The Killing Club. Paul Finch

they cut their throats.’

      ‘Throats …’ Briefly, Farthing was almost distracted from driving. ‘Okay, there’s a similarity with the way Nathan Crabtree copped it …’

      ‘More or less with the way they all copped it …’

      ‘Yeah, but that was probably nothing to do with Bert Cooper.’

      ‘On the contrary …’ Heck flipped a page in his notebook. ‘Bert Cooper’s unit, the 15th Air Pathfinder Brigade, were implicated. In fact, our Corporal Cooper was one of ten men arrested by the Special Investigation Branch. It was even suggested he did the throat-cutting. He was held for six days while the evidence against him was assessed.’

      Farthing had turned a slight shade of pale. ‘And?’

      ‘He was released on grounds of “battlefield trauma”. Instead of being charged and sent to the glasshouse, he received four months “psychotherapeutic counselling”.’

      ‘And … where’ve you learned all this?’

      ‘It’s all in the public domain, Jerry … you have heard of the internet?’

      Farthing shrugged. ‘Aye, but … even so.’ He clearly wasn’t enjoying hearing these revelations. ‘What’s it got to do with his son? I mean it’s seventy bloody years ago.’

      ‘Well for one thing, his son’s still got the knife. Or so you said.’

      ‘Hang on … we don’t know it’s the same knife. It probably isn’t.’

      Heck glanced sidelong at him. ‘Seriously? Why else keep it in a place of honour?’

      ‘He told me his dad took that knife off a dead Gurkha at Medenine in 1943.’

      ‘Even if that’s true, doesn’t mean it wasn’t the weapon used two years later on those SS prisoners. Might even have been a kind of poetic justice in that.’

      Farthing shook his head. ‘I’m sorry … this is a stretch.’

      ‘Well, let’s look at Ernie Cooper himself. You told me he’s got form for violence.’

      ‘Nothing serious.’

      Heck flipped another page. ‘Wounding his wife?’

      ‘That was quite a while ago, wasn’t it?’

      Heck read on. ‘1977, to be precise. He actually assaulted her twice that year. On the second occasion, which was so serious that she subsequently left him, he received a two-month prison sentence. In 1979, he served time again, this time six months for threatening to kill members of a local Irish family. Apparently the Irish dad had been mouthing off down the pub about the Warrenpoint massacre of eighteen paratroopers by the IRA, saying it was justice for Bloody Sunday. Ernie Cooper went round that night, banging on their door and windows, threatening to burn the place down while they were all asleep. Two years later, he got locked up again … drew a suspended sentence for assaulting a bunch of CND members who’d tried to lay white poppies at the Cenotaph on Remembrance Sunday.’

      Farthing shrugged. ‘Aye, but if that was his last offence … I mean, 1981. It’s no wonder he’s not on our radar.’

      ‘That was the last time he got arrested,’ Heck said. ‘It wasn’t his last offence. Seems our Ernie’s a bit of a letter-writer. He’s had stuff in all the local rags, having a pop at drug addicts, prostitutes, child molesters and “bad families”, as he calls them. Saying they should all be wiped out, quote, “to make the streets decent again”.’

      ‘Alright, so he’s a right-wing nutter …’

      ‘He got cautioned only five years ago for forcibly confiscating some kid’s skateboard because he said it was annoying the whole street. He was also advised after another bunch of kids said he’d called them “dope dealers” and threatened them with a baseball bat.’

      ‘Okay, I get it. He’s got a temper.’

      ‘He’s also got a big bloody knife that was once used to murder a number of SS men,’ Heck said. ‘So what do you reckon, Jerry?’

      Farthing nodded resignedly. ‘I suppose we can have another chat with him.’

       Chapter 3

      Time hadn’t made much impact on the Hendon district of east Sunderland.

      It mainly comprised rows of age-old terraced housing, scruffy high-rise apartment blocks and the odd derelict industrial unit. A notorious area in law and order terms even during its docklands heyday, now it was largely unemployed, which made things even worse. The street they pulled up in was typical; a single row of houses facing onto a low-lying stretch of overgrown spoil-land cordoned off by a rickety old fence. The house fronts were black with grime, many of their doors dented and battered. It boasted ten dwellings in total and was bookended by two corner shops, which, as far as Heck could see, contained nothing but rubbish.

      They parked Farthing’s Vauxhall Astra patrol car opposite number three, alongside the only gate in the fence. As soon as they climbed out, the September breeze took hold of them. There had been squalling rain that morning and the road was still damp, its gutters lined with puddles. Now the sun had emerged, but rags of grey, wind-tossed cloud were strewn across it, absorbing any warmth. There was no one else in sight. No curtains twitched either in the house directly facing them, or in those next to it. No lights were on.

      PC Farthing knocked on the front door and waited, while Heck stood behind him. There was no response. The interior lights remained off. Farthing knocked again. Still there was nothing; not a sound from inside.

      He glanced at Heck and shrugged. ‘Well … we tried.’

      Heck ignored that, crouching at the letter flap and pushing it open. ‘Mr Cooper!’ he shouted. ‘This is the police. Can you open up please?’

      Still there was no sound from inside. Heck tried again twice, to no avail, before straightening up.

      ‘Satisfied?’ Farthing asked.

      ‘Far from it. If you were under suspicion of murdering three gang members, and the police came round before you’d got a chance to do the rest of them, would you open the door voluntarily?’

      ‘You can’t be bloody serious … I only spoke to this fella as part of a house-to-house. To ask if he’d seen anything the day Crabtree got chased.’

      Heck dug under his jacket and produced a folded document, scanning quickly through it. ‘We’ll never know how much he saw until we check him out properly.’

      Farthing’s eyes bugged. ‘Is that … is that a warrant?’

      ‘No, it’s a beautician’s appointment. Course it’s a bloody warrant.’ Heck tested the front door with both hands, but found it unyielding. ‘This is pretty solid. Let’s try round the back.’ He set off along the pavement.

      ‘You’ve had a busy lunchtime, haven’t you?’ Farthing said, hurrying to follow.

      ‘Couldn’t have done it without you, Jerry. Told the beak about Cooper’s track record of political violence.’

      ‘Political?’

      ‘Picking on hippies and IRA supporters. Told him about that nasty knife you saw too. I’ll need a statement about that, of course.’

      ‘Jesus H … I told you that knife was an antique.’

      ‘A combat knife’s a combat knife, Jerry.’ They turned the corner at the end of the row, and entered a squalid backstreet. ‘Anyway, we’ve got the warrant now … and this is more like it.’

      The rear gate to number three was missing from its hinges, revealing a