Truth or Dare: Pre-order the nail-biting new Helen Grace thriller now

by M. J. Arlidge

  ‘DI Grace from Southampton Central. Might I have a quick word?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘DI Grace,’ she repeated, discreetly offering him her warrant card. ‘I was wondering if I might have five minutes of your time.’

  ‘Now?’ He couldn’t conceal his incredulity.

  ‘It won’t take long, I can assure you.’

  ‘DI Grade—’

  ‘Grace.’

  ‘I’d obviously be happy to help you at a later date, but as you can see—’

  ‘I’m afraid it can’t wait.’

  Now Goj faltered, aware that the hum of conversation had died away, the crowd of well-wishers watching their exchange.

  ‘Very well, then. Can I suggest we talk at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning? I’m sure I’ll be able to help you then, with whatever minor police matter this is concern—’

  But Helen hadn’t come all this way to be bullshitted.

  ‘I’m conducting a murder investigation, Mr Goj,’ she interrupted. ‘And actually I need to talk to you now.’

  Chapter 28

  They stared at each other, a gulf of darkness between them. Hudson fixed his torch on Lee Moffat, picking out his thin, weasel features. His target was squinting, offended by the penetrating beam, looking like a cornered animal.

  ‘Nice to see you, Lee.’

  ‘Likewise,’ was the grunted response.

  ‘I’m DS Hudson, by the way. I’ve tried calling you, several times, but perhaps you’ve been busy …’

  ‘You know how it is …’ His reply was half-hearted and distracted.

  Even at this distance, Hudson could make out Lee’s small, dark eyes, darting hither and thither, seeking an escape route. Behind him, Hudson heard McAndrew, Reid and Edwards cresting the staircase and he waved them forward.

  ‘Got a couple of questions for you, Lee.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About a woman called Alison Burris. She owned a BMW until fairly recently.’

  ‘Don’t know her.’

  ‘And Declan McManus. You might have heard he had a nasty accident, a fire—’

  ‘Means nothing to me.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’d care to accompany us to Southampton Central, so we can straighten it all out. If you’ve got nothing to hide, then I’m sure we won’t detain you …’

  The word ‘detain’ seemed to give Moffat pause for thought, the young man taking a step backwards, as if scared by the very word. Hudson, by contrast, took a step forward, keen to conclude this dance. Even so, he went carefully, his eyes glued to Moffat, alive to the danger of a concealed weapon or sudden burst of activity. But Moffat was retreating now. Hudson couldn’t understand it, the boy was backing himself into a corner, seemingly conceding defeat … then suddenly he got it. Their suspect was simply giving himself options, backing away past a pile of car seats that currently blocked his path. And now Moffat made his move, darting sideways and scurrying across the room.

  It happened in a flash, catching Hudson and his colleagues off guard. Moffat was halfway across the room and moving fast, eating up the ground towards the far wall. Startled, Hudson broke into a sprint, pursuing the fugitive, but he was too slow to stop Moffat reaching the staircase in the far-right-hand corner of the room. Already Moffat was ascending it, driving higher and higher, away from capture, away from them.

  Raising his speed, Hudson skidded to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, scrambling up them in pursuit. He was making good progress, warming to his task, but even as he began to gain on Moffat, his foot crashed through one of the steps, the rotten wooden board snapping clean in two. Hudson’s knee dashed into the step above, even as his other leg hung helplessly in the air. Grabbing the bannister, grimacing in pain, he hauled himself upright and carried on, treading lightly on each step as he climbed higher and higher.

  Stumbling onto the second floor of the building, he saw Moffat in the far corner, desperately trying to lever open a shuttered window. He was wrenching at the board with all his might and now Hudson spotted his chance. Cantering towards him, he braced himself for the impact, determined to bring the fugitive down. But Moffat was a street rat, with well-honed survival instincts and, realizing that his task was hopeless, he waited until Hudson was almost on him before bolting once more. Unable to arrest his momentum, Hudson sailed past him, crashing into the boarded window. Cannoning off it, Hudson turned, winded and embarrassed, to see Moffat sprinting away.

  Was there another escape route? Somewhere on the roof, perhaps? Hudson levered himself off the wall and gave chase, falteringly now as his lungs burned and his chest heaved. Moffat was putting considerable ground between them, confident of escape … but then suddenly and unexpectedly he hit the deck hard, DC McAndrew emerging from the shadows and executing a perfectly timed rugby tackle, bringing the fleeing suspect crashing to the ground.

  Surprised, elated, Hudson struggled over to them, to find Moffat squirming on the dirty floor, even as McAndrew applied the cuffs. Now she hauled him upright, reading him his rights, swiftly and professionally. Moffat appeared unable to take it in, stunned by what had just hit him.

  ‘Right, boss,’ McAndrew said, her face streaked with dirt. ‘Shall we get him back to base?’

  ‘Absolutely, but allow me …’ Hudson responded, moving to take possession of the prisoner.

  ‘It’s OK, I’ve got him, boss.’

  ‘No, no, I insist. You’ve done enough.’

  McAndrew looked reluctant to relinquish her hard-earned prize, but Hudson’s tone brooked no argument.

  ‘And well done, I’ll make sure you get mentioned in dispatches,’ Hudson continued warmly, wrapping his hand round the man’s cuffed wrists and marching him away towards the stairs.

  The operation had had its tricky moments, but had ended in triumph. Barring a jarred knee, Hudson had got exactly what he wanted. A suspect in custody, his name on the arrest sheet and, assuming Emilia Garanita was in position as arranged, his photo in tomorrow’s newspapers.

  Chapter 29

  ‘I just don’t see what this has to do with me. I’ve never heard of the guy …’

  Amar Goj’s discomfort was genuine, but was his outrage? He was certainly putting on a good show – the aggrieved host dragged from his daughter’s engagement party – but Helen wasn’t sure she was buying it. In similar circumstances, when innocent parties had been questioned at inconvenient moments, there had been real anger on display. Taking in her companion now, Helen felt that this was the vibe Goj was trying to give off, yet somehow he only managed to come across as defensive and flustered.

  ‘What did you say his name was? McKenzie?’

  ‘McManus, Declan McManus. He’s a private investigator.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know him. What need would I have for a private eye? I’m the Chief Operating Officer at Southampton Children’s Hospital …’

  ‘Yes, so you said.’

  ‘My interest is in saving lives, in helping people. Not spying on them.’

  ‘So you can account for your whereabouts last night? Between 10 p.m. and midnight?’

  ‘Of course,’ Goj said firmly, without any intention of elaborating.

  ‘So … you were at home? At work?’

  ‘Neither,’ was the crisp reply. ‘I was sourcing some last-minute items for the party.’

  ‘Right …’

  ‘Kaya decided she wanted some keepsakes for people to take away, sweetmeats and the like. It was very last minute, but I knew a shop over in Hedge End that stays open late, so I went there.’

  Helen scribbled this down, without taking her eyes off him.

  ‘And they’ll confirm that, will they?’

  ‘You’d have to ask them. But they are always very busy. It’s popular with cab drivers and the late-night crowd, so picking out one middle-aged man in a turban from the rest might be tricky …’

  Helen nodded, curious as to why he’d already given his alibi an ‘out’, but she didn’t push it. There was no point pinnin
g him to the wall until she had cause to do so.

  ‘Did you drive?’

  ‘Yes, I took the Jaguar. Check the cameras on the road, you should be able to see where I went.’

  He was smiling at her, trying to look relaxed and confident, but his eyes betrayed his disquiet.

  ‘Now unless there’s anything else, I really should be getting back to my guests.’

  ‘Of course,’ Helen ceded, stepping back to let him pass. She allowed him to take a few steps towards the door, then spoke up once more, ‘There is one last thing …’

  Goj paused, pivoting slowly towards her once more. Helen was intrigued to see that he was perspiring heavily, sweat clinging to his craggy forehead.

  ‘Do you own a Rick Owens cashmere hoodie?’

  There was a long pause as he stared at her. He seemed utterly poleaxed by the question.

  ‘Do I look like the kind of guy who wears hoodies?’ he finally joked.

  ‘It’s just that their records show you purchased one three months back. You used a Visa credit card to purchase it; I have the number here somewhere …’

  ‘It’s perfectly possible,’ he conceded. ‘I have many items of clothing; fashion is something of a hobby of mine.’

  ‘And what about a pair of Philipp Plein trainers?’

  ‘Again, it’s possible. I do generally wear trainers, designer ones—’

  ‘And you’d be what …?’ Helen continued, dropping her eyes to his patent-leather shoes. ‘Size nine? Size ten?’

  ‘A size nine,’ Amar replied quietly, looking more confused and unnerved than ever.

  ‘Great, thank you. That’s very helpful. Enjoy tonight, but maybe stick around town for a few days; we might need to talk to you again.’

  Goj nodded awkwardly at her, then turned, hurrying away. Helen watched him go, amused to see that with each step he appeared to gain speed, as if desperate to be out of her sight. This wasn’t uncommon, she often had that effect on people, but somehow the NHS manager’s desire to flee struck her as significant. His whole performance had been just that – an artificial display of confidence, ebullience and innocence, designed to throw her off track. But it seemed contrived and unconvincing, Goj giving the lie to his protestations by the urgency of his retreat. He was clearly rattled, unnerved by Helen’s unexpected intervention – even now the NHS manager couldn’t resist a brief, nervous look back over his shoulder, before finally making his escape, plunging back into the noise and colour of the function room, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.

  Chapter 30

  ‘You’re early.’

  Alexia stood in the doorway, arms folded, barring him entry.

  ‘We said 8 p.m., the boys are still eating. Graham’s only just got home …’

  ‘Hey, boys, Daddy’s here!’ Robert shouted over her shoulder, ignoring her.

  In the middle distance, Alexia heard chairs scraping as the twins left the dinner table. Seconds later, they were haring down the hall towards them. Alexia was raging inside, certain that Robert had deliberately messed up the timing to make trouble, but she swallowed her fury down, determined not to argue in front of the boys.

  ‘Daddy!’

  They threw themselves at him, falling into his outstretched arms. Despite herself, Alexia felt a pang of sadness. She didn’t want to step back in time, she was done with being Mrs Downing, but privately she yearned for the days when life was simpler, more straightforward.

  ‘It’s so good to see you. Have you missed me?’

  Robert was laying it on thick, ruffling their hair and kissing them repeatedly, but Alexia kept her counsel. He might have been putting it on for her benefit, but there was real love there, so she would let it go. Besides, if it was designed to rile her, or even soften her, he was wasting his time. She knew what was best for the kids and she wouldn’t countenance backing down now.

  ‘Why don’t you grab your things, so we can scoot off?’

  Freddie and Joshua turned to her, appealing.

  ‘You haven’t had your pudding yet, boys …’

  ‘I’m happy to feed them at mine,’ Robert cut in. ‘I’ve got cookie dough and phish food …’

  The words hung in the air, delighting the hungry boys.

  ‘Please, Mum, can we?’

  She knew she should say no, that Graham would be pissed off, but over time she had learned which battles to fight.

  ‘Go on, then.’

  They scampered away, barging each other aside to be first up the stairs.

  ‘Your bags are packed, just grab your toothbrushes,’ she called after them, before turning to face her husband. ‘You know, for a mature, intelligent man, this is just a tiny bit juvenile …’

  ‘Wanting to see my sons?’

  ‘Point scoring, buying people’s affection, reneging on our agreements—’

  ‘Oh, you’re the expert in that department, my love. You see when I married, I married for life …’

  He held up his left hand, his wedding band still in place.

  ‘Really? You want to have that conversation again?’

  ‘Why not? I find slut-shaming so entertaining.’

  Before she knew what she was doing, she’d taken a step towards him. Shock and anger pulsed through her. He had never spoken to her like that before, nor could she allow him to get away with it now. Raising her hand, she made to slap him hard across the face, but even as she did so, she heard the boys charging across the landing to the top of the stairs.

  Dropping her hand, she took a step back, hissing out her anger.

  ‘Say what you like, Robert. Do what you like. But it won’t make one iota of difference.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘This is one fight you won’t win.’

  ‘Keep telling yourself that, Alexia …’

  ‘I mean it, Robert, don’t push me.’

  Her ex didn’t bat an eyelid, seeming oddly calm, even triumphant. And now the boys hurried down to join him, kissing their mum distractedly, before racing out to the Mercedes. Alexia eyed Robert shrewdly, suddenly alarmed. Something was different tonight, something had changed. She’d always had the upper hand in their arguments, always been able to force him onto the back foot, but now he seemed willing and able to go on the offensive, to take the fight to her. And as if to underline this fact, he leaned in close now, his lips almost brushing her ear, as he whispered: ‘See you in court, Alexia.’

  Chapter 31

  ‘When was he brought in?’

  Helen wouldn’t usually have been so abrupt with a custody officer and immediately regretted her sharp tone. Anthony Parks was a genial presence at Southampton Central, a friendly bloke with whom she’d often shared a joke, but Helen’s sense of humour seemed to have deserted her tonight. On the way back to the station, she’d got word that DS Hudson had arrested Lee Moffat, relentlessly pushing ahead with his agenda, ignoring her explicit instructions.

  ‘About half an hour ago,’ Parks responded carefully. ‘I took him down myself. DS Hudson was going to let him stew for the night, question him in the morning, but I’ll happily bring him up, if you want?’

  Helen took a moment to consider. Moffat was a person of interest and there was perhaps a point to be made by taking control of his questioning. But to do so would be to hijack another officer’s line of enquiry and distract her from pursuing other important leads. So, reminding herself not to let station politics cloud her vision, Helen replied, ‘You’re all right, let him sweat for the night. Thanks, Anthony.’

  ‘Always a pleasure, DI Grace …’

  Normally Parks’s parting shot would have raised a smile – he had a fine line in clumsy flirting – but Helen’s mind was turning on other things. Pushing into the stairwell, she was already processing the night’s developments, thoughts of Goj, Moffat and Hudson tumbling over one another. There was much to digest and a strategy to consider – how to push forward numerous different lines of enquiry whilst dealing with Hudson’s insubordination. It was not an easy cir
cle to square, especially as her former lover seemed to have friends, allies even, in the team. No, this battle would require carefu—

  Her phone rang, making her jump. Helen realized she had been so lost in her own thoughts that she’d tuned out the wider world, walking well past the seventh floor up to the very top of the building. Cursing her stupidity, Helen looked down at the caller ID, expecting some problem, some new setback, but suddenly her face broke out into a smile, as she realized who was calling.

  ‘Charlie, how are you?’

  ‘I’m the walking dead, of course. How are you?’

  It was so good to hear Charlie’s voice, the warmth in her tone, her gentle, self-deprecating humour – the perfect tonic after a trying day. Leaning back against the cold wall of the stairwell, Helen continued eagerly, ‘Fine, fine. And what about those lovely girls?’

  ‘Oh, they’re horrible, hideous, and totally lovely. Honestly, I’ve never worked so hard in my life, or looked so awful. From now on, it’s strictly phone calls only, no Zoom, no Facetime …’

  ‘I know the feeling.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, you never look anything less than amazing …’

  It wasn’t true, of course, but it was nice to hear. Since DS Charlene Brooks – Charlie to her friends – had been on maternity leave, juggling Jessie and newborn Orla, she and Helen had spoken only intermittently, but whenever they had, there was a warmth, generosity and informality that wouldn’t have been possible were they working a case together. Helen had come to cherish these conversations; they were the perfect antidote to everything that was going on at Southampton Central.

  ‘So what’s the gossip? What am I missing out on?’

  ‘Oh, just a general breakdown in law and order, trust in the police, team morale. Believe me, Charlie, you’re better off out of it …’