Intrigued, Helen crept forward. As she did so, she spotted a few abandoned bits of scaffolding. Bending down, she picked up a short length of pipe and carried on, getting closer and closer to the office ahead. She was fifteen feet from it, now ten, now five. Helen stood on the threshold, then pushed into the room, braced to defend herself.
But no attack came. Was Robert even here? It was hard to make out the outer edges of the room—her eye was drawn to the computer whose weak light she had noticed from the corridor. Next to it on a rickety table was a camping lantern and Helen grabbed it, turning it up. Now the room came into focus—empty coffee cups, an ashtray full of cigarettes, discarded sandwich wrappers, a hoodie hanging over a chair, but also a white iPhone 5 nearby. Helen guessed it was Max Paine’s—but time would tell. And flanking all this, pinned up on the walls, were maps of Southampton, picking out Banister Park, Bitterne and the docks.
This, then, was Robert’s bolt-hole—a perfect hiding place from which to plot his killing spree. And as Helen took another step forward, turning the lantern to get a better view of the room, she saw him, framed by the large windows behind him. He was silhouetted against the moonlight, but as Helen stepped closer, she took in his face. He looked pale, impassive and oddly effeminate—there didn’t seem to be a single trace of hair on his face, head or neck. She hadn’t seen him in years, and now as he took her in, his blue eyes sparkled malevolently.
“Nice to see you again, Helen. It’s been a long time.”
123
The unmarked car hurtled down the road, siren blaring and light flashing. Even though she was safely strapped in, Charlie held tight to the armrest. Sanderson was wound tight tonight and driving way too aggressively. She didn’t dare say anything, but she didn’t want to become a casualty of her colleague’s desperation to nail their boss either.
They were heading fast toward Shirley, but as they reached the outskirts, Charlie’s phone pinged loudly. Sanderson gave her an accusing look, as if Charlie had deliberately done this to distract her, before returning her attention to the road. Irked, Charlie pulled out her phone. But as she did so, her finger froze, hovering over the Read button. The message was from Helen.
Charlie glanced sideways at Sanderson, then pressed the button. The message was short and sweet.
Western Docks. Quay 42.
It was timed as having been sent three minutes ago. Was Helen in trouble? Did she need help? Was this her covert way of asking for it, by texting instead of calling? Charlie stared at the message, unsure what to do. Should she text back? Probably—that was what a good friend and colleague would do—but if it was later discovered that she had been communicating with a suspect on the run, then that would be her career over. She owed Helen so much—her livelihood, her position, her life even—but there was too much at stake now, and if she was honest, there were too many unanswered questions.
Which was why, with a heavy heart, Charlie turned her phone toward Sanderson and said:
“I think you’d better see this.”
124
They stood stock-still, sizing each other up. Robert showed no signs of wanting to attack her, but neither was he preparing to flee. He was boxed in, Helen blocking his route from the room, yet he seemed oddly unconcerned.
“When did you know?” he said suddenly.
His voice was as she remembered it—young and raw—but the warmth he used to possess had vanished. He seemed older, but not happier.
“After Paine, maybe. But I hoped I was wrong.”
“Isn’t that just like you? Always in denial.”
“About what?”
“The harm you do. The pain you cause.”
“I’ve only ever wanted to help people. I spent months looking for you, trying to make amends—”
“But you didn’t find me, did you?”
“Not for the want of trying. I know I turned your life upside down—”
“Is that how you’d put it?”
“You were happy—you had nice parents, a good home—but you were my only blood relative. I wanted to look after you, help you make the right choices—”
“Then I guess I’ll be another thing on your conscience, won’t I?”
This time his tone was gleeful and taunting.
“You did all this because you wanted to,” Helen said, gesturing to the maps, the phone. “It’s nothing to do with me.”
“In some ways I did them a favor. Jake was hopelessly obsessed with you. Paine was eating himself up with bitterness—”
“And Angelique? What the hell had she done?”
“Nothing yet. But you would have harmed her, just as you did the others. Everything you touch dies—don’t you know that yet, Helen?”
Helen stared at him. He knew her better than anyone else and was determined to make that count.
“Including yourself?” she said quietly. “Isn’t that what all this is about?”
“Well, the last time you faced off with a blood relative, you shot her. So it would be kind of poetic, wouldn’t it?”
“I never wanted to kill your mother. She forced me to.”
“Isn’t it a coincidence that you always end up in a position where you are forced to hurt people? Do you never ask yourself if you like inflicting pain?”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? What did you feel when you were beating Paine? Wasn’t there a part of you that didn’t want to stop?”
Helen wanted to deny it, but couldn’t find the words.
“You see, Helen, you’re no better than the criminals you chase. Think of me as your subconscious, acting out the fantasies and desires that lie within you.”
“Tell that to the judge.”
“There’s not going to be a trial, Helen. This starts and ends here.”
Helen said nothing. She had sent her text over ten minutes ago. She would have expected to hear distant sirens by now, but there was nothing. Robert stood in front of her, framed by the dark sea, looking relaxed and happy. Helen had no idea what he was planning, but his mood made her decidedly nervous.
“How did you know?” she said suddenly, breaking the silence.
“That wasn’t hard, Helen. I’ve been your quiet shadow for nearly a year now. Little boy blue following you around day after day after day. I saw you meet Jake Elder in that city center bar. I heard him arguing with his boyfriend afterward. Did you feel lonely after that exchange, Helen? I saw you sitting in your window looking beautiful and sad—”
“And a day later I visited Max Paine,” Helen replied, suddenly realizing how careless she’d been.
“I watched you visit him then and the time after. I saw how agitated you were after you’d come to blows. And the next morning, I saw him. He had a cap on and was covered in makeup, but boy, was he a mess. You must have really gone to town on him.”
Helen looked at Robert. The young man who had once cried on her shoulder now stared at her, hateful in his triumph.
“Am I really worth all this?” Helen said finally.
“You have no idea.”
“You’ve been stalking me for months, giving up your own life—”
“I had no life thanks to you.”
“Bullshit. You don’t have to play the cards you’re dealt. You can choose a different path, make good choices—”
“You killed my mother. Nobody told me about that—for years I was given half-truths and evasions. Then you came along and told the whole fucking world.”
“That was never my intention.”
“‘Son of a Monster’—that’s what they called me. ‘The Spawn of a She-devil.’ I was a nobody—don’t you get that?—and suddenly I was famous.”
Helen stared at him. The memory of the press pack descending on his quiet family home in Aldershot still haunted her.
“After that, I couldn’t go anywhere. People knew who I was, what she’d done—they wanted nothing to do with me. As if her sins were mine. And yet what had she done? She’d killed to protect you. T
o save her little sister.”
“I know that’s what she thought she was doing—”
“I was going to kill myself,” Robert interrupted. “I was going to call you up, tell you where I was and then do it, before you could get to me. I’d saved up my pills, found a hotel room, but when it came to it, I couldn’t do it.”
Helen looked at him as he took a step forward.
“Not because I was scared, but because I was angry. It’s my rage that has sustained me all these months. My rage and my hatred of you.”
Helen stayed where she was, refusing to be intimidated. And in the far distance, she now heard the sound of sirens. Robert seemed oblivious, continuing his rant against her.
“After you shot her, you danced on her grave.”
“I loved your mother. I still do. But she was a murderer—”
“You tried to justify your own actions by denigrating her.”
“What she did was wrong.”
“No, what she did was right,” Robert barked back at her. “Which is why it felt right.”
Helen suppressed a shudder. Marianne had been utterly unrepentant at her trial, even confessing to enjoying murdering their parents.
“What did she say at her trial? ‘I enjoyed watching their faces, knowing they couldn’t hurt me anymore.’ I read the transcripts—I read everything about her. Her testimony was all I had left of her.”
Helen felt the emotion rising in her—Robert had been the innocent in all this, yet he too had been swallowed by the darkness.
“You were never like her.”
“But I am now. Thanks to you.”
“And does it make you happy?”
Robert looked at her oddly, as if trying to read the trick in the question.
“Yes. I think it does. You see, I could have killed you at any point during the last twelve months, but I wanted you to suffer. To feel the pain that I’ve endured since you ransacked my life. All your dirty little secrets put on view for the world to enjoy. Jake, Max and poor Angelique …”
The sound of the sirens was now unmistakable. Help could be only minutes away. There could be no triumph for Helen, but at least she could bring this thing to an end.
“I contacted my colleagues before I came in here, Robert,” she said softly.
“I assumed you would, but I’m glad we’ve had this time together.”
“So what happens now? If you want to hurt me, you’ve got a couple of minutes to do it.”
Robert stared at her, his hands hanging by his side.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Helen. That was never the plan.”
Still Helen braced herself, ready to roll with his attack. But Robert simply turned and opened the windows behind him, flinging them back so they crashed loudly on the wall outside, sending glass tumbling downward. A blast of cold air roared in, whipping Helen’s hair around her shoulders. Suddenly everything outside seemed amplified—the sound of car doors slamming echoing around the deserted quay.
“Don’t be stupid, Robert. You’ll break your legs and where are you going to run to? We’ve boxed ourselves into a corner here.”
Robert turned back to her. Illuminated by the full moon behind him, he seemed even more ghostly than before.
“Speak for yourself.”
Helen took a step forward, her anxiety spiking. Why was he so calm? What was she missing here? Did he want to be caught? She could hear footsteps climbing the metal fire escape now, hurrying toward them.
“Like I said, this is about you, not about me.”
The footsteps were getting closer. It could be only a matter of moments before Robert was apprehended.
“That’s why everything in this room is yours, Helen. The coffee cups, old cigarettes, food wrappers. Even an old hoodie you thought you’d lost. Your DNA, your prints. There’s nothing of me here, I’m afraid.”
Now Helen knew exactly what he intended to do and lunged forward, but she was too late. Hopping up onto the lip of the window ledge, Robert leaped out into the night. Helen launched herself at him but was a second too slow. She slammed into the wall—just in time to see Robert land with a splash in the inky water below. Her adversary had chosen his spot well—an old loading bay overhanging the dock.
Now the full extent of her stupidity came crashing home. But she had no time to react as suddenly she felt rough hands upon her, dragging her back from the window. She tried to speak, but her face was pushed hard into the dirt, even as her hands were wrenched backward and cuffed. Now she was being read her rights by breathless officers too drunk on their own success to listen to her pleas.
Robert’s victory was complete.
125
Emilia rubbed her hands together in a vain attempt to keep warm. She had lain in wait behind Southampton Central on numerous occasions, but had never found an effective way to keep warm. She was a naturally cold person—however many layers she wore, she could never stop her teeth chattering.
Tonight, though, she didn’t mind one bit. Any personal discomfort she felt was forgotten—this night was her night, the crowning achievement of her professional life thus far. She had endured much over the years—parents who maltreated her, an acid attack that had permanently scarred her, endless mockery and abuse—but tonight she would show them all. She was about to break the story of the year—one that would make her career and finish another in the process.
She had made it down to Southampton’s main police station in record time. Sanderson’s text was to the point—in custody. back entrance. 20 mins.—and Emilia had wasted no time, grabbing her camera and heading out of the door. There was a darkened doorway out the back that made perfect cover and she was poised there now, waiting for the telltale sedan. This was supposed to be a discreet, unpublicized entry to the station, but thanks to Sanderson, it would be anything but. Perhaps Emilia had misjudged her—maybe she could be trusted to honor their deal.
Emilia checked her camera again. Battery level high, night exposure set, rapid-fire mode on—then a sound made her look up. It was low but persistent, the sound of a car moving swiftly but quietly along the deserted street. Emilia readied herself.
Now the car swung into the alleyway behind the station and as if by magic, the heavy rear doors started to creak open. The car swung round toward them, slowing slightly to allow a sufficient gap to open up. Emilia now stepped forward, shooting quickly, grabbing as many photos as she could. She had timed it right, for seconds later the car disappeared inside, the doors clanging shut behind it.
Emilia stepped back into the shadows. Her article was ready to print, barring one small addition. Flicking the camera on to viewing mode, Emilia broke out into a smile. She had what she needed, her coup de grâce.
A shot of Helen Grace’s ashen face, staring out into the night.
126
“Look at the camera, please.”
Helen stared straight ahead as the flash fired—once, twice, three times. It was blinding, disorienting, the pain piercing her brain. But Helen knew it was just the beginning of her torture.
“Now to the left, please.”
Flash, flash, flash.
“Now to the right.”
Helen knew the drill—had watched this process countless times—but she had to be led through it now by the custody sergeant. She nodded when prompted, but none of it felt real. She was still in shock, her mind turning on the ingenuity of Robert’s scheme. He had trailed her patiently, picking up the detritus of her life, carefully assembling the narrative of her destruction. He had selected his victims well—choosing people who were not necessarily close to Helen, but who were nevertheless part of her secret life. Their exposure through death posed the question of who might want to silence them, leading the police straight back to Helen. She had no doubt now that Robert would have planted further DNA evidence at the Torture Rooms and possibly at Paine’s too. She had a connection to all the victims, so her only escape route was to establish a bona fide alibi.
With a shudder, Helen re
alized that this too would be denied her. She had been out running on the night of the first murder—had someone seen her running north, as if heading home from the Torture Rooms? On the night of Paine’s murder, she had visited Marianne’s grave—her route from Southampton Central would have taken her right past Paine’s flat. She was a creature of habit and Robert had taken full advantage of that, knowing all the while that there was no one waiting at home to confirm her version of events.
“Right. Now we’re going to strip-search you.”
Helen felt hands upon her, and looking up, she saw a female custody officer removing her clothes. Her vest, trousers and boots were removed and bagged. She would be allowed to keep her underwear on, but only after they had been searched. Helen submitted to this indignity, all the while feeling the sergeant’s eyes on her. Helen’s torso was riddled with scars—evidence of her historic addiction to sadomasochism, which would no doubt strengthen the case against her. Very few people had seen her like this—naked and exposed—and Helen could feel the sergeant’s silent judgment.
This was nothing compared with what was to come, however. Helen knew that her life would be pored over now, her every misdemeanor and insecurity exposed as she was hung out to dry. She was at the bottom of the well, with no means or hope of escape.
Standing there half-naked in the weak light of a flickering bulb, Helen was utterly alone.
127
It felt like she was in the middle of a nightmare. Charlie stood still in the middle of the room, making little effort to help the SOCOs who maneuvered around her. Helen was innocent—she had to be innocent—and yet she had led them here. The phone looked like it was Paine’s, the hoodie was hers and the cigarettes that lay half-smoked in the ashtray were unquestionably Helen’s brand. The coffee cups were Costa, not Starbucks; the sandwich wrappers were from the local deli by the station … The place even smelled of Helen—her signature Obsession perfume seeming to hang in the room. This was her space, her brain, but still it made no sense.
Sanderson walked swiftly past toward Meredith, brushing against Charlie as she did so. It was a subtle reminder that they were here to do a job, to gather and process the evidence. Charlie had played her part in Helen’s capture, but it had been Sanderson’s persistence and instincts that had brought them to this place and she clearly felt that she was in charge. Had her colleague been driven by conviction or ambition? It probably didn’t matter—either way she was well-placed to step into Helen’s shoes if—when—she was charged with triple murder.
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