Surveying the street, she was pleased to see that she was alone. Walking up the line of parked cars, she examined the locks, but all she saw was little red lights flashing at her, proudly announcing their alarm systems. Then, just as she was about to give up hope, she found what she was looking for. An aged Peugeot 205 with no alarm. This was Jason’s domain really – nobody could pop a lock like he could – but Daisy had neither the time nor the inclination to muck about, so using the butt of her shotgun she stoved the window in instead. It broke easily and, lifting the lock, she opened the door and, sweeping the glass off the seat, climbed inside.
Flinging her backpack on the passenger seat, she got to work. Reaching under the steering column, she slipped her hands beneath the cheap plastic surround and wrenched it away to reveal the wiring underneath. Her delicate fingers quickly located the wiring harness connector and from there she pulled aside the battery, ignition and starter wire bundle. She was now at the most sensitive stage of the process and she took her time, gently stripping away an inch or two of the insulation, before twisting the battery wires together.
The ignition kicked in, and as she pumped the accelerator the engine roared. Reducing the gas, she listened to it purr, smiling contentedly to herself. She had had a short, fiery and ultimately ill-starred relationship with Jason, but he had taught her a few things. Not least how to hot-wire a car. This was his gift to her, his legacy.
And it just might see her home.
91
17.29
‘You’ve no right to do this, no right at all. You’re no better than the rest of them …’
Charlie stood alone in the cramped study, the mobile phone resting in her gloved hand. She had arrived at the farm shortly after the forensics team and, as they were now at work in the main bedroom, she’d commenced her search downstairs. She’d found Michael Anderson’s mobile phone in his coat, which hung on a chair in the study, and had immediately investigated his call history. A few were withheld numbers, but the vast majority of the calls were from a number labelled Daisy in his Contacts, all made in the last few days. It would take a while to get any info from the phone company, so she’d proceeded straight to his Voicemail. It was an ancient model without a password prompt or any security, so moments later Charlie was playing his messages on speakerphone.
‘You say you love me, but then you land this on me? Look in the fucking dictionary, see what love actually means …’
Daisy’s words rang out in the small room. She was angry but also upset, her voice shaking occasionally as she ranted at her father. There was clearly love still there, some affection for her father, her tone softening occasionally even in the midst of her outbursts. But her blood was up and another explosion of righteous indignation was never far off.
‘I have always looked out for you, always had your back … and this is how you treat me?’
Charlie was on to her third message, but each had the same tenor, the same central accusation.
‘Jason is a decent guy. You have to give him a chance, Dad …’
Other members of the search team had uncovered evidence of Jason Swift’s presence in the house – a bank card in Daisy’s bedroom, used condoms in her bin – and these phone messages made it clear that this was the reason for the breakdown in relations between father and daughter. Although they would need to access Daisy’s messages to get the whole picture, it was clear that Michael Anderson had told Jason Swift to move out. Or put another way, he had asked his daughter to choose between them.
Charlie could picture the fallout and it depressed her. Michael Anderson had clearly been a negligent, indulgent parent, allowing his daughter to slip into bad habits. The evidence all around suggested he had given up on life, be it the dilapidated state of the farm, the unpaid bills or the numerous empty whisky bottles in the bins, but he had clearly never relinquished his love for his daughter. And up until the last moment, neither had she given up on him, imploring him in her fourth and final message to see reason.
‘It doesn’t have to be like this … you’re making it into something worse than it is. Jason is sound, please believe me, don’t make me choose …’
They were seemingly couched in conciliatory terms, but these messages had a dark undertone, laced with threat, steeped in bitterness. The man she thought she could rely on had turned on her. Perhaps he hoped to shock her into changing her ways, into getting her life back on track, into renouncing her thuggish, violent boyfriend. If that had been Michael Anderson’s intention, it had backfired spectacularly.
Boxed into a corner, Daisy had made her choice.
92
17.42
The room was full of hatred. Most of Helen’s officers were concentrating on the crime scene, but she was exploring the teenager’s bedroom. In her experience, teenage girls guarded their secrets carefully and she had little doubt that if she wanted to climb inside Daisy Anderson’s brain, this was the place to start.
She had rifled through the stack of magazines by the bed – Guns and Ammo, The Modern Solider – before delving into the drawer in her cheap bedside table. It was full of make-up, lighters, hunting knives and trinkets of teen rebellion, but underneath all the junk Helen had found a small diary. Opening it up, she was not surprised to find on the first page a carefully drawn sketch of a large serpent devouring itself. More evidence, if it were needed, of Daisy’s connection to the day’s atrocities.
Flicking past the sketch, Helen investigated the contents of the diary. Daisy was not a regular writer – the entries were intermittent at best – but the brief, angry testimonials contained within the journal gave a clear picture of a young woman who was too bitter, too alienated for her tender years. She hated her school, both the pupils and the teachers, railed against those who had picked on her, but reserved special hatred for those whom she perceived to have rejected or belittled her. Helen wasn’t surprised to discover that several entries mentioned Sonia Smalling, Alan Sansom and Sarah Grant by name.
There was a clear theme throughout the entries – a patent mistrust of institutions, of the motives of individuals who were presumably trying to help her. She had failed to finish her Community Payback and regularly skipped school, often retreating to the farm that had been her home for as long as she could remember. Judging by some of the framed photos in her room, she had enjoyed her time here when she was young – hunting, fishing and messing about with her dad. But recently two had become three with disastrous consequences.
Daisy’s short diary was littered with incidents and accusations, but certain words kept recurring. Fake was used a lot, as was hypocrites. But the word that appeared most was retaliation. Daisy had become a very angry child, addicted to drink and drugs and fizzing with paranoia and resentment, determined to revenge herself upon her tormentors. These murders were hate crimes, as Helen had always suspected, but they were driven by a purely personal rage, not by racism or ideology.
‘I can see my heart before my eyes, turning black with hate.’
‘They murdered me slow. I’ll be kinder, I’ll kill them quickly.’
‘You forced me into a corner and gave me only one option … You just loved to crucify me.’
Entry after entry catalogued her murderous rage, her outrage with the world. Leafing past them, Helen hastened to the end of the diary, impatient for clues as to Daisy’s thinking or whereabouts. But most of her scribblings focused on her suicidal musings, and the last entry catalogued yet another row with her father. Slipping the slim journal into an evidence bag, Helen resumed her search of the drawer. There were the usual films and books – Man Bites Dog, The Catcher in the Rye, Donnie Darko – that appealed to a teenager’s sense of nihilism, but some more specialist items too. Books on the Iraq War, on the subsequent Blair ‘cover-up’ and, most unusually, a pirated DVD which claimed to contain genuine footage of military action in Afghanistan and Iraq.
Beneath all of these lay a letter. It caught Helen’s eye, because the envelope was crisp and brown, sugg
esting it was a formal letter sent fairly recently. Dipping her gloved hand deep into the drawer, Helen plucked it out. The envelope was addressed to Daisy and had been carefully opened – cut open with a knife perhaps – but the letter had then been stuffed back into it, creasing it considerably. Smoothing it out on the table, Helen read its contents, her sense of anxiety rising with each word.
It was a letter from the British army, in response to Daisy’s recent application to join up. More worryingly it was a letter of rejection, citing a problem with Daisy’s psychological evaluation. It was artfully worded but the implication was clear – Daisy would never be accepted into the armed forces and was discouraged from reapplying. Given Daisy’s obvious interest in guns and warfare, this must have come as a bitter blow.
Worse still, it was a recent blow. The letter had been sent three days ago.
93
17.48
It had been a long and demanding day, but thankfully it was almost over.
Lance Sergeant Geoffrey Clarkson powered down his laptop and headed to the back office to stow it in the safe. It was the first moment of peace he’d had all day. That was the thing about this job – it was totally unpredictable. Sometimes you sat for hour upon hour waiting for the door to open, other times you were utterly overwhelmed, great queues snaking away from your desk, as you took each wannabe soldier through the different options open to them. As team leader, it was his job to organize the staff rotas, but he seldom got it 100 per cent right. Which is why the three of them had had to cope with seventy applicants today.
Autumn was always busy as youngsters who’d failed to make it to the university of their choice considered other options. Even so, normally they would expect to field forty or so enquiries and he wondered what had prompted this sudden surge of interest in the army. Perhaps university clearing had ended, perhaps the recent cinema adverts had had an effect. Either way, something had piqued the public’s interest and Geoffrey could reflect on a job well done – there had been several people in today who looked quite promising. Experience had taught him to distinguish between those who were genuinely interested in joining up and those who were just doing it to get their parents off their back. There were loads of those – Mum and Dad keen to get Jack or Jill out of the family home – but the majority of those he’d spoken to today looked self-motivated and capable of making the grade.
He never sugarcoated the pill, painting an accurate picture of life in the British Army. He had served in Helmand Province during Operation Panther’s Claw and had seen friends and colleagues killed, as they fought alongside him. He himself had narrowly avoided falling victim to an IED and felt it was his duty to outline to potential recruits the dangers – both during and after conflict – that they would face. Pleasingly, the more promising recruits had taken this on board, but had still wanted to hear more. This made him feel good, proud even – despite everything he’d been through he still passionately believed in the British Army and the vital role it played around the world.
Locking his laptop away, Clarkson turned to check tomorrow’s staff rotas, which lay on the desk beside him. The radio was still burbling – he’d switched it on this morning but had never had a second to listen to it – and now he became aware of the funereal tone of the newsreader.
‘Five people have so far been confirmed dead, at five different locations, and police are urging people in the Southampton area to remain vigilant …’
Clarkson stood still for a moment, surprised by what he was hearing. Southampton was a safe place – it barely seemed credible that it had suffered its first mass shooting. Worse still, the perpetrator was still at large. Bloody typical that the police should arrive too late to do anything about it. The army should have been called in the minute they knew what they were dealing with, but he suspected they hadn’t been. The armed police guarded their territory closely – probably because most of them were failed soldiers. It was outrageous to think that politics should put lives at risk, but human beings were frail – Clarkson knew that from bitter experience.
He was tempted to listen to more, but he still had to change out of his uniform and the clock was ticking, so, switching the radio off, he placed the staff rotas back in his in-tray. The Saints were playing West Ham tonight and he had promised Sammy they could get a burger before heading to St Mary’s. The news had been disquieting, but it always was these days and family considerations came first. Southampton had suffered, several families had been bereaved, but, as his dad always used to say, life goes on.
94
17.50
‘All units to proceed to Bray Road, Ocean Village. All units to proceed to Bray Road …’
Helen sped down the quiet country lane. She was Bluetoothing on an open channel, communicating with the dozen Armed Response Units that were patrolling Southampton.
‘The Army Careers Centre is at number twenty. I want armed officers front and back, but don’t announce yourselves unless there is an incident in progress. Have we had any joy contacting Geoffrey Clarkson?’
His was the signature on Daisy’s letter – according to his official bio on the armed forces website, he’d run the recruitment office in Southampton for nearly three years now.
‘He’s not answering his mobile. His wife said he was supposed to be meeting his son to go to the football tonight, but we’ve not been able to get hold of him either.’
‘Keep trying. Let me know as soon as you reach them.’
‘Will do.’
Helen clicked off and upped her speed. Her trip to the farm had been useful but had drawn her away from Southampton and now she was keen to be back in the thick of it. Ocean Village was to the south of the city, a smart neighbourhood of trendy apartments overlooking the water. It would take Helen a while to get there even with her lights on, hence her bullish pace. The road ahead was clear and she was keen to make the most of it.
She had no proof that Daisy would head to the Careers Centre – it was instinct that was driving Helen. She had been clutching at straws so far, baffled by these brutal, motiveless crimes, but now she felt she understood what was fuelling this killing spree. Daisy had been rejected one time too many. Abandoned by her mother, neglected by her father, she had never found her place in the world, lacking the confidence, emotional stability or resources to put down real roots. She had been mocked at school, branded a bad apple by the criminal-justice system and generally derided by a world that should have taken better care of her. In the end she had snapped, lashing out at those who had belittled or humiliated her. Which is why Clarkson’s rejection letter alarmed Helen so much.
Clarkson’s casual crushing of Daisy’s dreams must have ignited her fury once more – the latest in a long line of savage setbacks – and Helen wondered whether it was this that been the root cause of her violent quarrel with her father. Whatever the reason, Daisy clearly felt she had crossed a line and would not hesitate to settle a few more scores before she was taken down.
The Army Careers Centre was due to shut at 6.30 p.m. It was not far off that now. Perhaps Daisy had deliberately waited until this hour of the day, when there would be fewer civilians to get in her way. Frustratingly, her team had still not got a proper fix on her – nobody had seen anything of their fugitive for nearly two hours, no mean feat when a manhunt was in full swing.
Helen was hitting the outskirts of the city and immediately joined the ring road heading east. As she did so, the police helicopter roared over her, blasting away towards Ocean Village. Everyone was heading for the same place now and, if Helen was right, she would shortly be coming face to face with Daisy Anderson.
95
17.55
Sanderson rammed the gear stick into reverse. Having dropped Emilia Garanita home, she’d decided to head over to the farm to assist the officers working there. But now the call had gone out to attend an address in Ocean Village, so, executing a hasty three-point turn on a narrow residential street, she spun around and roared back towards the city centre.
>
She would have been more than happy to assist Charlie and the rest of the search team at the farm – anything to make up for her earlier mistake – but this was a far more exciting mission. She had no idea yet why Daisy Anderson might target the Army Careers Centre, but the conviction in Helen’s voice suggested that they were finally ahead of their perpetrator, able to predict where she would strike next. If so, then they would now have a chance to bring this thing to an end.
Sanderson had been involved in many complex operations, but few as fast-moving and shocking as this. The sheer number of victims was mindboggling – Sanderson knew that Jim Grieves was struggling to cope with the bodies that were piling up at the mortuary and that many of the junior officers on the MIT had been deeply affected by what they’d seen today. She had found time to comfort a couple of them, in between her bouts of CCTV viewing, and the solace she’d brought them reminded her that she was an experienced, accomplished police officer, who had something tangible to offer the team. Having doubted herself for so long, this cheered her and reinforced her desire to prove herself worthy of Helen’s trust.
She was only a few minutes away from Ocean Village now. It was not an area she frequented – her tiny flat was in a much less expensive part of town – but she had been driving around Southampton long enough to know her way there. Her siren was off, but her lights were flashing and the traffic seemed to melt away in front of her. Sometimes luck was on your side and she felt sure that she would get there in time to prevent further bloodshed, perhaps even help to bring the perpetrator in herself. She felt energized and excited even.
Having been out in the cold for so long, it felt good to be back in the game.
Love Me Not: DI Helen Grace 7 (formerly titled Follow My Leader) (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 17
