‘Dirty old men,’ she replied with disgust.
‘Dogging’s a popular sport these days. You get codgers, you get husky athletic types. All sorts.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it?’
‘Hey, I’m a man of the world.’ Todd was making light of the situation, though he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder again, eyes roving the empty, moon-dappled tarmac behind them. It was funny how once you’d told yourself you weren’t alone in a dark and lonely place, it was difficult to get the idea out of your head. Not that it was easy to be distracted by this for long, the way Cheryl was now moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue.
‘I hope you’re going to show me how much of a man you are in a minute,’ she said.
He grinned as he drove.
This time they parked at the foot of the access lane, about thirty yards from the car park entrance. Even though a slice of grey, moonlit ribbon was visible where the main road passed by, deep, skeletal thickets blotted out the rest. Todd hurriedly unzipped his flies and pulled his trousers to his knees, pushing his underpants down after them. As his engorged penis sprang to life, Cheryl climbed over the gearstick to face him, straddling his lap. He entered her easily and quickly.
She grunted gently as she rode him, wrapping her arms around his neck, bending her head down to greedily kiss at his lips, their tongues lashing. Cheryl screwed her eyes shut to suffer no other distractions, to maximise every millisecond of bliss. And then, for some reason unknown to her, she opened them again.
Only briefly, fleetingly – but that was when she realised they had company.
At first she thought the tall figure with the glowing green eyes was standing in the car park directly behind them – only to realise that this was a reflection on the inside of the rear window. The figure was actually standing in front of the car.
As if telepathically connected, Todd realised someone was there too. His eyes snapped open and he stared past Cheryl’s suddenly rigid shoulder, focusing on the figure about twenty yards in front. He couldn’t distinguish anything about it except that it was taut, as though twisted partly around. In the very same second Todd realised why this was. The figure was straining on some complex, hi-tech instrument; he appeared to have drawn a heavy cord back to his shoulder.
Todd gasped, choked …
It was a bow and arrow.
There was a muffled twang.
And the windscreen shattered.
When Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper gave you a bollocking, you knew you’d been bollocked. They didn’t call her ‘the Lioness’ for nothing. When Gemma roared, the corridors at New Scotland Yard shook. And she was articulate with it, so it wasn’t just uncontrolled rage you were exposed to; her choice of words could be so scathing that even if delivered in terms of friendly banter, they could make an eavesdropper wince.
And this wasn’t friendly banter.
Heck sat alone outside her office as he listened to the racket within. Because of his rank, Bob Hunter had been summoned in to see the superintendent first. That had been a good thirty minutes ago, and Gemma was still tearing strips off him, the whipcrack voice penetrating the closed door and ringing down the central corridor of the Serial Crimes Unit. By the sounds of it, she’d now moved from criticising Hunter’s handling of the enquiry, primarily the way he’d allowed it to ‘crash and burn’, to something more akin to common abuse. Phrases like ‘swaggering overconfidence’, ‘buffoonish disregard for protocol’, and ‘off-the-scale ineptitude’ sounded decidedly non-specific.
In one respect, it all seemed a little unfair, given that the M1 murders had officially been solved. The evidence found in the wrecked van, including the pistol used in all the killings, had strongly indicated that the Savage twins were the culprits. What was more, two days ago, the inquest into their deaths, which had delayed the team returning to base from Milton Keynes, had returned a verdict of death by misadventure, so there ought to be no further questions regarding the double fatality.
The problem was that even though the case of the M1 Maniac was now firmly closed, the press, who had fed on it for months in a shark-like frenzy, weren’t content to leave it there. With the inquest over, the finer details of the enquiry had been made public, and fascinated journalists had pored over them, determined to find mistakes. It almost seemed as if the actions of two cold-blooded serial killers had provided insufficient explanation for the deaths of eight teenage boys. Any errors made by those charged with catching the deranged duo had to be immediately and ruthlessly exposed, as though these constituted sins as reprehensible as the homicides themselves.
Heck wouldn’t ordinarily dispute that viewpoint – it was the job of the police to catch killers, and if they couldn’t do it, they ought to be asked why. But the hunt for the M1 Maniac had stirred widespread panic across southern England and put intolerable pressure on the investigating team. There’d been massive interference at all levels, both judicial and political; everyone from the Prime Minister down to the average petty criminal had stridently demanded a resolution. Exhaustion had set in, mental and physical, so it was no wonder errors were made by the team: failure to follow up leads, failure to update computer files, innocent suspects suffering heavy-handed treatment from overworked officers, and so forth.
Now, after the revelation that Jordan Savage had been spoken to at an early stage of the investigation but then disregarded, resulting in he and his brother going on to commit a further five murders – the press were having an absolute field day.
‘Keystone Cops,’ one headline proclaimed over a photograph of the Yard’s famous revolving signpost. ‘Police 2, Bad Guys 9,’ another said. Its strapline added: ‘So how dare they claim victory’. It was enough to make even Heck cringe with guilt, and he was the one who had broken the case.
He wasn’t sure where to look when the door to Gemma’s office opened and Bob Hunter came stiffly out. The DI winked, but the only colour registering in his chastened face were two dots of bright pink, one on either cheekbone. He stuck a thumb over his shoulder at the half-closed door, turned and perambulated down the corridor, his gait slow and delicate.
Heck stood up and brushed his hair with his hand, before knocking.
‘Yes?’ came an irritable voice.
Heck walked in, closing the door behind him.
‘Ah-hah … the arresting officer!’ Gemma said. ‘Or something to that effect.’
Her personal office was always fastidiously neat – and rather bare, in fact some would say ‘spartan’ – and yet surprisingly small, given her high rank. Of course, this made it all the easier for it to be filled by her towering personality.
Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper was formidable; a force of nature. Her beauty helped her in this regard. It was fierce, leonine (hence the nickname) – she had wild, ash-blonde hair, blue eyes, red lips, flawless features – all the usual accoutrements of fine femininity, yet somehow it combined to create a warrior rather than a princess. In addition she was tall and athletically built, and she dressed to enhance this; men could be reduced to jelly in Gemma’s presence for all kinds of reasons. Heck knew this better than anyone, because at one time, many years ago now, he’d shared her life and her bed.
‘Morning, ma’am,’ he said.
She pointed to the chair in front of her desk. He sat.
‘You know why I want to see you?’ She leaned forward, fingers steepled. She was pale in the cheek, but her anger seemed to have abated a little, presumably because she’d vented most of it on Bob Hunter – though there was still a menacing snap in her tone.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Because this …’ and she