112
“Check again.”
Helen virtually barked her order at the startled manager. Peter Banyard, the new manager of the Park Street Wilkinson’s, was not used to dealing with police officers, but he knew bad manners when he saw them and bridled at the request.
“I’m more than happy to check again, Inspector, but I can assure you that this is the complete list of all our employees.”
Helen ran her eye down them again. Jeff Armstrong, Terry Slater, Joanne Hinton, Anne Duggan, Ian McGregor … There was nobody here she recognized, no one who might be relevant.
“Could these names be fake?”
“Of course not,” the aggrieved manager responded. “We check their ID, get National Insurance numbers, their bank details—”
“How far does this list go back?” Helen interrupted.
“Eighteen months.”
“Okay, I’ll need a list going back five years, everything you’ve got.”
“Then I’ll need a warrant. I think we’ve already gone way beyond the call of duty—”
“You’ll have one before the end of the day. Thank you for your time.”
Helen was already halfway out of the door, heading fast for the store exit. The fraud victims had all shopped here for several years, so it was possible their credit and debit card details had been garnered some time back. And yet … she had known Paine for only eighteen months and Angelique considerably less than that. This felt recent and Helen knew that she was missing something significant. Their killer was still out there, thinking, plotting, waiting for his moment to strike.
113
“Amy Fawcett’s body is currently at the mortuary—Jim Grieves is working on a more accurate time of death—”
“But … ,” Sanderson interrupted, wishing McAndrew would get to the point.
“But I’ve run the Automatic Number Plate Recognition and DI Grace’s bike was in the vicinity of Fawcett’s flat last night.”
“What do you mean, ‘in the vicinity’?”
“Three blocks away.”
“What time is this?”
“She heads into the docks area around nine p.m. And leaves via the same route shortly before ten.”
“Okay, call Grieves on the hour every hour until he gives you a time of death. He won’t like it, but he’ll have to wear it.”
“Sure thing.”
They were standing in Helen’s office. It was the least suspicious place for a private conference, but even so, it felt profoundly odd to be talking about her while standing in her space.
“Look, Ellie, if you feel uncomfortable doing this,” Sanderson said quickly, “you just have to say—”
“It’s okay. I’m fine. And you can rely on me to be dis—”
“I know I can. Why do you think I asked you?”
This earned a crooked smile from McAndrew, so Sanderson continued:
“Have we got anything from the phone yet?”
“Not much but we’re still doing most of the checks. The serial number shows that the phone was stolen five years ago. I’d imagine it’s been used with a bastardized SIM card since. The phone’s history has been deleted, I’m afraid, and the boys aren’t convinced that we’ll be able to retrieve it.”
“What about prints?”
“Only partials, unfortunately. It’s been rubbed down pretty well.”
“Shit.”
“That said,” McAndrew added, “Amy Fawcett’s phone was still in her bag and the boys have had more luck there. She sent a text message last night to an unregistered mobile number—07768 038687—asking someone to meet her at her flat. We’ve looked at the phone contacts of Jake Elder and Max Paine—this is the only number that links all three. We’ve got Elder and Paine’s phone content going back years. The same unregistered user used this number to make appointments with them—just as he or she did with Fawcett.”
Now Sanderson smiled—the first time she’d done so in a while.
“Okay, let’s run with that. Go back to the phone company—who is it?”
“Lebara—a pay-as-you-go service.”
“Go back to them and do a location search. Find out which mobile masts that phone has been pinging over the last few weeks, months. I want to find out where that person has been.”
McAndrew nodded and headed off, leaving Sanderson to contemplate her next move. She had already received several phone calls from Emilia asking for progress, but she would have to wait. They didn’t yet have the smoking gun, but the case was steadily building, and if they were going to bring Helen in, there was something she needed to do first.
114
“I’m sorry, I just don’t believe it.”
Charlie tried to keep her voice steady, but there was no hiding the emotion she felt.
“What you believe isn’t really relevant. We have to be led by the evidence,” Sanderson countered.
“DI Grace is a highly decorated officer—she has more commendations to her name than the rest of us put together. Her integrity and professionalism have never been questioned—”
“That’s not true. She was nearly kicked out of the force for shooting her own sister.”
“She saved my life that day.”
“And you’ve been peas in a pod ever since, haven’t you?”
Charlie was about to take Sanderson’s head off, but Gardam intervened, holding up his hand to silence her. He had called Charlie to his office as soon as Sanderson had brought these latest developments to him—Charlie was of equal rank and needed to be included. She was very grateful he had—Sanderson clearly wasn’t going to stick up for Helen.
“This is difficult enough as it is,” he said calmly. “Let’s try to keep personal issues out of it. So what have we got?”
“We have a personal relationship with all of the victims—,” Sanderson began.
“According to a journalist,” Charlie countered.
“Garanita has a number of photos showing DI Grace visiting Elder’s flat, plus I now have the testimony of a neighbor who saw her there on numerous occasions. Max Paine was brutally attacked nine months ago by a female police officer—a client who’d turned on him. Interestingly, Paine left a voice mail for Emilia Garanita hours before he was killed, saying he had important information relating to Jake Elder’s murder.”
This time Charlie said nothing.
“We can place Grace’s bike near the scene of the latest murder at exactly the right time. And we believe we can link DI Grace to all the victims via an unregistered mobile phone she attempted to discard on Southampton Common last night.”
“Come on, Sanderson, that’s speculation and you know it.”
“We’ll see,” Sanderson said confidently. “We also found a partial boot print near the crime scene at Paine’s flat. It’s a size six—DI Grace is a size six—and the pattern on the bottom is deep, wavy tread, reminiscent of soles you often find on biker boots. As you know, DI Grace—”
“I get the picture. Can we place Grace at the scene of the first murder?”
“Not yet.”
“What about Paine’s and Fawcett’s flats?”
“Still processing the evidence, sir,” Sanderson replied, sounding slightly hesitant for the first time. “But the fact remains that DI Grace has been evasive and secretive from the off. She has been behaving erratically and emotionally, making decisions and calls that the evidence just didn’t justify. The use of cling film on the third victim can’t be a coincidence, given her history. Perhaps she got bored of waiting for us to work it out.”
“But why? Why would she do something like this?” Charlie virtually shouted.
“Maybe they blackmailed her and she killed them. Now she’s trying to cover her tracks, make it look like a serial killer, when actually she’s just covering her arse. Or maybe she’s just snapped—she’s been doing this stuff for so long and nobody has a closer affinity to this type of killer than her. After all, it runs in the famil—”
At this point, Sanderso
n’s phone rang out, loud and shrill. Apologizing to Gardam, she answered it and retreated. Charlie saw this as her opportunity and leaped in.
“With the greatest of respect to my colleague, I really don’t think arresting DI Grace is the right thing to do. We need to evaluate these leads, for sure, but I don’t think an arrest—with all the attendant publicity—is a smart move.”
Gardam looked at her, but said nothing.
“Look, I know hunches and personal relationships don’t count for much,” Charlie acknowledged, “but I’ve known Helen Grace longer than anyone here and she just isn’t capable of these crimes. Her first and only priority is to save lives, to serve the ends of justice. Whatever may have happened in her personal life, she wouldn’t do this. She would never murder someone in cold blood, so for everyone’s sake, let’s not rush into something we’ll regret. She is innocent. Please believe me.”
Charlie finished her impassioned speech and now became aware of Sanderson standing by her side.
“That was Meredith Walker at the lab,” Sanderson said, failing to keep the note of triumph from her voice. “We’ve got a match, sir. A cigarette butt found in the corridor by the crime scene at the Torture Rooms has DI Grace’s DNA on it. She was there that night.”
Charlie felt physically winded, stunned by this development. And her discomfort increased still further as Gardam now turned to them both and said:
“Okay. Let’s bring her in.”
115
Helen checked her mirrors, but the car was still there. She’d first noticed she was being tailed when heading north up Kingsway. She had sped fast round the Charlotte Place roundabout, then forked left up the Avenue. The gray sedan kept pace without ever seeming to speed up or slow down. The tactics she recognized; the car she didn’t—which made her very nervous indeed.
It had to be police, but who and why? Helen suddenly had the nasty feeling that she hadn’t walked away from Angelique’s flat unseen after all. Were they watching her then? If so, they would have photos of her entering and leaving the flat—photos that would look pretty damning if given the right twist. If they were following her from the flat, then had they followed her to the common too?
She could see the large expanse of green to her left now, as she flashed past on her bike, though trees shielded the lake from view. Were the police there right now? Searching for evidence? There was an alternative scenario—that they had just picked up her tail this morning, following her to Wilkinson’s and beyond. But that scarcely made her feel any better. They clearly still had their suspicions about her. In normal circumstances she would have gone straight to her boss to get the lowdown, but how could she do that now? Failing that, she would have gone to the team, to her DSs, but perhaps even they were working against her. Someone must have raised concerns with top brass.
Helen tugged at the throttle, speeding north. The tailing car kept pace. Helen could call Charlie to try to get the lie of the land, but it was an inherently risky play. Her communications might be monitored, and even if Charlie was onside—as Helen fervently hoped she was—it would put her in a terribly difficult position. Nobody had called her this morning, which was unheard of. They were deliberately giving her a wide berth, which meant that something was up.
There was no one she could turn to, so she would have to handle things herself. Someone was intent on setting her up and it was up to her to resolve the situation. But first she would need to lose her tail.
Highfield Lane was fast approaching. Helen lowered her speed, then suddenly cut hard right, yanking the throttle once more. Her back wheel skidded, screeching loudly; then suddenly she was shooting forward. Moments earlier she’d been heading due north; now she was tearing east, testing the speed limit as she did so. She was expecting the blues and twos to come on, but the gray car remained as unobtrusive—but persistent—as ever. She raised her speed now—forty, then fifty miles per hour. She could get pulled over for speeding, but that was the last thing on anyone’s mind at the moment. The fact that they hadn’t pulled her in meant either that this was just a surveillance gig or that they wanted to do so discreetly.
They would obviously be radioing her progress in and there was every chance she might be riding into a trap. Cobden Bridge was coming up—this was a good place to trap fleeing suspects, as they generally didn’t fancy a swim. It looked clear, but … Helen pumped her speed up to seventy miles per hour, overtaking three cars before zooming back into the lane. At any moment she expected unmarked cars to appear, blocking the other end of the bridge. But as she ate up the yards to the end of the bridge, the way remained clear. As she reached the end, she dropped down onto her right knee, biting hard into the tarmac as she spun down Bullar Road. She roared down it, then braked hard, not daring to cross Bitterne Way without looking. It was busy today, vans and lorries speeding along, and as Helen awaited her opportunity, she flashed a look in the rearview mirror.
The gray car was still with her, moving fast down Bullar Road toward her. It was fifty yards away, now forty, now thirty … Throwing caution to the wind, Helen tore across the four-lane carriageway, narrowly avoiding another bike, before speeding on. The pursuing car bided its time and Helen now became aware of a red estate car up ahead that seemed to be taking its time to reach Freemantle Common, almost as if it was waiting for someone.
The road was pretty quiet today. It would be a great place to strike and sure enough, the Astra now pulled across the road, blocking her route. The blue light was out now, the doors opening in readiness for an arrest. The gray car was not far behind, so Helen didn’t hesitate, lowering her speed, then ramming back the throttle to mount the pavement. The officers were already getting back into their car, so Helen raced down the empty pavement before joining the road and speeding off.
There was no need for stealth—now it was all about speed. She sped through Merry Oak and Itchen, paying heed only to the space in front of her, ignoring the traffic signals that attempted to arrest her progress. And as she reached Weston, Abbey Hill cemetery came into view in the distance.
This had been her destination all along. If she could get there, she had a chance of escape. The pursuing cars were not far behind, their high-powered engines helping them to keep pace with her Kawasaki. Now Helen was leaving the main road, mounting the single-track road to the cemetery. There was no way down now—she was boxed in—so she cut loose, ripping her speed up to the max. Within moments, the cemetery gates appeared in front of her. Jamming the brakes, Helen skidded to a halt in front of them and was off and away before her bike had stopped moving.
As she vaulted the gates, she heard the cars pull up, but Helen didn’t hesitate, darting off down the main path toward the far end of the cemetery. This was her terrain and she planned to use her knowledge of it to her advantage, cutting diagonally across the minor paths, making maximum use of the cover the tombs and statues provided. She could hear shouts behind her, but they seemed a ways away—she had a few minutes’ grace now, but she would have to use them wisely.
She found herself in the most secluded part of the cemetery. She had bent her path this way partly out of an instinct to stay hidden but also out of habit. This was the location of her sister Marianne’s final resting place and as Helen approached her grave, she suddenly slowed her pace dramatically. Not because she thought she was safe, but because of what she now saw in front of her.
Leaning against Marianne’s grave was a simple bouquet of flowers. Suddenly Helen knew exactly who wanted to destroy her. And, more important, she knew why.
116
Her heel dug sharply into the turf and the ground seemed to give way beneath her. Hearing her pursuers approaching, Helen had vaulted the railings at the far end of the cemetery and thrown herself down the hill, hoping to disappear from view and confuse her pursuers. But the ground was wet and slippery and she lost her footing almost immediately, careering down the hill on her back, picking up speed as she did so.
For a moment, Helen didn’t know which
way was up. Then suddenly she came to an abrupt halt, somebody punching her hard in the side. Recovering herself, Helen now realized she was in a thornbush and the sharp pain in her side was a thick branch that had rammed into her ribs. She was winded and muddy but, as she was still wearing her leathers and helmet, was largely unscathed.
Picking herself up, she looked up at the cemetery, now a good seventy or eighty feet above her. She could still hear voices, but no one was peering over the railings in her direction. If she moved swiftly, she had a chance of evading her pursuers completely, so, breaking cover, she ran down the side of the hill. She moved from bush to thicket to bush, occasionally casting a wary look behind her.
Before long she’d made it to the bottom of the hill and, cutting her way along a footpath, made it back to civilization. Hurrying down a side street, she spotted Chamberlayne College, then, heading left, hurried toward Weston. Spotting a bin, she pulled off her helmet and jacket and dumped them. The call would have gone out to uniform as well as other surveillance officers now, so she would have to be careful.
Her side was hurting her now, but she pressed on. She couldn’t head home and needed somewhere—a sanctuary—to gather her thoughts. Somewhere public but not too public. Suddenly a Ladbrokes came into view and Helen ducked inside. There was a smattering of punters about, but they were far more interested in the dog racing and the fruit machines than her. Buying a coffee, Helen sat down at the betting bar, a copy of the Racing Post open in front of her. She barely took in the text on the page, her brain pulsing with urgent, disquieting thoughts. Why had she been so complacent? Why had she ignored the evidence that was staring her in the face? She had seen someone in the derelict flats opposite her months ago but had dismissed the apparition as a junkie. But the person within had been watching her all the while, waiting for the moment to strike. How long had he been there? How many times had he seen her sitting at her window? How many months had he been inveigling his way into her life?
Since Max Paine’s death, she’d feared the murders might be connected to her, but she’d suppressed these thoughts. Her chat with Gardam had reassured her, but how naive and foolish that looked now. The fact that she was summoned to the third murder suggested that she was being set up, and the use of cling film confirmed for her the identity of the perpetrator. Her sister, Marianne, had killed their parents in the same way, securing their limbs, then wrapping their heads in cling film. She too was now dead, but her son, Robert, was alive. Helen had ruined his life by accidentally outing him as the son of a serial killer. He had remained hidden for several years since that devastating moment, but had finally resurfaced. Helen had wanted to be his guardian angel, but her cursed touch had brought him only misery, rejection and pain.
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