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by M. J. Arlidge

  Life was cheap.

  Chapter 5

  His eyes were glued to the Portakabin, transfixed by the sight in front of him. Through the thin blinds, he could make out the flames reaching for the ceiling, desperate to satiate their appetite for destruction. And even above the crackling of timber, chipboard and plastic, he could hear the screaming.

  He had never heard a man shriek before. In his line of work, it was not something you came across. And he’d certainly never heard a man shriek like that. It didn’t sound human – it was so shrill, so insistent, dragged from the pit of his stomach. It was at once terrible and wonderful.

  He would be the sole witness to McManus’s last moments, the extinguishing of a life. Yes, he should have left immediately, sneaking through the gates and disappearing into the night – that would have been the sensible thing to do. But he had to stay, to see that the job was done. There was too much riding on this to leave anything to chance. So he stood his ground, positioned at the far corner of the yard, watching and waiting for the screams to cease, for the Portakabin to collapse in on itself, for the flames to leap up into the night sky.

  As soon as they did so, he’d be off. As soon as he could be sure, he would put as much distance between himself and this awful place as possible. And then he would celebrate, happy that his nerve had held, that he’d been capable of doing what was necessary. He might regret it at some point in the future, but not yet. For now he would simply reflect on a job well done.

  Dragging his eyes away from the scene, he glanced at his watch. The pristine Omega showed him it was just before eleven – there was plenty of time to get where he needed to be without arousing suspicion. Such was the virtue of having a plan, of taking suitable precautions, of doing something right—

  A loud noise made him look up. There it was again – a heavy, repetitive banging. And now he became aware of something else – the Portakabin seemed to be shaking. What the hell was going on? Was the fabric of the tired office finally cracking, splintering under the vicious assault of the flames? Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he had his answer, the locked door bursting open, the unmistakable form of Declan McManus crashing out onto the scrubby ground below.

  For a moment, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He’d never expected his victim to survive the initial assault of the flames, let alone have strength enough to break out of the Portakabin. But there he lay on the ground, his clothes still burning, large as life. Immediately, the attacker’s eyes fell on a discarded tool, a rusting wrench that lay next to the shell of a Ford Mondeo. Should he pick it up? Rush over and cave the injured man’s head in? He reached towards it, but his attention was now drawn back to his victim. And what he saw chilled his blood.

  McManus had risen to his feet. He was stumbling, raging, screaming, but he was upright. Even now he was blundering forward, bumping into old chassis, clinging on to packing cases. As he did so, zigzagging from obstacle to obstacle, he left a flaming trail in his wake, the discarded boxes and packing paper catching light as he passed. It was a bewildering, horrifying procession, but surely it would be short-lived? The man was on fire, for God’s sake, surely he would succumb to his injuries soon … but on he went, staggering away from the Portakabin, searching for salvation.

  He watched on, horrified, transfixed, but worse was to follow. McManus had been stumbling towards the main gates, but now suddenly changed direction. Even in his agony, the flaming man had been casting around for help, any means of saving his skin and now he’d spotted him, standing across the yard in the shadows, passively watching his torment. Now McManus was making directly for him, speeding up as he did so, lurching towards his potential rescuer.

  The man’s eyes widened, even as vomit crept up his throat. Never in his worst nightmares had he imagined something like this. McManus continued to gain momentum, barrelling towards him, his flaming arms reaching out, even as the fire continued to consume his hair, his limbs, his skin. He knew he should turn and run, flee a man whom he had badly underestimated, yet for some reason his feet remained rooted to the spot. McManus was only twenty feet from him, now fifteen, now ten. Any minute now, he would throw himself upon his attacker, locking him in an agonizing embrace. So why wouldn’t his feet obey him? Why did he continue to stand there, waiting patiently for oblivion?

  He felt tears prick his eyes and he clamped them shut, bracing himself for the impact. Then he felt a rush of air, followed by a hefty thud and, opening his eyes a fraction, he saw that the portly aggressor had suddenly collapsed, falling in a crumpled heap by his feet. Relief now flooded through him, a high-pitched laugh exploding from his lungs, as he stared down at the twitching man. He couldn’t believe it – McManus had made it all the way across the yard, only to fall just short of him.

  It scarcely seemed believable, but the burning trail of destruction in the yard was testament to his amazing progress. And even now as he looked at his wake, drinking in the blazing boxes and packing cases, he saw the Portakabin roof collapse, sending a great shower of sparks up into the air.

  The alarm would soon be raised. The whole yard was catching alight, thin trails of smoke climbing up into the sky. It was no time to linger, so turning on his heel, he made for a sizeable tear in the chain-link fence, squeezing through it and hurrying away.

  Chapter 6

  She wrenched open the door and pushed inside. The incident room was deserted, which was how Helen wanted it. She needed time to gather her thoughts, following her trip to the mortuary.

  Crossing the room, she headed not for her office, but to the murder board. Here, pictures of victims and suspects were displayed for analysis, surrounded by a spaghetti of supposition – marker pen lines linking individuals, leads and theories. Usually the sight excited her – as the board filled up, the different jigsaw pieces of the truth inexorably came together – but tonight it left her feeling like she’d been slapped.

  Southampton was a vibrant city, with its fair share of crime, so it was customary to have two or three serious investigations on the go. Currently they had four – four murders that they had made no tangible progress on. A fatal mugging in Ocean Village three weeks back, an aggravated burglary in Upper Shirley shortly after that, a carjacking in the city centre and, of course, the recent murder of Eve Sutcliffe. All these cases had made headlines in different ways – the mugging victim was a mother of two, the middle-aged man who’d tackled an intruder was a self-made millionaire, the carjack victim was a young NHS manager and as for Eve … well, she was a ‘gift’ for tabloid hacks and vampires like Emilia Garanita, the local journalist who used her newspaper columns to dwell on Eve’s beauty, her talent, her tender age. With each new case, with each new banner headline, the pressure ratcheted up a notch, placing Helen and the team under severe scrutiny.

  The unit’s murder board had never been so full, yet so empty – a point Chief Superintendent Alan Peters had made forcibly on his recent visit to the incident room. Helen couldn’t remember a time when the city had felt so febrile, so dangerous, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why – numerous local businesses having gone to the wall since Covid. Unemployment had spiked, as had divorce, domestic violence, child abuse and countless other serious offences. There was a general sense of fear, anger, even desperation in the city, but it was the recent spate of murders that brought the situation home most starkly.

  The mugging, the burglary, the carjacking – these were economic crimes, laced with violence, perpetrated by those who thought there was more money to be made in the shadows, on the black market, than in the regular working world. Even the attack on Eve Sutcliffe was a testament to the profound legacy of the downturn, sexual crimes and crimes against women having also sky rocketed – powerless, desperate individuals taking out their fury, resentment and despair on the vulnerable.

  ‘Not a pretty sight, is it?’

  Helen turned, her body tensing. Joseph Hudson had slipped into the room without her noticing and was standing close by.

  ‘I
’m sorry?’ Helen queried, annoyed.

  Hudson held Helen’s gaze for a moment, enjoying her discomfort, then shifted his attention to the varied photos on the murder board.

  ‘All that pain, all that suffering. And for what? A few pounds in the pocket, a fleeting moment of pleasure …’ He shook his head ruefully, but there was a ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘It’s like the old rules don’t apply any more,’ he continued. ‘Decency, respect, humanity. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there now. Every man – or woman – for themselves.’

  Hudson wasn’t looking at her, but Helen could hardly miss his point. Several months ago, Helen had called time on their relationship, intimating that it might be a good idea if Hudson moved on from Southampton Central. Her former lover had taken this suggestion very badly, making it clear on a number of occasions since that he had no intention of going anywhere.

  ‘Did you have anything to report, DS Hudson?’ Helen countered. ‘Or have you just come here—’

  ‘We found Alison Burris’s BMW,’ Hudson interrupted, crossing to the murder board. ‘In an alleyway just off St Mary’s. Stolen, stripped and dumped, just as I said it would be. I’ve asked forensics to take a look at it for us.’

  Picking up the marker pen, Hudson wrote the details on the board, linking this development via a crisp line to the photo of the unfortunate Burris.

  ‘Least one of us is making progress, eh?’

  Replacing the pen, he smiled broadly at Helen, then headed for the door.

  ‘Don’t stay too late, Helen. All work and no play …’

  Helen watched Hudson go, desperately fighting the urge to tear a strip off him. In normal circumstances, she would have reprimanded him there and then, but these weren’t normal circumstances. DS Charlie Brooks was still on maternity leave, meaning that Joseph Hudson was her only remaining senior officer. Given the situation, given the crime wave that was now engulfing the city, Helen had to rely on him, even though she was becoming increasingly troubled by his ‘contribution’. He was frequently insubordinate, even hostile – something she feared the rest of the team had picked up on – and, worse, seemed to be actively enjoying her predicament.

  Of late she’d even begun to wonder if Hudson was actively working against her, enjoying the empty murder boards, the nasty headlines, the growing pressure. It seemed a crazy idea, her own DS torpedoing their investigations out of spite, but it was a notion she couldn’t shake. In her darker moments, she even began to wonder whether Hudson might be conspiring with Emilia Garanita – the thorny reporter appearing extremely well informed of late.

  The truth was that Helen had never felt so isolated and exposed. Each new day seemed to bring fresh problems rather than answers. The team were looking to her for inspiration, for leadership, but for the first time she felt uncertain as to what to do. Nothing seemed to be working, the tried and tested tenets of modern policing coming up short, as her overstretched team battled a growing lawlessness in the city.

  As ever, when Helen stood in front of the murder boards, she yearned to see patterns, clues, lines of enquiry, to divine a clear route to justice. But tonight, as she gazed at the empty space in front of her, she saw only the faces of the dead staring back.

  Chapter 7

  She pulled the scarf over her mouth and nose, then tugged hard on the drawstring of her hoodie. Carefully, she ran her fingers around the edge of the fabric, checking that her disguise was securely in place, then, satisfied that even her own mother wouldn’t recognize her, she emerged from the shadows.

  She had been skulking in the basement stairwell for nearly two hours, waiting for the right moment to break cover. Several times she’d ventured up to the street level, but each time something had given her pause – the bark of a dog, a door slamming, and, most alarmingly of all, a couple wandering by. They had been happy – drunk, laughing, amorous – but their sudden appearance had set her heart racing.

  Fortunately, the danger had passed, the couple walking on, oblivious, but she didn’t want to push her luck by outstaying her welcome. Nervously checking that the coast was clear, she stepped out onto the pavement and, keeping low, scurried across the road, concealing herself between parked cars on the other side. Here again she hesitated, convinced something was about to go wrong – a nosey neighbour spotting her, a beat copper passing by – but Ashley Road was as quiet as the grave.

  She looked at her watch – half midnight – then fixed her gaze on the house in front of her. Her attention had been glued to Number 21 since she’d arrived, watching the comings and goings inside – figures flitting behind the drawn curtains, lights turning on and off, before, finally, the house settled into contented darkness. There had been no movement, no signs of life, for over three quarters of an hour now. With luck, the inhabitants were slumbering peacefully, unaware of the vitriol and hatred that lurked outside.

  Another quick check, scanning the upper windows of the neighbouring houses, then the figure emerged from behind the parked car, cresting the pavement and hurrying up the steps to the front door. Lilah and Martin Hill didn’t have a dog, an alarm, or any security cameras, but even so, this was still a very dangerous moment. Given everything that had happened recently, who was to say that they wouldn’t be on their guard? That the door wouldn’t suddenly spring open? That she wouldn’t be caught red-handed?

  But there was no movement inside, no sound anywhere, so reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the aerosol can. Shaking it, she held it up to the door and pressed down hard. Immediately, a jet of black paint spewed forth, spoiling the fashionably grey door. The eruption made her start, but gathering herself, she pressed on, sketching out the first line. It was hardly a polished effort, looking uneven and irregular, but it was at least clear, so she continued, carving out the second line with one vicious sweep of her arm.

  Now she was getting the hang of it, gaining confidence with each passing second, moving swiftly and smoothly. She was reaching the end of the door, so aimed the paint onto the white wall, then onto the living-room window, sketching out the vile symbol deftly. The design was nearly complete now, so doubling back once more, she concluded her handiwork with a grim flourish.

  The whole operation had taken no more than a minute, but still she stood breathless in front of her handiwork, the adrenaline coursing through her. She’d achieved what she came to do, defacing the pretty terraced house, but could she get away without being spotted, or worse, challenged? Replacing the aerosol in her pocket, she scuttled back down the steps and away down the street.

  She didn’t dare look back, couldn’t bear to see if Lilah or Martin were even now throwing open the front door and setting off in pursuit. She’d never done this kind of thing before, felt certain she would mess it up … yet each step took her closer to safety. She had put fifty yards between herself and the house already, maybe more. Even if someone did challenge her now, could they be sure that she was the culprit? Only a body search would reveal that – another good reason to dump the tell-tale aerosol as soon as possible.

  She was nearing the end of the street. Once she was back on the main street, blending in with the human traffic, she would feel better. Covering the last few feet in a matter of seconds, she swept around the corner, making one final burst for freedom. But even as she did so, an ear-splitting wail arrested her progress.

  Sirens. She could hear sirens, close by and insistent. It didn’t seem possible – how had they got here so quickly? Had someone been watching her? Hidden away behind the curtains, surreptitiously dialling the police as they took in her wanton act of vandalism? She thought she had been so careful, so cautious. Was it all going to unravel before it had even begun?

  The sirens were getting louder, but still she remained frozen on the spot. She was paralyzed by uncertainty, not knowing what to do for the best. The approaching vehicles were nearly upon her, their remorseless wail growing louder with each second. Now instinct took over and she hurled herself backwards into the shadows, shielding her face with
her arm, even as a pair of fire engines raced past.

  She could have laughed out loud, if she wasn’t so scared. Panting heavily, she watched the speeding fire engines slowly grow smaller, before eventually disappearing from view altogether. Only then did she emerge from the shadows, turning on her heel and sprinting away down the street as if her life depended upon it.

  Chapter 8

  She padded across the smooth, wooden floor, enjoying the deathly calm of this silent space. Helen hadn’t lingered in the office following her encounter with Joseph Hudson, too aggravated and unnerved to achieve anything there. Instead, she’d hurried back to her flat.

  Joseph Hudson had spent much time here during their brief romance – in her kitchen, her living room, her bed. Relationships between police colleagues were seriously frowned upon, so they had conducted their liaison in secret, mostly within these four walls. Hudson’s imprint on her flat, and, in truth, her heart, had been minimal, however, and she’d successfully expunged any lingering trace of him, meaning her flat was still the one place where she could relax, where she could truly find some peace.

  Tonight, however, her phone started ringing almost as soon as she’d sat down on the sofa. The TV remote was still in her hand, pointing forlornly at the blank screen, but she tossed it aside, scooping up her mobile instead. To her relief, it was just her immediate boss, DCI Grace Simmons, on the other end.

  ‘You’re up late, ma’am.’

  ‘Can’t sleep. And you can drop the “ma’am”. It makes me feel like I’m eighty.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Though on present form that might be about right …’ Simmons joked breathlessly, before changing tack. ‘Anyway, how are you? I’m sorry I couldn’t make it in today, just wanted to see how you got on.’

  ‘Slow but steady …’