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

by M. J. Arlidge

  96

  18.21

  Daisy gripped the wheel as she drove down the quiet side street. The traffic in the city centre had been terrible and, despite her best endeavours, she was behind schedule once again. She had hoped to be at the Careers Centre half an hour before closing – now she would be lucky if she made it in time. The thought enraged her – this guy deserved his fate just as much as the others, maybe even a little bit more.

  She and Jason had scouted out the Careers Centre on the two previous evenings, enjoying the fact that Clarkson was blissfully ignorant of their presence, of what they were planning. They had got to know their target pretty well even in that short time, albeit from a distance, laughing at his ridiculous habits and idiosyncrasies. On both nights he had closed up in exactly the same manner – switching off the house lights in the same pedantic order, checking and double-checking the deadlocks before pulling the shutters down for the night. Last night, she and Jason had defiled those very shutters with their best serpent yet – a huge emerald beast visibly choking, as it tried to devour itself. They had amused themselves later, speculating as to what Clarkson’s reaction would be to this ‘outrage’.

  Why was Clarkson so punctilious about security? The place was a dump and the ancient laptops they used weren’t worth stealing. Did these lean pickings really require such heavy security? She guessed it was force of habit and this told you so much about the man. So self-important when there was so little to be self-important about. She had disliked him from the moment she’d met him – she could sense his suspicion of her – and those feelings had only grown during their brief acquaintance.

  What had he said in his letter to her? That their ‘psychological evaluation’ had shown that she was unsuited to a career in the armed forces. Why? Because she had a personality? Because she had the ability to think for herself? They obviously wanted lamebrains that they could mould into compliant little boys and girls. Never mind that she was tougher than any of them. A better shot too probably. She could have been a great soldier – she would have run through walls – if she’d been given the chance. But they had ripped up that dream in five short sentences. Or, to be precise, Geoffrey Clarkson had.

  She had only been half living on that farm, a zombie stumbling from one disaster to the next. Her dad, her lovely, stupid dad, hadn’t given her much, but he had tried to give her her freedom. She’d had her first drink at ten, her first spliff shortly afterwards, and from then on she had spent most of her childhood screwing up her life. Petty crime, violence, cautions and convictions – her dad hardly ever got involved, never tried to direct her life, but even he’d thought that joining the army could be a turning point for her, a last throw of the dice. Perhaps he thought the discipline would do her good. Perhaps he just wanted her off his hands. She wasn’t sure which now.

  On the drive down to Ocean Village, she had heard early reports on the radio of another death linked to the day’s ‘incidents’. A middle-aged man found dead on a farm near the River Hamble. She’d had to turn the radio off at that point. She didn’t want to hear it. She’d done what had to be done, but she didn’t want them rubbing her nose in it. She had had her fill of that over the last few years.

  She turned into Bray Road and swiftly reduced her speed. There would be no time for final checks, for properly scoping the target, as she’d originally planned to do. If he was still there – and she was fervently praying he was – she would just have to grab her gun and get it done. If he escaped her tonight, or if she missed him, she might never again get a chance to settle their account.

  Pulling up opposite the office, Daisy killed the engine. Reaching across to her rucksack, she slid out the shotgun, but as she looked up at the building, she froze. A motorbike was parked up near the shop – an expensive-looking Kawasaki – and through the large plate glass window Daisy could see that Clarkson was in conversation with a tall woman, clad in biking leathers. It clearly wasn’t a careers enquiry – the woman was talking to him earnestly, imploring him to do something, and even from this distance Daisy could see that Clarkson looked shocked by what he was being told. It didn’t take a genius to work out what was going on in that cramped office. Cursing bitterly, Daisy realized that she was too late.

  97

  18.28

  Daisy Anderson’s room was filled with plastic crates, as her whole world was gathered, bagged and boxed for further inspection. Charlie stood in the midst of them, swathed head to toe in a forensic suit, examining each item as it was handed to her, searching for further clues as to Daisy’s intentions.

  She had bridled when Helen asked her to remain behind at the farm. Despite the constant complaints of her partner, Steve, Charlie always wanted to be in the thick of things and felt knocked back when Helen asked her to continue the investigation at Michael Anderson’s home. She had been tempted to fight her corner, to try to offload her duties on to a DC, but Helen had clearly made her decision and was in a hurry to go, so Charlie had let it slide. The pair of them had been getting on well – too well in some ways – so there was no question of Helen doubting her abilities. Was Helen shielding her then? Keeping her out of harm’s way? If that was the case, she wasn’t sure whether she should be flattered or annoyed. She was a big girl, even if she did have more to lose than Helen, as her superior often reminded her.

  Charlie knew that every part of the investigation was vital and that Helen would expect her to be professional, so pushing her bruised feelings to one side, she’d got on with the task in hand. It had not improved her mood – in fact packing up Daisy’s life had been a particularly depressing job. She must be in the midst of some kind of breakdown, Charlie thought, as this girl was not inherently bad. She was riven with anger, hostile to authority and full of self-loathing, but none of what had taken place today was inevitable. She could have taken a different path if only somebody had reached out to help her. Because the simple truth was that Daisy wanted to belong. The trinkets, old letters and club badges suggested that she had wanted to find people to be with, a surrogate family perhaps. There were the friendship bracelets, now unravelled and discarded. There was a Brownies outfit, far too small for her and seldom worn. And there were the half-filled applications to join the Young Farmers, the local choir, a paintballing group …

  All these had had to be excavated – they belonged to a time when Daisy clearly believed that happiness was possible, that the world would give back. They lay several layers down, stuffed in wardrobes under numerous pairs of combat trousers and concealed beneath out-of-date copies of Guns and Ammo. But they cast a light on the young Daisy’s loneliness and her desire to find emotional succour from somewhere. Whenever Charlie came across things like this, it always made her think how blessed her own little girl was to be so loved and protected. You never found out about these people until it was too late and Charlie dearly wished she could reach back in time to give Daisy the help she needed.

  But it was too late for that. Daisy had crossed the line, murdering her father, then several others. At first they had been convinced Jason Swift was to blame, but now they knew that Daisy had pulled the trigger on the victims, taking personal pleasure in slaughtering those who had made her feel worthless. After years of taking the hits, she was striking back and Charlie felt sure that nothing could contain her.

  98

  18.29

  ‘Are you sure she’s coming here?’

  Geoffrey Clarkson was struggling to come to grips with Helen’s shocking news. Despite her earnest entreaties, he’d made no move yet, knocked back on his heels by the thought that he might be next on Daisy Anderson’s hit list.

  ‘When did you discover the graffiti on your shutters?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘Then she’s coming. You need to leave.’

  Finally, Clarkson seemed to register the urgency in Helen’s voice. Turning, he picked up his keys and phone.

  ‘I’ll need to call my son … I’m supposed to be meeting him.’

&
nbsp; ‘We can do that from the police station, our first priority now is to see you safe. Everything else can wait.’

  ‘She must be crazy,’ Clarkson suddenly blurted out, turning once more to Helen. ‘Lots of people fail to make the cut, it’s perfectly normal –’

  ‘Daisy’s in the middle of a breakdown, she’s not seeing the world clearly –’

  ‘Jesus Christ, I mean, I had no choice,’ he blustered, ‘she’s completely unsuited to the army. She’s volatile, emotional, plus she has a string of criminal convictions. I shouldn’t have even bothered processing the application, but I did it anyway, because I’d promised her that I would.’

  The Lance Sergeant seemed upset now, as if suddenly worried that he had provoked the day’s bloodshed.

  ‘She seemed desperate, a bit pathetic even,’ he continued. ‘If I’d known how angry she was –’

  ‘Save the what ifs for later, Mr Clarkson. Think of your family now and come with me.’

  Finally, Clarkson got the message, grabbing his coat from the back of the seat and switching off the desk lamp. Helen watched him impatiently, urging him to hurry up. Daisy was out there somewhere and until they were safely back in Southampton Central, she wouldn’t rest easy. Having gathered his things, he turned once more to Helen. To her surprise Clarkson looked lost, as if he had never expected to encounter mortal danger in his own backyard. Helen had seen this before, so she put her arm out to usher him towards the door.

  The other patrols would be arriving any minute and Helen’s thoughts were already on her next move. Could they set a trap for Daisy? Use a body double of Clarkson as bait for the obsessive teenager? What would be the best – the safest – way to bring Daisy in, so that she could answer for her crimes?

  They were nearly at the door, but a strange noise stopped her in her tracks. At first she didn’t know what it was – it sounded like a rasping, throaty growl – but then she got it. It was a car being violently revved. All of a sudden the noise stopped, replaced now by a high-pitched squealing, which was growing louder, louder, louder …

  Too late, Helen realized what was happening. She just had time to shove Clarkson forcefully away from danger, before the car smashed straight through the plate glass window, heading directly towards her.

  99

  18.31

  The car hit something hard and stopped dead, throwing Daisy forward in her seat. She was wearing a seatbelt, but still her head connected sharply with the steering wheel, such was the force of the impact. For a moment, she sat there, dazed and breathless, listening to the tinkling of breaking glass, as the window behind her finally gave up the ghost. Driving through it had been a reckless act, born of fury, but it was not without strategy too. She didn’t fancy the odds in a straight fight against two well-trained individuals, even with a gun in play, so she had decided to level the playing field a little.

  Shaking off the fuzziness in her head, she retrieved her shotgun from the foot well and opened the driver’s door. Immediately she met resistance – an upturned chair was caught underneath it – so Daisy shoulder-barged the door fiercely, shifting it enough to allow her to squeeze out. Her boots crunched noisily over the broken glass and she rounded the front of the car to survey the damage. Chairs had been scattered, desks overturned and a thick haze of dust hung in the air.

  Her gun raised, Daisy moved forward. She was expecting a fight, but was heartened to see the woman lying face down in the glass, a good ten feet or so from the car. Daisy was sure she had hit one of them as she crashed through the window and judging by her prone position it was her. Crossing to her, Daisy jabbed the gun barrels into her ribs, but the woman didn’t move. Daisy turned away – dead or unconscious, it was all the same to her.

  Circling back around the car, she made towards the back of the office, picking her way carefully through the wreckage. She could hear something – a dull groaning – and now she crept towards it. It sounded like a man. It sounded like him.

  Suddenly there he was. He was conscious, having somehow avoided being struck by the car, but he was little better off for it. A desk had catapulted backwards with the force of the impact and the army man was now pinioned beneath it, helpless as a newborn lamb. He was blinking furiously, still trying to understand what was happening, but as he saw Daisy approaching, he started wriggling desperately, trying to free himself. Slowly, deliberately, Daisy placed a boot on top of the slanting desk and pressed down on it. Clarkson cried out in pain and ceased struggling, fixing Daisy with a look that was half anger, half fear.

  ‘Hello, Geoffrey. Remember me?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Daisy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very good. Did you remember that all by yourself or did your little friend tell you?’

  ‘I remembered … I remember you …’

  ‘Course you do …’

  As she spoke Daisy raised her shotgun to her shoulder, pressing the butt into her flesh.

  ‘Look, I’m … I’m … sorry about your application,’ Clarkson stuttered, shocked by the sudden appearance of a gun.

  ‘You will be …’

  ‘Let’s talk about it … We can do it agai—’

  ‘While we wait for the cavalry to show up? I don’t think so.’

  She took another step towards him.

  ‘Please, Daisy … don’t do anything stupid … I know you’re in a bad place, but I have a wife, I have a son …’

  ‘You should have thought of them, before you did what you did.’

  ‘I was just doing my job.’

  ‘That’s what the Nazis said, right?’ Daisy replied, smirking. ‘But it doesn’t change a thing. You destroyed my future and now you’re about to learn …’

  As she spoke, she aimed the gun, so that it was pointing directly at his head.

  ‘… that actions have consequences.’

  ‘Please, Daisy,’ Clarkson pleaded again, desperate. ‘I’m not a monster. I’m just a guy. Nobody special, nobody important. I don’t know what you think I am, but, trust me, I’m not worth going to jail for.’

  ‘Oh, I think that ship has sailed,’ Daisy answered, laughing. ‘I hate to tell you this, Geoffrey, but you’re not my first today. But perhaps you already know that?’

  ‘How many … how many people have you killed?’ Clarkson stammered.

  ‘A handful. But we’re not here to talk about me, are we?’

  In the distance, Daisy heard sirens, goading her into action. She took aim once more – instinctively her victim raised his hands to protect himself.

  ‘This is it, Geoffrey. Anything you want to say?’

  The army man couldn’t speak – he gestured hopelessly at her, frantically appealing for mercy he knew would not be forthcoming.

  ‘Not very inspiring. Oh well, have it your wa—’

  She didn’t get to finish. Suddenly she found herself flying sideways. Too late she realized that the woman had got to her feet and crept towards her, barging into her just as she was about to fire. The pair crashed to the floor, broken glass biting into them, but Daisy scrambled to her feet, still clutching her weapon. She swung it towards her adversary, but the woman was too quick for her, grabbing the barrels and pointing the weapon at the ceiling. Daisy bucked furiously, but to her surprise the woman pressed her hand down on Daisy’s trigger finger. The shotgun roared once, twice – harmlessly into the ceiling, sending down a shower of splintered tile.

  Daisy felt a knee connect sharply with her stomach, knocking the wind from her. Her adversary tugged hard at the shotgun, trying to wrench it from her grip, but Daisy clung on to it for dear life. They tussled furiously, swaying this way and that, before suddenly Daisy felt herself falling backwards. Her opponent had slipped a foot behind her leg and pushed her over it. Daisy hit the ground hard, still grasping the shotgun, her opponent falling on top of her. But as she did so, Daisy twisted hard, sending the woman over her and riding the turn herself so that she was now on top. The woman was winded and, looking down, Daisy could tell she was injured, so
she pressed home her advantage, ramming the metal barrels down on to her throat and pushing with all her might. The woman resisted fiercely, but she couldn’t breathe and was gasping and gagging. They rocked back and forth but Daisy kept up the pressure, suddenly determined to crush the life out of the stupid bitch. She leant forward, pushing down with all her might. As she did so, her opponent rocked back, then without warning launched herself forward, sending her forehead cracking into Daisy’s nose.

  There was a horrible snap and Daisy fell backwards. She crashed on to the broken glass, dazed and reeling. She was seeing stars, she wanted to vomit, but clocking that her adversary was on her hands and knees, winded and struggling, she stumbled to her feet. She still had the gun and if she could reload in time …

  She pulled the shells from her pocket, but they tumbled to the ground, her hands shaking. Her adversary was clambering to her feet, so she scrabbled for the shells amid the glass. She managed to fix on one and ram it in the breech, then she picked up another, moving it awkwardly around until that slid in too. Snapping the shotgun shut, she rose and turned to kill.

  But as she did so, she was suddenly blinded. A piercing white light filled the entire shop, even as she heard someone shout:

  ‘Armed police!’

  And now Daisy didn’t hesitate, turning on the spot and running for her life. Seconds later, she was out of the back door and away.

  100

  18.37

  The air was cool and crisp, ripping over Daisy’s sweating face as she sprinted down the alleyway, busting a gut to put as much distance between her and the police as possible. She knew her adversary wasn’t finished yet – even as she ran she could hear footsteps behind her. The narrow passageway angled away from the rear of the building after about fifty yards or so, giving her some cover from her pursuers, but would it be enough? She strained every sinew as she raced on, determined not to be taken.