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is bollocks!’

      ‘Especially your demeanour.’

      ‘Gemma, please …’

      ‘Can you honestly say, hand on heart – bearing in mind that, on occasion, lives may depend on how fit you are to work – that you don’t need a decent break? That your batteries will go on forever without being recharged?’ She waited for an answer. ‘Or is it just that you think the Serial Crimes Unit will fall apart without you?’

      Heck was lost for words. Then, very abruptly, he shrugged and took a pen from his inside pocket. ‘No, it’s okay. In fact it’s great. Three months is extremely generous.’

      He scribbled his signature on the form and handed it back.

      She eyed him with sudden suspicion. ‘So you’re happy with this?’

      ‘Sure.’

      ‘Good. In that case …’ though she still didn’t seem convinced, ‘bye for now.’

      Heck nodded and moved towards the door.

      ‘Mark, before you go,’ she said – and that was a red-letter moment, because these days she hardly ever called him ‘Mark’. He glanced back. She softened her tone, which was also highly unusual. ‘Mark, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry the case you were building didn’t work out.’

      ‘It’s alright. I know it wasn’t your fault.’

      ‘It was nobody’s fault. This job’s about balancing time and resources, you know that. You’re needed on other cases.’

      ‘Which is why I’m being discharged from duty for the entire autumn?’

      ‘You’re no good to anyone running on empty. Least of all yourself.’

      ‘No, I guess not.’

      ‘So what’re you planning to do?’

      He mused. ‘Fool around, I suppose.’ Mischievously, he added, ‘See if I can pull a bird.’

      She didn’t rise to that bait and began filing his completed paperwork in her out-tray. ‘You could do with getting some sun on your back. And start eating properly; you look underweight to me.’

      ‘You care?’ he asked.

      She glanced up again, almost looking hurt by the question. ‘Of course I care.’

      ‘I mean more than just because I’m part of your team?’

      ‘Why should my personal feelings matter to you?’

      Heck couldn’t reply. She’d reversed the situation very neatly.

      ‘Take yourself on holiday, Heck,’ she said, resuming business mode. ‘Relax, have a good time. Pull yourself a bird, if you must. But when you’re back in this office on December first, I want you full of piss and vinegar, okay?’

      ‘Yes ma’am.’

      ‘Off you go.’

      And he went.

      Heck peeled his jacket off and strolled into the rec room to see if there was anyone to shoot some pool with. But it was empty. Instead, he got himself a coffee from the vending machine and stood by the window, looking down on Victoria Street. The hot drink had a soothing effect. Gemma had been right about one thing – at present he was running on empty, but even so, being forced to take a holiday for three months was the last thing he’d wanted. If anyone asked why, he’d tell them that this was because he was a workaholic, but in his more honest, introspective moments he’d admit that it probably owed more to there being nothing else going on in his life. There was no question that Heck loved the job. Catching criminals, putting them away, slamming cell doors on those who brought terror and misery to the lives of the innocent gave him a buzz that he didn’t get anywhere else.

      But on this occasion – on this one occasion – being ordered to stay away from the office for a few months might well be to his advantage.

      Before he could ponder the situation further, someone else came into the room. He turned, and saw that it was Commander Laycock.

      ‘Heck,’ Laycock said with a grin. ‘Glad I caught you.’ He sauntered over.

      Laycock’s looks belied his age, which was somewhere in the early-to-mid forties. He was a big, burly bloke, tall and broad at the shoulder, yet trim at the waist. Even now he wore the shorts and sweat-dampened vest that he’d no doubt been working out in down in the gym. A towel was looped around the back of his bull-neck. At first glance he had the look of the archetypical man’s man: he was fair-haired, square-jawed, handsome, and yet he had a rugged edge. You’d imagine he could easily go round for round with the lads – and this wasn’t an inaccurate impression. He nearly always adopted a ‘hail fellow, well met’ approach when dealing with ‘his troops’, as he liked to call them, an attitude he’d inherited from his early days in the Royal Military Police.

      Heck wasn’t fooled by any of it.

      ‘I just wanted to congratulate you on the time and effort you put in on the missing women case,’ Laycock said.

      Heck nodded. ‘Thank you, Sir.’

      ‘You understand why I had it wound up?’

      ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’

      ‘Your last CCA wasn’t totally convincing, I’m afraid. Not considering the amount we’ve been spending on this.’

      ‘It’s alright, Sir. It’s all been explained to me.’

      ‘Okay. You don’t seem very happy about it, though?’

      Heck feigned surprise. ‘What, I’m supposed to be happy as well? Sorry, I didn’t get the written order for that.’

      Laycock’s smile faded. ‘There’s no being nice to you, is there?’

      ‘I don’t see any point in pretending we’re friends, that’s all.’

      ‘Blunt as ever, I see. Okay, well let’s cut to the chase. One of the problems of being a detective and having cases to investigate is that, now and then, you’re expected to close a few – not widen them and widen them until every bloody person in the service is at your beck and call.’

      ‘And why would that be, Sir?’

      ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘Perhaps you can explain it to me,’ Heck said. ‘Why do we – sorry, why do you – prefer cases we can close quickly and easily to cases that require a load of work?’

      Laycock’s eyes were now hard; his lips had tightened. ‘You’re going on leave, I understand. I suggest you go now, before you get on my wrong side.’

      ‘You’re not going to answer the question? Would that be because, as far as you’re concerned, the National Crime Group’s an ego-trip?’

      ‘I’m warning you, Heckenburg …’

      ‘Gold-plated job for a Bramshill brat-packer like you, isn’t it? Very high profile, lots of TV interviews, regular briefings with whichever Home Secretary happens to be in power this week.’

      Laycock looked as though he was about to explode, but his anger quickly abated and he smiled again. ‘You know, I always had misgivings about having you in my outfit, Heck. And now I can see they were well-placed. You’re a chancer, an adventurer – and that doesn’t work in the modern police.’

      ‘I’d have been delighted to be a team-player, if you’d actually given me a team.’

      Laycock chuckled. ‘Forget about a team. You should be more concerned now about whether you actually fit into this department. You know they’ve started calling the National Crime Group “the British FBI”. And that’s something I’m encouraging. It makes us sound like the slick, smart, modern organisation I want us to be. Oddballs

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