Love Me Not: DI Helen Grace 7 (formerly titled Follow My Leader) (Detective Inspector Helen Grace)
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124
10.02
It was a bitterly cold day. Autumn had surrendered to winter – the leaves now dead and gone – and the temperature had plunged. Standing on the street corner, exposed and cold, Helen tugged self-consciously at her skirt. She always wore trousers, but a work suit was not appropriate today, so she had made an exception, despite her concerns about the way it made her look. She was even more worried about her make-up and pulled a compact from her bag, checking her face in the small mirror. Two weeks had passed since that terrible day and most of Helen’s bumps and scratches had receded. The bruising on her face was harder to hide, despite her best efforts, and Helen took in her reflection with resignation. She had hoped to be looking a little better for Joanne’s funeral.
It was a day she’d known was coming, but was nevertheless dreading. She had been keen to return to work straight away, to help with the follow-up investigation. But the Chief Superintendent had intervened, ordering Helen to take a couple of weeks off. As a result, Helen had hardly seen the team since Joanne’s death and had had no chance to gauge their reaction to that day’s traumatic events. Charlie of course had been a regular visitor in the interim and had assured her that the team were shaken, but defiant, resolved to carry on their good work in Joanne’s name. Helen had been very grateful for Charlie’s support, just as she was now to see her pull up at the kerb. She had decided to take a break from biking for a little while and had asked her old friend to pick her up.
‘You’re looking nice,’ Charlie announced, as Helen took her seat beside her.
‘There’s no need to lie, Charlie. I look like a boxer in a skirt.’
‘A very well-coutured boxer,’ Charlie countered good-humouredly, as she pulled away.
They chatted on the way to the church, Charlie quizzing Helen about her recuperation and being gently interrogated in turn about the state of the investigation. Helen heard her responses, but couldn’t fully take them in, her mind already scrolling forward to what lay ahead. She had agreed without hesitation to speak at the funeral, but wondered now if that had been the right choice. She was Joanne’s superior, so it was expected of her, but how would her eulogy sound to Joanne’s family, friends and colleagues, most of whom knew of the recent difficulties between them? Would they think her two-faced? Insincere? There could be no question of backing out – that would be beyond awful – but Helen wondered why she hadn’t asked Charlie to do it instead. Charlie had known Joanne far better than she did.
The conversation lapsed into silence as they neared the church. People were standing three deep on the pavement, keen to pay their respects as the coffin passed by. Helen recognized some of the faces – clerical and support staff from Southampton Central – but many more were simply ordinary citizens who’d turned out to honour a fallen officer. It was a humbling sight and Helen sensed that it was affecting Charlie just as much as it was her.
Parking in a nearby car park, the pair walked purposefully towards the church. Experience had taught Helen that uncomfortable situations were best tackled head on, so she kept up a brisk pace, until they reached the steps of the church. Now they slowed and as Charlie laid a supportive hand on Helen’s arm, she pulled back to allow her superior space to proceed. Picking up an order of service, Helen stepped inside the church’s impressive Gothic interior.
Helen’s antipathy to religion was well known, but even she was taken aback by how beautiful the church looked this morning. The mourners’ outfits were colourful (as requested by the family), the candles plentiful, and pink and white lilies were everywhere. They were Joanne’s favourite flowers and the scent and beauty they provided had a calming effect on Helen. And now, as she walked towards her place at the front of the church, she was surprised to see several friendly faces turning towards her. Pretty much the whole of Southampton Central was present, as were the mayor and other local dignitaries. She even spotted Emilia Garanita, who appeared sombre and respectful in her dark suit, no doubt mulling over how close she had come to death.
To Helen’s surprise the assembled masses looked at her not with hostility, but with relief, even happiness. They seemed pleased that she was recovering from her injuries and was fit to lead the tributes to her fallen colleague. This goodwill extended even to Joanne’s family – her father giving Helen a small, friendly nod, as she took her place in the second row. Helen was more moved than she could say, smiling back briefly, before burying herself in the order of service.
There were countless readings scattered among the traditional hymns and prayers, many of Joanne’s friends, colleagues and relatives keen to celebrate a life lived with passion, purpose and determination. As Helen took this in, as she turned to look at row upon row of stricken but resolute mourners behind her, she couldn’t help but reflect on the love and affection that Joanne inspired. In her darker moments, Helen had occasionally speculated as to what her own funeral would be like. If she managed to command even half the number of mourners that Joanne had she would be deeply gratified, for there was no longer even standing room in the packed church. Here then was evidence, if it was needed, of the amazing contribution that Joanne had made in her relatively short life. This was a woman who had lived, loved, fought and endured without ever losing her sense of purpose.
This was a woman who had made a difference.
125
10.48
The lone mourner stood by the graveside, looking down at the coffins below. Botley Parish Cemetery was a stone’s throw from the farm where Daisy and Michael had lived and suited everyone’s purpose, being small, discreet and out of the way. The vicar had initially bridled at the thought of burying a mass murderer with one of his victims, but Karen Anderson’s impassioned pleas had eventually won him over. There was no question of forgiving Daisy or condoning her crimes, but Karen had argued forcefully that the small amount of love Daisy had received in her troubled life had come almost exclusively from her father and that it was fitting that they should be laid to rest together. She had ignored any claim that Jason Swift might have to her daughter – she didn’t even want to think about him. To her, he was somebody else’s problem.
The twins were at school, unaware of today’s committal. They knew little of Daisy – they had gleaned more about their half-sister from the newspapers than they had during the previous eight years – and, besides, Karen didn’t want an audience for this private duty. She knew that many people hated her, felt that the whole tragedy was her fault. To a large extent, she agreed with them and had been tempted to duck her duty, painfully aware of the hypocrisy of playing the loving wife and mother after the event. But, in the end, that was why she had to be here – her sin of omission, her absence from the family home, had been the catalyst for these terrible events, so it was her responsibility to honour those who had lost their lives, Daisy included.
She had opted for a joint headstone, to discourage people from vandalizing it, with just their names and dates on it. No quotation from the scriptures, no message, just a simple record of two people who had lived and died.
The service had been short to the point of bluntness, but the vicar had not been unsympathetic. Karen had been especially grateful for his discretion about when and where the service was taking place and his firmness in dealing with the handful of reporters who had turned up to gatecrash proceedings. They were waiting for her, just outside the gates, and Karen knew she would have to face them soon. But they could wait a little longer.
For now, she was needed here, to offer prayers for a husband and daughter who deserved better.
126
11.16
‘DS Joanne Sanderson gave her life to save others.’
Helen kept her voice steady and clear, aware of the many faces that were turned towards her. She had begun her address with a personal message to Joanne’s family, but now kept her gaze fixed on the back of the church, as she moved towards her conclusion.
‘This was not done for personal glory, but because it was her duty. Joann
e was not without ambition – which of us can claim that? – but she was never driven by it. For her, the important thing was to do her job. She was determined not to be found wanting, to stare down every crisis and danger without wavering, to preserve the life and liberty of those she’d been charged with protecting. She never shirked her duty, never put her own interests first – she was selfless, courageous and committed. She represented the best in each and every one of us and, though we miss her deeply, she continues to inspire us, reminding those who follow that our first responsibility in life is always to others, never to ourselves.’
Helen pondered these words as she joined the congregation at Joanne’s graveside shortly afterwards. The last few months had been some of the darkest of her life and somewhere along the line she had become mistrustful, suspicious and angry. As a result, she had failed Joanne, perhaps costing her her life. Nobody else saw it this way, but for Helen Joanne’s personal legacy was clear. If she was to continue to do her duty, as a police officer and a human being, Helen would have to learn to trust again. Only by doing so could she become a true leader once more.
It was time to turn away from the darkness towards the light, to embrace all that was good in others and herself. To do anything else would be the greatest betrayal of all, which is why Helen had resolved to become a better person, to recommit herself to the service of others, to fight the good fight.
She would continue to walk towards the fire.
THE BEGINNING
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MICHAEL JOSEPH
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia India | New Zealand | South Africa Michael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published 2017
Copyright © M. J. Arlidge, 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted Cover images © Alamy and © Shutterstock ISBN: 978-1-405-92564-8