It was too cold for anyone to be out in the beer garden, so, hurrying across the road, she’d clambered over the chain link fence. Her ankle had protested, but up she went, dropping safely down on the other side. Then she’d opened the back door and hobbled inside. The toilets were to the rear of the pub and she’d slipped gratefully into the Ladies. It was a risk coming to a public place, but no self-respecting woman would set foot in this pub, so she’d felt confident she would have a few minutes to compose herself.
Progress had been slow and painstaking. She sensed that her nose was broken – it made her feel sick every time she touched it, but she knew she had to if she was to make herself look ‘respectable’. So she’d dabbed away with clumps of sodden toilet paper, swallowing down her nausea and wiping away the evidence of her struggle. Her trousers were just about ok, once she had dusted off the last splinters of broken glass, but her dark green top still showed up spatters of blood. Whether they were spots of the police officer’s blood or hers she wasn’t sure – but either way it wouldn’t do to advertise the stains. So she’d ripped her top off, swiftly turning it inside out, before putting it back on again. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do for now.
Looking at herself, running her hand over her shaved head, she felt a sudden surge of confidence. She actually liked her new look – she’d never had a buzz cut before, but now she felt it suited her better than any other style she’d had in the past. She looked like a warrior. She looked like an Amazon.
She looked like the real Daisy Anderson.
108
19.28
‘Am I cursed, Charlie?’
It was such a strange question that, for a moment, Charlie didn’t know how to answer. She had eventually persuaded Helen to return to Southampton Central, arguing that she was needed there to coordinate the search teams’ efforts and sift the available evidence for clues as to where Daisy might head next. They had travelled back in silence and even as they had passed through the familiar corridors up to the seventh floor, not a word had been spoken. It was only once the pair were safely installed back in Helen’s office that her shaken superior had decided to speak.
‘You know I don’t think that,’ Charlie replied, crossing to the door and closing it gently.
‘I do sometimes,’ Helen continued quietly. ‘Sometimes I feel that anyone who gets close to me – anyone I try to help – gets hurt.’
‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’ Charlie contradicted her gamely.
Helen smiled without conviction, then said:
‘You’ve had your moments. Things that shouldn’t have happened …’
Charlie stared at the floor, shaken by Helen’s tacit reference to the baby she had lost in captivity all those years ago.
‘I mean, why isn’t it ever me?’ Helen wondered. ‘I know that sounds morbid and self-indulgent … but why does the bullet never hit me? I feel like … like I’m indestructible and I bloody hate it.’
‘I wouldn’t moan about it. Joanne could have done with a bit of that tonight.’
It wasn’t meant cuttingly, it was just an observation, but it seemed to land with Helen.
‘You’re right. I know you’re right. I just wish … that people didn’t have to suffer because of me. I ask too much of them –’
‘No more than you ask of yourself.’
‘But why? Why do they have to get hurt?’ Helen demanded, her composure slipping once more.
Charlie considered her response carefully:
‘Because you walk towards the fire, Helen. While others look around for someone else to take the lead, you willingly walk towards the fire. It’s instinctive. Because you want to save lives, because you want to do your job. Yes, you inspire others to follow, and, yes, they sometimes get hurt. But only because they are doing what needs to be done. And you must never stop doing that, Helen. Never. You’re the only person who can do it …’
Helen nodded at the floor, then slowly raised her head to look at Charlie once more. Her eyes were dry, though her face was still ashen.
‘And it’s what you must do now,’ Charlie continued forcefully. ‘I will go and talk to Joanne’s mum –’
Helen tried to interject, but Charlie was having none of it, talking over her boss.
‘I will talk to Joanne’s mum. It’s what I’m good at and I’d like to be the one to break it to her. And you must do what you do best …’
Helen was quiet now, her eyes meeting Charlie’s.
‘Get out there and bring Daisy in.’
109
19.42
‘DS Joanne Sanderson …’
Helen’s voice wavered slightly, but she pressed on.
‘… and Michael Anderson.’
Helen pulled their photos up on to the screen.
‘They are victims five and six.’
Helen turned to face the team. Such was the number of officers now working on the case that they had had to move out of the briefing suite into the main body of the incident room. This was one bonus of not having a boss – Helen had signed off the resources necessary to have this huge team working around the clock. She wanted to throw everything they had at this. From the expression on the faces of those present, the angry, grieving officers were ready to respond to her call to arms.
Helen now saw a unity that had been lacking before. Perhaps she had been imagining the fracture, the lack of cohesion, in the team previously? Whatever the truth of the matter, the whole MIT was ready to follow her. And she was ready to lead.
‘The former was killed on Bray Road while attending an incident, the latter was murdered at his farm in Hedge End. His body is being examined by Jim Grieves now, but it’s pretty clear that he was Daisy Anderson’s first victim.’
‘Why did she do it?’ Osbourne asked quickly.
‘Because he’d asked her to move out. He didn’t like Jason Swift, thought he was a thug. And he felt he’d come between him and his daughter –’
‘And she was angry that her dad turned against her?’ Reed offered.
‘Her Voicemail messages make that pretty clear. There was evidence of love in that family. In his own haphazard way, Michael Anderson doted on his daughter. Which is why it hurt so much when he forced her to choose. These killings are about rejection –’
‘We can’t say that for sure. Look at Jason Swift and DS Sanderson –’
‘Daisy didn’t plan to kill Jason or Joanne,’ Helen countered. ‘They were necessity killings, so she could keep going. We have to keep our focus on the root cause of today’s spree. Daisy has no emotional resilience and reacts with fury when she is pushed away or rejected –’
‘So the dad is the root cause, he loved her, but he turned on her …’
‘Possibly, but look at her charge sheet. Her behavioural problems go back many years …’
Helen turned to the murder board. Daisy’s charge sheet revealed a catalogue of misdemeanours starting long before the age of criminal culpability. The formal, black and white evidence of her bad behaviour seemed curiously at odds with the cute photos of the young Daisy that Helen had been staring at only a couple of hours earlier.
‘Her first caution was when she was ten years old. Before that she seemed to be a fairly normal kid –’
‘Which must have been about the time her mother left,’ McAndrew suddenly cut in.
‘What do we know about her?’
‘We’ve trawled through the social service reports of the time, the divorce petition –’
‘And?’ Helen interrupted, impatient for details.
‘Well, it appears that Karen Anderson was having an affair. She fell pregnant, the fissure in her marriage was too great, so she left her husband, before her twin boys were born –’
‘And Daisy?’
‘Daisy continued to attend the same school, was registered at the same address –’
‘She left her behind,’ Helen said, suddenly getting it. ‘Karen Anderson abandoned her daughter and walked away.’
‘Looks that way. There’s no evidence of Daisy ever having lived with her mother. Her dad got sole custody, the farm. Karen agreed to give it all up for a new life.’
‘And Daisy was ten when this happened?’
‘Only just. Her mum left two weeks after her birthday.’
There was an audible reaction from several members of the team. Helen felt it too – the image of a ten-year-old girl watching her mother leave the family home, because she chose to prioritize her unborn twins over her own daughter, suddenly forced its way into her mind. What had Daisy felt back then? Confusion, distress, loneliness … but later anger and bitterness too? Now Helen thought back to the farmhouse at Hedge End and the total absence of photos of her mother. It was as if Karen Anderson had been obliterated from the collective memory.
‘She’s not worth it …’
‘Sorry, boss?’
Helen realized she had been thinking out loud.
‘ “She’s not worth it.” That’s what Daisy Anderson said about Melissa Hill when she spared the young mother and her baby at the pharmacy. I thought at the time that maybe there was something in the image of a mother protecting her baby that had disturbed Daisy’s equilibrium, had provoked some feelings of pity in her … but now I think she actually meant what she said. To Daisy, the young mother was shit on her shoe, beneath her contempt, certainly not worth a bullet.’
‘Karen Anderson has to be the next victim. If this is all about rejection,’ DC Bentham added, picking up Helen’s thread.
‘Maybe, though we’re not sure Daisy even knows where she lives,’ Osbourne replied quickly. ‘She hasn’t had any contact with her.’
‘Plus, all her victims so far have been people who’ve rejected her recently,’ DC Edwards added.
‘But think about where this all comes from,’ Bentham persisted. ‘Her mum chose not to take her. That would have destroyed a ten-year-old, which is presumably why her dad spoiled her so much, always took her side. But it didn’t work – Daisy’s problems at school, with the police, started just after her mum left. It’s a clear link.’
As her officers continued to debate the issue, Helen stayed silent. Her mind was turning now on Daisy, on the cold rage that was driving her. Abandoned by her mother, she had become insecure, paranoid and hostile, easily enraged by those who hurt or wronged her. Although she loathed Daisy for what she’d done today, Helen suddenly thought she understood what was driving her. Daisy had loved her mother, had placed her trust in her, only for her mum to walk away without a second glance. How could a child ever get over that? It must have been horrific, bewildering, disorienting, but it was not uncommon. Helen had experienced something similar as a child, when her own mother turned a blind eye to the abuse and the violence being meted out to her offspring. And Helen had felt it more recently too. Sanderson’s disloyalty to her had shattered the trust between them, making Helen angry, vengeful and unstable. This was what was driving Daisy. A bitter sense of betrayal.
‘What address do we have for her?’
The officers suddenly fell silent, turning towards Helen.
‘Where does Karen Anderson live?’ Helen persisted.
‘She moved in with a Bryan Nash after she left her husband,’ McAndrew replied quickly, flicking through the file. ‘He’s the twins’ father. Nash has had a few businesses go sideways and it looks like the family moved around a fair bit … but this is the latest address we have for them.’
She scribbled it down on a piece of paper and handed it to Helen. It was an address on the outskirts of Portsmouth, less than half an hour’s drive from Southampton.
‘I’ll go there now,’ Helen said quickly. ‘Try and get hold of them, tell them to stay with friends or neighbours, until I arrive.’
This was said over her shoulder, Helen marching towards, then through, the office doors. She was heading fast to the bike park and thence to Portsmouth. She couldn’t be sure she was on the right track but suddenly she couldn’t shake the image that was now in her head – of a young family about to be brutally ripped apart.
110
19.48
The icy wind roared past her. Her arms were covered in goose pimples, the thin soft hairs standing to attention to try and preserve some warmth, and she shivered as she limped along the street. She hated the cold, but what else could she do? She had to keep going.
How she regretted discarding her heavy trench coat now. It was proper army surplus, with a bulk that was reassuring and a thick lining that kept her warm. It had been the right thing to do to dump it at the time – it had probably bought her a few valuable minutes and had confused those hunting for her – but the absence of it made her feel vulnerable. She had lost her armour, her protection, and now had only her thin top to insulate her from the cold. Hopefully, if anybody did see her they would dismiss her as a local student without the sense or funds to buy herself a good coat, but this didn’t make her feel any better. She was frozen to the bone.
She laid her hand on the butt of her gun, still concealed within her combat trousers, but it didn’t afford her any comfort. She was tired, hungry and cold. If Jason were here, he would have given her a cuddle. How she would have liked one. He was a naturally hot person, always kicking the duvet off, complaining that he was overheating. She was not. She felt the cold easily, no more so than now, and she missed him keenly. She and Jason had wanted to see this through together, to be brothers in arms until the end. She had come to rely on his good humour, his black and white optimism, his bullish determination. And yet … somehow she always knew there would come a point when she would need to take the lead. To stop relying on his encouragement and resolve and take matters into her own hands.
This had been her idea after all – her fight – so if anyone had to fall during their attempt, then that person had to be Jason. He had been with her throughout, but this had never been about him. This was her story, her revenge, and perhaps it was fitting that, at the very end, she should face her enemies alone.
111
19.52
They sat together in the living room, locked in a terrible silence. Charlie had had to do this many times before – people felt she had the warmth and sensitivity required when breaking the news of a sudden bereavement – but this had been by far the worst. She knew Joanne Sanderson well of course, but more than that she knew her mother. She had met her on a number of occasions in fact, so when Nicola Sanderson opened the door to her, she had initially been unconcerned, even welcoming.
But Charlie’s hesitation in entering the house and her subsequent awkward manner had obviously unnerved the sixty-year-old. Charlie wasn’t sure how to proceed – Nicola’s husband, Eddie, was out playing cards – but when Charlie suggested she summon him home, Nicola took matters into her own hand, demanding to know what was going on. Charlie had had no choice but to tell her, taking pains to say that her daughter had died a heroic death and had not suffered at all. The first part of this, at least, was true.
Nicola had not reacted at first. She had stared at Charlie for a few seconds, before asking her to say it all again. Charlie suspected she hadn’t taken in any of the details, her mind fleeing from Charlie’s report early on, to avoid facing the awful reality of what she was being told. So Charlie repeated her grim news. Shortly afterwards, a Family Liaison Officer had arrived and while she made Nicola a cup of tea, keeping up a steady stream of comforting words, Charlie had attempted to contact Eddie Sanderson. Her call had gone straight to Voicemail, so she had left a brief message, asking him to return home as soon as possible. It was inadequate and made Charlie feel dreadful – it seemed so cruel that he was out there now, laughing and joking with mates, little knowing the calamity that was about to befall him.
Thirty minutes passed without word from him, so in the end Charlie despatched the FLO to retrieve him, promising to stay with Nicola until their return. In truth, Charlie knew she would stay for a good deal longer than that, despite the pressing need for her presence elsewhere. A major ope
ration was in play, but Joanne was a loyal friend with whom she’d shared much during happy and bad times. Charlie thought of her own mother, who always worried about her, and she knew instinctively that Joanne would have done the same for her had the roles been reversed. Joanne Sanderson had made some mistakes over the years, but she was a good officer with a good heart.
Charlie knew this was just the start. Nicola and Eddie would have to identify their daughter’s body, tell family and friends, organize a funeral, deal with the inevitable press interest. Joanne would no doubt get a posthumous commendation and a medal for bravery, but this would mean precious little to her parents. Despite their anxiety about their daughter’s choice of career, Charlie knew that they were very proud of her and loved her deeply. The next few hours were going to be some of the bleakest of their lives, which is why Charlie was more than willing to stay where she was, perched on the sofa in Nicola’s modest home, holding the hand of a mute mother who was struggling to come to terms with how catastrophically cruel life can be.
112
19.53
The needle was pushing 120 mph, but Helen didn’t relent. Every second counted, but the fates were conspiring against her. Portsmouth’s archipelago almost touches Hayling Island, but with no bridge connecting them, those wanting to access it are forced to cut north instead. Helen was burning around the A27 towards the crossing at Bridge Lake. It was an unwieldy, roundabout route that was costing her valuable time.
Speed was the name of the game now. Helen was convinced that Karen Anderson would be Daisy’s final stop and she was determined to be in at the endgame. Daisy’s killing spree had only lasted a day, but to Helen it felt like an eternity. Now, for the first time, they knew what lay at the root of Daisy’s rage and they had a chance of intercepting her, before she completed her cycle of revenge.
Her lights were on, her siren was shrieking and Helen cut loose. Her bike weaved in and out of the traffic, which was still plentiful even at this hour. Normally she would have waited patiently for the lorries and cars to move over, but time was of the essence and she dared not hesitate. Daisy Anderson was a woman on a mission, determined to eviscerate the family from which she’d been excluded, to have her revenge on the woman she hated.
Love Me Not: DI Helen Grace 7 (formerly titled Follow My Leader) (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 20
