‘What’s going on, Charlie?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Normally you’d be right on this, but something’s the matter.’
Charlie looked at her boss. There was no point lying to her, they were beyond that.
‘It’s Steve. He wants me to leave the Force.’
‘I see,’ Helen replied. She wasn’t surprised. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve made things worse for you. I could have handled Steve better.’
‘It’s not your fault. It’s been coming. Ever since …’
She didn’t need to say it out loud.
‘I understand. We need you. You know we need you, but ultimately you have to do what’s right for you. I won’t stand in your way and I’ll back you whatever you decide, ok?’
Helen put a comforting hand on Charlie’s arm.
‘Thank you.’
‘And if you need to talk …’
‘Sure.’
Helen turned to go.
‘And how are you?’
Helen paused, surprised by Charlie’s question. Her eyes strayed to the newsagent’s across the road and the Evening News board, which promised more revelations about Robert and Marianne. It wasn’t hard to work out why Charlie was asking.
‘I don’t know how she does it.’
‘Who?’
‘Garanita. She knows where I go, what I do. Who I see. She knows everything. It’s like she’s climbed inside of me and … I don’t know how she does it.’
‘A leak in the team?’
‘No … this isn’t just about the investigation. It’s about me. Personal stuff. She’s just a ghost following me into every room of my life.’
Helen hated looking lost in front of Charlie, but there was no point concealing her profound hurt from someone who’d been through hell with her already.
‘You’ve beaten worse than her. You mustn’t let her win.’
Helen nodded. She knew Charlie was right but it was hard to be optimistic when she was so badly on the back foot.
‘She’s a worm,’ Charlie continued. ‘She’s not worthy to stand on the same street as you. Whatever she’s got, you’re Helen Grace. You’re a hero. No one will ever be able to destroy that. I believe in you and so should you.’
Helen looked up, grateful for Charlie’s support.
‘As for Emilia Garanita,’ Charlie continued. ‘She’ll get hers soon enough. Her sort always do.’
Charlie smiled and Helen responded. Shortly after, the two women parted.
Walking back to the station Helen was momentarily buoyed up – pleased to have received a pep talk from a woman she had tried so hard to push away. Reaching the atrium, she realized that her phone had been switched off since the news of Robert’s identity had broken. Turning it back on, a host of voicemail messages sprang up and with them the text from Robert.
It read simply: ‘Fuck you.’
99
It was late when Charlie got home. The clock read 11.15 p.m. and the house was quiet. There was no sign of –
‘Hello.’
Charlie jumped out of her skin as Steve’s voice rang out. She turned to find him sitting in darkness in the living room. She crossed the room, flicking on the lights. He frowned, offended by the harsh glare of the halogen.
‘I’ve been waiting for you for hours, but I guess you were working late.’
His tone was neutral and there was none of the bitterness Charlie had been expecting. Still, his even tone unnerved her. He sounded business-like.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked. She felt that something momentous – something bad? – was about to be said, but she was still so relieved that he had come home.
‘At Richard’s.’
His best friend. Charlie had called him when looking for Steve, and he had lied to her. She was not surprised.
‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And I’ve come to a decision,’ Steve continued.
Charlie tensed, saying nothing.
‘I want to have a child, Charlie.’ Now it was his turn to sound upset. ‘I want a baby with you more than anything else in the world. But we can’t do that when you’re working like this, putting yourself in harm’s way every day. I can’t go there again. Do you understand?’
Charlie nodded.
‘I’m asking you to leave. So we can have the life we always wanted. And if you can’t do that, or won’t … then I don’t think I can stay.’
There it was. The ultimatum that had been coming for eighteen months.
This, then, was Marianne’s legacy.
100
It was past midnight and the incident room was deserted. Those officers who weren’t chasing up leads were asleep in bed, aware that another punishing day awaited them tomorrow. Helen had gathered up the case files and was looking for something to put them in. It wasn’t good practice to remove them from the station but she wanted to take them home and pore over them once more with a fresh pair of eyes. Once again, she cursed herself for having been led so easily down a blind alley.
Clip clop. Clip clop.
Someone was coming down the deserted corridor.
Detective Superintendent Ceri Harwood. Immediately Helen’s defences were raised. She hadn’t seen or heard Harwood for a while and that suddenly made her very nervous.
‘Working late?’ Harwood asked.
‘Just finishing. You?’
‘Yes, but that’s not really why I’m here so late. I wanted to talk to you alone and it seems the witching hour is the best time to find you.’
A little insult casually thrown in. Helen had a nasty feeling she was being ambushed.
‘I didn’t want to do this when the team were here. These things are best done … gracefully.’
‘Meaning?’ Helen replied.
‘I’m taking you off the case.’
There it was – out in the open.
‘On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds that you’ve ballsed up, Helen. We have no suspect, no one in custody and five bodies on the slab. And I have a chief investigating officer who’s been so distracted protecting her bad-seed nephew that she failed to spot that her own deputy was fucking a key witness.’
‘I think you’re being unfair. We’ve made mistakes but we are closer than we’ve ever been to finding her. We’re in the endgame now and with the greatest of respect, I would sug—’
‘Don’t pretend you’ve ever had any respect for me, Helen. I know what you think. And if you’d even vaguely tried to hide your … contempt, it might not have come to this. But the truth is that you’re bad news, Helen. You spread contagion wherever you go and I have no confidence in your leadership of this investigation. Which is why I was forced to go to the police commissioner.’
‘Who’s taking over?’
‘I am.’
Helen smiled bitterly.
‘So just as we are finally getting close you climb on board? Is this how you work? Is this how you’ve climbed so high without ever actually doing anything?’
‘Be careful, Helen.’
‘You’re a glory hunter. A parasite.’
‘Call me what you will. But I am now in charge and you are out.’
Harwood paused, enjoying her moment of victory.
‘I’ll handle the press –’
‘I bet you will.’
‘And I’ll tell the team tomorrow morning first thing. Why don’t you tidy up here and take a week’s leave? We’ll find something else for you when you come back. Perhaps you can tidy up the Alexia Louszko murder?’
‘You’ll be lucky if you see me here again.’
‘That’s entirely your decision, Helen.’
Having said her piece, she left, flinging a cursory ‘goodnight’ over her shoulder. Helen watched her go, a riot of emotions firing through her as she realized the comprehensive nature of her defeat. She had been routed. The investigation and her career were now in ruins and there was nothing she could do about it.
101
She wouldn’t look
at him. However much he begged her to, she wouldn’t look at him. Her eyes stared resolutely at the window, seeing nothing. Tony Bridges walked round to the other side of the bed, but as he neared Nicola’s line of vision, she swivelled her glance the other way. As she did so, tears ran down her cheeks.
Tony was crying too. He had started to weep before he’d even finished his confession. An overwhelming sense of shame had crept up on him, making his mea culpa faltering and ragged. He had seen alarm in Nicola’s eyes at first – concern perhaps that a family member had died or he’d lost his job – but slowly her eyes had hardened and narrowed as the nature of his crime became clear. So they remained apart in the small room, more apart than they had ever been in their whole married life.
What could he say to her? How could he make things right? He had sought in the arms of another woman something that his wife would never be able to give him.
‘I know you probably hate me. And if you want me to leave, then I won’t fight you. But I want to be here. I’ve resigned from the Force, so I can start to repair the damage I’ve done, make some changes to my life, be the husband you deserve.’
Nicola stared resolutely at the open doorway.
‘I want to be how we were before. The early days when we never spent a night apart, lived in each other’s pockets. I … I made a big mistake and though I can never make up for it … I’d like it to be a new beginning for me. For us.’
Tony hung his head, once more ambushed by the possibility that Nicola would call time on their marriage and throw him out on the street. Why had he been so stupid? So selfish?
Still Nicola refused to react. In conversation, she would normally blink once for yes and twice for no, but so far her eyes had remained resolutely still. Her cheeks were wet, so Tony reached out to pat them dry with a tissue. Nicola closed her eyes and held them shut, refusing to look at him as he stroked her cheek.
‘Maybe you’ll never want me again, but I want to try. I really want to try. I’m not going to force it on you and if you want me to go and get your mother now, tell her what’s happened, then I will. But if you want me, then let me try to make things better. No more nights apart, no more snatched conversations. No more carers, no more strangers. Just you, me … and Charles Dickens.’
He walked round to the head of the bed and for the first time today she didn’t look away.
‘It’s up to you, love. I’m in your hands. Will you let me try?’
The silence in the room was all-consuming – all Tony could hear was his heart thumping. He felt like he was about to burst, but then Nicola’s eyelid finally moved.
It came down once and stayed shut.
102
The Student Counselling Centre was situated at the scruffy end of Highfield Road in Portswood. It was close to the Southampton University campus, but also served students from Solent University and the National Oceanography Centre – if they could be bothered to trek that far north. DC Sanderson stood outside it now, rolling back and forth on the balls of her tired feet, as she waited for Jackie Greene to turn up. Students are night owls and counsellors are often kept up late as a result but still it irritated Sanderson that Greene was late. She was a grown woman – the centre’s Head of Service and its most experienced counsellor – surely she could be on time for a meeting with the police?
When the overweight Ms Greene eventually turned up, the reason for her tardiness quickly became clear. She didn’t really like the police. Was this because of her left-wing politics (there were NUS and Greenpeace stickers all over her desktop computer) or her solidarity with the students, who she believed had been roughed up by the police during recent demonstrations against cutbacks at the university? Either way she was not keen to help. But Sanderson didn’t mind. She was in a bad mood and up for a challenge.
‘We are focusing on female students who are, or have been, sex workers. She probably uses drugs and alcohol, may be prone to violence, and we believe recently had a baby.’
‘That’s a lot of “may” and “probably”,’ Greene replied unhelpfully. ‘Have you spoken to the local maternity units?’
‘Of course, but your organization caters for the whole student population and as such you’re best placed to help us,’ Sanderson replied, dismissing Greene’s attempt to deflect her questions.
‘What makes you think she’s a student?’
‘We don’t know that she is. But she’s young, articulate and very computer literate. This is not some brainless kid who dropped out of school. This is someone who had – has – a lot to offer but has gone very badly off the rails. If she does or did have a baby it’s essential we find her as soon as possible. We have an e-fit here that I’d like you to look at, to see if it jogs any memories.’
Jackie Greene took the e-fit.
‘She’s probably heavily bruised or injured following a recent fight. If anyone like this has called or visited you –’
‘I don’t recognize her.’
‘Look again.’
‘Why? I’ve told you once I don’t recognize her. So unless you’re doubting my word –’
‘I’m not sure you realize how serious this is. There are five people dead already and there will be more unless she is apprehended, so I want you to think. Has your organization been contacted by a student working in the sex industry who fits this description?’
‘God, you really have no idea, do you?’ Greene replied, shaking her head.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We have dozens … scores of girls matching that description phoning us every week. Do you know how expensive it is doing a degree these days? I’m guessing not.’
Sanderson let the insult ride over.
‘Go on.’
‘I’m not going to give you names. The sessions are completely confidential, you should know that.’
‘And you should know that in extraordinary circumstances – which these most definitely are – I can apply for an order of court forcing you to open up your files. Which means that we will pore over every detail of every student who’s ever got in touch with you.’
‘You can threaten me all you like. I’m not giving you names.’
‘I’ll ask you again. Has anyone matching the description been in touch?’
‘Are you deaf, dear? There are lots of girls who match the description. They run out of money, turn to prostitution, can’t handle it, but by that point it’s too late. So they drink or take drugs to deal with it and many suffer violence, rape and pregnancy scares along the way. Some of these girls have courses that are six, seven years long, and Mum and Dad can’t pay for them and the government’s sure as hell not going to help them so what can they do?’
Sanderson felt a little tingle down her spine, as a thought took hold.
‘Back up a minute. Would you say that girls with longer courses are more likely to fall into prostitution?’
‘Of course. Makes sense, doesn’t it? It costs them tens of thousands of pounds to finish a course like that and prostitution pays better than bar work, so …’
‘And what sort of courses last that long?’
‘Vets, some engineering degrees, but mostly it’s the doctors. Medicine.’
‘And have you recently had a medical student get in touch who might match our description?’
‘More than one. But as I said I’m not giving you any names.’
Jackie Greene sat back in her seat, arms folded, daring Sanderson to go and get a warrant. She would if she had to, but Sanderson had another thought on how she could get what she needed. She left the Counselling Centre and headed for the university’s main administration building. An image was forming in her head and she wanted to run it to ground as quickly as possible. After all, who better to carry out a DIY thoracotomy than a former medical student?
103
She should have gone hours ago, but still Helen couldn’t leave. It was nearly 9 a.m. – the team would be assembling now – and Harwood would no doubt wait until they were all there
before sweeping in and taking control. She was good at timing these things to maximum effect. She would get one of the startled team to bring her up to speed, before issuing tasks. All of which meant Helen had an hour, two tops, before she was out for good.
She had removed the case files from the incident room and holed herself up in a damp interview room that was generally avoided. All through the night she had been going over the vast cache of documents in the numerous files, trying to see through the mass of details to the important connections. Working backwards from the most recent, messiest murder, she had been searching for correlations and parallels, hunting for pointers to why Angel had been driven to kill and what she’d do next. Did these men have any connection to the student world? Had they used an escort service that recruited a ‘better’ sort of woman? What had set her off? Who was she angry with? Questions, questions, questions.
As sunrise came and went without progress, Helen had gone back to first principles. Who was Angel and what had precipitated this killing spree? What was the spark that lit the fire?
Opening the Alan Matthews case file, she re-read the details for the umpteenth time. She was so tired now that the words swam in front of her. Throwing down another slug of cold coffee, she turned to the pictures from the crime scene instead. She had seen them numerous times, but they still made her feel nauseous – the bloated torso opened up for all to see.
For all to see. The phrase buzzed round her mind, as she took in Alan Matthews’ corpse. Suddenly her eyes zeroed in on the hood, which had been placed carefully over his head before death. Helen had always dismissed this as Angel’s security – an attempt by a nascent killer to hide her identity in case it all went wrong and the victim escaped. But what if it signified something else? She had taken her time on the others – she had abused them, then split them open with a steady hand, enjoying herself. The DIY thoracotomy, as Jim Grieves had put it, carried out on Alan Matthews was more ragged, more brutal. Was this because she was an amateur or was something else at play? Was she nervous?
Pop Goes the Weasel: DI Helen Grace 2 (Dci Helen Grace 2) Page 23
