Her throat felt dry, her face was burning. The water seemed to make little difference, which only angered her further. What was wrong with her? Why did everything she touch turn to shit? Turning the tap off, she kicked the basin hard and raised her eyes to look at herself in the mirror. A bedraggled, beaten woman stared back. Without hesitation, Helen slammed her fist into the glass. Once, twice, three times …
Pain flared through her and suddenly Helen relented. Looking down she saw that her hand was ravaged, her knuckles torn and angry. Cursing herself, Helen grabbed a paper towel and started aggressively dabbing at her cuts. As she did so, she looked back up at the mirror. A thick crack ran across the middle of it, distorting Helen’s reflection, turning her into a malformed freak.
The mirror didn’t lie. Helen was a gross parody of the successful officer she had once been. She was out of control – suspicious, vengeful and isolated – leading the team stutteringly from one disaster to the next, while two deranged killers struck at will. Was this it then? Had she lost it for good? She was supposed to be the team leader, but who in their right minds would follow her now? Her anger – her keen sense of personal betrayal – was clouding her vision at a time when she needed a clear head, but she could see no way of ridding herself of these stupid self-destructive thoughts. She had never doubted herself like this and staring at herself in the mirror she wondered if she was the problem. For the last few months, she had been wondering if she could trust her colleagues.
Now she was wondering if she could trust herself.
55
14.00
Jason Swift wielded his gun, laughing as he fired it into the air.
His YouTube video was playing silently on the big screen in the incident room, but as the team had watched it twice already, it was muted, now merely an unpleasant backdrop to their discussions. It was framed by a gruesome selection of images on the murder board – photos of the corpses and crime scenes – as well as maps outlining the murder sites, Swift’s flat, the addresses of local racist organizations and the locations of his past assaults.
‘What have we got on his previous targets?’ Charlie demanded, keen to make some progress. ‘The Polish waiter, the young black male.’
‘We’ve been in contact with those who are still in Southampton,’ McAndrew replied. ‘They are all fine and have been advised to stay away from the city until Swift is apprehended.’
‘What about his prior arrests and cautions?’ Charlie continued. ‘I’m thinking particularly of vandalism and anti-social behaviour.’
‘He’s handy with an aerosol and not averse to smashing things up either.’
‘What has he targeted?’
‘Mostly residential properties near his home, a couple of cars, phone boxes …’
‘Any institutions?’ Charlie pursued her line. ‘Probation offices? Council buildings?’
‘Nothing on file.’ Reid sounded a little deflated.
‘How many cautions does he have for possession?’
‘Several. He’s a bit of a stoner …’
‘Has he ever exhibited signs of paranoia?’ Osbourne queried. ‘That can be one of the effects of long-term cannabis abuse. He might have started to believe that people or agencies were against him.’
Charlie flicked a look at Helen to see if she wanted to field this one, as she was far more knowledgeable on these matters than she was. But Helen seemed oddly distracted, staring mutely at the crime scene photos, barely following the discussion. Normally, she would have led the briefing, but she was withdrawn and distant, cradling her right hand, which she appeared to have injured. Charlie wondered if she was angry with herself, or perhaps angry with her following their argument, but she knew better than to ask, quietly assuming control of the briefing instead.
‘His medical history is pretty thin,’ Charlie explained. ‘I don’t think he believed in doctors. His mum said she took him a few times, trying to get him treatment for depression, but he never stuck with it.’
‘But it’s possible,’ Osbourne persisted. ‘Perhaps he had mental health issues that had gone untreated. He came to believe that he was right, that certain people had wronged him. I know for a fact that Sonia Smalling made offenders apologize to their victims. Perhaps she made him do that and he felt belittled, humiliated …’
‘It’s a decent theory,’ Charlie acknowledged. ‘But what about Alan Sansom?’
‘I don’t know, maybe they just needed some uppers. By the sounds of it, they stole enough amphetamines to keep them going for a whole year. Now they’ve got cash, drugs –’
‘But why the extreme violence?’ McAndrew pitched in.
‘Maybe they’re high? Maybe they’re getting off on it?’
‘I don’t buy it,’ Charlie said, asserting her authority. ‘It’s a long drive from Ashurst to Portswood, they abandoned their car, they had a preplanned escape route –’
‘We think they had a preplanned escape route,’ Osbourne corrected her.
‘Ok, we think they’d scoped the place beforehand, but it feels too deliberate to me. If they were interested in taking potshots at random punters, they would have done so on the way into Southampton.’
‘Maybe they don’t want to blow their wad too early. They want to make life as hard as possible for us.’
‘Well, we can agree on that at least …’ Charlie said ruefully.
Silence filled the room. Charlie was about to continue, conscious of the need to rally the troops, when Helen suddenly spoke.
‘What’s the trigger?’
Osbourne was about to say something facetious, then thought better of it. Fortunately, as Helen now turned to look directly at him.
‘We’re saying Jason Swift is the instigator, but, if so, what’s set him off?’ Helen went on. ‘Sure he’s an unreconstructed racist, an apologist for white supremacy. But this isn’t a one-off attack. Or a political statement. This is an … explosion of violence. Why’s he so angry? These things are nearly always caused by some crisis in the perpetrator’s life, so what is it?’
The officers watched Helen closely, unsure if she wanted them to respond or not.
‘McAndrew, you went round to his flat. Was anything out of place?’
‘No, nothing. The place was neat and tidy, no signs of an argument –’
‘And Margaret Swift swears blind that there was no bust-up,’ Helen continued. ‘Jason just left one day …’
‘What about the gun?’ Charlie countered. ‘The tech team are still sifting his online activity, but it looks like Swift was trying to buy guns on the dark web, plus he had downloaded numerous video clips from the US showing white supremacists training with firearms –’
‘He hasn’t got any previous convictions for possessing or acquiring firearms,’ Helen cut in. ‘In fact his crimes seldom if ever involved violence and when he did threaten his social worker, he used something close at hand, a domestic nailgun –’
‘Not exactly Don Corleone, is he?’ Reid chimed in.
‘In fact, if you look at the key traits of these murders, they exhibit a very definite step up for Jason. He may be a thug and a racist, but murder, possession of a firearm, robbery … they’re not very him, are they?’
‘I’m not sure what we’re saying here,’ Charlie interrupted. ‘He remains our best suspect –’
‘Look at the crime scene photos.’
Helen moved quickly past Charlie towards the murder board and the graphic photographs. Instinctively the team moved forward, watching as Helen ran her finger over their glossy surfaces, tracing the outlines of the horrific injuries.
‘The angles are all wrong.’
She was speaking quietly, but there was a weird energy in her voice.
‘I don’t follow,’ Reid queried.
‘Both Sonia Smalling and Alan Sansom were on their knees when they were killed. Now, this guy clearly knows what he’s doing …’
She gestured at the big screen, where Swift had jammed the butt of the shotgun into his
right shoulder and was firing with measured accuracy.
‘… he’s a practised shot.’
‘No question.’
‘And he’s tall. Very tall in fact. Both victims were blasted at close range and the impact was only angled slightly. It’s almost a head-on shot. If a guy who is six foot two, holding the gun to his shoulder, had shot them, then the angle of impact would have been much more extreme, much more on the diagonal. But if you were shorter, significantly shorter in fact …’
‘So we’re saying he didn’t kill these people?’
Helen nodded, walking over to the big screen and turning the volume back up. Swift’s Southampton drawl came over loud and clear.
‘Into my shoulder, hold and … boom.’
The gun erupted, the sound echoing round the room.
‘Piece of piss …’ Swift laughed.
And now Charlie got it.
‘He was teaching her how to shoot.’
‘Exactly,’ Helen exclaimed. ‘I think she shot Sonia Smalling and Alan Sansom.’
Helen turned, fixing her eyes on her startled team.
‘I think she’s the key.’
56
14.05
‘You want some more?’
Jason looked up from the open boot of the car and directed his gaze towards his companion. She stood close by, but her face was turned to the ground. She had been distant and distracted since the café – pissed off no doubt that he was getting all the glory – and he wanted to wrench her back on track. Grabbing a fistful of cartridges from the boot, he shoved them into his coat pocket.
‘You don’t want to go into this one undercooked. There’s going to be a lot of people around. And if we have to fight our way out –’
‘I’m fine.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ he mumbled to himself, as he grabbed another handful of shells.
She was beginning to irritate him now. Things were going precisely as planned – better than planned in fact – but still she refused to crack a smile. Fuck it, he was having fun. Would it kill her to enjoy it a little too? He was tempted to shout at her, to rant and rave, but he knew that wouldn’t work. She never responded to that. He needed her in a calm frame of mind, so there was nothing for it but to try and coax her into better spirits. Swallowing his irritation, he turned to face her again.
‘Come on, sweetheart, don’t lose heart now.’
‘I’m not losing heart.’
‘Ok, so they know my name, but the cops … the cops don’t have a clue what we’re planning, what this is.’
Still she didn’t look at him, so he reached towards her, raising her chin.
‘They can’t touch us,’ he continued. ‘They can’t stop us. We’re going to put the world to rights today, you and me, just like we planned.’
She looked into his eyes, as if seeking reassurance. To his surprise, she looked uncertain, even a little fearful.
‘So put a smile on your face and let’s do this thing …’
He leant down and kissed her gently on the lips, provoking a small, snatched smile.
‘That’s better,’ he said, turning back to the boot to scoop up one last handful of shells. ‘Bonnie and Clyde had fun, so why shouldn’t w—’
A savage blast ripped through him, slamming his body against the car. He half collapsed, half stumbled into the boot, as he was instantly assailed by the most incredible pain. His eyes were suddenly full of tears, he was having problems breathing, but even in the midst of his agony, he tried to right himself. Somehow, he managed to gain purchase on the frame of the car and, using all his strength, levered himself around to face his attacker.
Daisy was standing five feet away from him, her shotgun raised and smoking. A lop-sided frown disfigured her face.
‘What the fuck?’ Jason gasped, but even as he did so, a thin trickle of blood escaped from his mouth.
‘I’m really sorry, babes …’
She muttered the words and Jason was surprised to see tears pricking her eyes.
‘Please,’ he begged. ‘You know I love you. That I’d do anything fo—’
She squeezed the trigger again and the gun roared. Jason’s body jerked wildly, before slumping backwards into the boot. She had hit him in the chest this time and now he lay still, even as the gun blast reverberated off the nearby brickwork. Daisy didn’t linger, shoving his still warm body into the boot and slamming it shut, before hurrying away from the scene, her eyes searching the alleyway for witnesses or, worse still, the police.
But there was no one.
57
14.07
Anna Sansom sat alone in the visitors’ room, casting anxious glances at the door. She had been here for the last twenty minutes, despite the promises of the Family Liaison Officer.
She had battled her way through the traffic, eventually making it to the shopping precinct. The place was crawling with police officers, journalists and shoppers and she’d had to fight her way to the shop, only to find it was taped off and completely inaccessible. One of the uniformed officers present had tried to get her to move back and she had shrieked at him, really shrieked at him. He’d eventually worked out who she was and had hurriedly called his superior over. After that, she’d been passed from pillar to post, with no one giving her any concrete information, despite her desperate enquiries, before eventually being driven to Southampton Central.
There, in the tatty visitors’ room, they had broken the news to her. She didn’t even take in the officers’ names and could barely comprehend what they were saying. Alan had been shot and killed. She had known it was something bad, but she had never expected that. Shot? Killed? Alan was a good man, a kind man … She’d asked them if it was a robbery – as if that would make it any better – and after that they had clammed up, promising to find her a senior officer to inform her about the investigation. They had clearly failed to find one, hence their continued absence. She presumed they were trying their best, but it wasn’t right to leave her like this, alone and in shock …
The door opened and immediately Anna looked up. Two female officers hurried towards her, seating themselves quickly in front of her.
‘About time too. I have been waiting for ages for someone to tell me what the hell is –’
‘I’m very sorry about that,’ the taller officer said. ‘And we’re very sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.’
Her obvious sincerity affected Anna. All her anger suddenly dissipated, as tears came to her eyes.
‘My name’s Detective Inspector Helen Grace,’ the officer continued, ‘and this is DS Brooks. We are running the investigation into your husband’s murder.’
Anna nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak.
‘Things are moving pretty fast, but we do have an image of the two individuals we think are responsible for this. I know it’s tough, but I’m going to have to ask you to look at this photo and tell me if you recognize them, particularly the young woman.’
‘A woman?’ Anna asked quietly, disbelieving.
Helen took a print-out of the student’s grabbed mobile-phone image and put it in Anna’s hand. The ashen-faced widow continued to stare directly at Helen, struggling to understand events.
‘Please, Mrs Sansom. We really do need your help on this …’
Now Anna lowered her eyes to the image. The officers were watching intently, so she tried to focus on the two figures in front of her. The man she didn’t recognize, but there was something familiar about the young woman’s face.
‘It looks …’
‘Yes?’
Anna scrutinized the image. She knew she had to be sure.
‘It looks a little bit like … Daisy.’
Anna looked up to find both officers staring at her.
‘Did she work at the pharmacy with your husband?’
‘No,’ Anna replied absently, her mind clearly turning on the possibilities. ‘No, we looked after her for a bit. Alan and I … we couldn’t ha
ve children, so we fostered. Daisy had a pretty bad home life, her mother walked out years ago and her dad is a waste of space, so we had her for a couple of months, but …’
Now she paused, the horror of the situation dawning on her.
‘… she was very unpredictable. Quick to take offence, abusive on occasions. I would have kept faith with her, but Alan … Alan said we had to draw the line somewhere, we had our other foster kids to consider …’
Anna stared at Helen, incredulity writ large on her face.
‘Did she … did she do this?’
The police officers said nothing. And in that moment, Anna Sansom had her answer.
58
14.09
Sanderson slammed the door shut and hurried away from her car. She had raced across town to Itchen, locating a parking space near the mouth of the alleyway. She knew Southampton like the back of her hand and had switched off her sat nav, instead using the many short cuts that she’d discovered during her years patrolling the city.
On the ride over, she’d questioned the wisdom of pursuing this lead alone. What if the perpetrators were still by the car? Lying low until the dust had settled? She’d told herself that as soon as she found the car – as soon as she had a concrete lead to offer – she would radio the station for back-up. But now, as she caught sight of the maroon Punto ahead, she hesitated. There was no movement in or near the car – it appeared to have been abandoned. Waiting for back-up would waste valuable time, so …
Double-checking that there were no civilians nearby, Sanderson hurried down the alleyway. Her eyes roved over the narrow passage, looking for any signs of ambush, but there was little cover and no obvious danger, so she pressed on. Now she just wanted to get this over and done with. In less than a minute, she was beside the car. To her enormous relief, it was empty. More than that, it was unlocked.
Love Me Not: DI Helen Grace 7 (formerly titled Follow My Leader) (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 11
