Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (22 page)

Helen cried out in pain and her body slumped forward. The impact of the blow had temporarily winded her and for a moment she struggled to breathe. But then the feeling subsided, though her heart was already thundering out a terrifying rhythm.

Max Paine raised the paddle and brought it down hard on her back. Helen bucked fiercely but straight away ordered him to strike again. He obliged, harder this time and Helen felt it go right through, piercing pain from her temples to her feet and back again. But still it wasn’t enough.

She couldn’t dispel those familiar feelings of hopelessness tonight. Was this because Max was new to her? That she wasn’t comfortable in his presence? There was an edge to things tonight for sure. He seemed in a heightened, energized mood, barely bothering to conceal the lines of cocaine he took in the back room before their session, and Helen’s instincts told her that he enjoyed looking at her. He kept a professional face on at all times, playing the role he was paid for, but she could feel his eyes on her nevertheless, tracing the contours of her body, no doubt asking himself questions about the many abrasions and scars that covered her.

‘Again.’

Why couldn’t she stop
thinking
tonight? Why couldn’t
she relax into it, as she had with Jake so many times previously? Why did she suddenly feel self-conscious and stupid, parading herself in her underwear for a man she neither knew nor cared for? Was she really that
lost
?

The paddle slammed into her back once more, pushing her hard against the wall. Max seemed not to be waiting for instructions any more and, as Helen regained her footing, the paddle struck again. Helen closed her eyes and swallowed the pain. She wanted this to work. So gritting her teeth, she took the beating, hoping that Max could drive her dark thoughts away. For an hour or two at least, she needed to be free of the world and, more importantly, free of herself.

It was raining. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on her, yet still she was getting
soaked
. The rain swirled around her, saturating her clothes, getting in her ears and eyes, dripping from her hair. Where had this sudden storm come from? And why was she the only one getting wet? None of it made any sense.

The cloud seemed to be hovering directly above her, shadowing her every move. It was as if it had been created just for her. She tried to run away from it but now realized she was horizontal, her legs moving ineffectually back and forth in thick, heavy mud where she lay. The more it rained, the more the mud clung to her. Her legs felt so heavy. Soon she wouldn’t have the strength to move at all.

Then as suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped. And in the aftermath she drank in that smell – the bitter, dank aroma that storms leave before the ground dries off and the deluge is forgotten. But this rain smelt different. What was it that made it smell so odd? It smelt like petrol or …

Now Agnieszka knew she was dreaming. She had kind of known it all along, but it had been so vivid that for a while she had gone with it, indulging herself in the harmless craziness of it all. She didn’t want to remain in this space any more, but part of her didn’t want to wake either. She had had a hard day – there was precious little respite in this job – and she didn’t want to be back in the real
world just yet. But something was tugging at her now, forcing her awake. It was that smell, so strong, so suffocating, so sharp …

And a noise too now. Like an overflowing water pipe dropping its load on concrete paving. Splatter, splatter, splatter. No, not that. It was liquid bouncing off leather. The leather she was lying on.

Through her grogginess, she remembered now that she had been watching
Breaking Bad
on the TV. She remembered the episode finishing but little after that – she must have fallen asleep on the old leather sofa. Sitting up, she shook her head, trying to dispel her curious dream. And, as she did so, she felt her wet hair swing round, sticking to her face. Opening her eyes, she realized that she was saturated. But not with water. With something much worse. The smell of paraffin was overpowering, filling the small room completely.

Blinking furiously, she tried to make sense of what was happening. The paraffin ran off her, off the sofa on to the floor below. Across the room there was a figure. In the gloom she couldn’t make out his face, his head shrouded in a dark hoodie. She tried to call to him but no words came out. And now she saw something in his hand. She blinked again and looked closer. And as he came towards her, she saw it. It was a match. He had a lit match in his hand.

She watched it leave his hand, somersaulting slowly through the air on its way towards the sofa. She could see it but was powerless to stop it. And as it made contact with the soft leather, the entire room seemed to burst into flames.

She couldn’t breathe now. The blows were raining down on her, faster and faster, depriving her of the time to recover and robbing her of oxygen.

‘Stop.’

It came out as no more than a whisper – that was all she could muster. Max Paine raised the paddle and brought it down again. Helen’s whole body swung forward with the impact, her chest crunching into the wall.

‘STOP!’ she repeated, finding the breath from somewhere to raise her volume.

‘You don’t want me to stop,’ Max called back, delivering another duo of heavy blows.

This had stopped being enjoyable some time ago. Helen had come here for relief but had found none and their encounter was now turning into a beating.

‘Stop
right now
,’ she gasped.

‘Beg me,’ he replied aggressively. ‘Beg me to stop.’

‘I want you to stop.’

‘BEG ME!’ he screamed, raising the paddle threateningly.

‘Release,’ Helen finally gasped. This was their code word for a full cessation of their session. In a pursuit where consent can be a grey area, where people sometimes protest in the hope of incurring
more
punishment, it was vital to have a code word that would bring proceedings to
a sudden close. It was standard practice in any S&M scenario and Helen was glad to have uttered it.

The next blow caught her completely by surprise and she cannoned into the wall at speed.

‘Release,’ she cried as she rebounded, but another blow caught her between the shoulder blades. She looked up just as he brought the paddle down again and was horrified to see that Max had no intention of stopping. He looked like he was
enjoying
himself.

Helen lurched to the left, but she was still shackled to the wall and the blow connected as it glanced off her, jarring her rib cage. Helen tugged hard at the shackles, suddenly alive to the danger she was in.

‘Stop, God damn y—’

The next blow cut her off. She tugged harder – her body was slumping now under the weight of the blows and she wasn’t sure how long she could go on. She had already taken terrible punishment.

As the next blow descended, her right arm suddenly came free. A split second before the paddle landed, she flung her elbow backwards. It connected sharply with Max’s chin. Stunned, he rocked for a moment, then stumbled forward. With one hand still tethered, Helen’s options were limited, but she twisted quickly, ramming her knee into his groin. It struck home and he collapsed to the floor gasping. Helen tugged her other hand free now and before she knew it was holding his discarded paddle. Max was trying to rise now and Helen was quickly upon him, bringing her weapon down hard on the back of his neck. He slumped once more but Helen’s blood was up and she hit him once, twice, a third
time. Still he wouldn’t lie down, so she hit him again and again.

Helen swung freely, driven by anger and fear, determined to break this man who’d tried to hurt her. But as she raised her hand to strike him again, a strange noise startled her. Something familiar, but strange. Something unexpected and oddly jaunty. It was a ring tone – her ring tone. She must have forgotten to turn her phone off.

The phone rang on, bringing her to her senses. Dropping the paddle like a hot coal, she ran to her clothes, tugging them on roughly as she answered the phone.

‘Yes?’ Her voice was cracked and weak.

‘It’s Sanderson, boss. We’ve got three more fires.’

Helen’s head spun. Could this be happening?

‘Text me the details,’ she replied and rang off. Seconds later, she was out of the door. Max Paine lay on the floor where she left him, silent and still.

Helen sprinted to her bike, berating herself every step of the way. Why, why, why was she such an enormous fuck-up? Was her loneliness so severe that she would willingly take her eye off the ball at such a crucial moment in the investigation? What the hell was she
doing
?

Her mind was already scrolling forward. If Paine reported her assault on him, then she would be off the investigation and probably out of the Force too. Given her good track record, she could possibly ride out the disciplinary proceedings if she was contrite, agreeing to a demotion, community service and a large helping of humble pie. But would it be worth it? Once her extracurricular activities became common knowledge, she would be a dead woman walking as far as top brass were concerned. They would correctly surmise that it would be impossible for her to maintain authority over her unit, when everyone would be cracking ribald jokes about what she got up to after hours. Some would be repelled by her activities, others still might be attracted to her because of them – either way it would be an impossible circle to square and she would be put under heavy pressure to step down.

It seemed as though Helen had been walking a tightrope for years. Keeping her private and professional lives totally separate, hoping in her own muddled way that she could find the strength to keep doing what she did.
Suddenly a crushing wave of sadness swept over her. This was all she’d ever done, all she’d ever been good at. And she
was
good it – she had saved numerous lives, ended a number of brutal killing sprees. She loved her job and felt she made a difference to people’s lives. Was all that about to be taken away from her?

Brushing these thoughts aside, Helen climbed on to her bike and fired it up. Her fate would have to be addressed later, there was important work for her to do now and she had to focus. Three more fires had been set. One at a nursery, one at a cash and carry and the third at a terraced house in nearby Lower Shirley. It wasn’t hard to work out the exact location of the last fire. Not half a mile away, a giant plume of black smoke climbed ever higher, blocking out the moon’s gaze and casting a shadow over Southampton.

Helen raced towards it now, all thoughts of her own future temporarily forgotten. Their killer was at play once more.

Buzz, buzz, buzz. The phone was on silent mode and appeared aggrieved to be neutered in this way, buzzing its irritation angrily over and over again. It lay in a Marc Jacobs bag underneath the small table, temporarily forgotten by its owner.

Jacqueline Harris drained her glass and reached over towards the bottle. She pulled it out of the ice bucket, a few drops of icy water spilling on to the white tablecloth, and was aggrieved to find that it was empty. She cast a suspicious glance at her husband, Michael. He had been in ebullient mood, telling stories, joking and refilling his companions’ glasses at every opportunity. Wouldn’t it be like him to finish the bottle without ordering another – he wouldn’t want to break the flow of his delivery, now that he had a captive audience.

Signalling to the waiter, Jacqueline sat back in her chair and let out a heavy sigh. It had been a pig of a day – a day when every one of her pet projects had taken a step backwards. She had lost the pitch for the new building at Solent University, a client had complained about rising costs on another project and, to top it all off, she’d run into more planning problems on her luxury flats overlooking Ocean Village. She’d get over them, of course, it was too big a development to be stymied and she was a big enough name locally to cut through the red tape, but
still it was irritating. Sometimes it seemed to her as if the world delighted in throwing small-minded pettifogging bureaucrats into her path just to see how she would react. By now it should have known – she reacted
badly.

The waiter was on his way over now and Jacqueline relaxed a little. Her eye wandered to Michael, who was building to the end of another of his stories – adventures from the front line of psychiatry. He would never tell stories of current patients of course, but when it came to serving up the gory details of past fruitcakes he’d treated he was utterly shameless. He was currently dissecting the neuroses of a former patient – Katie B – who’d suffered from a condition called Objectum Sexuality, in which the victim became sexually obsessed with inanimate objects. Washing machines, car bonnets and the like were common, but Katie seemed to have a particular flair for her condition, having developed an unhealthy and somewhat unnerving obsession with Ferris wheels. She had been arrested in various states of undress at funfairs up and down the land and seemed to have no desire or ability to combat her addiction, despite the best efforts of her family and Michael too.

Jacqueline regarded her husband – he was expanding his theme now to bring in the real-life cases of two other female sufferers who’d married the Eiffel Tower and Berlin Wall, respectively. Despite her mild irritation with him and her high stress level, she couldn’t help smiling. When he was in this mood he was kind of irresistible – he would happily entertain their large party deep into the small hours if given the chance.

Jacqueline ordered another bottle of Sancerre and gave
in to the flow of the evening. As the crisp white wine hit the back of her throat, she felt her whole body relax. She’d only had a couple of glasses and they hadn’t done much, but this one landed. It was late and they should probably be getting home, as they both had hectic days tomorrow, but somehow she knew they wouldn’t. They were night birds and didn’t really do sleep – they were never happier than when entertaining together. So she refilled her glass, launched herself into the conversation and forgot all about the woes of her day.

All the while, her phone buzzed violently underneath the table, out of sight and out of mind.