The Burning Man Read online

  ‘I’m running my dad’s business now.’

  If Heck recalled correctly, Kayla’s father had owned a car repair centre and body-shop somewhere in the town centre. ‘You a mechanic these days,’ he asked, ‘or just the business head?’

  ‘How about both?’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Full of surprises, aren’t I?’

  ‘So your dad? Is he …?

  Her smile only faltered a little. ‘Passed on, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ah … sorry.’

  ‘Mum popped her clogs when we were still at school, you’ll remember?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Dad only went about ten years ago, but same thing. Too much booze, too many cigs. I was already running the garage for him by then, anyway. He’d been training me up. I’m a dab hand with a panel-beater, me … and an absolute killer with a blowtorch.’

  Heck laughed. ‘Nice to keep the family tradition going.’

  ‘How about you? Aside from coppering, you still scoring tries for free on the RL field?’

  Heck, who was in the act of sipping his pint, snorted froth. ‘Gimme a break.’

  ‘Why? You’re not too old. You look fit enough.’

  ‘No time for it now.’ He put his drink down. ‘No time for anything.’

  ‘To be honest, I thought you’d have gone on to be a pro,’ she said. ‘You were good enough.’

  ‘Nah,’ he said firmly. ‘I stopped playing when Tom died.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise …’ A shadow of regret crossed her face, as if it had only just occurred to her that this might be a touchy subject. Even so, she let the words hang – she was clearly intrigued to know more.

  ‘Felt wrong to carry on doing sport,’ Heck explained. ‘Changed everything in our family, that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I suppose it would, yeah.’

  ‘So I knuckled down to my A-levels instead. I’d been lax on the education front up till then.’

  When Kayla smiled this time, it was softer, laced with a genuine sympathy. ‘I’m sorry all that happened to you, Mark. Must’ve been very difficult.’

  Heck couldn’t help wondering how much she knew. How much any of them knew, those friends and acquaintances who’d once peopled these terraced streets he’d called home.

  At the time, it was common knowledge in their neighbourhood that Tom had rebelled against his family’s old-fashioned blue-collar ethos by turning into a counterculture drop-out, and that in due course, having started off by smoking grass with his slacker mates, had slowly got himself into harder and harder drugs, which eventually had led him into petty crime, and finally into the hands of the police. It was also widely known that Tom had then been held on suspicion of being the ‘Granny Basher’, a brutal housebreaker who for several months had been terrorising the old folks of Bradburn. The Granny Basher’s main motivation was apparently to steal, but he’d also quite clearly enjoyed the extreme violence he’d inflicted on his frail victims, most of whom had never really recovered afterwards.

  Tom was innocent of that; of course he was innocent – he’d never once broken into a dwelling house, and even in those latter days, when he was constantly looking for his next fix, there wasn’t a violent bone in his body. But, very conveniently for the hard-pressed CID unit who were hunting the Granny Basher, they’d suddenly found themselves with this lad in custody who’d been arrested by uniforms for breaking into the park café. That was a link to the Granny Basher crimes, of a sort … wasn’t it? Moreover, while the physical similarities between Tom and the photo-fit of the main suspect were not conclusive, they were notable. It still shouldn’t have been enough. But with a lack of professionalism bordering on the farcical, the investigating officers had begun bending facts to fit the thesis. This lad they currently had in custody for doing the park café – he didn’t just look like the Granny Basher, they said, he was the Granny Basher. He was a junkie burglar scrote whom no one liked. OK, there was minimum forensic evidence, but this was back in ’92 – it was only six years after the first ever use of DNA in a British murder investigation; that whole field of technology was in its infancy, so while there was nothing to indisputably place Tom at the crime scenes, there was nothing to place anyone else there either.

  Anyway, the fact that there was no smoking gun was easily resolved.

  Young Tom, eighteen at the time, was no tough guy, and all it took were a couple of fierce interrogations, two or three hairy-arsed detectives giving him a hard time, to break him down.

  It’s amazing what you’ll admit to when you’re strung out and desperate to shoot up.

  Tom’s eventual sentence was life imprisonment with a minimum tariff of thirty years. He would have been two years off his fiftieth birthday when he first became eligible for parole.

  Oh, yes, Kayla would know all that, because it had totally scandalised the once respected family in this traditional working-class neighbourhood. She would also know that about one month later Tom Heckenburg would commit suicide in the prison shower, using a razor to slash his wrists and groin. She’d also be aware – as everyone was, because this had gone on to be an even bigger scandal – that only about three weeks after that, a couple of sharp-eyed Bradburn beat-bobbies had grabbed a notorious thief and mugger, Luke Gaskell, while he was leaving a Blackhall house by the back gate at three o’clock in the morning, wearing a freshly bloodstained sweatshirt and gloves. Inside the house lay the bludgeoned, half-dead body of the eighty-year-old widow who lived there. It seemed the real Granny Basher, though he’d taken the opportunity of Tom Heckenburg’s arrest and conviction to lie low, hadn’t been able to suppress his yearning for very long, and had finally been caught red-handed – literally.

  But what she likely would not know was the reason why only three years later, Mark Heckenburg, Tom’s once adoring younger brother, would go off and join the police himself. And not just any old police, but the Greater Manchester Police, members of whom had framed his sibling. Of course, it was highly possible Kayla would guess that this was why, two years after that, Heck had voluntarily reassigned from Manchester to London … because surely no one could be ostracised so much by their own family and not eventually flee from it.

  ‘It’s all in the past now,’ Heck said, doing his best not to speak in the stony monotone these painful memories always seemed to keelhaul out of him. ‘I’ve got other priorities now.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve read about you in the paper a couple of times,’ Kayla said, bright-eyed again, smiling. ‘That scary business in Surrey … that stuff up in the Lakes.’

  Heck felt absurdly grateful that she was being mature enough to help him move the conversation on, and that she hadn’t taken the opportunity to bluntly ask him – as so many others had over the years – what on earth he’d been thinking about when he’d gone and joined up.

  ‘That’s National Crime Group for you,’ he said. ‘It’s not intentional. I just happen to be in the team that gets sent out to these nasty jobs.’

  ‘And the next nasty one’s here in Bradburn?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Come on, Mark. It can’t be a coincidence that you show up here just when all these murders are happening. It was all over the local rag yesterday. They said a specialist Scotland Yard team’s taken charge of the investigation. Is that not the National Crime Group?’

  Kayla now spoke with a thinly suppressed smirk. She was ribbing him again – as if they’d already shared so much that it was only a matter of time before he’d give in and tell her all his secrets, and that if he didn’t it was stingingly unfair on her.

  ‘To be specific, it’s the Serial Crimes Unit,’ he said, playing along but not divulging any info that wasn’t already in the public domain. ‘I’m in SCU, and we have a lot of expertise where homicide is concerned. So, yes, it’s true – we’re helping out.’

  She took another drink. ‘I hope you have more luck than the bobbies up here have had.’

  ‘We tend to trust to more than luck.’

/>   ‘I’m glad to hear it. There’s way too much crime in Bradburn these days.’ She pulled a disgusted expression. ‘More like a junkie sewer than the town me and you grew up in. Hasn’t got an inch of its self-respect left. Maybe you should transfer back permanently, eh? It’d certainly keep you busy.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I like my roving commission.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘I like working all over the country. Stops me getting bored.’

  Her eyes twinkled. ‘So that’s all it would take to keep you here? Stop you getting bored?’

  Heck smiled again, unsure how to answer – even by Kayla’s kittenish standards, this was a little bit forward. But then she glanced over his shoulder and registered a presence in the pub behind them. Heck turned.

  Father Pat McPhearson had entered the taproom. All these years later, Heck’s uncle still favoured a black raincoat and black trilby, though he removed the latter and hung it on a stand before walking to the bar, rolling his shoulders as though to loosen them. He wore his thinning grey hair longish and greased back, just the way Heck remembered it. The priest’s angular face belonged as much on a weathered statue as a living man: all sharp bones, its features pitted, craggy and cut.

  ‘Double Jameson’s, Harry, please,’ he told the landlord in the gruff Lancashire voice Heck had heard so many times echoing dramatically from the pulpit.

  Kayla rose to her feet and walked towards him. Heck rose too, but waited by the table.

  ‘Day’s work done, Father?’ she asked.

  ‘Hopefully, love, hopefully.’ He sipped blissfully from the amber spirit as he unbuttoned his coat, showing the black shirt and clerical collar underneath. But before he could say more, his eyes fell on his nephew, and the tumbler halted about nine inches below his mouth.

  ‘The devil!’ he said slowly.

  Kayla smiled. ‘Not quite, but I understand the confusion.’

  ‘How you doing, Uncle Pat?’ Heck said.

  ‘Well, I’m … I’m … Bloody marvellous to see you!’ The priest looked astounded. ‘But I’m totally gobsmacked. I never knew you were coming up to visit us.’

  He put the glass down, gripped his nephew’s hand in both of his own and pumped it. From the big grin that split his creased, weather-worn features, it was clear he was genuinely delighted.

  ‘He’s only here on business,’ Kayla warned.

  Father Pat glanced from one to the other, briefly puzzled. And then the truth hit him.

  ‘Oh, God in Heaven!’ He grimaced as though in pain. ‘These God-awful murders?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Heck said.

  Father Pat’s brow darkened as he scooped up his drink. He shook his head vigorously. ‘It’s been non-stop since they started, one following another.’ He imparted all this as though Heck was likely to be in need of such information. ‘There was one only the other night, down by the canal. It’s getting so that people won’t even go out. Not alone anyway. God help these tortured souls, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘We’ll do what we can, Uncle Pat,’ Heck said. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Well …’ The priest broke from his reverie to briefly eye his nephew with curiosity, perhaps never having considered that his sister’s youngest son might someday be their potential saviour. The moment passed, and he smiled. ‘If nothing else, at least it’s brought you back to us.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s really come back to us,’ Kayla said.

  Again, the clerical gaze bounced quizzically between them. ‘Do you two know each other?’

  ‘I’ll say,’ she replied.

  ‘We were at school together,’ Heck said. ‘But not to worry. I’ll be up here as long as I’m working on the case. You’ll see plenty of me, I hope.’

  ‘Were you planning to stay at the presbytery?’

  ‘I was half thinking about that … but not now. Seems my old room’s unavailable?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately.’ Father Pat frowned. ‘We’re having some work done at the church. Repointing, replastering, the gutters need fixing, the roof relining … I’ve also had the entire ceiling painted eggshell blue, with a few stars added. Sooner or later, I thought I at least ought to try to create an impression of Heaven on Earth.’

  ‘First thing anyone would think of in Bradburn,’ Heck commented.

  ‘Your room’s full of clutter as a result, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I can find some other digs.’

  ‘Have you got a key to Dana’s house?’ the priest asked. ‘Because if you haven’t, I’ve got a spare you can use.’

  Heck tried not to show how wary he was of this suggestion. ‘I don’t think that’d be a very good idea, Uncle Pat.’

  ‘Nonsense, I’m sure she’d expect you to stay there. She’s abroad, by the way. Sarah’s had a bad dose of flu and they’re convalescing for a week in Malta.’

  ‘Sarah’s OK?’ Heck asked.

  ‘She’ll be fine.’

  ‘OK … good. Well, look, don’t worry about me. Most likely my boss will have sorted somewhere for me. Probably at a local B&B.’

  In actual fact, Heck didn’t think this at all. Given the size of the operation Gemma was now heading up, it seemed probable that his sleeping arrangements would not be foremost in her mind. Which, he supposed – somewhat inevitably – brought him back to Cranby Street.

  Dana was never unwelcoming – quite the opposite. But Heck had bunked there only once since leaving home in 1995 – and that had been a similar situation to this in that he’d had no other option. But on that occasion he’d had company, plus there’d been more immediate issues to deal with, whereas tonight he’d be alone, his mind no doubt swirling with unfettered and miserable memories.

  Father Pat arched a bushy eyebrow. ‘Dana won’t be happy if you don’t spend at least one night under her roof. And you know what a spitfire she can be.’

  ‘Seems like the wrong thing to do without asking her permission.’

  ‘Come up to the presbytery and get the key,’ the priest urged him. ‘They’re back in a couple of days, anyway. If nothing else, you can tell Dana you tried but that it didn’t work out.’

  Heck pondered again. It was mid-evening now, and anyone’s guess what standard of accommodation he’d be able to find in Bradburn at this hour. The town had long boasted its quota of cheap hotels and rooming houses, but they were poor quality for the most part. If memory served, there was a Travelodge or some such thing on the outskirts of the borough – that would be decent, but it would mean having to slog in and out of town every day. On the other hand, his sister’s house in Cranby Street would be sparkling clean, the bedrooms tidy, the bedding fresh. There’d also be food in the fridge and booze in the drinks cabinet. In addition, it was no more than ten minutes from the town centre, so it’d be no problem getting to the nick first thing tomorrow.

  ‘All right.’ He nodded resignedly. ‘Can’t do any harm to crash there one night at least.’

  The priest nodded too, and finished his whiskey. ‘Bad times, Mark, bad times. I’m glad to see you, though.’

  ‘Glad to see you too, Uncle Pat.’

  Despite all the scepticism he held about this place, Heck meant that at least.

  Over the last two decades he’d taught himself to live without the support network the average family might provide. This didn’t mean that, deep down at some hidden emotional level, he didn’t miss his relatives, and it wasn’t as if his uncle hadn’t at least offered him a berth in his early days as a Manchester copper, when his parents had shown him the door. OK, there was still some kind of discussion to be had about Heck’s mother’s death from kidney failure thirteen years ago, and why the priest had only informed him about it after she was buried. It was possibly understandable that Heck had never been asked to the funeral of his father, who had died with lung cancer four years before that – the old man wouldn’t have wanted his ‘traitor son’ anywhere near and would probably have made his wife and her brother swear to this w
hile he lay on his deathbed. But once Mary Heckenburg had gone, surely Father Pat could have exercised his own judgement? Heck wasn’t sure what the explanation was there, but that was a conversation for another time. Now, it would only serve to sour the mood.

  ‘So who do you think’s responsible for these crimes?’ the priest asked, collecting his hat from the stand.

  Heck was noncommittal. ‘Anyone’s guess at present.’

  ‘Gangsters fighting over the drugs trade, isn’t it?’ Kayla said. ‘That’s what the papers are saying.’

  ‘The papers are theorising,’ Heck replied. ‘We’ve got to go where the evidence takes us.’

  Father Pat shook his head again as though the whole thing still baffled and revolted him. He buttoned up his coat. ‘Do you want me for anything, Kayla?’

  ‘Not especially,’ she said. ‘Just wondering when you’ll next need me.’

  ‘Sunday’s fine. Usual time.’

  She nodded and smiled, and then turned to Heck as he finished the last of his beer.

  ‘This is for you.’ She handed him a small card. He saw that it was a business card. It referred to the company she’d taken charge of, Greenways Autofix, but it also included her personal contact details, her email address and mobile phone number, both of which she appeared to have circled in biro. ‘I’m sure you’re not going to be working every single hour while you’re up here, Mark,’ she said. ‘I mean, you’re bound to have some recreation time that’ll need filling …’

  ‘Erm … I hope so, yeah.’

  She winked, sat back at the table and reopened her laptop.

  ‘You ready?’ Father Pat asked, pulling his hat on. ‘Follow me up there, if you like.’

  Heck nodded, waved at Kayla – she returned the gesture with a simple waggle of her fingers – and he went out with his uncle onto the rain-wet pavement.

  Heck glanced again at the business card, vaguely bemused.

  A lot of water had passed under the bridge since he and Kayla had been kids, but even so he remembered the good times they’d had, one glorious June evening in particular when they were sixteen and had lost their virginity to each other in a tent in a wooded section of the park. Shyly for sure, and clumsily … but eventually very successfully, and God, it had been fun. Over the following couple of years he’d occasionally seen Kayla for a smooch and fondle – in discos or at house parties. But they’d never officially dated, most likely because she hadn’t seen much more in him than a school jock who long-term wasn’t going anywhere. Things were different now, of course, though perhaps not as much where Kayla was concerned. She’d been quite a catch back in the day. Now, as he’d noted, she was more buxom, more womanly, but still a beauty – that raven hair, those violet eyes.