Ashes to Ashes: An unputdownable thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller. Paul Finch

company, he was safe, stable and apparently considerate to her in every way. Hell, why shouldn’t the guy raise questions about what Shawna did for a living? If he genuinely loved her, he’d be worried for her safety every day she spent in an outfit like SCU. Having initially felt hostile towards Todd, Heck now found himself warming to the guy even without having met him.

      ‘The light duties option doesn’t appeal?’ Gemma asked. ‘There’s no such thing as a job for life in the cops any more, but with your record, Shawna, I’m sure I can swing something.’

      ‘Permanent light duties, ma’am?’ Shawna said. ‘After SCU? That’d be even more likely to kill me.’

      Heck understood that part of it, at least.

      ‘It’s better if I just make a clean break,’ she added.

      Gemma nodded understandingly. ‘In the meantime, what work have you got outstanding?’

      ‘Nothing that can’t be picked up by someone else.’

      ‘I’ll take care of it,’ Heck said. ‘I’m at the Old Bailey for a couple of days from tomorrow, but I can sort it after that. Don’t fret.’

      ‘Shawna?’ Gemma asked again. ‘Are you sure this is what you want?’

      Shawna took a deep, painful breath, and nodded.

      ‘OK … well, it’s your call. When you due to get out of here?’

      ‘I’ve not asked, ma’am.’ Shawna’s eyelids fluttered, as if fatigue was overtaking her – as well it might, given the cocktail of drugs she was on. ‘And I’m not bothered. Thanks for coming to see me, though. Sorry I’ve nothing better to tell you.’

      They left, walking without speaking back to the hospital exit.

      ‘You know she doesn’t really want to leave?’ Heck said when they arrived in the car park. ‘She’s probably just in shock.’

      ‘Sometimes when you’re in shock you get greater clarity of vision,’ Gemma replied.

      ‘I thought Sagan had killed her for sure. If he hadn’t been panicking himself, he would have. He’d have put that bullet straight between her eyes.’

      ‘Most normal folk would have thought they’d done enough damage cracking her skull open.’

      ‘I think we can safely say there’s nothing normal about John Sagan, ma’am.’

      Gemma eyed him sidelong as they strode, appraising his pale, tense features, his taut body-language.

      ‘We’re going to handle this investigation professionally, aren’t we?’ she asked.

      ‘As always.’

      ‘We’re not going to go looking for payback?’

      ‘Do I ever, ma’am?’

      ‘It’s just that you seem, I dunno … edgy?’

      ‘What can I say, ma’am. It’s been a disappointing morning. For all sorts of reasons.’

      ‘We’re not thinking of going solo on this, are we?’

      She halted and probed him with those penetrating blue eyes of hers. Heck smiled in response, which, from her expression, didn’t look as if it reassured her much. Heck and Gemma had clashed several times in the recent past over his preference for working on his own, though he’d often argued that this stemmed from his either mistrusting those around him or finding them inadequate – he’d argued this point unsuccessfully, it had to be said.

      ‘No chance.’ He shrugged, walking on, as if it was ridiculous that she’d have any doubts. ‘Shawna’ll pull through. Plus, this time we’re frying a much bigger fish. It isn’t personal.’

      ‘And I’ve told you not to. That would be even more of a reason, wouldn’t it?’

      He nodded. ‘Lots of motivation to keep this one by the book.’

      Gemma still looked unconvinced. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d soft-soaped her to try and buy himself extra leg-room. She knew perfectly well that Heck and Shawna were more than just work colleagues. They’d never been lovers, but they’d known each other virtually since the commencement of their two careers, and that was a huge thing in cop terms; on top of that, as fellow natives of the Northwest exiled in London, they’d drawn additional strength and comfort from each other’s presence in that curious, indefinable way that only those of close heritage did when thrown together as strangers in a strange land.

      ‘That’s as long as the Organised Crime Division don’t muscle their way in,’ he felt it necessary to add, though immediately he could have kicked himself for saying this. Whatever your inner turmoil, you didn’t give Gemma Piper conditions. It could literally be a red rag to a bull. But on this occasion – despite working her lips together tightly, as if she was strongly tempted to say something sharp in response – her reply was cool and measured.

      ‘They won’t. They’re making a lot of noise at present, but they’re also a bit shamefaced about blundering in on our operation. They know they’re walking on thin ice.’

      ‘Who’s doing the shouting?’

      ‘DSU Garrickson.’

      ‘Garrickson, eh. For a minute then I thought it’d be some clueless, inept tosser.’

      She glanced sidelong at him, and he raised his hands.

      ‘I know, ma’am, I know. It’s completely wrong and unforgivable to discuss a senior officer in such irreverent terms. But wasn’t Mike Garrickson the one you spoke to when you first logged with OC that we were looking into syndicate activity in Peckham?’ Gemma’s lack of response implied that it was. ‘And it somehow slipped his mind to inform the rest of his team?’

      ‘I expect he assumed that if they had any leads on new cases they’d have come to him before acting on them,’ she said. ‘And with some justification. Reg Cowling was out of order, Heck. He’s the one who blew that obbo. No one else.’ They stopped beside Gemma’s Merc. ‘Mind you –’ she remained cool, but frustration lay visible underneath ‘– it would have helped if all I’d had to do was walk upstairs and tell them. Like I used to be able to.’

      There was a time when all departments of the National Crime Group had been based in the same building at Scotland Yard, and very convenient it had been. As Gemma said, it was certainly easier back then to exchange intel. But cost-saving changes were under way all across the British police service. Though both squads still came under the umbrella of the National Crime Group, Organised Crime had been moved to new, state-of-the-art offices at London Bridge, while the Serial Crimes Unit had relocated to a somewhat less remarkable building at Staples Corner in Brent Cross. SCU had only been in place there a couple of months, and it still felt a long way from anywhere, though, situated at the heart of the North London transport infrastructure, it was actually well placed to house a national investigation team.

      ‘Anyway,’ she said, pointedly changing the subject – Heck was a devil for teasing out her true feelings regarding her fellow top brass – ‘remind me why you’re in court again?’

      ‘Regina versus Wheeler.’

      ‘Oh, yeah … that charmer.’

      The previous spring SCU had arrested the so-called ‘Wimbledon Rapist’, a masked predator responsible for raping two young women and one schoolgirl at knifepoint after accosting them while they were crossing the Common early in the morning. The team had first homed in on local man Charlie Wheeler when his taxi was spotted on CCTV several times in the right area and at roughly the right time, but they only became actively suspicious when Heck noted that Wheeler never seemed to be transporting any passengers.

      ‘He’s banged to rights,’ Heck said. ‘Two days and he’s topped and tailed.’

      ‘Well, let’s make sure. You can put all this