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

by M. J. Arlidge

  She calculated that she had ten minutes at most, before she started to exhaust her supervisor’s patience. He could be very ratty if he felt you were taking the mickey and Margaret couldn’t face an afternoon of his snippy comments, so she hurried down the aisle of clothes. She had a couple of things to pick up for her boy and she might even chance her arm on something for herself – if there was anything her size on the sale rail.

  She picked her way to the menswear section, which was towards the rear of the store. As ever there was a bewildering display of styles, and even when she did find one she liked, it was still an ordeal to get it in the right size. Why did they have to make these things so darned difficult? Wasn’t life tough enough? Sneaking a look at her watch, Margaret realized there would be no time for herself today, she would be lucky if she made this purchase soon enough, having singularly failed to find a ‘large’ in light grey.

  Changing tack, she rootled out a ‘large’ in charcoal instead. It wasn’t quite what she was after but it would have to do. Turning away from the groaning racks, she hurried towards the tills, only to find that they were deserted.

  ‘What the hell …?’ she muttered under her breath, surprised that the staff would abandon the tills in this fashion.

  She cast around for the manager, but there was no one. She had never seen it like this – it was like the Mary Celeste. What was going on?

  Then she spotted them. There was some commotion at the entrance to the shop, where the staff were gathered together. They seemed to be agitated, wound up, ushering shoppers from the store, while talking fast at the security guard, who now hurried out on to the concourse. In their excitement they seemed not to have noticed her and for a moment Margaret was tempted to shout at them, to remind them that she did actually exist. But then she had another idea.

  Checking that the staff were still occupied, she leant over the counter and slipped the security tag into the little plastic slot by the tills. It came off effortlessly and in one fluid movement a very satisfied Margaret had pushed her ‘purchase’ into her Superdrug bag.

  Today had been a pretty depressing day so far, but suddenly things were starting to look a whole lot brighter.

  49

  13.40

  Helen stalked the level three concourse, scanning the floors below. Having dumped her bike and linked up with an Armed Response Unit, she had hurried into the WestQuay. The rest of her team had fired up their sirens and were arriving outside, but Helen hadn’t wanted to wait. Something told her every second counted.

  Dressed in her biking leathers, Helen had cut a striking figure, flanked by a quartet of men in body armour, all of whom were clutching carbines. They had moved forward quickly, alive to any danger, homing in fast on the central information desk. Assuming control, Helen had presented her credentials to the bemused WestQuay manager, informing him that they would be evacuating the shopping centre. She had asked him to start ringing round the stores to inform them, then, making sure the main entrance was covered, moved forward, heading straight up the escalators, as the armed officers went store to store, searching for Jason Swift and his accomplice.

  Her team were starting to appear now – two at the far exit, two at the main entrance – and Helen hurried along the third-floor concourse. A sudden flurry of activity on the ground floor might alert the suspects positioned higher up and Helen wanted to avoid that at all costs. The possibility of hostage-taking in such a crowded environment was extremely high, so it was vital that she maintain the element of surprise for as long as possible. Besides, H&M was on the top floor and Helen had a feeling that their suspects would be heading straight there.

  As her walk became a run, she eased her weapon from its holster and carefully released the safety catch. She prayed she wouldn’t have to use it today, though her gut told her she would. She couldn’t see Swift coming quietly.

  She was making good progress along the concourse and the store’s gaudy red letters now came into view. There was a crowd of confused shoppers outside, who seemed reluctant to move on, despite the entreaties of the teenage staff. There was no sign of the security guard yet, nor of anyone wearing a long trench coat. Helen immediately clicked on her radio, connecting herself to Southampton Central’s operations room once more.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘They’ve stopped moving,’ the panicky operator came back quickly.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘They are in the WestQuay somewhere, your position pretty much matches theirs, I’m surprised you can’t see them.’

  Helen looked about the concourse, searching for khaki trench coats, for Swift’s tall form, for anything out of the ordinary, but there was nothing.

  Where the hell were they?

  50

  13.42

  Charlie paced back and forth, trying to dispel her nerves. She was positioned at the rear of the WestQuay, gun discreetly concealed in her hand, watching and waiting. She was in radio contact with the rest of the team and knew that the evacuation of the shopping centre had begun. Most of those within would head out of the main entrance on to the pedestrianized precinct, but others who wanted to cut down to the docks or the south side of the city would emerge from the rear of the building. It was Charlie’s job to hurry them away, keeping a sharp eye out for Jason Swift and his accomplice as she did so.

  Charlie hopped from foot to foot, trying to keep warm now that the sun had disappeared. DC Osbourne had been detailed to keep her company, but he had spotted a fire escape nearby that nobody was covering and, having sought Charlie’s permission, had headed off to investigate. Charlie couldn’t fault his courage or his thinking – their suspects might well try and conceal themselves in the flood of shoppers if they intended to escape, but they might also attempt to go it alone. Their well-executed attack at the pharmacy suggested that they had recce’d the shop in advance and had always had an escape route in mind. How much easier to find a way to slip away here, given the size and complexity of the WestQuay. Had the pair been stalking the concourses in the days, even weeks, preceding this? The thought made Charlie shudder and she now regretted sending Osbourne away – a single armed officer against two pitiless killers didn’t seem a very fair fight.

  She was about to radio her colleague, when a loud noise made her look up. The rear-exit doors had swung open and shoppers were emerging. They looked confused and concerned, the sight of so many officers in body armour unnerving them. They had seen this kind of thing on the news, in Paris and London, but not in Southampton. They obviously wanted to put some distance between themselves and danger, hurrying away from the centre.

  A trickle became a steady flow, then eventually a flood. The shoppers were four deep, jostling with each other, exchanging heated words as all semblance of calm evaporated. And they were moving fast, making it hard for Charlie to take them all in as they scurried past her. Gunmetal-grey clouds now hid the sun. It was trying to rain, spitting malevolently on the shoppers below. Umbrellas were being deployed, hoods being pulled up – it was virtually impossible to keep track of who was who.

  Jason Swift was tall, so Charlie kept her gaze high, dismissing anyone under a certain height. Her nerves were rattling, she was wound tight, but as yet there was no sign of their suspects and she suddenly wondered how Osbourne was getting on. She had been so wrapped up in her own situation, she had failed to notice that he had gone rather quiet. She had given him strict instructions to stay in touch and his radio silence bothered her.

  She pulled her radio from her pocket, but as she raised it to her mouth, she suddenly stopped dead. Amid the undulating sea of humanity in front of her, she glimpsed a flash of khaki, the swish of a coat tail. Lowering her radio, she moved forward, craning her neck for a better view. Someone had just left the shopping centre at speed – they were still forty feet from her or so, boxed in by shoppers so she couldn’t see them properly – but now she realized that there were two of them, a man and a woman. Concealing her gun by her side, she moved forward, keeping her
self low along the edge of the human stream to hide her approach. As she moved silently ahead, she pressed her radio to her lips, ready to call for assistance.

  They were only twenty feet from her now. Heads flashed in front of her, obscuring her view. The pair seemed to be keeping their eyes down, but were talking to each other, keeping up a constant dialogue. Both were wearing long coats, both had tattoos, both seemed intent on getting away as fast as possible.

  They were nearly level with her now, so Charlie made her move, arrowing across the line of shoppers. She waited until the last minute to raise her gun, then, stepping forward, shouted:

  ‘Armed police! On your knees.’

  The effect was instant. Shoppers fled, a woman screamed and two terrified Goths in trench coats sunk to their knees. Instantly, Charlie saw her mistake. They were the right height, the right sex, but they were far too young – fifteen at the very most. Cursing, Charlie holstered her weapon.

  The killers were still at large.

  51

  13.43

  Helen pushed through the store. Her eyes darted to each corner in turn, searching for signs of life. The main display area was large, but crammed with heavily laden clothes rails – perfect cover for an ambush. Helen hadn’t heard any shots and no one else had reported any incidents, but she felt sure that something was about to give.

  Helen took point, while the other armed officers spread out, probing the rails nearest the walls. Helen had always disregarded her own safety, but even she exercised caution now, the memory of Sonia Smalling’s corpse still fresh in her mind. At any moment she expected to hear the roar of a shotgun and moved forward slowly, ready to dive for cover at the first sign of trouble.

  She was nearing the back of the store now. There were only a couple of clothes rails left to check, and, crouching down, Helen stole a glance around them. They were clear, and she quickly straightened up. The changing booths were all empty, which just left the till area. The counter was wide and tall, so Helen moved towards it cautiously, her gun raised. And now she noticed that one of the till drawers lay open and empty.

  She gestured to her colleagues and they moved towards the area, their feet padding quietly but purposefully on the polished wood floor. Helen cried out:

  ‘Armed police!’

  Silence.

  ‘Armed police!’ she repeated, louder this time. ‘Come out slowly, with your hands on –’

  Now there was movement. Helen’s trigger finger tensed, but to her surprise a middle-aged woman in a tatty raincoat emerged from underneath the till counter. Her hands were shaking, as she held them in the air, and her face was flushed pink.

  ‘Is there anyone with you?’ Helen barked, immediately concerned she might be looking at a hostage.

  ‘No, no … it’s just me,’ the woman stammered in response.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Helen’s eyes swept the area behind the tills.

  ‘Of course. Come round here if you don’t believe me.’

  Helen crept around the edge of the counter, while the rest of the team trained their guns on it, alive to any possible threat. To Helen’s surprise, the woman appeared to be telling the truth.

  ‘Have you seen a man and a woman? He’s early twenties, she’s late teens.’

  ‘No …’

  ‘They are in the store, we’re sure they are in the store …’

  But even Helen was starting to doubt this now.

  ‘It’s just me, I told you, everyone else has gone. I got scared, so I hid.’

  Helen rather doubted it – a brand-new hoodie was stuffed into her carrier bag and she seemed to be shielding her handbag, which Helen suspected held the contents of the till – but she let it go.

  ‘Have you seen this man?’ she said, offering the woman her phone. On the screen was a close-up of Jason Swift’s mugshot.

  The woman looked at it blankly.

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  The woman stared at the image and then her face slowly began to crumple. Helen had an inkling of what was coming, but was still surprised when the woman finally gasped:

  ‘Why are you looking for my Jason?’

  52

  13.46

  Helen marched away from the WestQuay, furious with herself, furious with Margaret Swift. Charlie was waiting for her, looking almost as downcast as she did. Helen tossed her an evidence bag, which Charlie just about managed to catch.

  ‘He took it off,’ Helen said bleakly.

  Charlie stared down at the GPS tag, now sealed in the plastic bag.

  ‘Somehow he managed to get it off,’ Helen continued. ‘Then he stuffed it into his mother’s bag, underneath a bloody treasure trove of receipts, make-up, tights, the works …’

  Charlie stared at the tag, bitterly disappointed to have been proved right.

  ‘I scrambled pretty much our entire team here … to pick up a middle-aged woman.’

  ‘You did the right thing, we had to chase it up.’

  In the background, Charlie saw an ashen-faced Margaret Swift being escorted to a squad car by DC Edwards.

  ‘What happens now?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll have to take a statement, but she doesn’t know anything. She and Jason hardly speak from what I can make out.’

  ‘Does she know where he might be? Where he’s heading?’

  Helen shook her head.

  ‘Apparently he moved out two weeks ago. Threw a few things in a bag and went. She didn’t think too much of it, he’s done that before. He returned to the flat briefly last night, but only stayed for an hour or so –’

  ‘To put the tag in her bag …’

  ‘Clearly.’

  ‘So he’s staying with the girl? Squatting? Sleeping rough?’

  ‘She says she was aware her son was running around with some girl, but she never saw her. Jason wouldn’t bring her to the flat, apparently, was ashamed of it, of her …’

  Helen glanced at the squad car, which now pulled away from the kerb. It was impossible not to feel some sympathy for Margaret Swift – she had been dealt a pretty rough hand and certainly hadn’t been expecting this – but, even so, she had unwittingly set their investigation back significantly, which made Helen’s blood boil.

  ‘He wanted us to come here,’ she said ruefully, turning to Charlie once more.

  ‘You think he knew we’d work out who he was, put a trace on him …’

  ‘Judging by his performance with the traffic camera, he’s not bothered about having his picture taken. He must’ve known we’d eventually discover a link to him.’

  ‘So why hide the tag in her bag? If he doesn’t plan to get away with it, why would he worry about us tracing –’

  ‘To buy himself time to execute another attack,’ Helen said quietly, silencing her colleague. ‘He deliberately wanted to drag us over here …’

  Helen looked up, fixing Charlie with an anguished stare.

  ‘… and we fell for it, hook, line and sinker.’

  53

  13.47

  Sanderson stared at the screen, scarcely able to breathe.

  She had been locked away in the stuffy office for over an hour now, pointedly ignoring the knowing looks from the data operators. News of her dressing down had clearly spread around the station. There had been a few whispered comments, some suppressed chuckles and worst of all a charity cup of tea, brought to her by one of the greener members of staff. This act of pity had cut the deepest – Sanderson had never felt so dejected in her whole life – and the cup of tea remained untouched on the desk in front of her.

  She had been given the job of tracing the perpetrator’s car. While Charlie, Osbourne, Bentham and the rest had raced across town in pursuit of the suspects, she had been landed with a mundane investigative task. Had she been in better odour, she would have objected, or at the very least tried to offload such drudgery on to a lower-ranked officer. But as Helen had specifically given her the chore, there was no question of doing that. This was her penance and she had to suck i
t up.

  The Automatic Number Plate Recognition system had pinged the stolen Fiat approaching Itchen, but after that it had dropped off the radar. Maybe the perpetrators had hidden it, maybe the traffic cameras hadn’t got a decent look at the number plate since, but it had vanished. Which had left Sanderson with little choice but to trawl through the recorded footage from the various traffic cameras in the area, hoping against hope for a glimpse of the missing vehicle.

  It had seemed a pointless and depressing task, but just as Sanderson’s eyes were beginning to glaze over, she spotted it. Seizing the controls, she whizzed the footage forwards and backwards repeatedly, watching the car disappear into an alleyway off a quiet, suburban street. She couldn’t make out the whole number plate – just the last four digits – but that proved enough. Running her index finger down the list in front of her, she quickly discovered that there were no other cars of that make and colour, with those four digits on the plate, registered in Southampton. It had to be the missing Punto, didn’t it?

  Exhaling slowly, Sanderson pondered her next move. She should call it in straight away. After all, if she was right, then the whole team had been scrambled to the wrong side of town. But if she was mistaken and she hampered the investigation in any way …

  Given the perilous nature of her position, there was nothing for it but to check it out herself first. So, rising quickly, Sanderson snatched up her jacket and hurried from the room.

  54

  13.58

  Helen tore off her jacket and tossed it on to the floor. Turning the cold tap on, she cupped her hands underneath the gushing water and threw the contents on to her face.

  She had raced back to Southampton Central, summoning the rest of the MIT to join her for an emergency briefing. But on arriving back at base Helen had headed first to the armoury to return her firearm, then to the ladies’ loos on the tenth floor. She needed to calm herself before the others arrived and few people visited this out-of-the-way facility. Helen often fled here when she wanted to be alone.