A Wanted Man [A PC Heckenburg Short Story]. Paul Finch

could afford to look like that, couldn’t he, spending every hour of every shift in his command chair.

      ‘Go on!’ Shawna urged Heck. ‘What did you say?’ She wore that impish, pixie grin of hers. She’d find it hilarious of course, when Heck finally told her.

      ‘I’d just stopped and searched two lads on Oldman Street.’

      ‘Justifiably, I hope?’

      ‘Hey, they were out at two in the morning. On a Wednesday. Plus, I was sure I’d heard smashing glass a minute earlier.’

      She looked amused and sceptical both at the same time. ‘Really?’

      ‘I was driving around, looking for the source of it, when I stopped them.’

      ‘And that’s when you thought you’d run a PNC check?’

      ‘Course.’

      ‘And gave verbal procedure a miss?’

      ‘Well …’

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘Look, I was under pressure. I was on my tod, there were two of them … they had a shifty look and they were giving me a packet of grief, telling me I’d stopped them purely ’cause they were Stone Roses look-alikes, that it was harassment. All the usual shit. So I grabbed the radio, trying to keep an eye on both of them … trying to keep my temper and at the same time get their details. But all I actually said to Crawford was: “Two scrotes for the box, sarge, if you’ve got a sec”.’

      ‘“Two scrotes for the box?”’ Shawna snickered again, then guffawed. ‘You’d better hope no members of the public overheard … a recipe for disaster, that. But listen, Heck, you can’t screw up Comms’s meticulous procedures … you’ve got to give ’em everything up front, you know that. Anyway, I take it there was no joy?’

      ‘No trace, not wanted, not known … you name it. Had to let the little sods go.’

      ‘Maybe someone’ll find a break in the morning?’

      ‘Yeah, and CID will get the prisoners.’

      ‘Never mind. Perhaps you’ll catch the Spider instead.’

      ‘Nah.’ Heck turned thoughtful again. ‘DI Channing reckons he’s well away. Waste of time even thinking about him.’

      ‘Give over,’ she said, ‘… you’d love to nail that bastard, wouldn’t you!’

      ‘Who wouldn’t? But … like I say,’ Heck shook his head with certainty, ‘he’s well gone.’

      ‘Just think … you nab the Spider and you can shove him up Don Crawford’s arse.’ She grinned. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about that?’

      Heck shrugged and said nothing.

      The so-called ‘Spider’ was a prolific housebreaker who’d been terrorising the whole of West Manchester for the last three years. The press had dubbed him with his bizarre nickname because of his apparent array of acrobatic skills. He often entered private residences via skylights or upstairs windows, usually having scaled the drainage pipes and wormed his way in through the narrowest of gaps. Having been chased in the past, he’d escaped over rooftops, leaping drops between structures and vaulting high garden walls. Even so, the nickname had caused annoyance in some quarters because it was felt it was over-sensational, thus diluting the seriousness of the felon’s crimes – though technically a burglar, he was primarily a sex offender, raping and beating the lone female occupants of the houses he targeted. To date he’d struck eighteen times, though his most recent offence had been a year last September, which suggested to Detective Inspector Channing’s thirty-man taskforce that he’d either been imprisoned for something else, had been injured or become ill, or maybe even had died.

      Heck wasn’t completely convinced by that, but what did he know? He had long-term ambitions to join CID, but at present he was a mere uniform, so his opinions weren’t required. Most likely they were right anyway. They’d had all sorts of shrinks and crime analysts working on the case. Heck had read the progress bulletins with interest, and though their authors acknowledged there could be no certainty about this, they all affirmed that predators of this sort rarely stopped of their own volition. The Spider might be lying low, taking a voluntary break from his nocturnal hobby, but most likely something had happened to him.

      ‘Anyway, don’t let Crawford get you down,’ Shawna said with another yawn. ‘Everyone knows what a self-important prick he is, sitting up there in his central-heated palace, acting like he’s running the whole show. The most excitement he gets in the day is bollocking bobbies.’

      ‘I’ll get another bollocking later, when Murph nabs me,’ Heck said.

      Murph, or Bill Murphy, was the section sergeant on their relief. A big, brutish-looking, raw-boned bloke, Murph belied his appearance with an inclination towards affability, but as a former sergeant in the Guards he could be a holy terror when he wanted to, and he too would have heard the public humiliation of one of his constables, and therefore, in his opinion, the public humiliation of his entire team.

      ‘Better get working then,’ Shawna said, primly fitting her hat back in place, tucking her ponytail out of sight. ‘Lock some scrotes up before morning and he’ll probably cut you a load of slack.’

      She opened the passenger door, the stale air of the wasteland wafting in. Heck gazed downhill to the silent edifices of the flats. Their last few lights had been extinguished. The only movement out there was provided by dead leaves and scraps of fluttering litter driven by the breeze. It was difficult to see where the next arrest was going to come from tonight.

      ‘1415 from Five?’ came the crackly radio voice of PC Linzi Gornall.

      ‘Go ahead, Linz,’ he replied.

       ‘Heck … can you look at a domestic on Kersal Rise, over?’

      He glanced at his watch. It was ten past three in the morning. A domestic at this hour was likely to be a doozy. ‘Affirmative. What’s the address, over?’

       ‘Number eighteen.’

      ‘Roger, received …’ And then Heck paused, radio in hand.

      ‘What’s the matter?’ Shawna asked, half way out but now stopping.

      ‘I know 18, Kersal Rise,’ he said. ‘A lady called Alice Henshaw lives there. But she’s seventy years old and a widow.’ He put his radio back to his lips. ‘1415 to Five … any details, over?’

       ‘Neighbour reported screaming and shouting about two minutes ago, over.’

      Heck glanced at Shawna. ‘That’s no domestic, that’s a break … quick, close the door!’

      She jumped back in alongside him, and he threw the van into gear, swinging it around in a gravel-spurting three-point-turn.

      ‘Kersal Rise is off my beat,’ Shawna said. ‘I show up there, I’ll get a bollocking too.’

      ‘Tell them I picked you up en route. This isn’t a domestic, Shawna … and I need a wingman!’

      ‘You don’t think …?’

      ‘The Spider?’ he said, as he spun around the next corner, pushing his speedo past forty. ‘Dunno … but Alice Henshaw lives alone, and every address he’s attacked so far had a single female occupant. Plus it’s after 3 a.m. … the Spider always attacks between three and four.’

      ‘3395 to Five!’ Shawna shouted into her radio.

      ‘Go ahead, Shawna.’

      ‘I’m en route to 18, Kersal Rise with 1415 … we’re currently on Kingsway Lane, heading towards Station Avenue. Listen, Linzi … Heck knows the occupant of that address. It’s a