire dinner party. Just walked in and started shooting with automatic weapons. Sounds like high explosives were used to force entry. First impression is hand grenades … can you believe that?’ The hairs on Heck’s neck no longer stiffened, they bristled. ‘They’ve had the Bomb Squad in first … hang about! What do you know, Heck? What’re you working?’

Heck hesitated. ‘The prison transit at Brancaster.’

There was a long, low exhalation at the other end, as if only now was this possible link occurring to Forester. ‘They used grenades in that job too, didn’t they? And there were a lot of shots fired.’

‘There’s no guarantee it’s the same firm.’

‘Come on, pal! How many other firms chuck that kind of hardware around?’

‘How many died tonight, Mal?’ Heck asked.

‘Eight that we know of. Multiple shrapnel and gunshot wounds.

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