Love Me Not: DI Helen Grace 7 (formerly titled Follow My Leader) (Detective Inspector Helen Grace)

by M. J. Arlidge

  Swift seemed to find this amusing, eventually turning the gun away from her and reloading it quickly, before firing at some passing birds.

  ‘Piece of piss,’ Swift laughed as he pretended to stumble backwards with the recoil, before turning once more to the camera. ‘Oh yeah. Someone’s gonna get it …’

  His tinny voice filled the room, sending shivers down McAndrew’s spine. The video then looped back to the beginning, so she closed the laptop, took an evidence bag from her pocket and placed it inside. Sealing it, she pulled out her phone to call for the forensics team, but, even as she did so, she hesitated, struck by the scene in front of her. This had once been an ordinary young man’s bedroom, but somewhere along the line it had become corrupted.

  Now it was a shrine to hatred.

  43

  13.22

  ‘Joanne!’

  No sooner had Sanderson entered the incident room than her name rang out. Her heart sank. She had had a thoroughly dispiriting couple of hours, chasing up non-existent witnesses in the environs of the pharmacy. She had turned up precisely nothing and her efforts had then been superseded by a student’s mobile footage, providing the police with the details she had been tasked with unearthing. She had missed the briefing and was behind the beat, and now Helen was summoning her to her office. Sanderson crossed the room like a condemned woman – she desperately wanted to contribute, but the fates seemed to be conspiring against her today.

  As soon as she walked into Helen’s office, she spotted it. Her transfer request had been opened and lay face up on Helen’s desk.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Helen demanded.

  ‘It’s a transfer request,’ Sanderson replied flatly, hoping she didn’t sound like she was taking the piss.

  ‘I can read, Joanne. What’s it doing in my in-tray?’

  ‘I put it there this morning, because I think it would be best for everyone if I move on. I had thought about moving to another department, but I now feel that a new force, a new start, would be better –’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Well, I don’t seem to be doing much good here and –’

  ‘You seriously want to do this now? Today of all days …’

  ‘No, I mean, I put it there this morning, before all this kicked off. I wasn’t going to bring it up obviously, but –’

  ‘You’re a piece of work, you know that? People are dying out there and you want to discuss your career?’

  ‘No, no, it’s just that I’ve felt excluded for a while now and –’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings, DS Sanderson, but allow me to let you into a little secret. The world does not revolve around you.’

  ‘I know that –’

  ‘You are part of a team. A team that can only function if every member is pulling his or her weight. And you haven’t been, not for a long time.’

  Sanderson said nothing, shamed by the accusation.

  ‘Now I’ve put up with that because of everything that’s gone on, but I won’t excuse it today. We have two killers at large who are likely to strike again, so suck it up and do your job.’

  She thrust the transfer request back at Sanderson, who accepted it reluctantly. Helen was shocked to see that her own hand was shaking – such was her anger – and she was about to dismiss Sanderson, when Charlie knocked and entered.

  ‘For God’s sake, Charlie, can’t you see I’m in the middle of –’

  ‘You’ll want to see this,’ Charlie fired back, unrepentant.

  Charlie handed a copy of Swift’s full file to her. Helen was aware that Sanderson was hovering, unsure whether to stay or go, but opened it without delay.

  ‘Page seventeen, at the back,’ Charlie continued.

  Helen flipped through the file, anxiously searching for the relevant page, but her junior beat her to the punch.

  ‘He’s tagged.’

  Helen paused and looked up at Charlie.

  ‘Jason Swift was sentenced to Community Payback a few weeks back, but given his previous bad record of attendance …’

  Charlie looked flustered, pointing excitedly to the small paragraph on the final sheet.

  ‘… they tagged him.’

  44

  13.28

  ‘Familiarize yourself with your weapons – make sure you are ready to use them if required – but remember that the ARUs have overall control of any incident requiring armed response. These weapons are for your protection and that of the public: leave the heroics to the guys in helmets.’

  Helen, Charlie and a handful of experienced DCs were in Southampton Central’s armoury, signing out their Heckler and Koch pistols. Sanderson was notable by her absence – she had been detailed to some mundane follow-up work – but none of her junior colleagues seemed to miss her. It was extremely rare for the team to be issued with firearms and the levels of excitement and adrenaline in the room were palpable.

  Following Charlie’s revelation, Helen had raced to the station’s communications unit, her deputy in tow. Every offender tag contains a GPS device with a range of several miles and they had soon picked up a signal. As expected, the signal was not emanating from Woolston – near the Swift family home – but instead was coming from Southampton city centre, a mile or so south of Portswood.

  ‘Surely he’d have got rid of it?’ Charlie had suggested, as they hurried to the armoury.

  ‘Maybe, but they’re buggers to get off and, besides, maybe this is part of his plan.’

  ‘You think he actually wants us to find him?’

  ‘Ninety per cent of these incidents end with the death of the perpetrator. Either at their own hand or through suicide by cop. So, yes, I’d say that that’s a distinct possibility.’

  Charlie shivered, unnerved by this idea.

  ‘My first thought was that he would have just dumped it in the nearest bin,’ Helen carried on. ‘But the signal shows that he is moving. The question is, where is he heading and why?’

  ‘You don’t think he’ll go to ground?’

  ‘He doesn’t show any sign of slowing up. I imagine he’s drunk on the power, excited about where he will strike next. I want us to be waiting for him when he does. Everyone clear on protocol?’

  There was a flurry of nodding.

  ‘Good, then let’s go.’

  The team descended the rear steps to the car pool. Helen would take point on her bike, guided in by the comms room, while Charlie and the rest would follow in unmarked cars. There would be no lights, no sirens, as Helen was keen to preserve their advantage.

  Helen climbed on to her Kawasaki and fired up the engine. As she did so, the hard bulk of her holstered weapon jabbed uncomfortably into her ribs, reminding her of the last time she’d fired a gun in anger. Suddenly her mind was full of hideous images – Marianne screaming, her own finger pulling the trigger, the awful aftermath …

  Helen could feel her heart racing, her breath becoming short, so she pushed these thoughts away quickly, roaring out of the station car park. There was no time for morbid introspection, no room for weakness, despite her jangling nerves. She had been shaken by her argument with Charlie and her confrontation with Sanderson – shocked by her own levels of emotion – but she had to get a grip.

  She had a pair of killers to catch.

  45

  13.31

  He stared at the people walking past, seeking eye contact, but each face was as blank as its predecessor. Most of the passers-by had headphones on and were totally cut off from the world. Those who didn’t were scarcely more engaged, staring dully ahead as they scuttled along the pavement, unaware of their fleeting brush with celebrity. It was lunchtime and they were keen to get to Pret, Boots, whatever, swerving from their intended route whenever someone had the temerity to cross their path. It would have been funny, if it wasn’t so tragic.

  He seemed to be travelling against the tide. Maybe he was imagining it, exaggerating his own importance, but everyone seemed to be going in the opposite direction today.
It felt good. He was able to see things more clearly now – these passers-by were just following the herd, doing what the person in front of them was doing. Maybe that’s how these shops made their money – selling mediocre sandwiches to people who couldn’t think of anywhere better to go.

  He was different. They were different. Why? Because they weren’t scared. This hadn’t always been the case – they had endured endless humiliations and rejections, which had cut deep. But that was all behind them. Once you stop caring, everything gets better.

  A woman tutted as he brushed past her, forcing her off course. She was one of those classic tight-arsed young professionals who’d convinced herself that every second of her time was precious. At first, she looked as though she was going to say something to him. But then she clocked him – the unshaven chin, the unkempt hair, the sheer size of him – and chickened out, hurrying on past. He grinned at her as she went. She would recognize him later, when she read the papers, watched the news, but for now she would occupy herself by debating whether to have a tuna and mayo or cheese and pickle sandwich …

  The whole world is in chains, scared and impotent. The ordinary people – the little people – exist in a state of … what was that word she’d used? Torpor. They exist in a state of torpor, terrified to act, to do anything because they are fearful of the consequences. Maybe they’ll get told off? Arrested? Lose their job? Perhaps their friends will disapprove, give them a thumbs-down on Facebook? They are frozen, incapacitated by thoughts of the judgement that might follow.

  But what if there were no consequences? What if there was no comeback? They were past worrying about the consequences of their actions now, for them only the present was real. And it was thrilling. They could do exactly as they pleased, treating people as they deserved to be treated. There was an honesty in their actions, an element of mercy too. Those bastards killed people slowly, over many years, but they were putting them out of their misery quickly. It was the one good thing he had ever done in his life and still it was more than they deserved.

  He felt his blood rising once more and slipped his hand inside his coat, gripping the handle of his gun. It felt good. He had been let down so many times, but a gun doesn’t let you down. A gun is your friend. And it was time to use it again.

  It was time to release the beast.

  46

  13.33

  Emilia Garanita pulled out her camera, as she took in the run-down building in front of her. There was little point trying to grab some pictures at Sansom’s pharmacy – she would have to wait until the police circus died down first – so instead she’d jumped in her car and hurried down to Totton.

  This wasn’t the most glamorous part of Southampton, but it was home to the local probation service. Many a young offender – and even a few who were older and should have known better – had made the trek out here to begin their Community Payback. Many used the no. 38 bus – it was a running joke that few local bus drivers wanted to drive that route – while others were dropped off by anxious parents, hoping against hope that their progeny would suddenly turn over a new leaf. Few actually did and as a result many were repeat visitors. Emilia could count herself among their number now – she had recently visited their office to check out the graffiti that defiled its walls.

  The place was in dire need of renovation and the social workers she saw trudging through its doors looked beaten and downcast. Perhaps this was their usual demeanour or maybe they’d heard the news about their fallen colleague. As she stood outside, Emilia had asked a couple of passing faces about Sonia Smalling – what they thought of her, was she well liked – but nobody would talk to her and, besides, that wasn’t what she was here for, so, abandoning her position before security got wind of her, she began her circuit of the building. It had once been painted a dull, grey colour, which local psychologists had felt would least ‘excite’ the young offenders. In fact, all these well-meaning fools had managed to create was a pleasingly blank canvas for the innumerable young graffiti artists who passed through its doors each day. As a result, almost every surface was now decorated with the repeated tags of its unrepentant visitors. It made Emilia chuckle, such was the idiocy of the headshrinkers and their politically correct paymasters. They deserved everything they got.

  Sonia Smalling had not deserved her fate, however, and snapping herself out of it Emilia had continued her tour, carefully inspecting the numerous designs on the brickwork. And it was as she reached the back of the building that she found what she was looking for. A large, emerald serpent which appeared to be devouring its own tail.

  She had seen it before, when she’d been researching the article, but hadn’t paid it much heed then, beyond noting that it was better executed than most of the others. Now Emilia paid it close attention, taking numerous pictures of it, before stepping back to survey the scene. A lone CCTV camera hung, limp and broken, on a fence post nearby. Judging by the cobwebs that covered it, it had been out of action for some time. The fence itself was a decrepit, chain link affair, with plenty of gaps in it. Emilia could see why the perpetrators had chosen this spot to paint their tag – they weren’t overlooked and there was pretty much zero chance of them being detected. They could add their signature and be away before those inside were any the wiser.

  Lowering her camera, Emilia stared at the emerald snake. No one entering or leaving the building would have spotted it but perhaps that was the point. Was this a little in-joke, meant for others to discover after today’s events? Sonia Smalling’s workplace had been defiled, as had Alan Sansom’s. Was it possible that the killers were marking out the territory? Signalling in advance who they intended to target?

  It was a thought that made Emilia shudder. It left her wondering how organized this rampage actually was. And, more importantly, where it would end.

  47

  13.35

  Helen sped through the city streets, darting in and out of the traffic. She had made a decision to dispense with the blues and twos, but was already regretting it. The traffic was particularly bad today and the rest of their team were struggling to keep pace with her. She would be in the vanguard of the action – she just hoped that the Armed Response Units coming up from the south of the city would join her in time.

  One person who would not be joining them was Joanne. She was back at base, fulfilling duties scarcely commensurate with her rank or experience. Now that her emotions had cooled a little, Helen knew that Charlie had been right to take her to task. She was punishing Joanne, calling her out on every minor failing, taking grim delight in humiliating her. To what end? She hadn’t meant to drive her out of Southampton Central – in fact she hadn’t really meant to do anything. Her unpleasant behaviour towards her DS was instinctive and unthinking and said more about Helen’s state of mind than Sanderson’s. In damning a colleague who had just been doing her job, Helen had broken her spirit and deprived the team of a valuable and talented officer. Hardly an ideal situation given the operation they were now involved in.

  ‘Any update on location?’ Helen barked, angry and frustrated.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ a disembodied voice replied.

  Helen’s helmet had built-in Bluetooth, hooking up effortlessly to the police radio strapped to her chest. She had been communicating with Southampton Central from the minute she left the bike park, demanding updates.

  ‘He seems to have paused on or near Walton Road,’ the operator was saying.

  Immediately Helen started mentally scrolling through possible destinations.

  ‘Now he’s on the move again, heading west, seems to be picking up speed.’

  Already alarm bells were ringing for Helen. Was this because Swift had speeded up again, as if geeing himself up for another attack? No, it was something else, something she remembered reading earlier … Helen pictured his charge sheet in her mind, running down his misdemeanours one by one. Cautions for affray, threatening and abusive behaviour, shoplifting …

  And then she got it.

 
‘I think he’s heading for the WestQuay.’

  There was a silence at the other end. The WestQuay centre was Southampton’s premier shopping destination – three floors of shops, boutiques and restaurants. It was always heaving, especially so at lunchtime.

  ‘He was picked up for shoplifting at the WestQuay. H&M, I think,’ Helen continued.

  Helen could hear the operator typing furiously at the other end.

  ‘Yes, he was arrested there, but the store decided not to pursue it. It says here that Swift had tussled with the security guard, wanted to charge him with assault.’

  ‘Where was the guard from?’

  ‘Let me check …’

  Helen held her breath, as the operator searched for the details.

  ‘Somalia, I think … Yes, he’s a Somalian student here on a work visa. His name’s Yusuf Muhamud.’

  Now Helen remembered the details. Having been spotted shoplifting, Swift had attempted to flee the store and had been thrown to the ground, bruising his face in the process. The store had clearly decided the matter was best brushed under the carpet. Jason Swift clearly didn’t agree.

  ‘Alert all units,’ Helen said breathlessly. ‘Tell them I want all entrances and exits covered. I’ll coordinate from the main atrium.’

  ‘Will do.’

  The operator clicked off and Helen wrenched back the throttle, roaring away from the traffic. The perpetrators had been one step ahead of her so far, but finally Helen had them in her sights and she was determined to make it count.

  48

  13.37

  The shops were particularly busy this lunchtime. Margaret was pressed for time – her lunch break was a break only in name – and the volume of people in the WestQuay had frustrated her at every turn. The queue in Boots was so bad that she’d abandoned her purchases and nipped into Superdrug instead. She’d grabbed a sandwich while she was in there – BLT, she thought, but she hadn’t really looked – then hurried into H&M.