Then he relented. Taking a medium-sized crop from his armoury, he raised his arm and brought it down firmly on her naked back.
‘Again.’
He raised it again. This time he wasn’t so reluctant – he could feel the charge flowing out of Helen’s body, as her anxiety escaped. He brought the crop down again, then again, his excitement rising as the rhythm of the beating took hold. Helen was moaning now, demanding more pain. Jake gave it to her … faster and faster.
Eventually the beating slowed as Helen relaxed and before long everything was calm once more.
Helen relished this moment of stillness. Her life had been so fraught, so out of control, but whatever happened now, she could always come here. Jake was still the fix she needed when she was ambushed by the darkness. She didn’t love him, but she needed him. Perhaps that was the first step on the road.
She was lucky. She had found someone. Ella hadn’t. She had been the plaything of men who enjoyed controlling and abusing women. First her father with his taste for violence, sadism and cruelty. Then a group of men who took pleasure from imprisoning and torturing a vulnerable young woman. She had been left brutalized and pregnant. A single woman bringing up a child of rape.
Unbidden, Robert popped into her brain. And alongside him, as always, thoughts of Marianne.
107
It is amazing how calm you are when you know the end is near. Since she had made her decision, Ella had felt elated. She giggled, sang songs to Amelia, behaved like a dizzy child. The rage still lurked within her, seeking a chance to escape and reassert itself, but this morning she didn’t need it.
She had lifted some smart baby clothes from Boots a few days earlier. She was pleased she had done so now. She wanted Amelia to be looking nice when they found her. Since she had delivered Amelia, alone and uncared for in this dirty flat, she had never known what to feel for her. She was the price of her sin, a present from her rapists, reminding her of the callousness of the world. Her first instinct had been to smother the screaming bundle. She had gone to do it, but … the girl looked just like her. Her attackers had been dark-skinned, with heavy stubble and black hair. Amelia was blonde, with a cute button nose.
Her next thought had been to ignore the baby, to punish it for its existence by deliberately starving it of food. But then she’d felt the milk seeping from her breasts and knew that something bigger than herself was at play here. So she’d fed the baby. Occasionally she would brush her nipple against the baby’s mouth, then withdraw it, goading the baby with its unfulfilled hunger. But after a while even that seemed cruel and stupid and she’d fed the baby willingly. She found she was happy when she breastfed, nourishing the small child, and for those brief moments when they were joined together, she could forget the other stuff, the violence, the hypocrisy, the rage. One day she realized that she didn’t want the baby to suffer, that she wanted to protect it. So when she went out at night, she slipped some Night Nurse into her formula. This kept her slumbering happily until her mother returned.
Sadness pulsed through her heart, but she shook it off. She was committed to this path, so no point having regrets. The pills were waiting for her in the kitchen. All she had to do was get some formula and then she would be ready.
There was no backing out now.
108
The two women stared at each other, refusing to back down. Harwood had been in full spate, castigating Charlie for her irresponsibility, when Charlie had thrown in her bombshell. She was resigning from the Force with immediate effect.
Harwood, with that effortless ease that ambitious people possess, paused momentarily then just steamrollered on. She refused to accept Charlie’s resignation. She would give her time to reconsider, to pull back from the very serious mistake she was making, in order to fulfil her destiny within the Force. Charlie wondered if Harwood had promised the Police Commissioner that she would step into Helen’s shoes and that their very high-profile investigation wouldn’t suffer as a result of Helen’s abrupt departure.
‘Charlie, we need you. The team needs you,’ Harwood continued, ‘so I’m going to ask you to swallow this for now.’
‘I can’t. I’ve given my word.’
‘I understand that but perhaps if I met with Steve? I know he had a problem with Helen, but she’s not a factor any more.’
‘She is to me. Which is all the more reason why –’
‘I appreciate loyalty, I really do, but you don’t seem to be seeing the bigger picture. We are about to bring this killer in and I need every available body on the case. We need to bring this to a close. For the good of everybody.’
For the good of your career, Charlie thought, but said nothing.
‘At the very least I would expect you to work your notice period. You know how funny HR can be about pensions and so on when people break the terms of their contract. Do that for me at least and help us see this thing to a close.’
Charlie capitulated shortly afterwards. The truth was she did feel bad about deserting Sanderson, McAndrew and the rest at this crucial time. Nevertheless it felt profoundly odd as she took her place in the incident room. Without Helen things were very different.
Sanderson had brought Harwood up to speed. The latter was now briefing the team, but Charlie had zoned out, boringly aware of the protocols Harwood would employ. They hadn’t traced Ella yet, but it was only a matter of time now – they had too much on her. Harwood was getting to the point and Charlie snapped out of it as her new boss finally bared her teeth.
‘Priority is to bring Ella Matthews in as quickly and cleanly as possible,’ Harwood announced. ‘She is a multiple murderer who will kill again and again unless stopped. I have therefore asked for and obtained an emergency court order allowing the use of deadly force in her apprehension. Tactical Support are mobilized and will step up if required.’
Charlie shot a look at the team, who looked surprised and uncomfortable, but Harwood carried on regardless:
We have one simple task now. And that is to bring Ella Matthews in. Dead or alive.’
109
She had approached the house with extreme caution and was surprised – and alarmed – to find that it wasn’t necessary. The press pack had inexplicably deserted Robert’s house. Calm had returned to this quiet cul-de-sac, but it was a mournful silence – the modest detached house looked lonely and desolate as the rain swept over it.
Helen stood still, getting more saturated with every passing second, as she debated what to do. Desperate to see for herself what Robert was going through, she had come to Cole Avenue in silent pilgrimage, but it was obvious now that something had happened. Something had driven the clambering hacks away.
She was still standing there debating what to do next, when the front door opened. A middle-aged woman shot a look here and there, as if expecting to be jumped, then hurried to a small hatchback which sat on their drive. She deposited a suitcase in the back, then turned again towards the house. Then she paused and swivelled to take in the sight of a beautiful woman in biking leathers standing stock still. Suspicion, then a moment of comprehension in Monica’s face, before suddenly and unexpectedly she started marching towards Helen.
‘Where is he?’ Helen blurted out.
‘What have you done?’ Monica spat back, fury rendering her words shaky and unstable.
‘Where is he? What’s happened?’
‘He’s gone.’
‘Gone where?’
Monica shrugged and looked away. She obviously did not want to let Helen see her cry.
‘Where?’ Despite her shame, Helen’s tone was angry and impatient.
Monica looked up sharply.
‘He must have gone last night. We found a note this morning. He … he says he probably won’t see us again. That it’s for the be—’
She broke down. Helen went to comfort her, but was angrily shrugged off.
‘God damn you for what you’ve done to him.’
She marched away into the house, slamming the doo
r viciously behind her. Helen stood in the rain, not moving. She was right of course. Helen had wanted to save Marianne. She had wanted to save Robert. But she had damned them both.
110
Carrie Matthews’ hand shook as she gave DC Sanderson the photo. It was of Ella. It was a selfie that Ella had taken then emailed to her sister – a message of solidarity from her exile and something to remember her by. When Sanderson had turned up at Carrie’s home in Shirley, her husband, Paul, had tried to take over proceedings, forcing his young wife into the background. He was a bull of a man – an elder of the church and the founding father of Christian Domestic Order. Sanderson had taken great pleasure in ordering him out of the room, threatening him with a very public arrest if he didn’t comply. He seemed shocked – appalled might be more accurate – but eventually he’d done as he was told.
‘Please find her. Please help her,’ Carrie begged as she withdrew the photo from its hiding place in the dresser and handed it over to Sanderson. ‘She’s not what everyone thinks she is.’
‘I know,’ Sanderson replied. ‘We’re doing everything we can.’
But Sanderson knew even as she said it that the chances of this thing ending well were slim. Harwood was determined to stop Ella in her tracks by any means necessary and Ella was probably too far gone to fear death. Nevertheless she reassured Carrie and went on her way, adding as she left that there were many organizations and shelters that could help her if she ever needed them.
As soon as she stepped outside, her radio squawked into life.
A woman matching Ella’s description had just been seen shoplifting in a branch of Boots in Bevois. She had escaped the security guards and taken refuge somewhere in the Fairview estate.
Sanderson was in her car and on the road in seconds, her siren blaring as she bullied the midday traffic out of her way. This was it then. The endgame had begun. And Sanderson was determined to be in at the death.
111
She slunk into the room like a thief. It felt shameful and wrong to be here, even though she had run things for so many years. Now she was an outsider, unnecessary and unwelcome.
Following her confrontation with Robert’s mother, Helen had been adrift, reeling from the weight of the damage she had done. She had called Jake but he was with a client. After that she had momentarily ground to a halt, unsure of what to do next. There was no one else to call.
Slowly her emotions had calmed and sense prevailed. There was one useful thing she could do. Though she had been taken off the case, she still had most of the case files with her and, besides, it was important that she set down her discoveries about Ella for Sanderson, Harwood and the others. If it ever came to court, every ‘i’ would have to be dotted, every ‘t’ crossed. She couldn’t afford a mistake that would rob the victims’ families of the justice they deserved. So summoning up her last vestige of resolve, Helen had headed to Southampton Central to do her duty.
The desk sergeant had thought she was on leave and was surprised to see her.
‘No rest for the wicked?’ he offered jauntily.
‘Paperwork’ was Helen’s deliberately jaded response.
He buzzed her through. She took the lift up to the seventh floor. A journey she’d done many times – but never as an outcast.
Once inside the room, she wrote up her report and left it and the case files on Harwood’s desk. She was about to leave, when a noise startled her. She was momentarily confused – Harwood and the team were out chasing leads – then surprised. It was Tony Bridges, another victim of the wreckage. They stared at each other for a second, then Helen said:
‘You’ve heard?’
‘Yes, and I’m sorry, Helen. If it had anything to do with me, I can ta—’
‘It’s nothing to do with you, Tony. It’s personal. She wants me out.’
‘She’s an idiot.’
Helen smiled.
‘Be that as it may, she’s in charge so …’
‘Sure, I just wanted to give you … her … this. It’s my report.’
‘Great minds,’ Helen said, smiling once more. ‘Leave it on her desk.’
Tony raised a rueful eyebrow and headed for Harwood’s office. As she watched him go, Helen could only think what a waste it all was. He was a talented and dedicated officer brought low by a moment of weakness. He had been stupid, but surely he deserved better than this? Melissa was a raw but artful character who’d seized an opportunity and mercilessly exploited Tony’s feelings for her own ends. It was the commonly held view now that ‘Lyra’ was a fiction. Helen was furious with herself at having been duped. How easily Melissa had pulled the wool over their eyes. On the say-so of one person, they had gone down a massive blind alley and compromised the invest—
Helen’s internal tirade ground to a halt, frozen by the thought. Because of course Melissa hadn’t been the only person who ‘knew’ Lyra. There was another person who claimed to have met this fictitious phantom. A young woman. A young woman with a baby.
Helen’s mind flew back to that interview – she pictured the young prostitute opposite her, awkwardly cradling her wriggling baby as she told them how she ‘knew’ Lyra. The girl had been monosyllabic and seemed ill-educated but now Helen saw something else in her. The shaved head and the multiple piercings had disguised her identity, but there was something in the shape of her face. Looking up at the most recent picture of Ella, which Sanderson had stuck to the board, Helen knew in an instant that the young girl – with her high cheekbones and wide, full mouth – was Ella.
She snapped out of it to find Tony staring at her. He looked concerned.
‘You ok, boss?’
Helen gazed at him for a moment, hardly daring to believe it. Then she said:
‘We’ve got her, Tony. We’ve got her.’
112
Helen sped through the city centre towards the north of the city. She was flagrantly breaking the speed limit, but she didn’t care. She knew how to handle the bike, could outrun any cop car and was possessed by the idea of facing their killer.
Tony had tried to stop her, but she had stopped him in his tracks:
‘You never saw me, Tony.’
What she was about to do was dangerous and broke every rule in the book. If Tony was associated with her actions in any way, he would lose his pension, service payments, everything. She couldn’t do that to him. Besides, the more people knew, the greater chance that they would get to Ella before her. And she was determined she wouldn’t let that happen.
She had no idea what she was going to do. She was just gripped by a terrible urgency, a sense of things building to a horrible climax, and she knew she had to do everything in her power to prevent further bloodshed. A baby’s life was at stake. Ella’s too. In spite of everything she’d done, in spite of the appalling horror of her crimes, Helen felt sympathy for Ella and wanted to bring her in safely.
Soon she was in Spire Street. Pulling up outside the dilapidated tenement building, she killed the engine and hopped off her bike in one fluid movement. She looked around – there were no signs of life on this forgotten street. Sliding her baton into her belt, she stepped inside the building. The stairwell was cold and lonely, decorated with the detritus left by last night’s crack smokers. The tired building was scheduled for redevelopment next year and in the interim had become home to a motley crew of squatters and junkies. They seemed to operate an open-door policy, people coming and going day and night, so it wasn’t hard to gain access to the third-floor flat. Helen had last seen Ella here four days ago, snuggled up on the dirty sofa with other prostitutes and junkies. The shared company of the afflicted.
But Ella wasn’t there now. Faced by a warrant card, the odorous swampy who ‘owned’ the flat directed her upstairs. According to him, Ella lived at the top of the house in splendid isolation – just her and her baby tucked away from the prying eyes of social services. It was not the sort of house where people asked questions – the perfect hideaway for their invisible killer.
&
nbsp; Helen paused outside flat 9, then gently turned the handle. It was locked. Helen placed her ear against the door, straining to hear if there was movement within. Nothing. Then a faint cry. She strained to hear more. But now it was quiet once more. Pulling a credit card from her pocket, she slipped it through the crack between the door and the architrave. The latch was old and weak and within twenty seconds it slid open. Helen was in.
She closed the door silently behind her and stood stock still. Nothing. She moved slowly forward. The old floorboards protested, so she changed her route, hugging the wall.
She paused at the doorway to the kitchen. She darted her head round quickly, but it was empty. Just a dirty sink and a large cannibalized fridge, humming happily to itself.
On Helen crept towards the living room – or what passed for it. Somehow she sensed Ella would be here, but as she stepped inside, she found it was also empty. Then she heard it – that cry again.
Now fear overrode her caution and extending her baton Helen marched across the room, pushing the bedroom door roughly open. She expected an attack at any moment, but the room was bare – except for a crumpled old bed and a travel cot, in which a baby girl was stirring. Helen shot a look over her shoulder, expecting ambush, but all was still, so she hurried inside.
So this was her. The child that Ella had never asked for. But whom she had cared for nevertheless. Helen had been right to come. Placing her baton on the bed, Helen bent down and picked up the baby, who rubbed her sleepy eyes with her tiny bunched fist, as she awoke from her slumbers. The sight made Helen smile. Seeing this, the baby smiled back. Who knew what this baby had seen, what she had experienced, but she could still smile. Some innocence remained.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
Helen turned to find Ella standing not ten feet away from her in the living room. Ella’s face was annoyed, rather than angry, but as soon as Helen turned, her expression changed. As she recognized Helen’s face, she dropped her shopping bag and fled. Helen waited for the front door to slam, but instead she heard a drawer opening and shutting noisily. Seconds later, Ella returned, a large butcher’s knife in her hand.
Pop Goes the Weasel: DI Helen Grace 2 (Dci Helen Grace 2) Page 25