‘He got the idea he’d washed up in some hellhole, surrounded by society’s worst.’Heck sipped his coffee. ‘Wembley, a hellhole? I’ve seen a lot worse.’‘Exactly. Sounds like he’d lost it.’Heck contemplated this as they sat together in the National Crime Group canteen. It was lunchtime on the day after his arrest, three days after the attack on the prison cavalcade, and the place was busier than usual, mainly due to the extra bodies brought in from SOCAR.‘Are we absolutely sure some local posse wasn’t responsible for this?’ Heck wondered. ‘Maybe some minor players Laycock had been winding up?’‘Wembley CID reckon he was winding no one up but them. Ever since he arrived there, he was drinking. Occasionally while he was on duty. Came up with loads of ideas, but nothing workable. Spent most of his time signing off other people’s paperwork.’Heck snorted. ‘Just like when he was here. Or not signing it off, in my case.’‘Whatever else he was, Heck, he didn’t deserve to get his brains hammered out.’‘I can introduce you to thirty-eight sets of grieving parents who’d give you an argument on that.
