Eeny Meeny (3 page)

‘Don’t get too comfortable. Job’s on.’

Mark Fuller, her DS, approached. A handsome and talented copper, Mark had worked hand in glove with Helen for the last five years. Murder, child abduction, rape, sex trafficking – he’d helped her solve numerous unpleasant cases and she had come to rely on his dedication, intuition and bravery. A nasty divorce had taken its toll however and recently he’d become erratic and unreliable. Helen was depressed to notice that he once again smelt of booze.

‘Young girl who says she’s killed her boyfriend.’

Mark extracted a photo from his file and handed it to Helen. It had the distinctive Missing Persons stamp on the top right-hand corner.

‘Victim’s name is Sam Fisher.’

Helen looked down at the snapshot of a fresh-faced young man. Clean-cut, optimistic, even a touch naive. Mark paused a moment, allowing Helen to examine the photo, before handing her another.

‘And our suspect. Amy Anderson.’

Helen couldn’t hide her surprise as she took in the image. A beautiful and bohemian girl – twenty-one years old at the very most. With long flowing hair, striking cobalt eyes and delicate lips, she looked the definition of youth and innocence. Helen picked up her jacket.

‘Let’s go then.’

‘Do you want to drive or shall –’

‘I will.’

They walked down to the car pool in silence. En route, Helen extracted her DC, who’d been liaising with Missing Persons. The irrepressibly perky Charlene ‘Charlie’ Brooks was a good officer, diligent and spirited, who resolutely refused to dress like a cop. Today’s offering was skin-tight leather trousers. It was beyond Helen’s remit to take her to task over her dress sense, but she was tempted to nevertheless.

In the car, the stale alcohol on Mark’s breath smelt even stronger. Helen cast a sideways look at him before winding down the window.

‘So what have we got?’ she asked.

Charlie already had the file open.

‘Amy Anderson. Reported missing a little over two weeks ago. Last seen at a gig in London. She emailed her mother on the evening of the second of December to say she was hitching home with Sam and would be back before midnight. No sign of either since. Her mother phoned it in.’

‘Then what?’

‘She turns up at Sampson’s this morning. Says she’s killed her boyfriend then clams up. Won’t say a word to anybody now.’

‘And where’s she been all this time?’

Mark and Charlie looked at each other, before Mark eventually replied:

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

They parked the car in the Winter Wonderland car park and marched to the site office. Entering the tired Portakabin, Helen was shocked by the sight that greeted her. The young woman huddling beneath a tatty blanket looked wild, unhinged and painfully thin.

‘Hello, Amy. My name’s Detective Inspector Helen Grace – you can call me Helen. May I sit down?’

No response. Helen carefully eased herself into the chair opposite.

‘I’d like to talk to you about Sam. Is that ok?’

The girl looked up, a horrified expression spread over her ravaged features. Helen studied her face intently, mentally comparing it to the photo she’d seen earlier. If it hadn’t been for her piercing blue eyes and the historic scar on her chin, they’d have struggled to ID her. Her once lustrous hair was lank, knotted and greasy. Her fingernails were long and dirty. Her face, arms and legs looked like a frenzy of self-harm. And then there was the smell. It was the smell that hit you first. Sweet. Pungent. Revolting.

‘I need to find Sam. Can you tell me where he is?’

Amy closed her eyes. A single tear escaped its confines and ran down her cheek.

‘Where is he, Amy?’

A long silence and then finally she whispered:

‘The woods.’

Amy categorically refused to leave the sanctuary of the Portakabin, so Helen had to use the dog. She left Charlie to babysit Amy, ordering Mark with her. Simpson, the retriever, buried his nose in the bloodstained rags that had once been Amy’s clothes, then shot off through the woods.

It wasn’t hard to see where she’d been. Her progress through the wood had been so blind, so crashing, that she’d rent great holes in the thick undergrowth. Bits of cloth, bits of skin decorated her path. Simpson hoovered these up, bounding through the foliage. Helen kept pace behind him and Mark was determined not to be outrun by a woman. But he was labouring, sweating alcohol.

The lonely building came into view. A municipal swimming baths, long since earmarked for demolition, a sad relic of fun times gone by. Simpson clawed at the padlocked door, then broke away, racing around the building before eventually coming to rest by a broken window. Fresh blood decorated the cracked panes. They had found Amy’s cocoon.

Getting inside was tough. Despite the building’s dereliction, care had been taken to secure every possible entry and exit. Secure it against whom? Nobody lived round here. Eventually, the lock was forced and the usual ballet began, shoes cased in sterile covers skating over the floor.

And there he was. Lying fifteen feet below them in the diving pool. A brief delay as a long ladder was sought, then Helen was in the pool, face to face with Amy’s ‘Sam’. He was a straitlaced kid, bound for a law firm, but you wouldn’t have known that to look at him. He looked like the corpse of any old dosser you might find on the streets. His clothes were stained with urine and excrement, his fingernails cracked and dirty. And his face. His gaunt face was contorted into a hideous expression – fear, agony and horror written in his twisted features. In life he had been handsome and winning. In death he was repulsive.

6

Would they ever stop torturing her?

Amy thought she would be safe at Southampton General. That she would be left alone to heal and grieve. But they were intent on
tormenting
her. They refused to let her eat or drink, even though she begged them to. Her tongue was swollen, they said, her stomach too contracted and her bowels might tear if solids passed through them. So they’d hooked her up to a drip. Maybe it was the right thing to do, but it wasn’t what she
wanted
. When had they ever gone without food for over two weeks? What did they know?

She had a morphine drip too, which helped a bit, though they were scrupulously careful not to overfill it. She operated it with her left hand, punching the button when the pain became too much. Her right hand was cuffed to the bed. The nurses bloody loved that, speculating in loud stage whispers about what she’d done. Killed her baby? Killed her husband? They really were enjoying themselves.

And then – God help her – then they’d let her mother in. She went berserk at that, shouting and screaming until her bewildered mum had to retreat on doctor’s orders. What the
fuck
were they thinking? She couldn’t see her mother, not now. Not like this.

She just wanted to be left alone. She would concentrate fiercely on the things around her, staring at the intricate cotton weave of her pillow case, gazing for hours on end at the hypnotic, glowing filament in her bedside lamp. That way she could zone out, keep her thoughts at bay. And when a vision of Sam
did
spring up from nowhere, she would hit the morphine trigger and for a moment she’d drift away to a happier place.

But she knew in her heart that she would not be left in peace for long. Demons were circling her now, dragging her back to the living death she’d left behind. She could see the police hovering outside, waiting to come in and question her. Didn’t they get that she
never
wanted to answer those questions? Hadn’t she suffered enough?

‘Tell them I can’t see them.’

The nurse who was busy studying her charts looked up.

‘Tell them I’ve got a fever,’ Amy continued, ‘that I’m asleep …’

‘I can’t stop them, love,’ the nurse replied evenly. ‘Best get it over with, eh?’

She could never suffer enough. Amy knew that really. She had killed the man she loved and there was no way back from that.

7

‘Tell me how you got out of the pool, Amy?’

‘A ladder.’

‘I didn’t see a ladder there.’

Amy scowled and turned away. Pulling the hospital blankets up round her chin, she receded into herself once more. Helen regarded her, intrigued. If she was lying, she was a bloody good actress. She shot a look at Mark, then continued:

‘What sort of ladder was it?’

‘A rope ladder. It was dropped down just after I …’

Tears stung Amy’s eyes and she dropped her head to her chest. There
were
mild burns on the palms of Amy’s hands. Consistent perhaps with someone scrambling up a rope ladder? Helen gave herself a mental slap – why was she even considering the possibility? Amy’s story was insane. According to her, they’d been picked up on the motorway, drugged, abducted, starved – and then forced to commit murder. Why would anyone do such a thing? On the face of it, Amy and Sam were two good kids, but the answer to this awful crime must lie within their own lives.

‘Tell me about your relationship with Sam.’

At this Amy started to sob.

‘Perhaps now would be a good time to break, Detective Inspector?’ Amy’s mother had insisted on a solicitor being present.

‘We’re not finished yet,’ Helen snapped back.

‘But you can see she’s exhausted. Surely we ca—’

‘All I see is a dead boy called Sam Fisher. Who’s been shot in the back. At close range. By your client.’

‘My client doesn’t deny pulling the tr—’

‘But she won’t tell us
why
.’

‘I’ve
told
you why,’ Amy spat out in retaliation.

‘Yes and it’s a great story, Amy.
But it doesn’t make any sense
.’

Helen let her words hang in the air. Without having to be told, Mark took his cue to ratchet up the pressure.

‘Nobody saw you. Or the van, Amy. The truckers didn’t. The traffic cops didn’t. The other kids hitching that route didn’t. So why don’t you cut the crap and tell us why you killed your boyfriend? Did he hit you? Did he threaten you? Why did he take you to that awful place?’

Amy said nothing, refusing even to look up. It was as if Mark hadn’t spoken at all. Helen took up the baton, softening her tone.

‘Don’t think you’re the first, Amy. To fall for a nice guy who turned out to be sadistic and violent. It’s not your fault, no one’s judging you and if you can tell me what happened, what went wrong, then I promise I can help you. Did he assault you? Were others involved? Why did he take you there?’

Still nothing. For the first time, impatience seeped into Helen’s voice.

‘Two hours ago, I had to tell Sam’s mum that he’d been shot and killed. What she needs, what his little brothers and sisters need, is someone to be held to account for this. And right now you’re the only person in the frame. So for your own sake as well as theirs, stop bullshitting and tell me the truth. Why did you do it, Amy? Why?’

There was a long silence, then Amy looked up, angry eyes flaring through the tears:

‘
She
made me do it.’

8

‘So what do you think, boss?’

For the first time in her life, Helen couldn’t answer. Yes or no, guilty or not guilty, Helen Grace always had an answer. But not here. This was something different. All her experience told her that Amy was lying. The abduction story was crazy enough but the fact that the perpetrator was a lone female was the clincher. Female murderers kill their husbands, their children or people in their care. They don’t go for stranger abductions, nor do they favour high-risk scenarios such as the one Amy had described, where they are outnumbered by their victims. Even if this one
had
, how was she strong enough to manoeuvre two grown adults out of a van and into the diving pool? Helen was more than tempted to throw the book at Amy. Perhaps when she was facing a murder charge, she would finally give up the truth.

And yet, why would she make up such a story unless it
was
true? Amy was a smart, together girl with no history of mental illness. Through it all, her testimony had been clear and consistent. Her description of her ‘abductor’ had been precise – dirty blonde crop, sunglasses, short grimy nails – and she’d stuck to it religiously. Right down to the tiny details about how she over-revved the van in the low gears. And it was clear that she loved –
really
loved – Sam and was devastated by his death. Everyone described them as inseparable, two halves of a whole. They had met at Bristol University, then each applied to do an MSc at Warwick so they could stay together, deferring entry to working life and possible separation. They didn’t have much cash, but during their time together they had hitched all round the country, seldom holidaying with anyone else.

Forensics had linked her to the gun, so there was no doubt she did it, but they’d also confirmed her story about their captivity. Their physical state – the hair, the nails – plus the human waste in the tank all suggested that they’d been there for at least two weeks before she killed him. Had they given up hope and drawn straws? Made a deal?

‘Why him and not you?’ Amy had collapsed again, but Helen repeated the question. Eventually Amy managed to speak:

‘Because he asked me to.’

An act of love then. An act of self-sacrifice. What a thing to have on your conscience … if it was true. And that was what was nagging at her – the plain fact that Amy was destroyed by what had happened. Not just traumatized. She was destroyed, imploding under the weight of guilt. It was an emotion Helen knew all too well and in spite of everything she found herself feeling for Amy. Maybe she’d been too hard on this vulnerable young woman.

It couldn’t be true. Because
why
would anyone do this? What on earth did they – ‘she’ – stand to gain? She wasn’t even there to watch according to Amy, so what was the point? It couldn’t be true and yet when Helen replied to Mark’s characteristically direct question, she found herself saying:

‘I think she’s telling the truth.’