‘So we think the fibre comes from a Rick Owens hoodie.’
DC Malik presented her findings without fanfare, in her customary matter-of-fact tone. It was one of the reasons Helen liked her – for Malik, it was the end result that was important, not personal glory. After a day spent chasing down McManus’s contacts, the team had regrouped for a final debrief. Prompted by Helen, Malik had been focusing primarily on Meredith’s lead, digging that had now born fruit.
‘We’re waiting for a call back from the firm themselves to confirm it, but we’re pretty confident we’re right. Their hoodies are one hundred per cent cashmere and the colour dye is exclusive to them. They call it Midnight Silk because the dark blue is offset by hints of green and “argent”, which is a posh way of saying silver.’
‘And where can you buy these hoodies?’ Helen queried.
‘Mail order only, retailing at roughly one thousand pounds.’
There was a low whistle from the back room, this sort of garment way beyond a DC’s paygrade.
Unabashed, Malik continued, ‘We’ve managed to get a printout from the company of all the Southampton residents who’ve purchased one in the last two years.’
Helen looked at the handout. There were only fifteen names and she scanned them quickly. Downing’s name was not on it, but fifteen other individuals were, men who might hold the key to unravelling this baffling crime.
‘Lee Moffat.’
Helen looked up to see that Joseph Hudson had spoken.
‘We should look at him.’ He suddenly seemed excited, as if he was onto something.
‘Because?’
‘Because he’s a violent, immoral thug, who’d think nothing of torching McManus if he interfered with his business. Moffat and his crew have a nice line going, lifting and stripping prestige vehicles, before selling the parts to body shops, garages or private individuals. It may be that McManus was investigating them, had something on them, plus it might link back to the Alison Burris murder. Her BMW was taken off her by someone who didn’t give a damn about human life or decency, who was happy to kill to make a quick buck. Which pretty much sums up Lee Moffat.’
Helen couldn’t deny that it sounded intriguing, so, much as she hated to let Hudson take the lead on anything these days, she replied, ‘OK, run with it. See if you can smoke him out.’
‘I’d like to suggest that DCs McAndrew, Edwards and Reid assist,’ Hudson responded. ‘Moffat’s got several known addresses, several aliases—’
‘You can have one additional officer,’ Helen replied. ‘We have a lot of different names to chase down and I want them all contacted today.’
‘But this guy has form,’ Hudson insisted angrily. ‘And if we can link him to two outstanding investigations—’
‘Then that would be great, but that’s pure speculation at this point. The neatest solution is not always the right one, so we check out every one of these names, see if any of them has a motive, a weak alibi, a link to McManus, anything that might put them in the frame. OK?’
Hudson stared at her, saying nothing, clearly displeased. Sensing the antagonism between DI and DS, the other team members lingered, seemingly uncertain whose lead to follow.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s get to it,’ Helen continued sharply, determined to remind them of the chain of command.
Now the officers reacted, hurrying away to their work stations. Helen, too, was on the move, determined to avoid a showdown with Hudson and keen to make the most of their new lead. She was impatient to start interrogating the handful of names that DC Malik had unearthed, but even as she turned to head into her office, DC Osbourne hurried up to her.
‘Sorry to interrupt, guv, but Chief Superintendent Peters’ office is on the phone. He’d like to see you as soon as is convenient.’
‘In other words, straightaway,’ Helen grimaced.
Osbourne shrugged in rueful agreement. Being summoned to the headmaster’s study was never good news. In fact, it meant only one thing.
Trouble.
Chapter 21
‘Could you explain to me what the bloody hell is going on?’ Chief Superintendent Alan Peters’ blood was up and he wasted no time in getting straight to the point. ‘If an alien landed in Southampton today and took a look at the newspapers, he’d think he’d touched down in Gotham City.’ He gestured to the latest issue of the Southampton Evening News, which lay open on his desk. ‘Last night’s arson attack is covered in great detail on pages one to three. Eve Sutcliffe’s murder is rehashed on page five, Alison Burris’s fatal stabbing is on page six. Shall I go on?’
He looked up now, his frustration and anger clear. Helen remained standing, flanked by her immediate boss, DCI Grace Simmons, and their new media liaison officer, Abigail Miller, who’d both been given the courtesy of a chair. Helen had not and stood between them, looking every inch the errant child.
‘I know the coverage in the papers has been extensive, sir—’
‘Extensive? It’s bloody exhaustive. There’s nothing else in the paper. Even the editorial is aimed at us, a rather pointed attack on our methods, motivation and clean-up rate. The prose is terrible, but you can’t deny the thrust of the argument. Things do appear to be getting worse, rather than better. Which may help to sell newspapers, but doesn’t do much for public confidence in this force. I had the police commissioner on the phone earlier, making that very point.’
Helen stared at Peters, surprised and concerned. She had seldom seen the station boss look so rattled.
‘We need some progress, DI Grace. Some results. Where are we at with the arson attack?’
‘Early stages, sir. We have some tentative leads which we’re chasing down—’
‘Any specific names?’
He was staring at her, challenging Helen to disappoint him. It was very tempting to give him what he wanted – to offer up Lee Moffat’s name – but Helen refused to do that, not when they were still trying to establish if the young thug had any involvement in the crime.
‘Not yet, but we’re moving very fast—’
‘And what about the victim? Any chance that he might recover consciousness? Identify his attacker, perhaps?’
‘That’s certainly a possibility,’ Helen replied cautiously. ‘I took a call from the hospital earlier. They’re saying that he’s responded well to treatment, that the antibiotics appear to be having an effect … but obviously they have to take things very slowly, given the severity of his injuries, hence why he’s in an induced coma—’
‘So, Emilia Garanita is right, is she? We’ve got nothing …’
‘I don’t follow, sir …’
‘Garanita rang me this morning,’ Abigail Miller answered, taking up the cudgels on the chief superintendent’s behalf, ‘asking if I would confirm that Hampshire Police were “baffled” by McManus’s attempted murder and “had no tangible leads”. She seemed to know the identity of the victim and had good detail about the incident itself, which made me wonder if she’s simply chancing her arm—’
‘Or whether she has a direct source of information,’ Peters added.
‘Meaning?’
‘Don’t be obtuse, DI Grace. Do we have a leak?’
‘I think it’s highly unlikely that anyone in the Major Incident Team would throw in their lot with Garanita,’ DCI Simmons interjected. ‘DI Grace and I have discussed this before and—’
‘Then perhaps she’d be good enough to share her thoughts with me,’ Peters snapped. ‘Garanita does seem to be spectacularly well informed about our current investigations.’
Helen hesitated before replying, a dozen conflicting thoughts colliding. She had had the same thought herself, wondering whether Joseph Hudson might have been tempted to leak material to Garanita. Or whether one of the younger, greener DCs had been bribed or pressured into giving out privileged information. Previously, Helen had dismissed the idea – it would be career suicide – but now, for the first time, she began to have her doubts.
‘
Well?’ Peters barked.
‘I appreciate it might appear that way, but I think it’s highly unlikely,’ Helen replied, sounding much more confident than she felt.
‘Then how do you explain it?’ Miller countered, on the attack once more.
‘Garanita is a very experienced, very manipulative journalist,’ Simmons responded, but again was cut short.
‘My question was directed to DI Grace,’ Miller cut in.
Helen marvelled at Miller’s front, batting DCI Simmons down like that. She would only be doing so if she’d been given authority to do so by Peters, a dangerous precedent.
‘DCI Simmons is right,’ Helen responded. ‘Garanita has had years of experience shaping stories to make Hampshire Police look bad. She’s also adept at exploiting any and every avenue of information. In the past she’s targeted police constables, data analysts, even members of the media liaison team—’ she shot a gimlet eye at Miller – ‘and there’s nothing to suggest a member of my team is helping her, nor that there’s a leak. So instead of focusing on Garanita, can I suggest we redouble our efforts to deal with the investigations in front of us?’
‘You can give us your personal guarantee, then, that the team is functioning as it should? That everyone’s pulling in the same direction?’
There was something in Peters’ tone which suggested he was setting her up for a fall, preparing to hang her out to dry, should that become necessary.
‘Absolutely,’ Helen replied firmly.
‘Then we won’t detain you any longer.’
Peters rose, gesturing Helen and Simmons towards the door. It had been as bad as Helen had expected, but thankfully their punishment was at an end.
‘Thank you, sir.’
She nodded at the station chief, then pivoted on her heel. Abigail Miller was looking at her expectantly, hoping for some form of farewell, some acknowledgment of her importance and stature, but Helen was damned if she was going to afford her that. So, instead, she marched across the room and out the door, without once looking in her direction.
Chapter 22
‘I’m sorry, that was childish of me. I should know better really …’
Helen made her apology to Grace Simmons when they were comfortably out of earshot, marching away down the deserted corridor.
‘Don’t sweat it,’ Simmons replied, shaking her head furiously. ‘I was tempted to swing for her myself.’
Helen laughed, in spite of herself. Somehow her old mentor always knew how to cheer her up.
‘I mean, really …’ Simmons continued, ‘where does she get the nerve to talk down to you like that? Not to mention talking over me …’ She gave another curt shake of the head, though this time accompanied by a wicked smile. ‘Just because she’s had a couple of prestigious jobs previously, a couple of safe, corporate gigs, suddenly she’s an expert on policing? It makes my blood boil. And why Peters lets her get away with it, heaven only knows …’
She raised an eyebrow suggestively, but Helen ducked the inference, didn’t want to go there.
‘I totally agree,’ Helen responded, ‘but be that as it may, I will attempt to play nice in the future. I don’t need to open up another front, trust me …’
The smile faded somewhat on Simmons’s face now. For a moment, Helen thought her boss was going to pick her up on this, asking her uncomfortable questions about the state of the investigation, the mood of the team, but, instead, she slowed to a halt, laying a comforting hand on Helen’s arm.
‘You’ll do what you think best. But know this. I’ve got your back. And if a jumped-up “Media Relations” graduate wants to pick a fight with you, then she’ll have to go through me.’
Smiling once more, Simmons departed, walking briskly back to her office. Helen watched her go, comforted by her support, but nevertheless unsettled by the afternoon’s developments. Helen had the distinct impression that Miller was intent on furthering the chief superintendent’s hostile agenda, with no care for the cost – either in terms of her team’s morale or their ability to bring the current crime wave to an end. Helen hoped that her obvious anger at Miller’s line of thinking, plus her insistence that the media chief’s fears were baseless, would give Miller pause. But walking back to the incident room, Helen wondered how effective her denials had been. It’s hard to sound convincing when you’re far from convinced yourself – and Helen could sense the suspicion and unease she’d left behind. She had fought her corner, with Simmons backing her up, but she had a nasty feeling that this was just the first battle in a long war, that the vultures would continue to circle.
Watching and waiting for their moment to strike.
Chapter 23
Her hands were shaking as she clipped the padlock shut, chaining her bike to the railings. Several hours had passed since Lilah had reported the desecration of their house to a sympathetic WPC, during which time she’d been to work, participating in two major pitches, yet the intervening period had done little to quell her anxiety, paranoia or fear. Indeed, if anything, it had got worse, Lilah constantly shooting anxious looks over her shoulder as she cycled home, fearful that someone might be following her.
Abandoning her bike, she walked quickly up the stairs to the front door, keeping her eyes glued to the floor, desperate to avoid the sight of the tarnished brickwork, the stained door. She had laboured hard to remove the graffiti this morning, working her fingers to the bone with sponge and soap, but the grim outline of the swastika remained visible. They were still marked by someone else’s hatred.
Sliding her key into the lock, she hurried inside. She’d received many WhatsApp messages during the day, from neighbours and friends, asking if she and Martin were OK. First, she’d felt embarrassed, then angry for feeling awkward about something that was not her fault, then just anxious and depressed. She was able to let them know how she felt, was happy to do so, in fact, but she couldn’t answer for Martin, who hadn’t been in contact with her since he’d left for his interview at the start of the day.
‘Hello?’
Lilah hurried down the hallway as she spoke. She was about to dart into the kitchen, when, suddenly, she checked herself, spotting Martin’s familiar form in the living room.
‘There you are,’ she said, diverting into the cosy room. ‘I’ve been messaging you all afternoon. How did the interview go?’
Martin Hill lay on the sofa in joggers, staring at the TV, but as Lilah entered he turned to face her.
‘As well as could be expected.’
His resigned tone sent Lilah’s heart tumbling into her boots, but she continued in bright tones.
‘That’s good. When will you hear?’
‘End of the week.’
‘Great. Well, I’m sure you’ve got as good a shot as anyone. Someone’s got to get it, right?’
She manoeuvred his legs off the sofa, seating herself next to him, as she placed her handbag on the floor.
‘And how was your day?’
Martin’s tone had a mocking edge, as if they were merely playing at being a happy suburban couple, as if this was some kind of game.
‘OK, I guess,’ she lied. ‘I was diabolically late for work, but they were all right about it when I explained what had happened.’
‘And how were the police?’
She was hoping he wouldn’t bring it up, but there was no avoiding it now.
‘They were fine – good, actually. Came quickly, seemed very concerned …’
‘And?’
‘Well, they took a statement, some more photos. They’re going to talk to the neighbours, check local CCTV—’
‘We’ll be the talk of the town.’
‘It’s not like that …’
‘Anything else? Any other leads?’
Lilah retained her cheerful expression, but felt her body suddenly tense.
‘Well, they … they did ask about the fight.’
Martin nodded, but said nothing.
‘Obviously, they’ve got a record of it on their files, so t
hey’re wondering if there’s a connection.’
She said it cautiously, but in Lilah’s mind there was no doubt that the two events were linked. A month ago, she’d been racially abused by a bunch of neo-Nazi youths outside a bar in the town centre. Martin had intervened and a fight had ensued, all those involved, barring Lilah, ending up at the local police station. The teenagers had been cautioned and released, as had Martin, but his treatment at the hands of the police still rankled.
‘So they think this—’ he replied, gesturing to the front of the house – ‘is my fault.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Because I stepped in to protect you, to protect my girlfriend from being attacked, somehow I’m responsible?’
‘You’re twisting my words. All I’m saying – all the police are saying – is that it’s a possibility that they’re linked, that those guys have found out where we live and are now targeting us.’
‘Targeting me, you mean.’
‘No, targeting us. We’re in this together, you know we are.’
‘Are we?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘That’s funny, because lately I’ve been picking up a very different vibe from you. You’ve been avoiding me, working late, going to bed early, doing whatever you can to escape spending time with me …’
His words were measured and calm, but they still felt like a slap in the face.
‘Come on, Marty. You know that’s not true.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. I love spending time with you.’
‘And I with you.’ As he spoke, he slid his hand into hers, stroking her fingers. ‘But you’ve got to admit you’ve been distant.’
‘Just preoccupied with work, that’s all.’
‘It’s more than that. In fact, ever since that fight in town, it’s like you don’t want to be seen with me. We never go out, you never hold my hand in public …’
‘You’re overthinking this—’
‘Are you scared? Is that what it is?’
She stared at him, wrong-footed.
‘Does this scare you?’ he continued urgently, gesturing towards the window.
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