She would be heavily bruised, perhaps badly injured too. Would she retreat from the world now and be lost from them for good? Or would she go out in one last blaze of glory?
88
The rain fell steadily and hard. It was attacking the city, not cleansing it, bouncing up off the pavement in angry bursts. Deep puddles were forming, blocking her path, but she didn’t hesitate, marching straight through them. Water seeped into her trainers, soaking her aching feet, but she didn’t stop. If she hesitated, she would lose her nerve and turn back.
She was frozen to the bone, her head pounding, her body screaming as the shock began to wear off. She was sure that she stood out like a sore thumb and quickened her pace. The faster she walked, the less she limped. She had a hoody on and a baseball cap too, but still an observant passer-by would clock the heavy bruising around her eyes and nose. She had a cover story ready, but she didn’t really trust herself to speak. So she marched on.
Eventually the building came into view. Instinctively she hesitated – through fear? Shame? Love? – then hurried towards it. She had no idea what to expect, but she knew that this was the right thing to do.
The place looked drab but friendly. She hammered on the door and waited, casting around to see if anyone was watching. But there was no one. She was alone.
No answer. She hammered again. For God’s sake, every second made this worse.
This time she heard footsteps. She stepped away from the door, bracing herself for what was to come.
The door slowly opened and a stout, matronly figure emerged. She looked at the hooded figure and paused.
‘May I help you?’ Her tone was polite but cautious. ‘I’m Wendy Jennings. Have you come to visit someone?’
In response, the woman pulled back her hood and removed her cap. Wendy Jennings gasped.
‘Dear God. Come inside, you poor girl. You need to have that looked at.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Come on now. Don’t be afraid.’
‘I don’t want anything for me.’
‘Then what do you want?’
‘This.’
She unzipped her coat and brought out the soft bundle that had been hidden inside. Wendy looked down at the slumbering baby, swaddled in a warm blanket, and realized what was being offered to her.
‘Take it, for God’s sake,’ the woman hissed.
But now Wendy Jennings was drawing back.
‘Listen, dear, I can see you’re in trouble but we can’t take your baby just like that.’
‘Why not? This is a children’s home, isn’t it?’
‘Yes of course, but –’
‘Please don’t make me beg.’
Wendy Jennings flinched at the tone. There was real distress there but anger too.
‘I can’t care for her any more,’ the woman continued.
‘I see that and I understand, I really do, but there are ways of doing these things. Procedures we have to follow. The first thing we have to do is call the social services.’
‘No social services.’
‘Let me call an ambulance then. Get you seen to and then we can talk about your baby.’
It was a trap. Had to be. She had hoped she would find someone good here, someone she could trust, but there was nothing for her here. She turned on her heel.
‘Where are you going?’ Wendy shouted. ‘Stay, please, and let’s talk about it.’
But she didn’t respond.
‘I mean you no harm.’
‘Like fuck you don’t.’
She hesitated, then turning took a big step forward and spat in Wendy Jennings’s face.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’
She marched off down the street without looking back, her baby clutched to her chest. Tears streamed down her face – fat, hopeless tears of impotence and rage.
Her last chance had gone. Her last shot at redemption.
Now there was only death.
89
It was hopeless. The police had moved the press pack back, reminded them of their responsibilities, but as soon as they departed, it started up again. The hammering on the door, the questions through the letterbox. A few had tried their hand round the back, clambering over the garden fence and rattling the back door. Peering in through the conservatory window like ghouls.
Robert and his parents now lived in perpetual darkness on the first floor. At first they thought they would be out of sight up here, but then they saw a photographer hanging out of a first-floor window across the road and they’d pulled the curtains firmly shut. Now they behaved like creatures of the night, huddling in the dark, eating food from tins and packets – existing rather than living.
At first, Robert had steered clear of the internet, didn’t want to go there. But when it’s your only window on the world, it’s hard to hold out. And once on it, he couldn’t resist. The national papers had gone to town, bringing Marianne the bogey woman back to life in all her glory. He didn’t want his parents to see, knew it would hurt them, so locked away in his bedroom he read and read. Climbing inside his mother. He was surprised to feel a modicum of sympathy for her – she had clearly suffered terrible abuse and neglect – but her crimes made for grim reading. She had obviously been intelligent – more intelligent than him? – but not intelligent enough to pull herself back from the brink. Her life had ended in disgusting and depressing fashion. According to the National Enquirer website, the bullet had penetrated her heart and she had bled to death in her sister’s arms. In the aftermath, Helen’s life had been exposed and now it was his turn. Every failed exam, every minor indiscretion, every brush with the law had been seized on by the press. They wanted to portray him as a loser, a drifter, violent, a chip off the old block. A bad seed. He had been so enraged by the character assassination visited on himself and his parents that when Helen Grace texted him with a message of support, he’d replied tersely and unpleasantly. Maybe the journalists could intercept their messages or maybe not. He didn’t care.
Something had to be done. That much was clear. His parents were suffering terribly, unable to talk to or see their friends, tainted by association with him. Robert knew he had to draw the pack off, give them something else to think about. He owed that to the couple who had raised him since birth.
He toyed with the bandage that had recently swathed his injured arm, wrapping it over and over in his hands. A plan was forming in his mind. It was desperate and it meant the end of everything, but what else could he do? He was backed into a corner and now there was nowhere to run.
90
Tony was amazed at the transformation. He knew Melissa had asked for some fresh clothes and make-up, but even so he hadn’t expected her to look so different. Up until now, he had only seen her in battle dress, the sex worker’s uniform of boots, short skirt and low-cut top. Dressed in jeans and a jumper, with her hair tied back in a loose ponytail, she looked happy and relaxed.
She greeted him tentatively, as if not quite sure what to expect, now that they had been apart for a little while. Truth be told he hadn’t been quite sure how to play it either, but now he was here it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take her in his arms. Fearing detection, they had hurried upstairs, but this time passion wasn’t on their minds, they simply lay side by side on the bed, holding hands and staring at the ceiling.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve caused you trouble,’ Melissa said quietly.
She had obviously guessed that he was married, despite the fact that his ring was on his bedside table back at home.
‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘It’s not your fault. So don’t feel guilty … That’s my job.’
He managed a half-smile and she responded.
‘I don’t want to make you unhappy, Tony. Not after you’ve been so good to me.’
‘You don’t.’
‘Good. Because I’ve been thinking about what you said to me. And you’re right. I do want to make a change.’
Tony said nothing,
unsure where this was going.
‘If you can get me on to the right programmes, to get off the drugs, then I’ll do them. I don’t want to go back on the streets. Ever.’
‘Of course. We’ll do everything we can to help.’
‘You’re a good man, Tony.’
Tony laughed.
‘I’m very far from that.’
‘People get hurt, Tony. That’s the way life is. Doesn’t make you bad. So don’t go beating yourself up. You and I … we’ll have what we’ll have and then you can go back to your wife, no problem. I won’t hold on to you, I promise.’
Tony nodded, but not with any sense of satisfaction or relief. Was that what he wanted? A return to normality?
‘Unless you want me to of course,’ she continued with a smile. ‘But it’s up to you. I’ve got nothing, you’ve got everything. If I were you I’d do the smart thing and go back to your wife.’
They lapsed into silence, staring once more at the odd cracks in the ceiling. A new future was being offered to him. It was completely insane of course and yet strangely made sense. But would he have the courage to seize it?
91
DC Grounds stood and stared. He had never seen anything quite like it. It was utter carnage.
Anton Gardiner had proved an elusive figure in death, as he was in life – he liked to move base constantly to keep the police and his competitors guessing. He didn’t own any property, preferring short-term rentals, so that if he did have to vanish suddenly, he wouldn’t be left out of pocket. And in the end this had provided DS Bridges and his team with the breakthrough they needed. Anton Gardiner only dealt in cash, didn’t like the trail that cheques and credit cards left, so a few hours hammering the phones, pressuring landlords into giving up the details of anyone who’d paid in cash for a short rental in the last twelve months – who might match Anton’s description – had eventually yielded a result.
The landlord had been only too happy to help, opening up the basement flat on Castle Road for their inspection. But he was as shocked by what greeted them as Bridges was. Chairs were smashed, tables turned over, the only bed lay upside down on the floor, a shredded mattress lying on top of it – it was as if someone had declared war on the flat and shown it no mercy.
In the bedroom, beneath the ravaged bed, was a dirty, brown stain that spread out in a jagged circle of at least a metre’s diameter. DC Grounds instructed one of his officers to call for a SOC team, but he didn’t need anyone else to tell him it was dried blood. Someone had bled out in this dingy room.
The stained patch of carpet was one of the few areas that hadn’t been turned over. Even here, in this tiny room, the wardrobe had been smashed up, the corners of the carpet lifted. Scanning the other rooms in the flat, DS Bridges digested these developments. Two things were abundantly clear. First, someone – probably Gardiner – had been attacked and killed here. And second, someone had been looking for something.
But what was it? And why were they prepared to kill to get it?
92
‘Are you absolutely sure?’
Helen was aware that she had raised her voice – several heads had popped up in the incident room – so she lowered her voice and continued the conversation, pushing the door of her office shut.
‘One hundred per cent,’ said the voice on the other end of the phone. It belonged to Meredith Walker, chief forensics officer at Southampton Central. ‘We compared the DNA from the saliva on Gareth’s Hill’s face with the DNA harvested from the two sources of blood on Anton Gardiner’s body. There’s no match. If the blood under Gardiner’s fingernails is that of his killer, then he was killed by somebody else.’
‘Not by Angel?’
‘Doesn’t look that way. We’re running it through the database to see if we can get a match. I’ll let you know as soon as I have anything.’
Helen ended the call. Once again this case had taken a lurch sideways. Whenever they seemed to get close to Angel, she drifted away from them again. Marching out of her office, she called Charlie over. Her news was hardly better – they were still no nearer to unmasking the other Bitchfest forum users. Which meant there was only one avenue to explore.
‘Ask Sanderson to take over the search for now and come with me,’ Helen said to Charlie. ‘You and I have got a date with a liar.’
93
‘Hello, Hammer.’
Jason Robins spun round to see Helen and Charlie entering his office. Rising from his desk, he hurried towards then past them, shutting his office door quietly but firmly.
‘Who let you in?’ he demanded. ‘Don’t you need a warrant or something?’
‘We’ve just come for a chat. We told the girls at reception that we needed to speak to you urgently on a police matter and once they saw our warrant cards they were more than happy to let us in.’
Jason shot a look at the secretaries, who were now gossiping at their desks.
‘I could do you lot for harassment. I’ve already had this one,’ he said, gesturing at Charlie, ‘emailing me day and night, phone calls … it’s not on.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but “this one” has some more questions for you,’ Charlie countered. ‘Questions about Angel.’
‘Not this again.’
‘I have a picture that I would like you to look at.’
‘I’ve told you I don’t know this “Angel” –’
‘Here,’ Charlie continued, ignoring his protests and holding out the e-fit of Lyra. Reluctantly, Jason took it.
‘Do you recognize this woman? Is she Angel?’
Jason looked up at Helen. Sweat was starting to form on his brow.
‘For the last time, I never used Angel. I never met her. I was the victim of identity theft. Someone cloned my credit card and used it to –’
‘So why haven’t you reported it?’ Helen barked, her irritation puncturing her professional poise.
‘Sorry?’
‘We spoke to your bank. Turns out you never reported any fraudulent activity on your card. In fact you’ve continued using it since our last interview. At Morrisons, at Boots, shall I go on?’
For once Jason had nothing to say.
‘I’m going to give you one last chance, Jason. And if you don’t cut the crap and tell me about Angel right now, I am going to arrest you for obstruction of justice,’ Helen continued, her volume rising. ‘I’m going to march you out in front of all your colleagues, but I’ll make sure to leave DS Brooks behind. A few well-chosen questions from her will leave them in absolutely no doubt that their boss likes to sleep with prostitutes and then brag about it to other sad men online. We may even accidentally direct them to some of your posts. I’m sure they’d love to know more about Hammer and his big co—’
‘All right, all right, keep your bloody voice down,’ Jason begged, shooting another look at his colleagues on the other side of the glass. Many of them were blatantly staring.
‘Can we go somewhere else?’ he entreated.
‘No. Start talking.’
Jason looked like he was about to protest, then slumped back into his chair.
‘I never used her.’
‘What?’
‘I never slept with Angel. In fact I only met her once.’
‘But your posts said you slept with her many times,’ Charlie interjected. ‘That you’d had her “every which way”.’
There was a long silence. Jason’s sweaty face was now pink with shame.
‘I lied. I never slept with her. I’ve never slept with a prostitute.’
‘You made all that stuff up?’ Helen replied, incredulous.
Charlie nodded, head hanging.
‘I told the other guys what they wanted to hear.’
‘The other guys on the forum? “PussyKing”, “fillyerboots” –’
‘Yes. I wanted to fit in. I wanted them to like me.’
Helen shot a look at Charlie. His loneliness was tragic and for the first time Helen felt an ounce of pity for this divorcee.
&n
bsp; ‘When did you meet Angel?’
‘Four days ago. One of the other boys told me where I’d find her, so I went out looking. And there she was.’
‘What happened?’
‘I picked her up. We drove towards the Common.’
‘And?’
‘She wanted to talk. Was asking me questions. Small talk, you know. Then … then she asked me if I was married. And I don’t know why but it just hit me like a brick.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It set me off. It was just a simple question, but …’
Jason paused, emotion at the memory ambushing him now.
‘But I started crying.’
Finally he looked up. Helen was struck by the desperation in his expression.
‘I told her everything. How I missed my wife. How I missed Emily.’
‘What did she do?’
‘Not a lot. She didn’t like me talking like that. She said a couple of things – “you’ll get over it”, stuff like that – then asked me to stop the car.’
‘Then what?’
‘She got out. She got out and walked away. And that’s the last time I saw her, I swear to God.’
Helen nodded.
‘I believe you, Jason, and I know it’s hard to talk about. But the truth is you had a very lucky escape. Believe me, things could have been a lot worse.’
‘And she’s been … all these guys in the paper?’
‘Yes, which is why it’s so important we find her. So please take a good look at the picture and tell me – is that Angel?’
Jason picked up the e-fit once more. He took a good look at it and then said:
‘No.’
Charlie shot a look at Helen, a look pregnant with alarm, but Helen ignored it. She could feel the case once more unravelling in front of her.
Pop Goes the Weasel: DI Helen Grace 2 (Dci Helen Grace 2) Page 21