Love Me Not: DI Helen Grace 7 (formerly titled Follow My Leader) (Detective Inspector Helen Grace)

by M. J. Arlidge

  There were so many questions unanswered, but one was uppermost in Helen’s mind. Had the killer deliberately set out to kill Sonia Smalling this morning or had he just killed her because he could? This brutal crime felt like an execution and it had set Helen’s nerves jangling. Southampton had been quiet of late, but as she stood alone on the once tranquil country lane, Helen had the distinct feeling that this peace was about to be brutally shattered.

  11

  08.46

  The radio was still playing as they pulled into a parking bay in the city centre. The Audi’s former owner clearly liked her hits golden – her chosen station pumping out an endless slew of seventies and eighties ‘classics’. Bob Geldof’s voice filled the car now as ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’ bounced off the windows. The driver paused for a moment to enjoy it, watching his companion jigging along in the seat next to him, before he abruptly turned it off.

  ‘I was enjoying that,’ she moaned.

  Shaking his head good-humouredly, the driver wrenched the door open and climbed out. As he walked towards the back of the car, he took in the people passing by. The sun was climbing in the sky and what had started out as a cold day was now becoming decidedly warm. Most people had already stripped down to puffa waistcoats or cardigans and he knew that the pair of them risked standing out with their long, heavy overcoats, so he didn’t linger, flicking open the boot. His companion joined him, but she said nothing. She could sense the change in his mood.

  Darting a look left and right to check that no one was close by, he removed the rug that concealed the contents of the boot, tossing it casually on to the ground. Now he reached inside, grabbing a handful of shells and shoving them into his pocket. She did likewise, until all that was left inside was a large hunting knife. Snatching it up quickly, he strapped it to his chest, then buttoned up his coat, hiding the weapon from view.

  ‘You look like something out of your video games,’ she said, her local accent twanging through, despite her attempt to sound American.

  He shrugged, but was pleased at the compliment. He’d always fancied himself as a warrior and now he looked the part. Tossing the car keys into the boot, he slammed it shut and turned to face her.

  ‘Ready?’

  She shook her head slowly.

  ‘There’s something we’ve got to do first …’ she teased, pulling a small bottle from her coat pocket.

  Unscrewing the safety cap, she deposited two amphetamines in his hand, watching as he tossed them carelessly into his mouth. She did the same, then drew a third from the half-full bottle.

  ‘One more for luck.’

  Carefully she placed the small white pill on the tip of her tongue. Then putting her arms round her companion, she pulled him down towards her. He opened his mouth obligingly and she slipped her tongue inside. Now they kissed, long and passionate, letting the pill slowly dissolve. They could already feel the effects of the first two kicking in and they held on to each other tightly, lost in the exhilaration. Then slowly, reluctantly, he broke away. He paused to remove a stray hair from her face, ran his finger down her nose, then turned away, rapping the boot of the car with his knuckles.

  ‘Come on, babes, we’ve got work to do.’

  He was already striding ahead, full of energy and purpose. She stood and watched him for a second, then moved swiftly away from the vehicle, following her lover towards the parade of shops.

  12

  08.57

  She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that.

  The photos that had just been thrust into her hand were of a woman lying naked on a stainless-steel slab. Not your everyday pics, but the kind that Emilia had seen often enough thanks to her carefully cultivated contacts in Southampton’s police mortuary. These, however, were something else. The woman’s skin was pale, her eyes closed and the image would almost have looked peaceful, were it not for the huge, scarlet hole in the centre of her chest. It looked as if she had been opened up for surgery, rather than simply murdered, such was the violence of the impact.

  ‘Shotgun?’ Emilia queried.

  David Spivack nodded. He was a thin, bald man, dressed in mortician’s scrubs. Working as an assistant to the Senior Pathologist, Jim Grieves, he had full access to the mortuary’s varied cast of cadavers – indeed, he had sewn up most of them – but possessed little of his boss’s morality or discretion.

  ‘Point-blank range,’ he eventually elaborated, casting an eye over his shoulder to the mortuary’s fire exit. He was standing with the journalist on the metal staircase, and though he was out of sight, could not be sure that he was out of earshot.

  ‘One shot or two?’

  ‘Two. Almost blew a hole clean through her.’

  Emilia smiled to herself. Spivack was not a man who wasted words on sentiment. Whether this was because he was heartless or just in a hurry, she wasn’t sure.

  ‘Any post mortem abuse or sexual assault?’

  ‘Too early to say.’

  ‘Was the body clothed?’

  ‘Sure. And they’d left her wedding ring and other valuables on her.’

  ‘Who found her?’

  ‘DI Grace. The killer drove straight past her apparently …’

  Another salient detail, which Emilia hoped to make the most of.

  ‘And do we know who she is?’

  Spivack quickly filled her in on the details, Emilia stopping him occasionally to check that she’d heard him right. A married mum in a socially responsible job, slain on a quiet, country road – if anything was going to put the wind up the good folk of Southampton, this would. Even better, the killer was still at large …

  ‘That’s as much as I know,’ Spivack now concluded. ‘But I can get you next-of-kin details if you’re keen.’

  His eyes fell on her purse and Emilia had no hesitation in unzipping it once more. She had been in the doldrums for so long now, so out of the game, that she had begun to wonder if she would ever get a second chance. But Sonia Smalling, a nutter with a gun and a loose-lipped mortician had given her her opportunity.

  As Emilia pressed another hundred pounds into Spivack’s hand, she offered up a silent prayer for weak men everywhere.

  13

  09.11

  He looked like he was about to collapse. Charlie had just broken the news to Peter Smalling and they were now standing in his cosy living room, staring silently at each other. His hands were shaking, he seemed to be having trouble breathing, so, gesturing to the Family Liaison Officer to help, Charlie took him by the arm, guiding Sonia’s stunned husband down on to the nearest sofa.

  He hadn’t said a word since their arrival. As soon as he’d seen their warrant cards, he’d seemed to know what they’d come to say. Charlie had done this many times before and cut straight to the chase, filling him in on the basic details, omitting the more unpleasant elements. Peter had listened, nodded, then walked into the living room. Charlie had followed to find him standing in the middle of the room, seemingly dumbfounded as to what to do next. The FLO had tried to get a response from him, asking him where his boys were and if there was anyone he would like her to contact, but he looked at her as if she was speaking gibberish. He seemed to be on the verge of hyperventilating, so, having got him on to the sofa, Charlie sent the FLO off to make a cup of tea. What Peter Smalling needed now was space to breathe.

  Ten minutes later, his cup of tea half drunk, he seemed to recover his voice. He was clearly a shy man, a tech journalist who spent most of the day tucked away in his home office, but Charlie had to get him to talk and gently coaxed him out of his shock.

  ‘I know how hard this is. I appreciate that talking to me is probably the last thing you want to do, but I need to ask you some questions, Peter. Would that be ok?’

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered eventually, staring into his tea.

  ‘How was Sonia this morning? Was she worried about anything, distracted?’

  ‘No, no … She wanted to be in work early this morning, didn’t have time
to walk the dogs, but other than that …’

  ‘Your boys were here?’

  ‘Yes, and she got them up as usual. That takes a bit of doing these days …’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘She had a shower, grabbed a bit of breakfast and left.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I … I dropped the boys off at school, then took the dogs out …’

  Right on cue, two boisterous red setters bounded into the living room, pursued by the flustered FLO.

  ‘Sorry, I was trying to keep them in the kitchen, but …’

  ‘It’s ok,’ Charlie told her. ‘They’re fine in here.’

  The dogs had bounced up to Peter and were smothering him with affection. He fussed them, stroking their long ears, and Charlie was moved to see tears forming in his eyes. The uncomplicated devotion and love of his dogs were cutting through his shock, revealing the true extent of his devastation.

  ‘And the route Sonia took this morning, is that her normal commute?’ Charlie said, knowing she needed to press on now, before she lost him entirely.

  ‘Yes,’ Peter replied, wiping his eyes. ‘She swore it was the quickest way.’

  ‘And why was she so keen to be in early?’

  ‘She had a new lot of kids starting Community Payback today.’

  ‘These are youth offenders, right?’

  ‘Yes, Sonia is a probation officer. She works with young people who’ve made bad decisions, helps them get back on track.’

  ‘And has she ever experienced problems at work? Received threats? Been the victim of violence …?’

  Peter looked up at her, seemingly surprised by the question.

  ‘You think someone did this … deliberately?’ he said, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him before.

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Had she spoken to you recently about her work, shared any concerns with you?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. The kids are unreliable, occasionally abusive, but … they’re just kids. Once you talk to them, give them a bit of attention, something to work towards … I know people think they’re bad apples, but they’re not.’

  ‘In the past then? Going back months, years even?’

  Peter shook his head once more. ‘Some kids were better than others, but they respected Sonia. She’d accompany them when they had to make amends to their victims, helped them learn new skills while they were doing their community service. They liked her … and she liked them.’

  ‘What about her domestic situation then? Any family issues? Problems with neighbours?’

  ‘No, no …’ Peter intoned, looking more bemused than ever.

  ‘And your marriage was a happy one?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘No problems, no stresses?’

  ‘No, she loved me, she loved the boys. She missed her family back in Poland, her mother particularly –’

  ‘So your wife’s not from here originally?’

  ‘No, what of it? Why are you asking me all this stuff? It has to be an accident. Mistaken identity or road rage. You hear about that kind of thing all the time in the papers.’

  And now he broke down, hiding his face in his hands. The image of his wife, dead on a country road, had forced its way into his consciousness and the horror of it was overwhelming him. The dogs were picking up on his mood now, turning nervously in circles, wanting his attention, but sensing something was wrong. Peter was weeping silently, his upper body convulsing. There was nothing Charlie could do but watch, as his nice, ordered life collapsed in ruins. She wanted to offer him comfort, but what could she do? His wife was dead, his sons had lost their mother and the whys and wherefores of this brutal crime remained as opaque as ever.

  14

  09.12

  ‘I can’t see it properly. Have we got anything better?’

  Helen was back in the incident room at Southampton Central. A snatched, black-and-white image from a traffic camera was up on the screen, but it was blurred and unclear.

  ‘The tech boys are working on it, but this is the best we can do for now,’ DC McAndrew replied carefully.

  Helen returned her attention to the image. It had been taken by a camera at the Charlotte Place roundabout, towards the north of the city. The wider shots clearly showed the missing Audi waiting at the lights before moving off north towards Bevois Mount and Portswood. This enhanced close-up appeared to show the driver gesturing towards the camera. But that was all that could be said for sure, as the image was difficult to decipher, the glare on the car’s windscreen making it hard to discern his features.

  ‘Are we sure it’s a bloke?’ Edwards piped up.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Helen responded quickly. ‘His build, the length of his reach and, here, that mark on his neck as he moves forward –’

  ‘His Adam’s apple,’ DC Reid added.

  ‘Exactly. Can we zoom in on that dark patch there?’

  Helen indicated a small black spot at the base of the driver’s neck. McAndrew obliged but the image was still indistinct.

  ‘What is that? A tattoo?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Or a scar?’

  ‘It’s too dark for a scar.’

  ‘An injury then? Is he bleeding?’ Sanderson suggested, glad to be able to make some contribution to the debate.

  ‘There’s no evidence that Sonia Smalling’s killer was injured in the attack,’ Helen replied. ‘So my guess is that it’s a tattoo of some kind. Let’s start drawing up a list of all the probationers that Sonia Smalling worked with, focusing on the males. Look at their mugshots, see if any of them had tattoos on their necks.’

  Helen knew it was a long shot, but they were clutching at straws at the moment and any lead would have to be chased down. McAndrew zoomed out the image and Helen was about to continue her briefing, when DC Reid suddenly interjected:

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘That,’ Reid insisted, walking up to the image, indicating a shadow to the left of the driver.

  Helen and the team crowded round. Reid was right, there was a small, dark shape on the dashboard by the passenger seat.

  ‘Zoom right in.’

  McAndrew obliged and the image became slightly clearer. It was too dark to be skin, too unreflective, yet the shape looked like … fingers. Five gloved fingers resting on the passenger-side dashboard.

  ‘You’d better let uniform know that we are looking for two suspects,’ Helen said decisively, turning to Sanderson. ‘And remind them to proceed with extreme caution.’

  Sanderson hurried off to do her bidding, while McAndrew marshalled the troops to run down leads relating to Sonia Smalling’s work. They were making some progress – she had directed all uniformed beat coppers to the north of the city and armed units were patrolling Portswood, St Denys, Bevois Mount and beyond – but the perpetrators remained at large. The question was, what would they do next?

  Would they run? Or would they hide?

  15

  09.13

  Alan Sansom had worked in Portswood for over thirty years. He had diligently helped his father run the family pharmacy, before eventually taking over management of the shop when it became too much for him. As a young man, he’d had visions of expanding their business, of opening more branches, perhaps becoming the Lloyds of the south. It hadn’t panned out that way, but he wasn’t one to grumble, and it still gave him a small thrill to see his family’s name above the door.

  Day after day, year on year, the shoppers of Portswood had encountered Alan, stationed behind the pharmacist’s counter in his white coat, and during that time he had seen it all. Portswood was slowly gentrifying itself, but it was still a major magnet for students, immigrants and the like. There was a ready supply of cheap, rented accommodation available locally, young people living cheek by jowl in shoddily converted houses. You got your rough elements of course and many of them had found their way into Alan’s shop at some time or other. Junkies begging for drugs, care-in-the-com
munity types railing at God, schoolchildren filling their pockets with sweets, the list was endless. It was Alan’s vocation to do good, but some days he really despaired of humanity.

  This morning his eyes were glued to a couple hanging around by the entrance. They had been in the shop for a little while now but seemed in no hurry to make a purchase. The woman had her back to him and was loitering by the sunglasses stand, twirling it round and giggling as she tried on different pairs. She looked like she was just killing time … but he was less sure about the man. He was hidden from view and Alan couldn’t quite see what he was up to, which made him nervous. He had a good radar for these things and his instincts were telling him that something about this pair wasn’t right. It was a nice day, but both were wearing heavy, knee-length coats – a common ploy of shoplifters the world over.

  Normally he might have observed them for a little longer before making his move, but he was tired and irritable today after another bad night’s sleep. So, lifting up the counter hatch, he walked briskly across the store. It was a large space, generally popular and well patronized, but it was too early for the morning rush, and Alan hoped to deal with the pair swiftly and discreetly. This was his shop and he would not be made a fool of.

  ‘Ok, you two, I’m going to have to ask you to buy something or clear off. This isn’t an amusement arcade.’

  He had used this line before and it usually had the right effect. This time it seemed not to do the trick, however. Indeed it only seemed to make the man smile. Sansom took him in properly for the first time. He was a big brute of a guy, unshaven, with a tattoo on his neck.