‘So what happened?’
‘I told them to do without me. That I wanted to be left alone. They weren’t happy. They left, but then they came back. Threatening me. Telling me they’d cut me.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I fought back. I wasn’t going to be pushed around.’
‘What with?’
There was a long pause, then:
‘Knife.’
‘Sorry?’
‘A knife. I keep one on me –’
‘For God’s sake, Robert. That’s how you get killed.’
‘Saved my life tonight though, didn’t it?’ he spat back, unrepentant.
‘Maybe.’
He lapsed into silence.
‘So let me get this straight. They attacked you first.’
‘For sure.’
‘And you fought back?’
He nodded again.
‘Did you injure them?’
‘Got Davey a bit on the arm. Nothing bad.’
‘Ok. Well, we can probably make that one play, but you’re going to have to cough to carrying the knife. Nothing to be done about that. I can probably get you out of here and back home, if I promise to stand for you.’
Robert looked up, surprised.
‘But I’m going to need you to promise me that you won’t carry again. You get caught with a knife a second time and I won’t be able to help you.’
‘Course.’
‘Do we have a deal?’
He nodded.
‘Right, let me talk to them. We’ll leave Davey to stew for a bit, shall we?’ Helen replied, a smile creeping through. To her surprise, Robert smiled back, the first time she’d ever seen him do so.
She was nearly at the door when he spoke.
‘Why are you doing this?’
Helen paused. She considered her answer.
‘Because I want to help you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you deserve better than this.’
‘Why? You’re a copper. I’m a thief. You should bang me up.’
Helen hesitated. Her hand was on the door handle. Would it be safer to turn it and go? Say nothing?
‘Are you my mother?’
The question hit her like a sledgehammer. It was unexpected, painful and rendered her speechless.
‘My real mother, I mean?’
Helen took a breath.
‘No, no, I’m not. But I knew her.’
He was looking at her intently.
‘I’ve never met anyone who knew her before.’
Helen was glad she wasn’t looking at him. Tears had suddenly sprung to her eyes. How much of his life had he spent wondering about his birth mother?
‘How did you know her? Were you a friend or … ?’
Helen hesitated. Then:
‘I’m her sister.’
Robert said nothing for a second, stunned by Helen’s confession.
‘You’re … you’re my aunt?’
‘Yes, I am.’
Another long silence as Robert took this in.
‘Why didn’t you come and see me sooner?’
His question cut like a knife.
‘I couldn’t. And I wouldn’t have been welcome. Your parents had carved out a good life for you – they wouldn’t have wanted me butting in, raking up old ground.’
‘I don’t have anything of my mother. I know she died when I was just a baby, but …’
He shrugged. He knew virtually nothing of Marianne and what he did know was a lie. Maybe it was better to keep it that way.
‘Well, maybe if we meet again, I can tell you more about her. I’d like to. Her life wasn’t always happy but you were the best thing in it.’
Suddenly the boy was crying. Years of questions, years of feeling incomplete, catching up with him. Helen was fighting tears too, but fortunately Robert had dropped his head, so her distress went unnoticed.
‘I’d like that,’ he said through tears.
‘Good,’ Helen replied, recovering her composure. ‘Let’s keep it between us for now. Until we know each other a little better, eh?’
Robert nodded, rubbing his eyes with his hands.
‘This isn’t the end, Robert. It’s the beginning.’
Thirty minutes later, Robert was in a cab heading home. Helen watched the cab go, then climbed on her bike. Despite the many problems that lay ahead, despite the many dark forces swirling around her, Helen felt exhilarated. Finally, she was beginning to atone.
In the aftermath of Marianne’s death, Helen had devoured every aspect of her sister’s life. Many would have buried the experience away, but Helen had wanted to climb inside Marianne’s mind, heart and soul. She wanted to fill in the gaps, find out exactly what had happened to her sister in prison and beyond. Find out if there was any truth in Marianne’s accusation that she was to blame for all those deaths.
So she had dredged up every document that had ever been written for or about her sister and on page three of Marianne’s custody file she stumbled upon the bombshell that had shaken Helen’s world – a sign that her sister still had the power to hurt her from beyond the grave. Helen was only thirteen at the time of Marianne’s arrest and she had been spirited away to a care home straight after her parents’ murder. She hadn’t attended her sister’s trial in person – her testimony had been pre-recorded – and she was only told the verdict, nothing more. She hadn’t seen her sister’s swollen belly and Hampshire Social Services had kept mum about it, so it was only when skimming the medical assessment on her arrest sheet, expecting nothing more than the familiar bruises and scars, that Helen had discovered her sister was pregnant when arrested. Five months pregnant. Later DNA tests would prove that Marianne’s dad – the man she had murdered in cold blood – was the child’s father.
The baby had been taken away from Marianne minutes after delivery. Even now, after everything that had happened, that image still brought tears to Helen’s eyes. Her sister cuffed to a hospital bed, her baby forcibly taken from her after eighteen hours of labour. Did she fight them? Did she have the strength to resist? Helen knew instinctively that she would have. Despite the brutality of its conception, Marianne would have cared for that baby. She would have loved it fiercely, feeding off its innocence, but, of course, she was never given the chance. She was a killer, who received no sympathy from her captors. There was no humanity in the process, just judgement and retribution.
The baby had vanished into the care system and then to fostering, but Helen had diligently pursued Baby K through the reams of paper and bureaucracy until she’d traced him. He’d been adopted by a childless Jewish couple in Aldershot – who’d named him Robert Stonehill – and he was doing fine. He was rebellious, lippy, frustrating – with scant qualifications to show for his years of schooling – but he was ok. He had a job, a solid home and two loving parents. In spite of the loveless nature of his birth, he had grown up nurtured and loved.
Robert had dodged his inheritance. And Helen knew that because of that she should have left him well alone. But her curiosity wouldn’t let her. She had attended Marianne’s funeral by herself, her killer and sole mourner, only to discover that she was not alone after all. Someone else had escaped the wreckage. So for Marianne’s sake, as much as her own, she would keep an eye on Robert. If she could help him in any way, she would.
Helen turned the ignition of her bike, revved the engine and roared off down the street. She was so caught up in the moment, so relieved, that for once she didn’t check her mirrors. Had she done so she would have realized that the same car that had followed her all the way from Southampton was now following her back.
72
Since his daddy’s return, life had got better for Alfie Booker. They had been living in a flat whilst his dad was in the army. But when he came back they moved to a caretaker’s house that bordered school playing fields. His dad cut the grass and swept up the leaves. Painted the lines on the football pitches. It was a good job, Alfie thought, and he liked to g
o with him as he did his work.
His dad argued with his mum a lot and was happier when he was working, so that was the best time for Alfie to be with him. He never said much but he seemed happy to have his son by his side. They made a funny pair, but Alfie wouldn’t have changed it for the world.
His dad hadn’t come home last night. His mum said he had, but Alfie knew that wasn’t true. His work boots were where he’d left them yesterday afternoon and he was nowhere on the grounds. Alfie had covered every blade of grass, listening all the while for the tell-tale drone of the sit-on mower. He didn’t know what was going on, but he didn’t like it.
He turned the corner and saw a tall figure walking towards the sports pavilion. It was Sports Day later that day and his first thought was that it was one of the games masters, but he didn’t recognize him. The figure wasn’t broad enough to be his dad, so who was it? They were walking with real purpose towards the pavilion so they obviously had something of importance to do. Instinct drew Alfie towards the figure, his curiosity getting the better of him.
As he got closer, he slowed. It was a woman. And she was placing a box by the pavilion entrance. What was in the box – a trophy? A prize?
He called out as he ran over. The woman spun round, stopping Alfie in his tracks. She wasn’t smiling and had a nasty face. To his surprise, she turned and walked off without saying a word.
Alfie watched her go, confused. Then he turned his attention to the box. There was a word he couldn’t understand written on it. He tried to spell it out. F. I. L. T. H. But it made no sense to him. Why was it written in red ink?
He looked around, wondering what to do. There was no one to tell him he couldn’t open it.
Double-checking the coast was clear, Alfie stepped forward and opened the box.
73
It was hours after the event but Tony’s mind was still reeling. His heart was beating nineteen to the dozen, fired by a mixture of fear, adrenalin and anxiety.
He tried to gather his thoughts but they spun round and round, eluding him. He hadn’t felt like this in ages, yet a little voice was shouting inside him, abusing him, shaming him. It was all he deserved, yet oddly he didn’t care. He didn’t care at all. Which Tony was thinking these thoughts? He didn’t recognize him.
He had always been a by-the-book copper. Some said he was stolid. Others more charitably said he was professional, exemplary. Helen certainly respected him. The thought suddenly made his head hurt. What would she think if she could see him now? It wasn’t uncommon, but that didn’t make it any better.
Melissa stirred next to him, turning over in her sleep. He took in her naked body. It was marked with tattoos and ancient scarring in places, but was still muscular and alluring. His eyes flicked to the bedroom curtains again, checking for the umpteenth time that they were pulled together. On the street outside, a colleague of his was sitting in an unmarked car. Would he have noticed anything? The light going on and off in the bedroom? Surely he would have assumed it was Melissa going to bed finally. But what if he’d done a perimeter check of the house and noticed that Tony wasn’t downstairs?
When it happened he hadn’t thought of the risk at all. He had held her close, enjoying the warmth of her body against his, then she’d looked up at him and drawn him towards her. They had kissed. Then kissed some more. Despite the fact that she was both a prostitute and their key witness, Tony had not hesitated, his desire driving him on. They were in bed minutes later – Tony was stunned to think of his utter recklessness – he had never once paused to draw breath.
He was like a boy again, full of foolish, hopeless thoughts. He wanted to laugh, shout and cry. But all the while that same little voice kept calling to him. Banging out its questions with deafening power. Where was this leading? And where would it end?
74
She pushed the bell down hard and didn’t let go. She had already rung it twice, done a perimeter of the house, but it remained resolutely closed to her, despite the fact that it was obviously occupied. The curtains were closed and she could hear the TV playing inside.
Eventually she heard footsteps, accompanied by a volley of cursing. Emilia Garanita smiled to herself and kept her finger on the bell. Only when the door swung open did she take finally her finger off, restoring peace once more.
‘We don’t buy at the door,’ the man said, already shutting the door.
‘Do I look like I’m selling fucking dusters?’ Emilia replied.
The man hesitated, taken aback by her forceful and unrepentant response.
‘I know you,’ he said eventually, ‘you’re what’s-her-name …’
‘Emilia Garanita.’
‘Right. What do you want?’
He was clearly anxious to get back to his viewing. Emilia smiled before continuing.
‘I want a file.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You do work at the probation service, Mr Fielding?’
‘Yes and as such you should know that there is no possible way I could ever give a journalist any information. It is all confidential.’
He said the word ‘journalist’ with real distaste, as if he were somehow operating on a superior plane. Emilia loved these moments.
‘Even if she was going to save your life?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your professional life, I mean.’
Now Fielding was quiet. Could he tell what was coming?
‘Got a few friends in uniform. They told me an interesting story about a middle-aged guy getting caught on the Common engaging in lewd acts in the back of a Ford Focus.’
She let her eye drift to the Ford Focus parked on Fielding’s drive.
‘Story goes he’d picked up the girl at a bar … but she was only fifteen. Whoops! Apparently the guy begged and pleaded and eventually the officers let him off, each with £100 in their pocket. Still, they kept a record of the licence plate and a description of the dirty bastard. I’ve got their police notepad right here.’
She pretended to rummage in her bag. Now Fielding stepped outside the house, pulling the door to behind him.
‘That’s blackmail,’ he said indignantly.
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ Emilia replied smiling. ‘Now, are you going to give me what I want or shall start writing my story?’
It was a rhetorical question. Emilia could tell from the look on his face that he was going to do exactly what she wanted.
75
‘Hello, Alfie, my name is Helen and I’m a police officer.’
The boy looked up from his drawing.
‘Is it ok if I sit down with you?’
The boy nodded, so Helen crouched down next to him.
‘What are you drawing?’
‘Dinosaur pirates.’
‘Cool. Is that the T-Rex?’
Alfie nodded, then said matter-of-factly:
‘He’s the biggest.’
‘I can see that. He looks scary.’
Alfie shrugged as if it were no big deal. Helen found herself smiling. The six-year-old was a cute kid who had handled the strange events of the day remarkably well. He seemed more confused than upset. Which is more than could be said for his mother. She hadn’t been told the worst yet – and she wouldn’t be until they had a body – but she was already a wreck. Family Liaison were doing their best, but she was very vocally distressed, which was starting to affect Alfie. Helen knew she needed his undivided attention.
‘Can I show you something special?’
Alfie looked up. Helen slipped her warrant card onto the table.
‘This is my police badge. Do you know what a police officer is?’
‘You catch burglarers.’
‘That’s right,’ Helen said, suppressing a smile, ‘And do you know what this is?’
She slid her police radio onto the table.
‘Cool,’ he said, immediately picking it up.
‘Press that button there,’ Helen suggested. Alfie did so and got a good blast of static for his trou
ble. He seemed pleased. As he toyed with it, Helen continued:
‘Would you mind if I ask you a few questions?’
The boy nodded without looking up.
‘I want you to know that you are not in trouble at all. It’s just that the lady with the box – the lady you saw –well, she might have taken something that didn’t belong to her. So I need to find out who she is. Did she talk to you?’
Alfie shook his head.
‘Did she say anything at all?’
Another shake.
‘Did you see her face?’
A nod this time. Helen hesitated, then pulled a photocopy of the e-fit from her bag.
‘Was this the lady you saw?’
She showed him the picture.
He looked up from the radio, took in the picture, then shrugged and returned his attention to the radio. Helen put a hand on his, gently stopping him. He looked up.
‘It’s really important, Alfie. Could you take another look at the picture for me, please?’
Alfie obliged with good grace, as if he were getting another go in a game. This time he looked at it more carefully. There was a long pause then he half nodded.
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’
‘She was wearing a hat, it covered her face a bit.’
‘Like a baseball cap?’
Alfie nodded. Helen sat back on her haunches. They could ask him some more questions – about her height and build – but it would be hard to get a positive ID off him. He was only six, after all.
‘What did she do?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘What did she take?’
Helen shot a look at Alfie’s mum, then lowered her voice.
‘Something very special.’
Helen looked at his face so full of curiosity. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that he would never see his daddy again.
76
Helen was so engrossed in her chat with Charlie that she didn’t hear Harwood coming. An increasingly frustrated Charlie had spent days trying to run PussyKing’s true identity to ground – he was Bitchfest’s principal contributor and should have been easy to find. But because he never used a home or office computer and was adept at creating fake addresses via encrypted IPs, PussyKing remained forever just out of reach. Helen and Charlie were debating their next move, when:
Pop Goes the Weasel: DI Helen Grace 2 (Dci Helen Grace 2) Page 18