Truth or Dare: Pre-order the nail-biting new Helen Grace thriller now

by M. J. Arlidge

  ‘You think it was a gang, then? Organized crime?’ Helen responded calmly, determined not to be riled by Hudson’s aggressive manner.

  ‘I think it’s to do with money,’ Hudson replied firmly. ‘Look at the board. Pretty much every major investigation we’ve got on has a financial motive at its core. Whether it’s iPhones or laptops or luxury vehicles that people are after, they’re just looking to make some easy cash. The job market is screwed, people’s savings are gone, the insurance companies aren’t paying out, so people are going to the black market. The only people making money currently are those who can supply that market with stolen goods, car parts, whatever. Now we know McManus had a number of retainers with major insurance companies, that’s where most of his work came from. All I’m saying is, that if someone had a good racket going, and McManus threatened to expose them, then the obvious step would be to shut him down, close down his operation for good.’

  ‘And that may well be what happened. But I want us to keep our options open at this early stage of the investigation.’ As she spoke, Helen turned away from Hudson to face the group once more. ‘So we do the boring things, the obvious things. A crime of this brutality doesn’t come from nowhere. Something’s happened – a threat made, a word spoken out of turn, the fracturing of a relationship – and last night Declan McManus paid the price. Maybe we’ll get lucky with CCTV or a witness, but my guess is that the culprit is someone who was connected to McManus, who knew him.’ As she concluded, Helen held up the victim’s call log once more. ‘So, let’s chase down everyone he was talking to and find out what they wanted, because, odds on, one of them had a motive to kill.’

  Chapter 16

  She felt as if the eyes of the world were upon her, but, turning, she saw that no one present had paid her so much as a second glance. She was utterly anonymous in the home depot store, which is how she wanted it.

  Pulling her baseball cap down, she carried on. Picking up the pace, she strode past wallpaper, past lighting, past the stacked pyramids of paint tins, until eventually she came to kitchenware. This was not a store she was familiar with; she found the layout frustrating and confusing, and it took her a few minutes to orient herself. There were great piles of frying pans and blenders for sale, flanked by cheap cutlery and colourful colanders. Wandering through them, as if browsing for bargains, she slowly zeroed in on the kitchen utensils. Spatulas, whisks, tongs, fish slices and, finally, knives.

  For a moment, she let her eyes skim over the familiar names – Sabatier at the top end, the store’s own brand at the bottom. Many of the more expensive items had security tags on them, so she breezed past these to the bargain buys. Now she paused, assessing the options, before finally settling on an eight-inch kitchen knife that fitted the bill.

  She was tempted to reach out and grab it, but she held back, taking a moment to calm herself. Remembering the drill she’d rehearsed, she looked at her watch, then down the aisle, as if searching for a tardy partner. There was no one to her right, so she turned to her left, hoping for the same empty vista. But to her horror, a security guard now stood at the end of the aisle, looking directly at her.

  Had he spotted something unusual in her behaviour? Did he know she was up to no good? She smiled at him, despite the fact that she was quaking inside, and to her immense relief, he smiled back, before heading on his way. Again she ached to snatch up the knife and run, but she stopped herself, angling a glance up at the ceiling, searching for cameras. There were no specific cameras in the vicinity, just a general surveillance unit, housed in a clear plastic dome, some thirty feet away from her. Satisfied, she examined a spatula on a higher shelf, in the process angling her body towards the camera, so that the cheaper kitchen knives were hidden from view. Replacing the spatula with her right hand, she now gathered up the kitchen knife with her left, slipping it smoothly into her handbag. With a theatrical little shake of the head, she left the spatula where it was and walked away, zipping up her bag.

  To all and intents and purposes she was just another shopper going about her business. In reality, of course, she was anything but. She’d been terrified on arrival, convinced she would bungle this petty act of criminality, but now felt giddy and excited, bestowing a smile on the checkout girl, before striding off with her bottle of white spirit, past the security barriers and through the exit, convinced that no one was any the wiser.

  As the warm air hit her, she felt her spirits soar. The adrenaline, the relief, coursed through her as she marched across the car park. Again, she was tempted to cut loose, to sprint across the tarmac, putting as much distance between herself and the home store as possible. But again, caution and calculation won out, so she walked on with a measured step, suppressing a smile and trying her very best not to look suspicious.

  Chapter 17

  They strode along the pavement, their feet perfectly in time with one another.

  ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’

  Helen was parallel to the speaker, so could not tell whether Robert Downing’s cheerful greeting extended as far as his eyes. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, walking fast away from Southampton Crown Court, his brief, gown and wig clutched tightly under his arm.

  ‘I’m assuming you heard about the fire over in Locks Heath last night?’

  ‘Sure, it was on the radio. Some kind of scrapyard, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Used to be. More recently it was the hideout-cum-office of Declan McManus, a local private detective.’

  ‘I see.’ His tone was studiedly neutral.

  ‘Anyway,’ Helen continued, ‘we’re just running a rule over his movements, his contacts, during the last few weeks. And your number came up.’

  She was looking for a reaction, a flicker of recognition, guilt, alarm perhaps, but there was nothing. Downing’s face remained a mask of professional disinterest. Helen wasn’t surprised – she knew the barrister well from the Southampton circuit – and knew that he was always friendly, polite and unruffled. Privately, she wondered if he ever let his guard down.

  ‘The name doesn’t ring a bell,’ he answered eventually. ‘Can you describe him to me?’

  ‘Short, wide, thinning red hair, Belfast accent. Used to be a Met copper—’

  ‘OK, yes … I think I know who you mean,’ Downing cut in. ‘He had a very strong accent, as I recall. Was quite hard to make out what he was saying …’

  ‘What was the nature of his contact with you?’

  ‘Well, he rang me on my mobile,’ Downing continued. ‘No idea how he got the number.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, it was about ten days or so ago now. I was at home with the boys, so I was tempted not to answer, but you never know who it might be, so I took the call.’

  ‘What was he after?’ Helen pressed him, beginning to feel that Downing was deliberately wasting time, his parked car just a hundred feet away now.

  Clocking her urgency, Downing turned to face her for the first time. ‘He was looking for work.’

  ‘What sort of work?’

  ‘Well, he gave me a brief résumé of his clients. I’m sure you know all this already, but on top of the work he does for insurance companies, he occasionally works for local law firms. Surveillance, background checks, door-stepping, that sort of thing – ascertaining whether people suing big organizations really are as injured, depressed, aggrieved as they claim to be, whether the children they’re claiming benefits for really exist. Basically, if you can’t get out of something via standard legal methods, you employ someone like McManus to see if there’s another way around it …’

  ‘And this was the first time he’d contacted you?’

  ‘The only time,’ Downing clarified.

  ‘And what did you say to him?’

  ‘Not a lot. After his initial pitch, I thanked him and hung up. I wasn’t going to waste my Saturday talking to a cold caller.’

  ‘And that was it? There were no follow-up calls? On your landline, to your office?’

 
‘No, nothing,’ Downing confirmed. ‘I wasn’t exactly encouraging, so I think he got the message.’

  They had reached his car, Downing slowing as he turned to Helen once more.

  ‘Now was that everything, or …?’

  ‘For now.’

  She could have pressed him further, but his story seemed to stack up. McManus’s call log showed only one call to Downing’s number, the whole exchange lasting less than a minute.

  ‘Well, then, I must run,’ Downing concluded. ‘But it really has been a pleasure, Helen. You take care of yourself now.’

  Nodding warmly at her, Downing turned and flung open the car door. Stepping back, Helen watched him drive away, impressed in spite of herself. Others might have been flustered by her unexpected appearance, but Downing had never broken stride, remaining cordial, helpful and efficient throughout. He’d appeared eager to help, answering her questions smoothly and fluently, keen to clear up any misunderstanding about the nature of his ‘relationship’ with McManus. Whether Helen would have been able to tell if he was deliberately misleading her, however, was debatable. This was a man who lied for a living.

  She was still mulling over their exchange when her mobile buzzed. She was intrigued to see that it was Meredith Walker calling.

  ‘Morning, Meredith. What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s more what I can do for you,’ she replied cheerily. ‘Any chance you could pop over to the lab?’

  Helen was already hurrying to her bike. Experience had taught her that when Meredith called, you came running.

  Chapter 18

  She forced a smile, but couldn’t hide her irritation, as DS Joseph Hudson made his way across the café towards her. Emilia Garanita had finished her lunch over half an hour ago and was keen to be away from the busy builders’ pit stop – the smell of brown sauce and bacon was beginning to affect her.

  ‘You’re late,’ she chided him, as he took a seat opposite her, darting a quick look around to check they weren’t being watched.

  ‘Nice to see you too, Emilia,’ he replied, turning to face her. ‘And sorry for keeping you, but we do have rather a lot on at the moment.’

  ‘You working on the McManus case?’

  He nodded. ‘Helen’s had the whole team checking out McManus’s contacts. Pretty pointless, really, he seems to have spent most of his time chasing teenage girls who wouldn’t give him the time of day.’

  ‘It’s that bad, is it?’ Emilia replied, surprised. ‘I thought with someone like McManus there’d be an obvious suspect, an investigation he was about to break, someone he was going to expose …’

  ‘Nothing obvious about it. All his files were destroyed, his computer nicked. We’ve got some info from his phone, but he changed SIM card and devices regularly in case he was hacked, so it’s not given us much …’

  ‘What about CCTV? Witnesses?’

  ‘There’s very little coverage in that part of town and you don’t wander around there late at night, so—’

  ‘So unless he wakes up and points the finger, you’re clutching at straws.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Hudson replied dryly. ‘Jesus, what do you need to do to get served in here?’

  He craned his neck round, searching for a waitress, but Emilia didn’t have time to be diverted.

  ‘So if I highlight the lack of leads, the vast array of possible suspects, the huge stretch on resources, and the general lack of direction, that would be about right?’

  ‘That’s the size of it,’ Hudson answered, returning his attention to her.

  ‘Because I don’t want to be surprised by a sudden rabbit out of the hat,’ Emilia continued.

  ‘You won’t be.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, rising. ‘Call me if there are any developments.’

  Nodding, Hudson resumed his hunt for a cup of tea, but Emilia didn’t linger, striding through the café and out the door. She was glad to be away – the sun was strong already, making the greasy spoon uncomfortably stuffy – and, besides, she had work to do. She had seldom felt more excited, more energized. Since the downturn, the only growth business in Southampton had been crime – for perpetrators and reporters alike. She had never been so busy – the murders, rapes, muggings piling up, providing a never-ending carousel of misery and fear for their readers. Her output was up, circulation was up, and the Southampton Evening News was turning a nice profit, increasing its space for adverts peddling home-security equipment, rape alarms and pepper spray, not to mention divorce lawyers, employment experts and pay-day lenders.

  For every cloud there was a silver lining, but that wasn’t even the best bit. The really delicious part was still to come. This was not something she could brag about, it would have to remain a close secret for years, but in some ways that added to the enjoyment. Since the Justin Lanning investigation six months ago, Emilia had had DS Joseph Hudson in her pocket. He had leaked information to her regularly in the intervening period and she even had a recording of him promising to do so, during a snatched conversation from the earlier investigation. She had him in her thrall, but ambitious man that he was, he’d decided to turn this to his advantage, making an ally of his captor.

  Hudson was intent on bringing Helen Grace down, willing to provide Emilia with all manner of damaging material on his boss, as well as regular, detailed updates on the investigations. Not only was Emilia ahead of the pack when bringing news of the latest murder or rape to the Evening News’s loyal readers, but she also now had DI Helen Grace well within her sights.

  Ever since the recent spike in crime, Emilia had been on hand to lambast Helen Grace. Everyone likes to have someone to blame and in the beleaguered detective inspector, Emilia had found the perfect fall guy. Grace had been in place at Southampton Central for years, during which time she’d enjoyed many spectacular successes, but now easy victories seemed elusive. For the first time ever, Grace seemed to have lost her grip on the city, struggling to marshal the forces ranged against her, including Joseph Hudson. Did she know he was after her job? That he was intent on damaging her reputation irreparably, before going in for the kill? Either way, it made no difference. Helen Grace was on the back foot. Joseph Hudson had made it his life’s work to take her chair, to cast the wounded beast into the wilderness and supplant her as the new head of Southampton Central’s Major Incident Team.

  And Emilia was going to help him do it.

  Chapter 19

  ‘So what have we got?’ Helen enquired, still a little breathless from her sprint up the stairs.

  ‘We’ve got something rather unexpected,’ Meredith replied, smiling at Helen’s obvious excitement.

  Directing Helen’s attention to the blue thread that lay on the microscope slide in front of her, the forensic scientist continued, ‘I was assuming it would be a strand of fabric from a coat or a hoodie, a bit of cotton that snagged on the wire fence as our arsonist fled the scene.’

  ‘Right …’

  ‘And that is basically what we’re looking at, except that it’s not cotton. It’s cashmere.’

  Helen nodded, but couldn’t conceal her surprise. Cashmere was the preserve of the wealthy, not the garb of a shadowy arsonist in a rough part of town.

  ‘It appears to be new. We’ve had a good look at it, and it’s not been washed yet. Nor does it have any ingrained dirt or dust.’

  ‘So it’s fresh off the peg?’

  ‘Looks that way, but that’s not the interesting part. What intrigued me was the colour.’

  ‘Go on,’ Helen replied, ever more curious.

  ‘Well, at first glance it appears to be a navy-blue thread.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘But we’ve taken a look at the dye and it’s a very unusual mix. It’s basically a kind of midnight-blue, but with traces of jade and silver, to give it a richness, a sheen. It’s fairly sophisticated and I would guess expensive, so I’d say you’re really looking at the upper end of designer on this one. Prada, Gucci, Stella McCartney, Fendi, or perhaps something ev
en more bespoke, something you can’t buy on the high street. Whoever this belongs to, he or she was a snappy dresser. I’d love to be able to give you chapter and verse on where they got it, but, as you know, I’m more of an H&M girl.’

  ‘You’d never guess,’ Helen said laughing, taking the printed breakdown Meredith offered her.

  ‘We’ve also had a bit of joy on the footprint; details are outlined here,’ Meredith continued, indicating another entry on the piece of paper, ‘but that’s all we’ve got for now. Obviously, I’ll buzz you if we turn up anything else.’

  Thanking her, Helen was soon on her way, speed-dialling the incident room. Now that they had something to go on, she wanted the whole team on the case. The sooner they could get a lead on last night’s arsonist, the greater the chance of apprehending them and bringing them to justice.

  As she relayed the details to DC Malik, Helen’s mind continued to turn on this surprising development. She had expected the thread to be a lead of sorts – especially if they could find CCTV footage of someone fleeing the scene in a dark-blue coat or hoodie – but the information Meredith had provided was surprising and detailed. In her head, she’d imagined McManus’s attacker as a low life in tatty clothes and scruffy trainers, someone hired perhaps to do this nasty, cowardly job. But the evidence they’d gathered pointed the other way – the partial footwear mark appeared to have been made by a Philipp Plein trainer, which Helen knew cost north of £400, whilst the jacket or top probably cost several times that.

  It didn’t make sense, but the evidence was undeniable. The perpetrator of this brutal and cowardly attack on McManus was not a scruffy assassin or desperate hired hand. No, they were someone who took pride in their appearance, in how they presented themselves to the world.

  Someone who dressed to kill.

  Chapter 20