Eeny Meeny (9 page)

Mark didn’t disagree.

‘That’s how we’ll beat this thing. But if I find that you’ve broken that rule, that you’ve lied to me, then I’ll drop you like a stone. Right? Good.’

She disappeared to the bar and came back holding a bottle of lager in her hand. She pushed it across the table to him. Mark’s hand was shaking slightly as he picked it up. He put it to his lips. The cool lager slid down his throat. But then she was taking it from him. For a moment, he wanted to hit her. But then the alcohol reached his stomach. And all was better again momentarily. He realized now that she was still holding his hand. Instinctively, he started to caress her hand with his thumb. She pulled it away.

‘Let me be clear on one thing, Mark. This isn’t about “us”. It’s about you.’

He’d misread the situation. And now he felt foolish. Stroking the hand of his superior officer. What a prick. They left soon after. Helen watched him drive off – presumably to make sure he didn’t slope back into the pub. The warm, lagery optimism of the afternoon was dissipating now and Mark felt empty and alone.

As dusk fell, Mark’s Golf pulled up outside what was once his family home. Elsie would be up in her bedroom now, with Sheepy, bathed in the green glow of her nightlight. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was there and that filled him with love. It wasn’t enough but it would have to do – for now.

27

Detective Superintendent Michael Whittaker was waiting for Helen when she arrived back at Southampton Central. He was a charismatic 45-year-old – outdoorsy, tanned, fit – a favourite with his female clerical staff, who dreamt of bagging this powerful and successful bachelor. He was also canny, with a keen eye for anything that might help, or hinder, his career. In his day he had been an excellent thief taker – until a nasty shoot-out at a botched bank raid had left him half a lung lighter and flying a desk. Unable to be on the ground directing operations, he was prone to throwing his weight around when he felt things were going too slowly or were spinning out of control. He had survived – and prospered – for so long by always remembering to keep an eye on the detail.

‘How does she do it?’ he barked at Helen. ‘Is she operating alone or does she have help?’

‘Hard to say yet,’ Helen replied. ‘She works under the radar and never leaves a trace, which suggests she’s working alone. She’s meticulous, precise and I suspect unlikely to involve someone else in such a carefully planned operation. She’s using drugs not force to subdue her victims, so again that would imply that she doesn’t need or want help. The obvious next question is how does she shift them? They are transported in a Transit-type van where they can be easily concealed, whilst subdued, until they get to their destination. She chooses remote, forgotten locations for their imprisonment – so there’s little chance of her being spotted moving them from the van. Does she need help to shift them? Possibly, though all four of her victims have pressure burns around their ankles. Which could suggest they’d had their ankles tied together and then were dragged. They have abrasions to their legs, torsos and heads that could fit with being pulled across rough ground, but it would be tough going. Even if you tied cord or a rope round Peter Brightston’s ankles say, he’s still fourteen stone of dead weight to drag behind you. Possible but difficult.’

‘What about the vans?’ Whittaker replied, affording Helen little respite.

‘Nothing concrete. Amy’s unsure what make her van was and there are no traffic cameras near her site to help us. Peter’s sure he was abducted in a Vauxhall Movano, but dozens of those are stolen every month in Hampshire alone. It’s red, which helps a bit, but she could have repainted it. As they were picked up in the New Forest and transported via country lanes to Dunston Power Station, we haven’t got any traffic cameras or CCTV footage to help us.’

Whittaker sighed.

‘I hope I haven’t over-promoted you, Helen.’

His tone was even.

‘I had hoped you might take over from me one day … but cases like this can damage careers. We need arrests, Helen.’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘That bitch Garanita has been camping out in the bloody atrium, winding up the rest of the local hacks. A couple of the nationals got in on the act this morning. The idiots in media liaison have a prolapse whenever
The Times
rings and come running straight to me. What are we telling them?’

‘Sam’s death is being treated as a domestic. We’re not looking for anyone else et cetera. Ben’s death is being spun as an accident. Story is that he and Peter Brightston were at Dunston on firm business, there was a tragic accident and so on. The press seem to be buying it for now.’

Whittaker was silent. He would never admit that
his
superiors had been roasting his nuts, but Helen knew how it worked. Shit runs up and then runs down harder in cases like these.

‘It may well break at some point, so we could go public if we felt that was the right thing to do. Tell the press there’s a third party involved. Enlist the help of the public –’

‘Too soon,’ Whittaker interrupted. ‘We haven’t got enough. We’d look like imbeciles.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Helen could sense his anxiety – and his displeasure – and was surprised. He was usually cooler than this. She wanted to allay his fears – she’d always been able to do so in the past – but she had nothing to offer here. Whittaker had a tendency to knee-jerk when the pressure was on. And that wasn’t what Helen needed right now. So she worked hard to reassure him – talking him through the vast efforts that were being made to trace the killer – and slowly he began to relax. He had always trusted Helen and if anyone could keep things on track she could. Although someone like Whittaker would never admit it, Helen was exactly the kind of officer that top brass love. Female, teetotal, a workaholic, with no interest in having babies. No danger of alcoholism, back-handers, maternity leave or any other unpleasantness with Helen. She worked like a dynamo and single-handedly boosted their clear-up rate. So even if she did bullshit them occasionally, they would put up with it, because she was up there with the very best.

She talked such a good game that for a second Helen was buoyed up by her words. But as she biked home that false confidence started to evaporate. It was Christmas Eve tomorrow and the whole of Southampton was seized by the festive spirit. It was as if there had been a collective decision to ignore the lurid headlines in the
Evening News
in favour of out-and-out celebration instead. Salvation Army bands pumped out seasonal tunes, gaudy lights flashed happily above the shops and you could see excited smiles on the faces of kids everywhere. But Helen didn’t feel any Christmas cheer. The whole thing seemed like a gaudy and inappropriate pageant to her. Out there somewhere was a killer who killed without conscience and never left a trace. Was she busy stalking her next victims right now? Were they already imprisoned and begging for mercy? Helen had never felt so lost. There seemed no solid ground in this case, no safe assumptions. More blood would be spilt and for now all Helen could do was wait and see who would be next.

28

It’s funny the things you remember, isn’t it? Why does that reindeer stick in my mind? He was pretty crummy even for that time, a mangy felt reindeer with whacked-out eyes. He looked as if he was dead. But I couldn’t stop staring at him as we waited in the long queue. Perhaps I’m drawn to hopelessness. Or maybe not. You can overanalyse these things.

It was Xmas and for once life was ok. Dad had done a flit – did he have another family to be with at Christmas? I never found out – so it was just the girls at home. Mum was drinking, but I’d worked out a plan to keep her from getting too wasted. To save her legs, I’d offer to get the booze myself. I’d hop down to the corner shop, pick up a few cans, but get something solid too. Bread, crisps, whatever. When I got back I’d sit with Mum whilst she drank. I think she felt a bit awkward drinking in front of me and without Dad there to egg her on she cut back on the booze little by little, until she was hardly drinking at all. I was never close to her, but we were ok that Christmas. Which is why she took us to the shopping mall.

Muzak, cheap decorations and the smell of fear. As far as the eye could see parents were panicking, boxed into a corner by a festival that had come round too quickly yet again. Our shopping list was short – very short – but it still took a long time. Making sure the security guard in BHS was otherwise engaged before Mum stuffed clothes and tacky costume jewellery up our jumpers. Our ‘treat’ was to go and see Santa afterwards. Given that the guy who did it was a teacher at the local Catholic school, the treat was probably all his.

I’ve got such a vivid memory of his face. He sat me on his knee and, with his best yo ho ho, asked me what I wanted most of all for Christmas. I smiled, looked him in the eye and said, ‘I’d like my dad to die.’

We left rather quickly after that. Santa gossiping with the appalled mothers – bitches who loved throwing insults at white trash like us. As we hurried past, I gave that mangy reindeer a belting right hook. Didn’t get to see the damage – we were out of the door before Security could catch us.

I’d expected Mum to hit me or at least shout. But she didn’t. She just wept. Sat down at the bus shelter and wept. Pity really – it’s one of my happiest memories.

29

Her visit was an unexpected pleasure. They hardly ever had visitors – who in their right mind would come here? – and those that did come were usually up to no good. Thieves or thugs. The police were seldom to be found here and you could forget about Social Services. What a joke they were.

Her mother had jumped when the doorbell went. Marie was so engrossed in
Strictly
, she hadn’t heard the footsteps coming down the hall. But Anna had. Whenever Anna heard noises outside, her heart beat a little faster. None of the other flats were occupied, so unless it was junkies seeking an empty flat or gypsies on the sniff, then it could only mean they were coming for
them
. The footsteps slowed, then stopped outside their front door. She wanted to alert her mum and grunted as best she could, but Flavia was doing the Foxtrot and Marie was hooked. Then the doorbell went – clear and confident. Marie shot a look at Anna – a moment’s hesitation – then she decided to ignore it.

Anna was glad. She didn’t like visitors. Didn’t like surprises. And yet she was curious. Because the footsteps down the corridor were light and clip-cloppy. Like someone was wearing heels. That made Anna chuckle inside. She hadn’t heard anything like that since the whores moved on.

The doorbell rang again. Just once – polite but insistent. And then they heard her voice, calling their names, asking if she could speak to them. Marie turned down the TV – perhaps if she couldn’t hear them, she’d think they were out and go away. Pointless really – the light and noise from their flat were like a beacon in the darkness. Then the doorbell rang for a third time and this time Marie got up and padded to the front door. Anna watched her go – she hated being left alone. What if something happened out there?

But then Marie came back, followed by a pretty woman clutching some plastic bags. She kind of looked like a social worker, except she wasn’t depressed and her clothes were all right. She looked around the room, then walked over to Anna and knelt down to her level.

‘Hi, Anna. My name’s Ella.’

She had such a warm smile. Anna liked her instantly.

‘I was just telling your mum that I work for an organization called Shooting Stars. You might have seen our ads in the local newspaper. I know your mum likes to read it to you.’

She smelt lovely. Like roses.

‘Every year we bring Christmas hampers to families like yours that find it hard to get out and about. How does that sound? Good?’

‘We don’t do pity in this house,’ Marie interjected sharply.

‘It’s not pity, Marie,’ Ella said rising. ‘It’s just a helping hand. And you don’t have to take it. There’s plenty of others who’d love to get their hands on these goodies, believe you me!’

The word ‘goodies’ seemed to do the trick. Marie sat quiet as Ella took the tins and packets out of the bag. It was a real treasure trove – Turkish delight and chocolate ginger on top of all the usual stuff – plus soups and smoothies and liquid sherbet for Anna. A lot of thought had gone into it – Anna was surprised anyone cared enough to go to so much trouble. Ella couldn’t have been more attentive, asking Marie a load of questions about Anna – what did she like to have read to her? Was she a fan of Tracy Beaker? What did she watch on TV? Anna basked in the attention.

This year they’d got lucky. This year they were on someone’s radar. Marie was chuffed and the party spirit descended briefly as she went in search of the sherry. Anna looked at their visitor. She was smiling and nodding, but now she seemed tense. Anna thought that perhaps she was on a tight schedule, but she couldn’t have been, because when Marie came back Ella insisted on opening up the mince pies. She didn’t have one herself, but was keen for Marie to tuck in. They were freshly made – a bakery on St Mary’s Road had cooked up dozens of them for free in a fit of Christmas spirit.

Ella seemed to relax after Marie had polished one off. And it was then that things started to go strange. Marie started to feel unwell – faint and nauseous. She tried to get up but couldn’t. Ella hurried over to help, but then suddenly and without warning pushed Marie down on to the floor. What was she doing? Anna wanted to yell and shout and fight, but could only grunt and cry. Now Ella was pinning her mother down on the floor. She was tying her hands roughly behind her back with nasty looking wire. Stop, please, stop. She was shoving something in her mouth, she was shouting at her. Why? What had she done wrong? Then ‘Ella’ looked at Anna. It was as if she was a different person. Her eyes were cold now, her smile even colder. She walked towards Anna. Anna struggled inside, but her useless body was frozen and helpless. Then the woman put a bag over the young girl’s head and everything went black.