Kiss of Death. Paul Finch

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