M. J. Arlidge
* * *
RUNNING BLIND
A Helen Grace short
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Follow Penguin
1
He stumbled forward, tearing at the undergrowth. His hands were covered in blood, ravaged by thorns, but he didn’t waver. His pursuers were close now and hesitation would be fatal. He had to get out of the forest. So, even as another branch ripped across his face, he pressed on, clawing at the unyielding foliage.
And now he caught a break, crashing through the thick bushes and onto the grass beyond. His chin crunched on the frozen turf and for a moment his head swam. But already he was scrambling to his feet, driven on by instinct, by a desire to live. The dogs had reached the dense bushes and were trying to break through, snarling and barking all the while. Turning away from them, the desperate fugitive suddenly saw the dual carriageway not fifty yards away. It was busy today, with endless cars and lorries roaring past. Enough to make the dogs think twice.
Limping heavily, he hobbled across the crisp grass. He was going as fast as he could, getting ever closer to salvation, but a sudden burst of barking made him turn. One of the dogs had wriggled through the bushes and was bounding towards him, jaws open and ready.
It was a straight race now. But even as he scrambled towards the road, he felt his will fail him. His legs didn’t seem to want to move, there were tears in his eyes. He suddenly knew he would die here in this strange place, separated from friends and family. And yet he was so close, the road just fifteen yards away …
He could sense the dog closing in on him. He knew that at any moment he would feel the sharp teeth sink into him, would feel himself being dragged back towards the woods. With a last burst of energy, he threw himself forward and, just as the leading dog caught hold of his ankle, he pulled clear, his feet finding the warm tarmac of the road.
The cars were roaring past but he pressed on, dodging a hatchback in the slow lane. Without turning, he knew that the dog had already given up the chase, scared off by the traffic. He had escaped them, he was free.
A dark saloon roared past, its horn blaring, but he ignored it, hurrying on across the fast lane. He would rest up on the central reservation, then decide what to do nex—
An anguished squeal of brakes, then the van smashed into him, catapulting him backwards onto the tarmac. His head hit the ground with a sickening crunch and he rolled over several times, before eventually coming to rest in the middle of the road.
2
WPC Helen Grace looked at herself in the mirror. A stray hair hung over her face and she pulled it away quickly, teasing it expertly back into her scrunchy. The person looking back at her was youthful, but pale. Eighteen years old, Helen was still finding her look, vacillating between minimal makeup and no makeup at all. She was striking, attractive even, but however much foundation and blusher she used, she never managed to inject any colour into her cheeks. Her colleagues used to joke that she was a vampire, a young woman risen from the dead. She often felt like that, but in some ways her pallid look suited her. She was a police officer now and a sober, unflustered countenance lent her a calm authority.
Helen had enrolled at Hampshire’s Police Training Centre as soon as she turned eighteen and was now completing her rotations. Data Profiling had been dull, Community Outreach had been rewarding, but it was her current posting with the Transport Police that she’d enjoyed the most. Many of her fellow graduates found this odd. Transport was traditionally the preserve of petrol heads and more glamorous postings were to be found elsewhere – CID of course, or terrorism, given that the IRA were having a particularly active year. But Helen enjoyed her role and always looked forward to another day at their rundown HQ in Totton. She was a fish out of water for sure, a quiet, efficient woman in a sea of boisterous, old-school males, but you had more independence here and there was more variety in your work. You never patrolled the same beat twice and each day was different. And then, of course, there were the bikes.
Helen had always had a thing about motorbikes. As a teenager she and her sister had lifted mopeds from the streets of South London, riding the stolen bikes as fast as they could around the local estates. Ever since those days she’d loved the power, the feeling of independence that a bike gives you. As a kid it had allowed her to dream of escape – speeding off to a happier future – and as a young adult she’d relished the solo nature of the experience. Just her and the elements, the wind coursing over her as she pushed her bike to the max.
With the bike came the uniform. Donning the standard police outfit had given Helen a thrill, but the Transport uniform was even better. She still got a buzz as she put on her leathers every morning, the crowning glory being the moment when the helmet went on. It felt snug, kept the world at one remove and best of all it hid her identity. Once she pulled the visor down, she became a number. No one could see her face, no one could recognize her, no one could tell if she was a man or a woman. She was completely anonymous.
Which, given her history, was exactly how Helen liked it.
3
‘Can you hear me, son? Can you hear what I’m saying to you?’
Colin Patterson cast around desperately, but the faces crowding around him looked as confused and horrified as he did, so he returned his attention to the young man in front of him. He had been thrown twenty feet by the the impact of the crash, ending up flat on his back in the middle of the road, his limbs contorted in a sickeningly unnatural pose.
Colin leant down and gently tapped the man’s cheek, once, twice, three times. But there was no response. Given his injuries the man should have been in terrible pain, but in fact he was oddly still, his eyeballs rolling in their sockets, casting odd, mournful looks up at the sky. Colin felt for a pulse and now found one – faint, but present. The man was still alive, though this was about the best that could be said for him.
‘What’s your name, son? Your name?’
‘He looks foreign, perhaps he doesn’t speak English,’ a bystander added unhelpfully.
‘The ambulance is on its way, so you just hang in there,’ Colin continued, ignoring this pointless interjection.
He looked down the road, searching desperately for a flashing light. But the traffic was backing up and it would take an age for the emergency vehicle to bully its way through. In some ways it was a miracle one was coming at all – there were no phone boxes on this section of the road and it was sheer good luck that a jumped-up tosser in a Range Rover had had a car phone, one that he was more than happy to show off.
The in
jured man’s arm twitched now, jerking suddenly upward, as a strange rattling sound came from his lungs. His eyelids were flickering rapidly now. What was going on? Was he having a heart attack? Some sort of seizure?
‘Does anyone have any medical training? Does anyone know what we should be doing?’
More shaking of heads and Colin thought he detected the gawpers backing away now, keen to avoid the responsibility of keeping the injured man alive. That role fell to him, crouching over the poor guy, his hands coated in another man’s blood. He had hit him, he must save him – that seemed to be the inescapable logic of the situation.
In the distance now, a faint siren. But as Colin turned back to the injured man to tell him the good news, he heard another sound. A long, deep sigh, stealing from the man’s lips. His body seemed to deflate, as the last vestiges of his strength deserted him. Colin immediately put his arms under him, hauling him up, holding him close.
‘Are you ok, mate?’
But the man didn’t reply. He was already dead.
4
Helen sped along the road, cruising past the static lines of traffic. The A36 was always busy, but today had been particularly bad – the schools having broken up for Christmas just a couple of days earlier. The world and his wife were on the move, keen to get to friends and family before the big day. Except now of course they were going nowhere, miles of stationary traffic tailing back from the site of the crash.
There had been no time for Helen to settle into the day. They had got the call first thing – a potentially fatal injury at a notorious accident black spot – and Helen and her partner had hurried to the scene. She took point, Alan Mackie following just behind, and they had made good progress. They had overtaken the ambulance, which was still labouring through the traffic, and were now approaching the crash site. Helen felt that familiar spike of adrenaline that comes when you know you’re going to be first on the scene.
They broke free of the traffic and pulled up next to a ring of cars that surrounded a small group of people. Helen killed the engine, flicked out the stand and dismounted her bike in one fluid movement. Now she was walking towards the crowd, which parted for her as she approached. The scene that greeted her was a pitiful one – a middle-aged man hunched over a broken soul.
Helen had encountered several dead bodies before, but she never got used to it. This man had been a sentient being half an hour ago – full of hopes, dreams, desires, contradictions. Now he was gone, a shattered body lying on the tarmac. The middle-aged man crouching over him was looking very shaky, so Alan Mackie drew him away, urging the rest of the onlookers to return to their cars. A life had been lost today, but the road needed to be reopened – every minute it remained closed increased the risk of another accident. Begrudgingly the drivers obliged, reluctant to be drawn away from the drama of the unfolding tragedy, and Helen now turned her attention to the man who lay on the road in front of her.
He was a young, black man, probably no more than twenty-five years old. He lay in a heap not far from the dented van which had come to a rest at an awkward, diagonal angle. The dark skid marks behind the van told its own story, as did the catastrophic injuries to the unfortunate victim. The left side of his head was badly traumatized, his ribcage had collapsed and blood coated his arms, face and torso. It was pointless, but Helen checked for a pulse.
She would have to confirm to the arriving paramedics that he was dead, so it was best to get it over with. As expected, there was nothing, his life force long since departed. She would have to wait for a stretcher before attempting to move him off the road, so Helen gently patted down the broken body, searching for a wallet, papers, anything that might help identify him. But there was nothing. His pockets were empty, he had no jewellery, no bag. He was travelling light and Helen’s attention was now drawn to his soiled, tatty clothing, to the dirt in his hair, to the thick film of plaque on his stained teeth.
Odder still was the fact that this young man was barefoot. Shoes can be thrown off in a heavy impact, but casting around Helen couldn’t see any nearby. Besides, she’d never attended a crash in which someone’s socks had been knocked off and as she bent down to examine his feet, her interest was further piqued. The soles of his feet were cut to ribbons, his ankles marked by deep gashes. These were not crash injuries – these were presumably inflicted before the accident. But how, and why?
Why had this mystery man risked everything to cross this very busy road? And what – or who – was he running from?
5
‘He came from nowhere. I swear I didn’t see him …’
Colin Patterson was sitting by the side of the road, swathed in a police blanket. His body was still shaking, but he had moved out of the mute-shock phase. Alan Mackie had done his usual good work reassuring and consoling the unfortunate driver and Helen hoped to get some useful information out of him.
‘He flashed in front of the windscreen, then …’
Patterson couldn’t say the words, staring morosely at the body, which was now hidden from view beneath a blanket. The sight seemed to distress Patterson and he wrapped his arms round himself as he began to cough. He barked vigorously for ten seconds or more, before eventually looking up at Helen.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a fag on you?’ he asked plaintively.
Helen did of course and, though she wasn’t sure his lungs needed another, she handed him one. He lit it and took a quick drag.
‘So as you were driving, he cut across you from the left?’ Helen asked.
Patterson nodded.
‘He was heading towards the central reservation?’
‘I guess so. But as soon as I’d seen him, I’d … I’m not really sure where he was going …’
‘Tell me about what happened immediately after the crash,’ Helen continued gently.
‘Well … I stopped the van obviously. I got out, waited until the cars behind had stopped, then went over to him. Some guy was dialling 999, so I told the poor fella that it would be ok, that the ambulance was coming …’
‘Did you see anybody else nearby? Immediately after the crash, I mean?’
‘Well, obviously there were the other drivers –’
‘I mean anybody else on foot? Someone at the side of the road? A friend of his perhaps or …’
Patterson thought back, taking another quick drag on his cigarette to ward off a coughing fit.
‘I don’t think so. I was trying to comfort him. The others were crowding around … so, no, I didn’t see anyone.’
Helen nodded and was about to wrap up the conversation, when Patterson suddenly said: ‘Do you … do you know who he is?’
Helen looked at him, saw the need in his eyes, but she had to be honest.
‘No, I’m afraid we’ve no idea. But we’ll find out.’
Patterson nodded, seeming to take some comfort from this. But Helen knew a long road lay ahead of him. It wasn’t his fault, but he had taken a life today and that would be a very hard cross to bear. It was going to be a bleak Christmas for Colin Patterson this year.
6
Helen climbed to the top of the verge and looked down at the road. The young man’s body had been transferred to the awaiting ambulance and the traffic was starting to move again now. This human tragedy would become a brief spot on the local news, part of the traffic bulletin perhaps, and then the world would move on. The young man would become just another statistic on the treacherous A36.
Alan Mackie was wrapping up the formalities with the paramedics and it would soon be time for both of them to depart. But Helen wasn’t ready to go just yet. Not when there were so many questions still unanswered. Starting at the point of impact, she had walked in a straight line to the side of the road, then climbed. Presuming the victim had descended the bank and run straight onto the road, she was probably standing where he had less than an hour ago.
What had possessed him to leave this place of safety and throw himself onto the busy road? Helen continued away from the road, cuttin
g through the rough grass. There was nothing up here, no paths, no buildings, it was just a scrubby patch of land, bordered by woodland on one side and the road on the other. The land had presumably been cleared during the road construction and was barren now, nothing growing here except grass and weeds.
Helen walked on towards the trees. She’d hoped to take a brief look around but as she approached the woodland, she saw that her way was barred. Dense, tall bushes rose up before her, their sharp thorns discouraging further progress. Helen reached up to touch one of them – they were half an inch long and sharp with it – then crouched down to examine the ground. This too was littered with thorns, making traversing it potentially hazardous.
Helen’s mind was turning now and, as she straightened up, she saw something. A small piece of cloth hanging from one of the branches. Putting her gloves on, Helen removed it from the thorn’s point to examine it more closely. What she saw excited and worried her. It was a piece of brown-and-white checked cotton – the same pattern that was on the dead man’s shirt.
Helen took a step forward, peering into the gloomy forest. If he had run through this forest just before the accident, it was a pretty desperate place to find himself, especially if he was barefoot. Helen strained to penetrate the darkness within, wondering what had driven him through this unhospitable terrain. And as she did so, she heard it. Faint and far in the distance, but unmistakable.
The sound of dogs barking.
7
‘Do they even have shoes where he comes from?’
The portly desk sergeant chuckled at his joke, raising a laugh from his oppo on the front desk.
‘Not sure they even have clothes,’ his mate replied. ‘Must have half-inched the ones he had on …’
More laughter, the officers oblivious to Helen’s obvious disapproval. She had returned to base with Alan and was now giving a detailed incident report to those whose job it was to file the particulars. But her colleagues seemed largely uninterested, intent on making each other laugh. Out in the real world, they would have been obliged to be respectful and considerate, but behind closed doors they felt liberated to be as unpleasant and tasteless as they desired.
Running Blind (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 1
