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

by M. J. Arlidge

  Turning back to the cordon, Sanderson continued to ponder this, as a green hatchback passed by. But suddenly her reverie was broken, her radio sparking into life.

  ‘Please advise all officers …’

  The voice was Helen’s and Sanderson was immediately alarmed by her anxious tone.

  ‘… that our female suspect now has short, black hair. She is no longer blonde, she has a glossy, black bob …’

  Sanderson froze. Helen had perfectly described Emilia’s mystery companion.

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  15.33

  ‘Turn right.’

  Emilia obliged, steering the car carefully around another corner, then away down the road. Since clearing the police cordon, they had been turning constantly – right, then left, then right again, in a series of evasive moves, designed to confuse anyone who might be following them. Emilia was sure that nobody was shadowing them, but she nevertheless kept shooting hopeful glances at her rear-view mirror.

  ‘Now left.’

  Emilia had no idea where they were heading, only that they were driving away from the residential parts of the city towards its more remote fringes, the dead land between Southampton and Eastleigh. As her anxiety steadily rose, Emilia knew she had to try and engage the young woman, if she was to survive this ordeal.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ she said, trying to sound as unthreatening as possible.

  The woman’s eyes remained glued to the road ahead of her, barely acknowledging the question.

  ‘I know it’s none of my business …’ Emilia continued, gamely, ‘… but why are you doing this?’

  Still she didn’t respond.

  ‘Look, I know you’ve got your reasons. I’m sure a lot of these people have done you wrong … but you can’t run for ever. They’ll catch up with you in the end.’

  They were now passing Westwood Woodland Park – there was not a house or person in sight and Emilia’s suggestion that the net was closing in on them was ringing rather hollow, but she had to persist nevertheless.

  ‘You’re an intelligent woman, you obviously know what you’re doing. And there’s no need for this to end in a bloodbath. You’ve already made your mark, you’ll go down in history, folklore even … especially if you choose the manner of your ending. If you show the world that they couldn’t catch you, that it was you who was in control all along.’

  Emilia could tell she was listening, so pressed home her advantage.

  ‘I can tell the world what you did. That you had the police chasing their tails, that you were the author of this story, handing out just retribution to the bad guys, how it was all designed and run by you. Think about it. This is your chance to be a star. Let me help you …’

  The woman thought for a moment, then slowly raised her gun, pointing it at the woodland up ahead.

  ‘Pull over there.’

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  15.46

  ‘Tell me what you can see.’

  Helen climbed on to her bike, her radio clamped to her ear. There was a long burst of static, then the helicopter pilot responded.

  ‘No eyes on the Corsa yet.’

  ‘They are heading east, perhaps towards the M27. Widen your range and let me know what you see.’

  There was another burst of static, then the pilot confirmed her orders. Helen sat astride her bike feeling powerless and frustrated. She wanted to head east herself, but couldn’t communicate with the chopper via her Bluetooth, so would have to stay put. Once more she cursed the fact that she had no boss to coordinate proceedings for her – more than ever the day’s events were beginning to feel like a perfect storm.

  ‘Anything?’ she said impatiently.

  ‘We’re over the Portsmouth Road now … nothing significant, it’s pretty free of traffic. We’ll double back once we hit Netley …’

  It was clear now that Daisy had commandeered Emilia Garanita’s car, but where were the pair heading for? The M27 would be a fast getaway, but would make it easier for the police to trace them, because of the multitude of traffic cameras on the major road. Somehow Helen doubted that was their destination – Daisy had spent her whole life in and around Southampton, so where else could she go? She had no other family, no friends – surely she would use her local knowledge to survive for as long as she could? She was heading in the right direction for her family farm, but would she really take that risk? If she did, there would be officers waiting for her, but Helen suddenly wondered if she had left the neighbourhood at all. Heading east from Itchen took you out along an exposed A-road, perfectly visible from the air. Much better to hide out on the outskirts of Itchen or head south-east to Butlocks Heath, with its mixture of woodland and residential areas.

  ‘Where are you now?’ she demanded of the pilot once more.

  ‘Coming back up the Woolston Road. Nothing yet …’

  Now Helen lost her patience. Seeing DC McAndrew approaching, she tossed the radio towards her, the startled officer grasping it as it sailed through the air.

  ‘Let me know if they spot anything interesting.’

  Before McAndrew could respond, Helen started the engine. Sitting idle was killing her, so opening up her throttle, she roared away down the road, determined to play her part.

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  15.58

  She gripped the wheel, scanning the road in front of her. The lights were flashing, the siren was blaring, but she barely registered them. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon, searching for a flash of red, something, anything. She had let Daisy drive right past her and now she was praying for a little bit of luck, so that she could make amends.

  Sanderson cursed herself. She had been out in the cold for so long, dead to Helen, yet only a couple of hours ago she had detected the first signs of a thawing in their relationship, following her discovery of the missing Punto. ‘Good work, Joanne’ – that’s what she’d said. It wasn’t much, but it had momentarily sent her spirits soaring. For, much as she privately censured Helen for her actions, she’d also spent a lot of time reflecting on her own, questioning as never before her ability and aptitude to be a police officer. The small break she’d engineered in today’s investigation had been a real fillip for her, yet now she was back in the role of team fuck-up again. How they must be cursing her, picturing her waving the red Corsa through, with a stupid smile on her face …

  A car pulled out in front of her and Sanderson had to react sharply, swinging her car to the left, before sliding back into lane. Chiding herself for getting distracted, she concentrated once more on the task in hand. There had been no sightings of Daisy or Emilia since they made it through the cordon, but something told Sanderson that they were close by. She had passed Sholing and was now on her way through Newton. Tickleford Gully was to her left and beyond that the waste transfer station – there were plenty of places to hide out here if need be.

  Was that Daisy’s plan? She had come pretty close to getting caught, having to bluff her way through a roadblock. Would this make her think twice before continuing her rampage? Or was that just wishful thinking?

  Sanderson found her thoughts returning to Emilia once more. Why had Daisy taken her hostage? Was it simply to guarantee that she’d get through the cordon or did she have something else in mind? Was she going to use her to try and engineer an escape? Sanderson shuddered at the thought of what the young journalist must be going through. Was that why she looked so grim as she drove past, barely registering anything or anyone around her? It was an image that Sanderson was trying to push from her mind, but it kept returning to her. She had never seen the journalist look so pale. Truth be told, she had looked like a condemned woman.

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  16.08

  They were marching through woodland, crunching the leaves as they went. The young woman had ordered Emilia to park up on a rough track by Priors Hill Copse, abandoning the car and tossing the car keys into the dense undergrowth. Then she’d told Emilia to walk.

  They were moving in single file, Emilia taking point while the woman with the
gun followed just behind. Emilia had no idea where they were going and occasionally the woman barked at her to change direction, to veer off a path, cut up a hill. Did she know where they were heading or did she just want to get somewhere remote and isolated? Emilia fervently hoped it was the former.

  Emilia had desperately wanted to break this story, but now she was increasingly worried she was going to become part of it. She had tried her best to engage her captor, to get her to talk, but her efforts had been rejected. So Emilia had kept her counsel, obeying the woman’s orders and keeping her head down. But the silence was chilling – she had no idea what she was doing behind her, what she was planning – and her nerves were shredded.

  ‘This’ll do.’

  They were right in the heart of the woodland now, shielded on all sides by trees.

  ‘Get down on your knees.’

  ‘Please, you don’t have to do this …’

  ‘On your knees!’

  Emilia felt the cold barrels of the gun ram into the back of her head and stumbling forward she fell to her knees.

  ‘Look at the floor.’

  ‘I won’t say anything to the police, I promise. I’ll pretend this never happened …’

  ‘I think we’re a little beyond that, don’t you?’

  Emilia hung her head and sobbed. All the anxiety that been building up in her now burst forth and she cried without restraint, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Please … I’m begging you,’ she spluttered. ‘I have brothers … sisters …’

  She couldn’t find the words. She had always been confident, gobby, eloquent, but at this crisis point in her life, she simply couldn’t find the words. Her head was filled with images of her siblings, the way they fussed around her when she came back into the house, demanding cash, relaying their grievances, teasing and cajoling her. They were infuriating, but having been mum and dad to them for so long, she loved them deeply. But how could she put that love into words? It was too much, it was overwhelming.

  ‘Please … my father’s in jail, my mum’s long gone, I’m … I’m everything to those kids …’

  Emilia knew she wasn’t making much sense, but she seemed to have lost the power to speak intelligibly. She was gabbling wildly, all the while expecting to be flung forward as the gunshot ripped through her.

  ‘I don’t want to die …’ she mumbled pathetically, though she knew it was hopeless. ‘I don’t want to die …’

  She closed her eyes and wept. She could feel the damp grass beneath her knees, could hear the birds twittering overhead. Her senses suddenly seemed so heightened, like she was getting drunk on the world for the last time, sucking in the last few seconds of life before the inevitable, violent end.

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  16.13

  Helen sped along Grange Road, roaring past the dawdling cars as she cut north. She had checked out Woolston and was now leaving Netley. There were an old vicarage and a lake house there that she’d wanted to investigate, but finding them both secure and deserted she had abandoned her search and was now heading for Butlocks Heath. There were a couple of schools there with large playing fields, plus a sizeable cemetery, all of which had potential for a fugitive wishing to vanish for a while.

  Hitting the junction by Abbey Fruit Park, Helen dropped her speed and swung right on to the Woolston Road. The road opened up in front of her now and she ramped up her speed, flying across the tarmac. The ride was smooth, the handling precise – in any other circumstances Helen would have thrilled to the sensation of roaring along this quiet country road. But the pride she’d felt in her new ride at first light seemed a very long time ago. A lot of blood had flowed under the bridge since then.

  Sanderson was tearing around old Netley, the chopper had circled back over Weston Common and McAndrew was coordinating the rest of the team’s efforts to trace their fugitive. But still she eluded them. What was her secret? Was she just lucky or was this some kind of military-style operation? It seemed unlikely – she was so young – and yet what other possible explanation was there for her ability to evade capture consistently in this way?

  Helen was moving away from the more residential areas of Butlocks Heath, woodland now flanking the road. And as the road turned south towards the coast, Helen suddenly saw movement ahead. Dropping her speed quickly, she registered that two cars were parked there. Neither was the red Corsa they were looking for, but something was going on and Helen’s instincts told her that it was significant.

  As she got closer to the obstruction, she realized that the drivers had abandoned their cars and were huddled over something. Firing up her siren to alert them to her presence, Helen pulled up sharply, climbing off her bike. As the elderly motorists looked up, Helen ran towards them, pulling off her helmet and raising her warrant card. She prayed to God there hadn’t been yet more bloodshed, but, whatever it was, she had to know.

  As she approached, the small crowd seemed to part for her and Helen was surprised to see a bedraggled Emilia Garanita sitting in the middle of the road. Her clothes were muddy, her whole body was shaking and she had foliage in her tangled hair – but she was alive.

  ‘Are you ok?’

  Helen walked up to her, offering a supportive hand.

  ‘Emilia, are you ok?’

  But the journalist said nothing, simply turning to Helen before bursting into tears.

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  16.31

  ‘Did she say anything? Anything at all?’

  Emilia was now sitting in the back of an ambulance, a blanket wrapped around her. She was still in shock, unable to hold the cigarette that she clearly craved. Whether this was as a result of her abduction or the impact she’d felt as she crashed down on to the road was unclear. The concerned motorists told Helen she’d come from nowhere, tearing down the bank at the roadside and into their path. On another day they might have run her over, but at the end of her ordeal, the journalist’s luck had held.

  Paramedics had given her the once over, and while they were keen to get her to hospital, Helen needed to speak to her first. Understandably she was unusually taciturn, staring at her feet as she tapped her toes on the ambulance floor.

  ‘Emilia, did Daisy say anything about where she was heading?’

  Charlie joined in now, as Helen’s words seemed not to have cut through Emilia’s self-absorption. Charlie had rushed to the scene as soon as she’d got Helen’s call and the trio were holed up together in the cramped ambulance.

  ‘No, she hardly spoke to me.’

  ‘How long were you with her for?’ Charlie persisted.

  ‘An hour and a half or so, no more,’ Emilia replied. ‘Like I said, I went to the school to check out the graffiti, but she found me on the playing fields, forced me to go with her, told me that she needed a car.’

  ‘What else did she say?’ Helen persisted.

  ‘Nothing, she told me which direction to head in, shouted at me when I was going wrong.’

  ‘And why do you think she spared you?’

  Emilia paused, seemingly confused by Charlie’s question.

  ‘I don’t know … she told me to get down on to my knees, I thought … I thought she was going to do it … then nothing happened. I turned round and she’d gone.’

  ‘Do you think she bottled it?’ Helen asked, keen to get some – any – insight into the young woman’s mind.

  ‘Maybe …’

  ‘Or was she toying with you? Enjoying scaring you?’

  ‘Probably … I don’t know.’

  ‘And you didn’t hear anything as she left? You’ve no sense which direction she may have fled in?’

  But Emilia wasn’t listening any more. Her whole body was shaking again – she was back in the midst of her trauma – and when she looked up, she was fearful and upset.

  ‘Please … can I go home now? Can I just … go home?’

  She stared directly at Helen, her red-ringed eyes appealing for mercy. And, in that moment, Helen felt something for her erstwhile nemesis that she’
d never felt before.

  Pity.

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  16.35

  ‘Did they find anything in the car?’

  Helen and Charlie were marching away from the ambulance towards Helen’s bike. Emilia’s car had been spotted by the chopper on a track near Priors Hill Copse and McAndrew had headed straight there, while Helen and Charlie had conducted their interview.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ Charlie told her. ‘The forensics guys are crawling over it now, but there’s nothing obvious. They’ll find Daisy’s DNA, I presume.’

  ‘That won’t get us anywhere. Kidnapping charges are the least of Daisy’s worries.’

  ‘Why dump the car?’

  Helen paused. Charlie’s question was a good one and had been worrying her too.

  ‘Did she think she’d been clocked, that we were looking for the Corsa?’ Charlie suggested.

  ‘There’s no way she could have known that,’ Helen replied. ‘She must have assumed we had no idea who her hostage was or even that she had one at all.’

  ‘Perhaps she was just being cautious, changing vehicles as often as possible. She left it somewhere pretty remote after all.’

  ‘But then what? She’d have to walk a fair way to find another. Cars don’t pass that often round here and when they do they are travelling at speed.’

  ‘She’s making life difficult for herself, that’s for sure.’

  ‘So why do it?’

  There was a moment’s silence, before Charlie eventually responded.

  ‘Maybe she’s just winging it now, making it up as she goes along …?’

  ‘I don’t buy it. You heard what Garanita said – she’s been marking her territory in advance with the serpent graffiti, she’s worked out entry points and escape routes for the places she wanted to target … I think she’s planned every stage of her journey, so it plays out exactly how she wants it to.’