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Chapter 1
Present day
The church of Milden St Paul’s was located in a rural haven some ten minutes’ walk outside the Suffolk village of Little Milden. It sat on the edge of a quiet B-road, which ostensibly connected the distant conurbations of Ipswich and Sudbury but in truth saw little activity and was hemmed in from all sides by belts of gentle woodland and, in late summer, an endless golden vista of sun-ripened wheat.
The atmosphere of this picturesque place was one of uninterrupted peace. Even those of no religious inclination would have struggled to find fault with it. One might even say that nothing bad could ever happen here … were it not for the events of a certain late-July evening, some forty minutes after evensong had finished.
It began when the tall, dark-haired vicar came out of the vicarage and stood by the wicket gate. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, about six-foot-three inches tall, and of impressive build: square across the shoulders, broad of chest, with solid, brown arms folded over his pink, short-sleeved shirt. His hair was a lush, curly black, his jaw firm, his nose straight, his eyes a twinkling, mischievous blue. To pass him in the street, one might think it curious that such a masculine specimen had found his calling in the cloth. There had to be at least a chance that he’d have certain of his parishioners swooning in their pews rather than heeding his sermons, though on this evening it was he who’d been distracted by something.
And here it came again.
A third or fourth heavy blow sounded from the other side of the church.
Initially, the vicar wondered if the warm summer air was carrying an echo from some distant workplace. On the church’s south side, you could see the roof of Farmer Holbrook’s barn on the far southern edge of the wheat field next door. But that was the only building in sight, and there wasn’t likely to be much work under way on a tranquil Monday evening.
When he heard what sounded like a fifth blow, it was a sharper, flatter sound, and louder, as if there was anger in it. The vicar opened the gate, stepped onto the path and walked towards the church’s northwest corner. As he reached it, he heard another blow. And another, and another.
This time there was a smashing sound too, like wood splintering.
He hurried on to the church’s southwest corner. Yet another blow followed, and with it a grunt, as of someone making a strenuous effort.
On the building’s immediate south side lay an untended part of the grounds, the weathered slabs of eighteenth-century gravestones poking up through the long summer grass. Beyond those stood the rusty metal fence cordoning off the wheat field. It might be a sobering thought that, once you were on this side of the church, you were completely screened from the road and any passing traffic, but the vicar didn’t have time to think about that. He rounded the final corner and strode several yards along the south-side path, before stopping dead.
A man with longish red hair, wearing patchwork green/brown khaki, was striking with a wood-axe at the vestry door. He grunted with each stroke, splinters flying, going at it with such gusto that he’d already chopped a hole in the middle of the door, and very likely would soon have the whole thing down.
The soles of the vicar’s black leather shoes had made barely a sound on the worn paving stones, but the man in khaki had heard him; he lowered his axe and turned.
The mask he wore had been chiselled from wood and depicted a goat’s face – but it was a demonic kind of goat, with a humanoid grin and horns that curled fantastically. The worst thing about it, though, was real: the eyes peering out through the holes notched for them were entirely human, and yet they burned with living hatred.
The man came down the step from the door and approached, axe held loosely at his side. The vicar stood his ground and spoke boldly.
‘What are you doing here? Why are you damaging church property?’
‘You know what we’re doing here, shaman!’ a voice said from his right.
He glanced sideways: three more figures had risen into view, each from behind a different headstone. They too largely wore green; he saw old ragged jumpers, ex-military combat jackets. They too were masked: a toad, a boar, a rabbit, each one decked with additional monstrous features, and each with the same hate-filled eyes glaring out.
The vicar kept his voice steady. ‘I asked what you are doing here?’
‘You know the answer, you holier-than-thou prick!’ said a voice from behind.
When the vicar spun backwards, a fifth figure had emerged around the corner of the church. This one also wore green, but with brown leather over the top. His wooden mask depicted a wolf, and as he advanced, he drew a heavy blade from a scabbard at his belt; a hunting knife honed to lethal sharpness.
The vicar looked again at the threesome in the graveyard; Toad now smacked a knotty club into his gloved left palm; Rabbit unhooked a coil of rope from his shoulder; Boar hefted a canister of petrol.
‘In the name of God,’ the vicar said, ‘don’t do this.’
‘We don’t recognise your god,’ Wolf replied.
‘Look … you don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘Oh, very good,’ Wolf sniggered, as they closed in. ‘Very fucking saintly.’
‘This is sanctified ground,’ the vicar advised them. ‘Use more blasphemies here, and I’ll be forced to chastise you.’
‘Really?’ Wolf was so surprised by that, that he almost came to a halt. ‘I can’t wait to see how you do it.’
‘I warn you, friends …’ The vicar pivoted around. ‘I’m no martyr.’
‘Funnily enough,’ Wolf sneered, ‘the ones before you didn’t go willingly to it, either.’
‘Ah, now I know who you are,’ the vicar said.
‘Always a good thing to know thine enemies.’
‘You’re on your final warning.’
‘Perhaps your god will strike us down?’ Wolf was only five or so yards away. ‘Maybe throw a thunderbolt this fine summer evening.’
The vicar nodded solemnly. ‘I fear one’s coming right now.’
A rasping chuckle sounded behind the lupine mask. ‘You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.’
‘I also have this.’
From out of his trouser pocket, the cleric drew an extendable autolock baton, which, with a single jerk of his brawny wrist, he snapped open to its full twenty-one inches.
Before Wolf could respond, the baton had struck him across the mask in a backhand thwack. The carved wood cracked as Wolf’s head jerked sideways and he tottered, dropping his knife. As the rest came to a startled halt, the vestry door burst inward and the figure of a man exploded out, launching at Goat from behind. This figure was neither as tall nor as broad as the vicar, just over six feet and of average build, with a mop of dark hair. He wore blue jeans and a blue sweatshirt with a police-issue stab vest over the top, but he also carried an extended baton, which he brought down in a furious, angled swipe at the elbow joint of Goat’s right arm.
The axe clattered to the floor as the target yelped in disbelieving pain. He grappled with his injured joint, only for a kick in the backside to send him sprawling onto his face. His assailant leapt onto him from behind, knees-first, crushing the air from his lungs.
The vicar swung to face Toad, Boar and Rabbit, holding aloft a leather wallet, displaying his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Reed, Serial Crimes Unit!’ he bellowed. ‘You’re all under arrest on suspicion of murdering John Strachan, Glyn Thomas and Michaela Hanson!’
Wolf fled towards the southwest corner of the church, only to slam head-on into another huge figure, this one even more massive than the vicar. He too wore jeans and chest armour, and he greeted Wolf with a forearm smash to the throat.
As Wolf went down, gagging, a deep Welsh voice asked him: ‘What time is it, Mr Wolf? Time you weren’t here? Too bloody late for that, boyo.’
The other three ran energetically towards the boundary fence, only to be stunned by the sight of more police officers, some in uniform and some in plain clothes, all armoured, rising from the wheat and spreading into a skirmish line.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Reed intoned, watching the fleeing trio as, one by one, they were overpowered, unmasked and clapped into handcuffs, ‘but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘You’re also under arrest for being a sacrilegious little fuck,’ the big Welsh cop whispered, leaning into Wolf as he fastened his hands behind his back.
‘We don’t fear your god,’ Wolf hissed in an agonised voice.
‘You shouldn’t.’ The Welsh cop yanked the fractured mask off the lean, sweaty features underneath. ‘My God’s merciful. Problem you’ve got, boyo, is … there’s a long, hard road before you get to Him.’
Beside the vestry door, the cop in blue snapped a pair of cuffs onto Goat, who, without his mask, was gaunt and pale, his carroty red hair hanging in lank strands as he cowered there.
‘Get up,’ the cop said, standing. His accent was Northwest England.
‘Shit … think you …’ Goat’s voice became whiny, frantic. ‘Think you broke my arm.’
‘No, I didn’t … just whacked you on a nerve cluster.’ The cop kicked him. ‘Get up.’
‘Can’t feel anything under my elbow.’
‘You’re facing three murder charges.’ The cop grabbed him by an armpit and hauled him to his feet. ‘A dicky elbow’s the least of your problems.’
‘Christ!’ Goat screamed. ‘My arm’s broke … God-Christ!’
‘Thought you boys didn’t believe in Christ?’
‘It’s killing me, mate … for fuck’s sake!’
‘Sucks when you’ve come to hurt someone and found it’s the other way round, eh? Who are you, anyway?’
‘Sh … Sherwin …’ the prisoner stammered.
‘First name?’
‘That’s my first name. Last name’s Lightfoot … Oh shiiit, my fucking arm!’
‘Sherwin Lightfoot? For real?’
‘Yeah … oh, sweet Jeeesus …’
‘Fair enough. You’re also getting locked up for having a stupid name.’
‘Everything all right, Heck?’ Reed called.
‘Heck?’ Lightfoot said. ‘Look who’s bloody talking …’
‘Shut up,’ the cop called Heck retorted. ‘Everything’s smashing, sir. Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘Easy, Sarge.’ Reed ran a finger round the inside of his clerical collar but made such a dog’s breakfast of loosening it that its button popped off. ‘I was only asking.’
‘I have done this before, you know.’
‘Good work, everyone,’ a female voice interrupted.
Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper was never less than impressive. Even now, in jeans, a T-shirt and body armour, and clambering over a rusty farm fence, she cut a striking figure. With her athletic physique, wild mane of white-blonde hair and fierce good looks, she radiated charisma, but also toughness. Many was the cocky male officer who’d taken her gender as a green light for slack work or insubordination, or both, and had instantly regretted it.
‘This lot been cautioned, Jack?’ Gemma asked.
‘They have indeed, ma’am,’ Reed said.
‘Responses?’
‘The only one I heard was this fella.’ Reed indicated Boar, who, having had his mask pulled off, resembled a pig anyway, and now was in the grasp of two uniforms. ‘Think it went something like “fuck off, you dick-breathed shitehawk”.’
‘Excellent. Just the thing to win the jury over.’ Gemma raised her voice. ‘All right, get them out of here. I want separate prisoner-transports for each one. Do not let them talk.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Wolf sneered, still gripped by the large Welsh cop, though he seemed to have recovered some of his attitude. ‘No one’s talking here except you. And you’ve got quite a lot to say for a slip of a tart.’
Gemma drew a can of CS spray from her back pocket and stalked towards him.
‘Ma’am!’ Reed warned.
DSU Piper was renowned, among other things, for almost never losing her cool, and so managed to bring herself to a halt before doing something she might regret. She stood a couple of feet from the prisoner, whose thin, grizzled features split into a yellow-toothed grin.
‘Don’t say nothing!’ he shouted to his compatriots. ‘Do you hear me? Don’t give these bastards the pleasure. Say nothing, and we’ve got plenty chance of beating this.’
‘You finished?’ Gemma asked him.
He shrugged. ‘For now.’
‘Good. Take a long look at your friends. This is likely the last time you’ll see them till you’re all on trial. And very possibly on that day, one, or maybe two of them, could be looking back at you from the witness stand. How much chance will you have then?’
Wolf hawked and spat at her feet.
‘Let’s move it!’ Gemma shouted. ‘Someone get the CSIs in. Tell them the scene’s clear for examination – I want this ground going over inch by inch.’
Chapter 2
It wasn’t always the case that suspects arrested by the Serial Crimes Unit were brought back to London for processing. As part of the National Crime Group, SCU’s remit was to cover all the police force areas of England and Wales, and as such they most commonly liaised with local forces and tended to use their facilities. But on this occasion, to Detective Sergeant Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg at least, it felt like the most sensible option. Little Milden was only fifty-eight miles from London, and only seventy-two from Finchley Road police station, where extensive adaptations had been made for the confinement and interrogation of just such highly dangerous groups as the ‘Black Chapel’.
Finchley Road was now classified as one of only two high-security police stations in London. The first one, Paddington Green, was primarily for holding suspected terrorists and as such was more like a fortress than a regular police office. Finchley Road was physically much the same, but primarily for use against organised crime. To all intents and purposes, it was a normal divisional police station in that it was nondescript and open to members of the public twenty-four/seven. But the reinforced concrete barriers around its exterior might indicate that it had other purposes too, while additional, less visible defences were also in place, such as bulletproof glass in its windows, outer doors of reinforced steel with highly complex access codes, and the presence on the premises of permanently armed personnel. It had an ordinary Custody Suite for use in day-to-day police operations, but there was also a Specialist Custody Suite on a lower level, which was completely separate from the rest of the building’s interior and hosted twenty cells and ten interview rooms, all of these viewable either through video link or two-way mirror.
It was through one such viewing port that Heck now watched as Rabbit, aka Dennis Purdham, was interviewed. Of all five suspects, he had been the most visibly distraught on arrest. Aside from their leader, Wolf, also known as Ranald Ulfskar, the others – Sherwin Lightfoot (Goat), Michael Hapwood (Toad) and Jason Renwick (Boar) – had also registered surprise and shock when the police showed up, but as with any cult, and that was what Heck felt they were dealing with here rather than a conventional criminal gang, they’d drawn strength from their leader’s stoicism, and were obediently keeping their mouths shut.
Purdham was the exception.
Like the rest of them, he’d struck Heck as an outsider: unshaved, long-haired, pockmarked. The clothing they’d seized from him mainly comprised oil-stained hunting gear and mismatched bits of army surplus wear. But, at the age of twenty-three, Purdham was much younger than his confederates, and possibly only involved in the murders as a bit player – or so his solicitor was seeking to intimate. He’d wept when they’d booked him in, and wept again when they gave him his white custody suit. As such, while the others were left to stew in their cells, it wasn’t long into Purdham’s interview before he’d begun to talk.
The interviewers were Gemma Piper and Jack Reed, who, by prior agreement, was adopting an understanding guise. It was this that Purdham had responded to, gradually regaining his confidence.
‘At the end of the day, Christians are a set of vile bastards,’ he said in broad Staffordshire. ‘Everything about them stinks. Their hypocrisy, their dishonesty … they’re a bunch of fucking control freaks too.’
‘Someone give you a hard time when you were young, Dennis?’ Reed asked. ‘A priest maybe?’
‘You mean was I kiddie-fiddled?’ Purdham shook his head. ‘Nah … never happened to me. But there are lots it did happen to, aren’t there?’
‘So, you and your friends were responding to sexual misdoings?’ Gemma said. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
Purdham hesitated, unsure how to reply.
He wasn’t as stupid as he looked, Heck thought, because to admit to this would be to admit premeditation.
‘Because in case you did,’ Gemma added, ‘I can tell you that there’s never been any suspicion about those three people. Or about the Reverend Hatherton, who is the incumbent at Milden St Paul’s.’
‘That means he’s the one I stepped in for tonight,’ Reed explained.
‘Look …’ Purdham scrubbed a hand through his lank, mouse-brown hair. ‘I don’t think anyone was specifically targeted. It’s what I said before, Christians are … just shit-arses.’
‘You mean Christians in general?’ Gemma asked.
‘Lots of people agree with me on this.’ Purdham’s eyes widened; he became animated. ‘You only need to go on social media. Everyone’s always saying it.’
There was a soft click in the viewing room, as a door opened. Heck turned and was surprised to see the squat, bull-necked shape of DCI Bob Hunter come furtively in. Hunter acknowledged Heck with a nod and signalled that he didn’t want to interrupt.
Heck turned back to the mirror, beyond which Gemma was in mid-reply.
‘It’s worth remembering, Dennis,’ she said, ‘that social media is an echo chamber.’
Purdham regarded her confusedly.
‘Every mother’s son on the planet uses it to sound off about stuff that bugs them. They may have genuine issues with religion, even with Christianity specifically … but just because they gob off about it online, most of them are not even so hyped about it that they stop celebrating Christmas. So, I’d say it’s a near certainty that what happened at St Winifred’s in the Marsh, for example, would be right off their agenda.’
The killing of the Catholic priest, Father John Strachan, on March 21 that year, had been the first murder in the Black Chapel case. The victim had answered a knock at the presbytery door just after 11 p.m., at his church, St Winifred’s in the Marsh, up in rural Cambridgeshire – only to receive an axe-blow to the face, which had killed him instantly.
‘Look … I’ve admitted I was there,’ Purdham said, tingeing red. ‘But … I told you, I didn’t participate.’
‘Neither did you do anything to prevent it.’
‘It happened in a flash. I didn’t even know Ranald was armed.’
As Heck listened, he thought again about Ranald Ulfskar. It was a cute name he’d given himself. In real life, he was Albert Jones from Scunthorpe. He was the spiritual leader of this weird group. At fifty, he was the oldest, and though also the scrawniest and most ragbag, he was, without doubt, the toughest and had led the most lived-in life. And yet it was through Ulfskar/Jones that Heck had first learned about the so-called Black Chapel. Ulfskar had spent several years as a roadie for a very successful black-metal band from Scandinavia called Varulv. One of his fellow roadies at the time, Jimmy ‘Snake’ Fletcher, someone not quite as besotted with Varulv’s dangerous Nordic vision, had later become one of Heck’s informants. And once it had become apparent to Fletcher that the East Anglia priest killings were a series, and that they were in synch with certain dates in the calendar, he’d got on the blower.
‘We also strongly suspect you were there at the murder of Reverend Glyn Thomas,’ Gemma said.
Purdham hung his head and said nothing.
The second cleric to die had been a Church of England minister, the Reverend Glyn Thomas. On the night of April 30 that year, he’d been alone at his church of St Oswald’s, out in the Norfolk back-country, when, just before midnight, intruders had forced entry to the vicarage. He was hauled out in his nightclothes and forced to watch as both the vicarage and the church were set alight. He was then bound, hand and foot, and had a wire noose tightened around his neck, which was attached to the tow bar of a vehicle. After this, the Reverend Thomas was dragged at high speeds along isolated country lanes for fifteen miles, before his body, or what was left of it, came loose of its own accord. It was found in a roadside ditch the next day, but only several hours after the blazing ruins of St Oswald’s had drawn the attention of early-morning farm workers.
‘And what about the murder of Michaela Hanson?’ Gemma wondered.
Purdham still said nothing.
In the case of the Reverend Michaela Hanson, it was mid-evening on June 21. She’d been alone in the Church of Our Lady on the outskirts of Shoeburyness in Essex. As with the incident at Little Milden, it was shortly after evensong, and the congregation and altar servers had gone home. Reverend Hanson was collecting the hymnals from the pews when intruders entered through the sacristy door. Her naked corpse was found the following morning, spread-eagled on the altar table. She’d been slashed across the throat with something like a billhook and pinned to the wood with a pitchfork.
‘There was even a sexual element in that one, wasn’t there?’ Reed said, referring to the fact that the Reverend Hanson’s lower body had also shown signs of being violently attacked.
‘Which at least is in keeping with this Odinist fantasy,’ Gemma said.
Purdham looked up sharply, as if to mouth a protest, but managed to restrain himself.
‘Why don’t we talk about that Odinist angle, Dennis?’ Reed said.
Still, Purdham held back on a response.
‘Those Vikings had a pretty violent attitude to life, didn’t they? Rape, pillage …’
‘They get misrepresented by films.’ Purdham hung his head again; he almost seemed embarrassed to be mounting a defence.
‘Maybe, but blood rites are a part of Odinism, aren’t they? I’ve been reading up on it. Normally, it was animals that got sacrificed. But certain Viking leaders, to really curry favour with the gods, used to offer humans too, didn’t they?’
Again, Purdham said nothing.
‘You have to talk to us about this bit, Dennis,’ Gemma said. ‘We’re not really interested in the mythology, or how Ranald Ulfskar managed to tie it in with some modern-day Aryan master-race gibberish. What we really want to know is what you saw happen on these awful nights, and what part you played in it.’
Still, nothing.
‘What about the dates?’ Reed said. ‘If you’re genuinely interested in the Viking religion, you must’ve known about the dates …’
‘March 21,’ Gemma reminded him. ‘April 30, June 21 … how about today, July 31?’
He glanced up weakly. ‘Look … I knew they were relevant, yes. But I didn’t know we were going to kill people.’
‘OK, let’s go with that?’ she said. ‘Let’s assume that was true the first time. But what about the second, third and fourth?’
‘Surely, you didn’t think you were just going to rough these guys up?’ Reed said. ‘Or scare them? How would that have gone down with Odin and Thor?’
‘That’s the point,’ Purdham moaned, seemingly deeply troubled. ‘It’s cruel … I know, but you can’t deny the deities. Once you’ve promised something, you’ve gotta deliver …’
Heck shook his head as he watched.
‘Deities?’ said a disbelieving voice. Bob Hunter had come forward to the mirror. ‘Odin and Thor? These twats ripping the piss, or what?’
‘Not totally,’ Heck replied. ‘Odinism was a real thing.’
‘Wouldn’t have thought there was much call for it in the twenty-first century.’
‘Where’ve you been, sir? This is the age of the hate crime.’
‘Yeah, but when it comes to white-power nutters, I thought Muslims were the hate figures of the moment.’
‘Me too,’ Heck agreed. ‘But I suppose some clowns just can’t get over that slap Sister Mary gave them when they were being cheeky to her all those years ago in Junior School. How are you anyway?’
‘I’m good.’
‘Congratulations on the promotion.’
‘Cheers.’
DCI Bob Hunter had once been DI Bob Hunter of the Serial Crimes Unit, in which capacity he and Heck had worked together on several enquiries. Ultimately though, Hunter, who had moved to SCU from the Metropolitan Police’s Flying Squad, had adopted a cowboy approach to law enforcement, which its overall commander, Gemma Piper, had never been comfortable with. In due course, after one dispute too many, Hunter had returned to the Met and his beloved FS – or ‘Sweeney’, as it was known among London’s armed robbery community, whom it exclusively tackled – where he had now, much to Heck’s surprise, been promoted.
‘Listen, Heck … do you need to be in here?’ Hunter asked, seemingly conscious that several other SCU officers were also present, no doubt earwigging. ‘Or can we step outside for a minute?’
Heck threw a grudging glance through the mirror at Reed, who again was making headway with the suspect, before shrugging. ‘I don’t think they’ll miss me.’
‘Who’s Prince Charming, anyway?’ Hunter asked, noticing the object of his annoyance.
‘DI Jack Reed.’ Heck opened the door and moved out into the Custody corridor. ‘Transferred in from Hampshire about three months ago.’
Hunter followed him out. ‘What did he do down there?’
‘I don’t know. Some crap job … probably undeserving of praise.’
Hunter looked curious. ‘You’re not a fan, then?’
‘It’s nothing, I’m just being cynical.’ Heck walked through the Charge Office and tapped out a code on the door connecting to the Custody team’s Refs Room.
‘If he’s that bad how did he finish up in SCU?’
‘He used to work for Joe Wullerton in the Critical Incident Cadre.’
Hunter chuckled. ‘Bit of nepotism in the National Crime Group? Never.’
‘Nah …’ Heck shook his head glumly. ‘He’s good. I mean, he’s so clean he squeaks when he walks, but I can’t pretend he doesn’t know his job.’
‘Well … this is all very interesting, but how about that chat?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
They went into the Refs Room, which currently was empty, and got themselves a coffee from the vending machine in the corner.
‘Sounds like everything’s peachy in the Flying Squad,’ Heck said.
‘To be honest,’ Hunter replied, ‘when I rejoined, I didn’t think I had much of a future.’
‘I always thought it was your natural home.’
‘Yeah, but sometimes it isn’t a plan to go back where you started, is it? Not that Gemma bloody Piper left me much choice. No offence, by the way.’
‘None taken,’ Heck said.
It had been well over a decade since he and Gemma had been an item, and had even, briefly, set up home together; they’d been young detective constables at the time, working divisional CID at Bethnal Green. But much fire and water had gone under the bridge since then, not to mention Gemma’s meteoric rise through the ranks. On first arrival at the Serial Crimes Unit, Heck had never expected to find himself subservient to his former girlfriend. They’d worked together ever since, almost eleven years now, but not always cosily.
‘The Squad’s been good to me, though, as it’s turned out,’ Hunter added. ‘It always has. I mean, it’s not fucking perfect …’
‘Give over, Bob.’ Heck sipped his coffee. ‘What’re you moaning about? There are lads all over the Met who’d kill to get into the Sweeney.’
‘How about you, Heck? Are you one of them?’
Heck snorted. ‘Not in the Met any more, am I?’
‘Jesus, so what? You’ve swapped forces at least three times already to my knowledge. And it’s not like NCG’s got a great future.’
Heck couldn’t deny that. In this age of austerity, the police services of the UK were taking a real hammering. It would only be a matter of time before specialist squads started to feel the pinch as well, and rumours were now rife at Scotland Yard, where the National Crime Group’s HQ was located.
‘And the Flying Squad has?’ Heck wondered.
Hunter barked a laugh. ‘Come off it. We’ve survived everything from machine-gun attacks to corruption charges. A few cutbacks aren’t gonna do for us.’
‘Bob …?’ For the first time, Heck wondered where this conversation was leading. ‘Are you offering me a job, or something?’
‘You’ve surely heard that we’ve got a vacancy for a new DI?’
‘And it’s down to you to find someone to fill it?’
‘I’m running Squad North-East now. There have to be some perks.’
‘There’s one problem with this. You’re looking for a DI … I’m a DS.’
‘Come on, Heck … I think we can make that happen.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yeah, just like that.’ Hunter laughed again. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, pal. With your record, you’ve got credit in the bank. Or have you still got this daft, self-defeating ideal about not wanting to join the brass because you’d rather be a soldier?’
Heck had been offered promotions in the past but had rarely given them a second thought, always insisting that he preferred the front line, and that he’d rather be an investigator than an administrator – though, deep down, and Gemma had once mentioned this to him, he couldn’t help wondering, being the ‘rogue angel’ he was (again, Gemma’s phrase, not his), if it was more a case that he simply didn’t fancy the extra responsibility of DI.
Times changed, of course. And so did attitudes and ambitions.
As he sipped more coffee, he thought again about how comfy the handsome, debonair Jack Reed was in his new role as DI at SCU, which in effect made him Gemma’s deputy. And how comfy Gemma apparently was to have him there.
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