The rest of the captives begged, wept, whimpered.
All came to nothing in the ensuing hail of fire.
Heck was seated in his favourite breakfast bar at the bottom end of Fulham Palace Road, waiting for eggs Benedict, when his eyes strayed from his morning paper and happened to catch a breaking-news bulletin on the portable TV at the end of the counter.
Thanks to the twisted metal coat-hanger serving as the TV’s aerial, the image continually flickered, but Heck, slumped at the nearest table, was too close to avoid the photographic mug-shot that suddenly appeared on the screen. It portrayed a man in his late thirties or early forties. He was handsome, with a square jaw, a straight, patrician nose and a mop of what looked like prematurely greying hair. Even though the shot had clearly been taken in custody, he wore a sly but subtle grin.
Heck sat bolt upright.
‘Rochester,’ the newscaster intoned, ‘who was convicted of abducting and murdering thirty-eight women across the whole of England and Wales, was serving life at Brancaster Prison when he developed chest pains late yesterday afternoon. It was during his subsequent transfer to hospital when the incident occurred …’
The scene switched to an isolated road, possibly on the coast somewhere, though a barricade of police vehicles with beacons swirling prevented further access to the camera crew. Beyond them, police, forensics and medical personnel were glimpsed moving around in Tyvek coveralls. In front of the barricade stood two firearms response officers, MP5 rifles across their chests.
The gorgeous Jamaican lady behind the counter leaned over to switch the channel.
‘Whoa, no Tamara … please, I was watching that!’ Heck shouted.
She relented, sticking her tongue out at him as she moved away.
Heck remained transfixed on the screen.
‘There are reports of at least sixteen fatalities,’ the newscaster added, ‘though that number is yet to be confirmed, and of course it may increase. None of those listed, or so we’re told, is Peter Rochester … better known to the public of course as Mad Mike Silver. Rob Kent is on site with the latest …’
Rob Kent appeared on screen, a plump reporter with a balding head and wire-framed glasses. He looked pale and harassed. ‘It’s … well, it’s a terrible scene here,’ he began. ‘As you can see, the place is flooded with security personnel. Not to mention ambulances, though I have to say … I’ve yet to see any ambulances leave, though I have seen several undertakers’ hearses moving away, carrying what looked like closed caskets. This obviously means they’re moving, or have started to move, some of the dead …’
‘Do we have a clearer picture of the circumstances, Rob?’
The reporter raised his mike. ‘Well … no one’s saying very much yet, but it seems pretty clear to me. To start with, this is an incredibly bleak spot. We’re over twenty miles from King’s Lynn, nearer thirty miles from Fakenham. There is literally no other habitation anywhere near …’
He walked to his right, the camera panning with him, catching open grassland, ripples of wind blowing across it towards a flat but hazy horizon.
‘So this is the ideal spot to launch an ambush … if indeed an ambush it was. From what we can gather, the security detail taking Rochester to hospital was subjected to a highly disciplined assault. I haven’t had this confirmed by any senior members of the police yet, but those are the words I’m hearing: “a highly disciplined assault”.’
Kent shook his head; doubtless he was a seasoned reporter, a man who’d witnessed the aftermath of many atrocities, but he looked genuinely shaken by what he’d witnessed on the lonely road from Brancaster to King’s Lynn.
‘Can you confirm whether or not Peter Rochester is on the casualty list, Rob?’
‘The official line is that we have no word about Rochester’s location or condition at this time. Of course, he was being transferred to hospital because he was thought to have suffered a heart attack yesterday afternoon, so what state he’s likely to be in now is anyone’s guess …’
Heck stood up, his chair scraping back so loudly that other customers jumped. ‘Tamara, love!’ he shouted. ‘You’re going to have to cancel those Benedicts.’
She turned from the range, dismayed. ‘They’re almost done!’
‘Sorry darling … I’ve got to go. I’m sure someone else’ll appreciate them.’ He hurled the requisite money onto the counter and dashed from the café.
‘Heck … you’re flaming murder!’
Various SCU detectives were present in the DO when Heck barged in, still in his day-off gear of jeans, sweatshirt and trainers. The first one to see him came hurriedly across the office. It was DC Shawna McCluskey. Originally, like Heck, a member of Greater Manchester Police, she was short, athletic and dark-haired, but a toughie too, whose pretty freckled face belied her blunt, blue-collar attitude.
‘I bloody wouldn’t, Heck!’ she advised. ‘I genuinely wouldn’t.’
‘Seriously, pal,’ DS Eric Fisher added, lumbering up. He was SCU’s main intelligence man, and possibly the oldest officer still on the team. He was heavily built and pot-bellied, wore horn-rimmed glasses, and boasted a massive red/grey beard that the average Viking would have been proud of. ‘This has hit Gemma too … like a bombshell.’
‘Yeah, she’s been up half the night and she’s at her wits’ end,’ Shawna said.
‘So she’s in?’ Heck replied.
‘For the next few minutes, yeah. Then she’s off to Norfolk.’
‘She taking point on this?’
‘Deputy SIO,’ Fisher said. ‘They’re putting a taskforce together as we speak.’
Heck gave a wry smile. ‘Let me guess … Frank Tasker’s running it?’
‘He’s in there with her now.’
‘SOCAR …’ Heck shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t pay them in washers. I presume “we have no word about Rochester’s location or condition” is a euphemism for the bastard’s been sprung, flipping us the finger as he went?’
Fisher shrugged. ‘They haven’t got a clue where he is.’
‘And I suppose SOCAR were in charge of the transfer?’
‘Yeah, but that means they’ve taken the most losses,’ Shawna said. ‘Look Heck, Tasker seems an okay bloke … but he’s going to be feeling it today.’
‘I knew we weren’t done with these murdering, raping bastards …’
‘We are done with them,’ Shawna insisted. ‘You’ve heard what Gemma said. You’re not involved.’ But he was already backing to the door. ‘Heck, don’t do this.’
He left the room.
‘Oh shit,’ Shawna said.
‘You got that right,’ Fisher agreed.
Heck walked up the central corridor to Gemma’s cramped little office. The door stood ajar and he could hear voices inside. They weren’t heated or raised, but there was tension there – he could tell that much already. He knocked.
‘This had better be really important!’ came Gemma’s whipcrack response.
‘I’d say it was important, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘Can I come in?’
There