‘But she couldn’t have known she would run into Garanita, that she would take a hostage …’
Charlie petered out once more. Helen stood, hands on hips, scanning the road as if it could somehow provide the answers they were groping for.
‘She loses mobility by dumping the car,’ Helen continued, ‘so what does she gain?’
‘Well, once it becomes known she’s taken a hostage, then obviously we’ll be looking for her car.’
‘But she makes herself very visible by proceeding on foot, unless she can find some other way …’
Helen tailed off, looking down the road in the direction of Netley.
‘How long would it take to walk from Priors Hill Copse to Netley?’
‘Five minutes or so.’
‘And if you wanted to make tracks without running into roadblocks and without your moves being seen from the air –’
‘Then you’d take the train.’
‘Netley train station is a five-minute walk away. From there she can head to Portsmouth or back into Southampton virtually undetected …’
Charlie was already pulling her radio from her pocket.
‘Alert the transport police,’ Helen said. ‘Make sure they have access to the photos Emilia took and up-to-date descriptions of Daisy’s hair colour, clothes and appearance. I want officers despatched to every station on that line. If Daisy’s been there, let’s find out what direction she headed in, then track her on station CCTV. Also, make sure all news outlets have an image of the serpent graffiti tag. If anyone has spotted something similar on a building near them, we need to know asap.’
Helen had been walking and talking, but had now reached her bike. She climbed on to it, picking up her helmet.
‘Where are you going?’ Charlie asked, her radio hovering by her mouth.
Helen paused a moment, before responding:
‘To have a chat with Dad.’
86
16.44
Daisy watched the world go by. The train had passed through Sholing and was rattling towards Itchen station. In the middle distance, she could glimpse the blue lights flashing, though she couldn’t see Meadow Hall School itself. She wondered what it was like there now, what was going on. She could imagine the scenes – the sobbing students, the bunches of flowers, the blank shock, but she suddenly had a desire to see it. She might get to watch it on the news later, but it wouldn’t be the same.
She was the only person in the carriage, so she pulled out her cigarettes. She had bought them yesterday and, as superstition required, immediately threw away the first one. She looked down at the packet in her hand – it was crushed and slightly bent. She didn’t like to think too much what that signified, so she pulled one out and lit it. She inhaled deeply, then blew the smoke out into the deserted carriage.
As she did so, she noticed that her hand was shaking. The five minutes she’d spent waiting on the platform for the suburban train had seemed like an eternity. She had discarded her trench coat, so as not to draw attention to herself, her shotgun now safely stowed in her backpack, but still she knew she looked odd, wearing just a thin cotton T-shirt on what was now becoming a cold autumn evening. She had expected people to point the finger at her, to recognize her, to alert the police to her presence …
She took another long drag on her cigarette, letting the smoke swirl around in her mouth. She had to keep calm, keep focused. She had had a very close shave, had had to think on her feet, but it was done now and there was no point getting hysterical. She was ashamed now to think of how rattled she’d felt moments before. As the train had finally roared into the station, for a brief moment she’d been tempted to jump, to land on the tracks, to feel the impact of metal on bone … She’d contemplated this many times before of course – ever since she was old enough to be out alone really – and it would have been quick and easy. A simple end to a difficult day, especially now things had become complicated …
She angrily stubbed the cigarette out on her hand, gritting her teeth as the skin sizzled and a thick blister rose. She had to be strong, she wouldn’t let those bastards win. Throwing the cigarette butt into the bin, she reached into her trouser pocket and pulled out a small bottle of amphetamines. She had been living off these for as long as she could remember. It was one of the reasons why she was so pleasingly thin. Unscrewing the lid, she tipped three small pills into her hand, then tossed them into her mouth, before slipping the bottle back into her pocket.
She let the pills dissolve slowly, enjoying the feeling as they fizzed and dissipated. Slowly she felt her mood begin to lift, her optimism and energy start to return, as the pills took effect. There was no room for weakness here. She would soldier on, she would see this through to the bitter end …
She sat back in her seat and looked out of the window once more. She felt oddly calm, the last vestiges of autumn sunshine playing over her face, as the train rattled back towards the city centre. She was still alive, she was well armed and suddenly she felt sure that everything would be fine. The train was speeding up, propelling her towards her destiny. As she stared out of the window, a smile crept across her face.
The sun was beginning to drop now and soon darkness would descend.
87
17.01
They pulled up at the side of the road and sat in silence for a moment. Sanderson killed the engine and looked up at the terraced house. It was Victorian and shabby chic at best – the windowsills needed painting and the pathway was covered in weeds – but it was a house that was full of life. The lights were on and, flicking her gaze from window to window, Sanderson could see the inhabitants moving around inside – laughing, joking. It was a touching scene at the end of a very tough day.
‘Would you like me to come in with you?’
As she spoke, she turned to Emilia, who was sitting beside her in the car.
‘If you need to rest, I can talk to your brothers and sisters, tell them what’s happened …’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘It’s no trouble –’
‘They’re my family. I’ll do it.’
Emilia’s tone was firm, but not unfriendly. Sanderson decided not to push it, nodding her assent, while pulling out her card.
‘This has got my numbers on it,’ she said, handing it to the journalist. ‘If you remember anything useful … or if you need my help at all … don’t hesitate to ring.’
Sanderson half expected Emilia to reject the overture, but she took the card, even as she leant over to open the door. But her hand lingered on the handle and the journalist turned back to Sanderson.
‘Thank you … for bringing me home.’
‘It was the least I could –’
‘I know you didn’t have to do it and I appreciate it, Joanne.’
Climbing out of the car, she walked up to the house. Sanderson watched her go, impressed by her bearing and dignity. Emilia had been in a state earlier, shaking with shock, but only half an hour later she had gathered herself, regained her composure. Sanderson could see Emilia steeling herself for the onslaught of her family, preparing to answer their questions and alleviate their concerns. She looked purposeful, resolved, but above all strong.
Sanderson had always been suspicious of and occasionally even downright hostile towards Emilia Garanita. But tonight she had new-found respect for her. Would she have shown similar strength if the roles were reversed? Who could say, but she would bear the journalist’s example in mind. From now on, she would never be paranoid or weak again.
88
17.08
The mud squelched beneath her tyres as Helen’s bike came to an abrupt halt in the yard. Two squad cars were parked up by the ramshackle farmhouse and the attending officers now hurried over to meet her. They had been despatched to intercept Daisy, should she try to return home, but they had found the old farmstead deserted.
‘We’re already inside, ma’am,’ one of the breathless officers said, struggling through the mud towards her. ‘I think you’d b
etter take a look …’
Alarmed by his sombre tone, Helen nodded her thanks and moved on towards the house. It had once been a fine building, but was now in an advanced state of disrepair. Paint was peeling, tiles were missing and one of the shutters hung lazily off a single hinge. The whole place looked lonely and unloved.
As she moved purposefully forward, Helen took in the rest of the site. There were outbuildings, filled with rusting farm equipment, and beyond them open fields. The plots weren’t huge round here, thanks to the natural boundary of the River Hamble on one side and the M27 on the other, but they had been prosperous back in the day, providing milk and livestock for Southampton, Portsmouth and other South Coast markets. But the fields on this farm were empty now. The lonely farmstead reeked of defeat. Whether this was due to economic forces or more personal troubles Helen wasn’t yet sure.
The house was framed by ruddy brown fields and tall oak trees, which looked ominous and foreboding in the half-light of dusk. Taking them in, Helen had a sudden jolt of recognition. The rural background, the empty fields, the birds circling in the sky … she felt sure that this was the vista she had seen on Jason Swift’s home movies. This was where he had taught Daisy to shoot, where they had planned and trained for their killing spree. It was a pleasingly isolated location, with no busybody neighbours to interfere or ask awkward questions. But why hadn’t Daisy’s dad intervened? Neglectful he might have been, a drunk even. But he had no criminal record and surely must have sensed that something was badly wrong here?
Helen continued towards the front door. As she mounted the porch, the boards creaked warningly beneath her feet. Looking down, Helen realized that she would have to pick her way to the door carefully – the woodworm had been having fun on this farm even if no one else had. The door itself swung back and forth in the rising breeze, having been barrel-charged by the attending officers.
The interior looked gloomy, so Helen pulled a torch from her jacket pocket. The way now lay open for her, so sliding sterile covers over her muddy boots, she quietly slipped inside.
89
17.10
Helen proceeded cautiously, testing each floorboard as she went, keeping her eyes open and her senses alert. Stepping into the hallway, she was surprised to find that everything looked pretty normal. A chair had been knocked over, but otherwise there was nothing alarming about the scene that greeted her. Moving on quickly, she toured the kitchen, where a carton of milk sat on the table, before heading across the hall to a small study.
This room had clearly been the administrative centre of the farm – Helen could see a long line of box files on the shelf marked ‘Accounts’, ‘Admin’, ‘Statements’ and so on. But it was now little more than a glorified storeroom, crammed full of broken furniture, empty food boxes and piles of unopened letters. Keeping half an eye on the corridor, Helen leafed through the letters quickly. She wasn’t surprised to see that several had a bank’s logo on them, while others had been sent from Meadow Hall School. All of them had been discarded, deemed unworthy of interest.
Dropping the letters, Helen now noticed the framed photos on the desk. There were three of them – all of Daisy at various ages. A baby grinning while lying on her back, a gappy-toothed seven-or eight-year-old smiling warmly at the photographer and a surly teenager, looking unhappy and self-conscious in a pretty summer dress. The effect of the trio of photos on Helen was surprising and strong. This was love – there was no other word for it. Love of a father towards his little girl. Helen immediately thought of her own father, who’d had only a perverted interest in his children. Whatever had happened in this family over the last few weeks and months, one could be in no doubt that Michael Anderson had loved his daughter deeply. Was this why he had ignored the letters from school? Why he had overlooked her criminal offences? He was not on record as having remarried and there were no pictures of a girlfriend or partner – perhaps Daisy was the only meaningful thing in his life.
Leaving the study, Helen mounted the stairs to the first floor. More framed pictures of a young, smiling Daisy graced the wall and at the top of the staircase, Helen discovered the teenager’s bedroom. This was in a state of some disarray – the wardrobe was open, clothes were scattered – but it was no worse than many a teenager’s and you could still tell the room had been done out nicely, if cheaply. The bed was unmade and next to it was a pile of magazines. It would be an illuminating place to explore, but not yet.
Helen walked down the corridor to another bedroom. Slowly she teased open the door. It groaned as it rolled back on its hinges. Inside, the furniture was broken, the curtains were torn from the rails and lying in the middle of the double bed was a corpse.
Taking care not to disturb the scene, Helen crept towards the body. It was pale and looked to be in an advanced stage of rigor mortis. The blood that covered the victim and most of the bedspread was dry, but the body had not yet started to decompose. He had been dead for two days or so therefore, but no more than that. The victim had been shot in the chest and neck repeatedly. The skin on his face was lacerated and covered in blood as a result, but Helen was pretty sure that she was looking at Michael Anderson, Daisy’s father. He had been murdered in his own bed, gunned down at point-blank range.
Was this the trigger then? Was this what had precipitated this terrible killing spree? Helen suspected it was, not just because it preceded the other murders, but because of what it meant. This man had looked after Daisy in his own way, had perhaps been the teenager’s only link to real life – to family, to love, to compassion. And she had killed him – no, she had destroyed him. Helen could count at least five impact wounds – this was not a cold, calculated attack, but an explosion of rage. She had butchered a man who loved her, had severed her last link to normality and after that there was no way back. Nothing to stop her from launching her terrible vengeance upon the world.
Had she and Swift sat downstairs afterwards, making their final preparations, as Michael Anderson lay dead upstairs? It was a chilling thought and should have served as a warning to Jason Swift, the junior partner in this killing spree. He thought he was Daisy’s lover, her right-hand man, destined to go down in history as the co-architect of this infamous spate of killings. But he was deluded if he felt Daisy owed him anything, for, as the body on the bed proved, Daisy was utterly ruthless. Forces bigger than herself were driving her – though she was not deranged, she was psychotic, single-minded and totally bent on destruction. If her earlier actions had not already proved it, the discovery of Michael Anderson’s corpse confirmed that Daisy would not stop now until something – or someone – halted her in her tracks.
90
17.16
Suddenly she felt as if the eyes of the world were upon her.
The station was heaving with commuters and Daisy hadn’t found it difficult to slip in behind one of them as he passed through the ticket barriers. She had been in good spirits – feeling carefree, even a little high – as she’d hurried towards the exit, but then suddenly she’d spotted something that had pulled her up short.
The Southampton Evening News was on sale and the vendor was doing a brisk trade today. Predictably the paper was majoring on the day’s shocking events, promising its readers the very latest on the murders. What Daisy hadn’t been expecting was the confident headline: ‘Schoolgirl named as suspect’. She wasn’t close enough to read the text beneath it, but even from this safe distance she could make out her face. It was splashed across the front page – an unflattering school photo taken last year, which her dad had predictably shown no interest in buying.
How had they worked out who she was? Was it the caretaker? Her hostage? She’d assumed they would discover her identity eventually, but had never thought that her name would be front-page news tonight. Now, as she stood stock still, taking in the line of commuters queueing up to buy the paper, Daisy became aware of something else. Police, lots of police. Some were regular beat coppers, others were Hampshire Transport Police, instantly recognizab
le in their fluorescent jackets, but all were engaged in the same task, scrutinizing the commuters’ faces on the platforms, searching, searching, searching for their quarry …
So far Daisy had escaped their attention, boxed in among the suits, but feeling suddenly exposed, she made a break for it, keeping her head low as she weaved through the crowds towards the exit. There were officers there too of course, earnestly examining the passing faces, so Daisy didn’t hesitate, ripping off her black wig and tossing it aside.
Running her hand over her shaved head, she walked quickly and confidently forward. She had cut off her blonde locks three days ago in preparation for battle and she was very glad of it now. Her buzz cut made her look older, more aggressive – a far cry from the gawky blonde in her school photo or the dishevelled teenager in her police mugshots.
She was close to the exit now and an officer was looking directly at her. She hoped that her smooth head and dark eye make-up would do the job, but just to be sure she gave the officer a saucy wink and ran her studded tongue over her lips suggestively. Embarrassed, he looked away, and with her head held high Daisy strutted past him, giving him one more wink for good measure.
Once out of the station, she hurried away from the main drag, dodging locals who seemed absorbed in their newspapers. Everywhere she turned, people were either drinking in the news or deep in earnest conversation about it. Was the whole world looking for her? It felt that way, so, turning down a side street, she moved away fast from the clamour of the station.
Now she slowed. Her heart was beating nineteen to the dozen and, though she was lightly dressed, she was sweating. Wiping her face with her arm, she caught her breath and considered her options. She had made it past one police officer but would her luck continue to hold when they were scouring the city for her? She had a fair way to go and suddenly she didn’t fancy it – walking along the wide thoroughfares, constantly looking over her shoulder …
Love Me Not: DI Helen Grace 7 (formerly titled Follow My Leader) (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 16