Smiling to herself, Helen wondered if she would ever end up in a place like this. It seemed highly unlikely, in all honesty, so for the time being she would have to enjoy its pleasures through others. She knocked on the door and stepped back, waiting for her old friend to answer.
There was no movement inside, but the TV was on, so rocking back and forth on her heels, Helen waited for the door to open. It was hot and sticky tonight, and Helen craved a cold drink to soothe her parched throat. Stepping forward, she knocked again. But still there was no response.
Puzzled, she angled a glance towards the living room. The lights were on, but the curtains were drawn, shielding the occupant from view. Digging out her phone, Helen rang Simmons’s number and straight away she heard her familiar ring tone. Looking up, she tried to work out where the noise was coming from – yes, her instinct was right, it was coming from the living room. But if Grace Simmons was in there, watching TV, why wasn’t she answering?
The phone rang out, going to voicemail. Worried, Helen stepped forward, pounding on the door. Still nothing. Her anxiety spiking now, Helen made her way down the side-access passage. The gate at the end was locked, but Helen vaulted it easily, landing quietly on the other side. Now she was hurrying up the path towards the back door, testing its handle, but to her disappointment it was locked. Frustrated, she rapped on the glass.
‘Grace? It’s me, Helen. Are you home?’
Her voice sounded loud and intrusive in the calm of the suburban garden. Self-conscious, Helen was about to leave, when she spotted something, something that confused and alarmed her. The back door looked onto a small kitchen and, through the doorway of that, the hall could be glimpsed. This in turn led into the living room and Helen now spotted something lying in the doorway to that room. It was a hand – no, it was an arm, lying motionless on the ground.
Horrified, Helen dialled 999 immediately, urgently requesting an ambulance. Then she did the only thing she could do, slamming her elbow through the pane of glass in the back door and sliding her hand through to find the lock. Five seconds later, she was in, racing through the kitchen and into the hall.
The sight that greeted her took her breath away. The TV was on, a plate of biscuits and a cup of tea on the coffee table, and next to that was Grace Simmons, spread-eagled on the floor. There were no obvious signs of disturbance or of violence, so, kneeling down, Helen gently called her name.
‘Grace, can you hear me? It’s Helen.’
No response. Helen reached underneath, turning her friend over, but still Simmons didn’t react. She was warm, which was a good sign, but terribly limp in Helen’s arms.
‘Grace, please respond, it’s me …’
Her voice was tight, strangulated. Terrified, Helen now placed her fingers underneath Simmons’s throat, searching for an artery. She was practised at this and soon found it, but dissatisfied with her findings, she tried again, and again. But the result was the same. There was no pulse, no sign of life at all.
Her colleague, her mentor, her friend, was dead.
Day Five
Chapter 72
‘I appreciate this must have come as a profound shock to you, as it did to me. So, if you need to take some time off, I’ll completely understand …’
Chief Superintendent Alan Peters sounded sympathetic, but Helen wasn’t sure he meant a word of it. In fact, she sensed that he was baiting a trap for her to walk into. The pair of them had never seen eye to eye and, without Helen’s mentor to protect her, she now feared Peters would use Grace Simmons’s tragic death to sweep the decks clean.
‘I’m fine, sir,’ Helen replied quickly, though of course she was no such thing. ‘I’ll continue to lead MIT and if you need me to cover any of DCI Simmons’s duties—’
‘It’s OK. I’ll deal with those.’
Helen wasn’t sure she liked Peters’ tone; it sounded very much like he was planning to hoover up Simmons’s powers and responsibilities, leaving Helen more exposed than ever, but she let it go for now. She had more pressing things on her mind.
‘Do we know any more? About what happened?’
‘Well, the early indications are that it was a heart attack. The paramedics were pretty convinced about it and I spoke to her son first thing this morning. Apparently, she was diagnosed with chronic heart disease nearly a year ago …’
He was looking at Helen for a reaction, but her shock was genuine.
‘I had no idea, sir. She certainly didn’t say anything to me.’
‘Nor me,’ Peters returned, bristling. ‘Though God knows why. I would have been happy to sanction sick leave, or retirement, for that matter, but for reasons that are unclear, she chose to keep it to herself …’
Helen had a pretty good idea why she had stayed on and it crushed her. Simmons had always wanted to support Helen, to aid her career in any way she could, having persuaded her to join the police force over twenty years ago now. Had she sacrificed her life in a selfless attempt to help her protégée? If so, it was a bitterly cruel end to their friendship.
‘I did – I did wonder …’ Helen found herself saying, fighting the emotion that was rising within her – ‘if something was up. She hasn’t been herself for a while, less present, perhaps a little more tired than usual.’
‘So I’d noticed. But why? Why would she conceal something like that? Pride, I suppose …’
‘And professional duty,’ Helen added quickly. ‘For her, policing was a vocation, not just a job.’
Peters nodded absently, but said nothing.
‘Well, sir, if that’s all …’
‘How are we doing on the McManus case?’ he asked, looking up sharply.
‘Good. In fact, we’re making progress on all fronts at the moment,’ Helen replied confidently.
‘Any chance of an arrest? Something to give the baying mob? We’ve got a press conference scheduled for this afternoon, which I guess I’ll be taking now. Abigail thinks we need to give them something, just to stop the relentless attacks.’
Mention of Southampton Central’s media liaison chief immediately sent a pulse of anger coursing through Helen, but she kept her response civil.
‘Soon, sir. Very soon. The team are working flat out on several new leads and, if we’re done here, I’d like to—’
‘Do you want me to say something to the team?’ Peters interrupted. ‘About DCI Simmons, I mean, and what’s likely to happen next?’
‘If it’s OK with you, I’d like to do it.’
Her response was polite, but firm. Peters conceded, seemingly glad to have been spared this unpleasant duty, waving her on her way. Thanking him, Helen took her leave, heading fast away down the corridor. There was no question of anyone other than her bringing the team up to speed, of paying tribute to a fallen colleague, mentor and friend. It would be hard – one of the hardest speeches she’d ever had to make – and she wondered if she’d be able to get through it. But a part of her hoped it might be a rallying cry, a way of healing divisions, of knitting the team back together. If so, that would be a fitting legacy for an inspirational leader and public servant.
Striding along through the seventh floor, Helen tried to push all other concerns – Hudson, Peters, Miller – from her mind, eating up the distance to the incident room and buzzing herself in. As she did so, two dozen heads turned towards her. The team were already here and they had clearly heard the news, many looking pale and tearful. They were professionals to a man and woman, but they were also human beings.
‘OK, guys, gather round. I’ve got something to say to you …’
They all got to their feet, crossing the incident room swiftly to form a crescent shape around her. Helen took them in, sober, courteous, purposeful, doing a quick head count before starting. She wasn’t sure why she was doing so … until she concluded her tally. They were one short. Subconsciously, she must have noticed this, even before her brain caught up, and running an eye over the assembled faces, she swiftly identified the missing body. Perhaps s
he shouldn’t have been surprised, but this didn’t make her outrage any the less.
Where the hell was Joseph Hudson?
Chapter 73
‘That’s very kind of you, DS Hudson. A lovely thought …’
Janet Briars, Grace Simmons’s PA, whimpered even as she said it. She looked utterly shell-shocked, her eyes red from weeping. There was no question, her boss’s death had come completely out of the blue, but still Joseph wondered if there was more to it than that. Briars was no spring chicken, a station lifer who was herself approaching retirement. The sudden death of someone only a few years older than herself was bound to have a profound effect. Was Briars even now reflecting on her own mortality?
‘Should I put these with the others, or …?’
Hudson nodded to the bouquet he’d bought on the way in this morning. The florist, which was only a stone’s throw from Southampton Central, had clearly had several visitors before he arrived. News of Simmons’s demise had broken just after 6 a.m. and her fellow officers had been quick to pay tribute in any way they could. The station Twitter feed and Facebook pages were awash with glowing messages and her office was now a repository for floral tributes.
‘Of course, go ahead,’ Briars replied, eventually mastering herself, and gesturing him to enter her office.
Hudson obliged and was immediately struck by the aroma – musky, perfumed, beguiling. Over a dozen large bouquets sat on the desk, leaving precious little room for his offering.
‘Perhaps you could just put them on the chair for now?’ Briars said, sounding a little embarrassed. ‘I’m sure I can find a good spot for them later.’
‘Of course.’
He rounded the desk and placed the bouquet on the chair. The act seemed faintly comical, his ultimate boss replaced by a bunch of flowers, and he would have been tempted to laugh had the loyal Briars not been present. Fortunately, her phone now started ringing.
‘Would you excuse me for a minute, DS Hudson?’
Once more, Briars sounded upset and flustered. Joseph Hudson gestured at her to go, and she did so gratefully. Moments later, she was on the phone, commiserating with the caller.
‘I just can’t believe it, Emma. We’re all in shock here …’
Keeping one ear on the conversation, Hudson approached the desk, feigning interest in a few of the bouquets. Then, once he was sure he was safe, he diverted to the object of real interest. Simmons’s in-tray was full to the brim, neither she nor Briars being the most efficient administrators, and his heart sank at the number of files that lay stacked on top of one another. This seriously upped the chance of delay and discovery, but there was nothing for it, so he flicked open the first file.
It was a summary of the Force’s current operational commitments, so he moved on, digging out the second file. This was a report about cost-cutting within Southampton Central. It would have made for interesting reading, but not now, so he moved on. The third file concerned media liaison, so again he moved on, flicking feverishly through the multitude of buff-coloured files.
‘Well, it’s very sweet of you to call, Emma. I know the family will appreciate the sentiment …’
It sounded as though Briars was winding up, so Hudson picked up the pace, flicking open the files, examining the top sheet, then moving on. Still he’d had no joy – where the hell was it? Was it possible she’d filed it already? If so, the damage was done and his defeat was assured. Surely she couldn’t have been so efficient; they’d only had their interview yesterday morning.
On he went, faster and faster.
‘OK, thanks again.’
Faster still, his vision a blur of words and lines. Now he heard Briars hang up.
‘Fucking hell—’ he hissed.
But now he ground to a halt, spotting a familiar word: Hudson. Yes, here it was. Grace Simmons’s signed report concerning her discussion with Helen, her admonishment of him and her recommendation that the former should not be disciplined. Greedily, he snatched it up, even as Briars entered.
‘Everything OK in here, detective sergeant?’
‘Absolutely. I was just admiring these bouquets. They’re – beautiful.’
‘Aren’t they?’ Briars responded, choked. ‘If you’d like to stay a while—’
‘No, it’s fine. I’ve taken up enough of your time, already.’ He crossed to her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘Thanks for everything, Janet. And chin up, eh?’
She offered him a sad smile and he took his leave. As he did so, a smile lit up his face. It had worked. He had paid his respects, appearing as the grieving colleague and, as a result, Simmons’s official rubber-stamped response to the liaison between Helen and himself was now safely tucked inside his jacket, never to see the light of day.
Chapter 74
‘She was the best and brightest of us. Someone who devoted her life to police work, to this place and to the people she swore to protect.’
All eyes were glued to her, young and old, long-servers and fresh faces alike, clearly moved by what they were hearing.
‘She believed in giving the best of herself every single day, of doing her utmost to serve the people of Southampton. Above all, she believed in this—’ she gestured to the half-circle of officers in front of her – ‘the importance of the team. Of working together, as one, without ego or agenda to do the important job we’ve been given. To get justice for those who’ve been let down by life …’
Was it her imagination or did she detect shame on some of the faces in front of her?
‘So, let’s honour Grace Simmons by remembering why we’re here, remembering what we all swore to do when we took the badge. Let’s get justice for these poor people.’ She gestured to the board, where the faces of Martin Hill, Declan McManus, Alison Burris, Eve Sutcliffe and others started back at them. ‘Let’s put an end to their families’ misery. Let’s get the job done.’
Nods, purposeful and spirited, from many in the team. Pleased, Helen gestured to them to resume their duties.
‘Right, go to it.’
Turning, Helen strode to her office, feeling oddly cheered. It had been one of the worst nights of her life – sleepless, anguished, guilt-ridden – but her speech had buoyed her up, filling her with energy and purpose. She had meant every word of her speech – Grace Simmons had always been a touchstone for her, a model of dedication, duty and excellence. She just wished she’d said it to her whilst she’d had the chance.
Passing into her office, Helen pushed the door to behind her. She was keen to crack on with their investigations, but first she needed a moment to gather herself. To reflect on what she’d lost and what she now had to do, to ensure Simmons’s legacy was properly honoured. But, as ever, her attempt to find a moment’s peace was doomed; a rap on the door snapping her out of her introspection.
She turned, half expecting it to be Joseph Hudson, come to offer some lame excuse for his absence, but to her surprise DC McAndrew now entered, sheepish, but determined.
‘So sorry to bother you, guv—’
‘Not at all, my door is always open.’
‘It’s just that I found something last night I thought you’d want to see. I was going to call you first thing this morning, but then I heard the news about—’
‘It’s OK,’ Helen said, ushering her inside. ‘What have you got?’
McAndrew approached, clutching a printout. ‘Well, as you suggested, I went back over the available evidence from the Eve Sutcliffe murder. Given what we said yesterday, I looked at it with a fresh pair of eyes, ignoring the sexual motive and, well, I found this—’
She handed Helen the piece of paper, a still from a CCTV feed. In the picture, a slender middle-aged woman could be seen walking towards Lakeside Country Park. Dark-haired, with a fullish face, she wore sunglasses, jogging gear and a small rucksack and, though her face was turned to the ground, she was nevertheless fairly well captured.
‘This woman entered the park around fifteen minutes before Eve Sutcliffe. She left
roughly five minutes after the time we estimate Eve was attacked.’
She handed Helen another CCTV still. This image captured a woman of similar build leaving the park, wearing a cap and black joggers and trainers.
‘It’s a different person, right?’ Helen queried, intrigued.
‘That’s what I thought at first,’ McAndrew responded. ‘She’s wearing a cap, but no sunglasses, different-coloured joggers this time, but the little rucksack she’s wearing is the same and look at her hands …’
Helen scanned the two images, immediately seeing the connection.
‘She’s wearing gloves.’
‘Exactly. In both of the pictures this woman is wearing gloves, despite it being seriously hot that day, over thirty degrees, according to the Met office records.’
Helen took this in, staring intently at the CCTV grabs.
‘So, you think she changed whilst she was in the park?’
‘Or had reversible clothes. But the rucksack and gloves give the game away. Question is, why was she there for such a short time and why did she want to disguise her appearance?’
‘You’re sure she’s not just a jogger, albeit a very fashion-conscious one?’
‘I went over weeks and weeks of CCTV from the vicinity of the park during the initial investigation. This woman doesn’t turn up on any other day, except this one. Also, there are other CCTV spots, mostly around the perimeter of the park. None of those pick her up, so her jogging route must have been a very limited one, which is odd, given she was in there for twenty-five minutes—’
‘Perhaps she was attending an open-air class.’
‘There weren’t any scheduled for that day.’
‘Or a personal trainer.’
‘There’s no evidence of that, and, believe me, I’ve looked. But that’s not the interesting part …’
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