LITMIR.BIZ

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looked like isolated woodland – and was shot in the back of the head. It was a miracle he survived, but an entire day passed before a woman walking her dog discovered him; like the others, he had been dragged into a ditch and covered with branches and moss.

      This was a major break for the police, because it explained the M1 Maniac’s modus operandi. There was no DNA, just as there never was with any of the other cases, because the killer always wore protection, but at least Pettigrew was able to describe the van and the assailant, even if this latter description amounted to little more than a man with blue eyes and red hair, wearing a black anorak hood.

      Unfortunately, none of this did much to make the public less frightened, because the murders continued. The fact that it was red-blooded young men who were the object of the viciousness made it all the more disturbing. There were athletes among them; one had even been a junior boxing champion. Additionally terrifying, the Maniac’s victims had been grabbed off the street while going about their everyday business. A criminal psychologist on the radio exacerbated the situation when he voiced a theory that the perpetrator was probably not gay; that in fact he was straight and that his sexual sadism was simply a means to assert his dominance. Women could be next, he said.

      Needless to say, others were less sure about this, and as the panic rose the public order situation deteriorated: anti-gay graffiti appeared, gay nightspots were stoned. Vigilante justice became ever more brutal and indiscriminate – a prominent gay spokesman was dragged from a podium and beaten while attempting to address a public meeting.

      In the midst of all this, the police came under mounting criticism. It was noted in the popular press that speed-cameras had assisted in the prosecution of thousands of motorists in the time since the reign of terror had begun, but that they seemed incapable of playing any role in the apprehension of this ‘real criminal’, even though road-use was integral to his method.

      Such an incendiary atmosphere was soon going to explode. It looked increasingly unlikely that the hunt for the M1 Maniac would end in anything less than a disaster.

      Though perhaps no one realised how much of a disaster, Heck thought, as he sat in A&E, trying not to wince while an orthopaedic collar was carefully fitted around his neck. Even now, the bodies of the Savage brothers were being brought to the mortuary here at the Milton Keynes Hospital. He grunted his thanks as the nurse told him he was done and moved away. As well as the neck-brace, his left arm had been strapped and fixed in a sling; a doctor had checked it earlier and concluded that it was only sprained but that it needed rest – which was always easier said than done. Heck shuffled to the lavatory. When he’d finished his ablutions, a surprisingly complex procedure with one hand, he regarded himself in the mirror over the washbasin. He’d looked better. His black hair was a sweaty mop, his lean, rugged features cut and bruised. He was thirty-eight later this year and still in reasonable nick, but time waited for no man, and whenever he got a little beaten-up these days, it seemed to take that much longer to recover.

      When he went back into A&E, two other officers from the Serial Crimes Unit were waiting for him.

      Detective Constable Shawna McCluskey was of short stature, in her mid-thirties, and of shapely, athletic build – ‘a neat little package’, as she’d written on a file for the personnel department when asked to describe herself. She was pretty, but in tough, tomboyish fashion, with a dusting of freckles on her turned-up nose, hazel eyes and lush, dark hair which she nearly always wore up. A broad Manchester accent, which she’d never moderated despite working in the south for several years, revealed solid blue-collar origins. Detective Constable Gary Quinnell was formerly of the South Wales Police. He was six-foot-three, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered. He’d have been handsome in a wholesome ‘family man’ sort of way, had a few too many Rugby Union forwards not kept breaking his nose for him. Despite being younger than Shawna, he was already thinning on top, so kept his reddish hair cropped very close. Had he realised that this combined with his cauliflower ears to give him a vaguely criminal aspect, he’d have been more upset than he could say.

      Both had been into A&E once already, firstly to check that Heck was okay and then to congratulate him, which Shawna did by hugging him and Quinnell did by slapping his shoulder hard – the latter causing Heck to yelp in pain.

      ‘Press are gathering outside,’ Shawna said.

      ‘Shit,’ Heck groaned. ‘How did they find out?’

      Quinnell chuckled. ‘How do you think? Half of Milton Keynes just got trashed.’

      ‘No supervision here yet?’

      ‘No one,’ Shawna said. ‘You sure you’re alright?’

      Heck nodded.

      ‘Your Fiat’s a write-off,’ Quinnell observed.

      ‘Something good came from this then.’

      ‘And the word is they’ve found the gun,’ Shawna added.

      Heck glanced up. ‘Yeah?’

      ‘In the back of the van.’

      ‘Thank Christ for that!’

      Quinnell laughed again. ‘So even if they’re not the murderers, at least we could have done them for using you and Thames Valley for target practice, eh?’

      Heck was about to respond when Shawna nodded past him. He turned. Detective Inspector Bob Hunter was approaching.

      Hunter was in his mid-forties but hadn’t yet gone to seed. His short blond hair was running to grey and he’d thickened around the middle, but he was bull-necked, square-jawed, and his grey eyes brooked no nonsense. His jacket and tie were uncharacteristically dishevelled, though that wasn’t a surprise. He’d been off-duty this evening – it was his first evening off in months; apparently they’d traced him to a local health club, where he’d been in the process of having a swim and a sauna.

      ‘Sir,’ Heck said.

      Hunter glanced at the other two. ‘Security are having problems with the press … why don’t you give ’em a hand?’ They nodded and left. ‘Sit down, Heck,’ Hunter said.

      Heck pulled up the chair in the treatment bay and lowered himself into it. Hunter half-drew the curtain before getting straight to the point.

      ‘What made you think there were two of them?’ he asked.

      ‘It was just a thought,’ Heck replied. ‘It struck me as odd the perp was always able to perform sex twice so quickly in succession.’

      ‘Some blokes can.’

      ‘Like I say, sir, it was just a thought.’

      ‘And that led you to the Savage twins?’

      ‘Not straight away.’ Heck adjusted his position. It seemed that every part of his body had taken a beating during the crash. ‘Given we both agreed the investigation was stagnating … I took it on myself to go back through the case notes to see if we’d missed anything.’

      He had to be careful how he worded this; he didn’t want to imply that Hunter had handled things incompetently. Hunter had not been the official boss of the enquiry, but once the Serial Crimes Unit had been brought in – and that had been at a relatively early stage – he’d taken over the whole show.

      ‘You’ll recall that Jordan Savage was one of several persons formerly of interest to us but later dismissed,’ Heck said.

      Hunter shrugged. ‘Don’t even remember him.’

      ‘Well … it seems Savage was interviewed last October because he was stopped driving late at night on the outskirts of Leighton Buzzard, where, as you know, two of the early murders took place. The patrol that stopped him felt his description matched the suspect – blue eyes, red hair. Anyway, a stop-and-search was performed. When he was found to be in possession of burglary tools, he was arrested for going equipped, though as this was his first offence and there was nothing else to link him to the murders, he got cautioned and bailed.’

      ‘What motor

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