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

by M. J. Arlidge

  ‘I know and, of course, there’s no way I could be doing what you’re doing and bring up these two critters … but there’s a part of me that would like to be there. Helping the team, helping you …’

  It was said tentatively, even a little awkwardly. And now Helen realized why Charlie had rung. She was worried – worried about her. Had she picked up on the numerous crime reports in the local paper of late? Talked to DC Bentham or another long-serving member of the team? Whatever had prompted the call, she’d felt compelled to reach out to Helen, which cheered and moved her more than she could say. Charlie’s concern for her was simple, heartfelt and honest and suddenly Helen yearned to have her back at Southampton Central.

  ‘Well, nothing would please me more,’ Helen said, her voice sounding oddly thick, as emotion ambushed her. ‘But you’ve got a more important job to do, bringing up my god-daughters to be law-abiding, constructive members of society. God knows there are precious few of those around these days …’

  ‘Well, I’ll do my best,’ Charlie laughed, ‘but I’m not sure what three hours of Peppa Pig a day is doing to their brains. Given their parentage, they didn’t have much in that department to start with.’

  They continued to chat, relaxed and happy, for over half an hour. It was the perfect way to unwind, but when eventually she rang off, Helen felt mixed emotions. Relieved that Charlie, Steve and the girls were OK, happy to have heard from her old friend, but aware of just how isolated she’d become at Southampton Central. Helen felt as if the sands were shifting beneath her feet, old loyalties being tested, new challenges rising up to face her and, without Charlie, her rock, she suddenly felt exposed, even vulnerable, counting only Grace Simmons as a firm, trustworthy ally.

  Helen would front up to these challenges – what else could she do? – but she would have been happier, far happier, if Charlie had been by her side. There was no question of that happening, however, so for the time being, Helen would have to soldier on as best she could.

  This was a contest, a battle, that she would have to fight alone.

  Day Three

  Chapter 32

  She awoke with a start, suddenly aware that someone was in the room. Disoriented, uncertain in the dull gloom whether it was morning or the middle of the night, Lilah sat bolt upright, pulling the duvet around her. But to her surprise it was only Martin, holding a heavily laden tray.

  ‘What’s all this?’ she enquired, pushing the stray hairs from her face.

  ‘What does it look like?’ he returned, happily. ‘Coffee, croissant and freshly squeezed orange juice. A breakfast fit for a queen …’

  He slid the tray in front of her.

  ‘Yesterday was pretty rough. Thought you deserved a treat.’

  ‘Well, that’s very nice of you …’

  Lilah picked up the orange juice, draining it in one go. She knew Martin was expecting her to be grateful and gushing, but she wasn’t sure she could summon the energy. It had been a disturbed night, Lilah tossing and turning as Martin slumbered, hearing all sorts of noises, imagining all kinds of unpleasant scenarios. She’d had at least two nightmares in which shadowy figures invaded their home, nightmares that seemed terrifyingly real. Even when fatigue finally overtook her, her body begging for sleep, the vodka hangover started to kick in, her brain pulsing with low-level pain. How she regretted her weakness now.

  ‘This is delicious,’ she said, mustering what enthusiasm she could. ‘But you didn’t need to go to so much trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. You know I want things to be good between us, for us to be happy. So what’s a little effort, a little consideration?’

  It was as close to an apology as Lilah was going to get, so, nodding gratefully, she took a bite of the croissant. It was crisp and sweet and the feeling of the rich dough hitting her empty stomach immediately made her feel better. So she took another bite, then another, devouring the whole pastry in less than a minute.

  ‘You were hungry …’ Martin laughed, climbing on the bed next to her.

  Lilah raised the coffee to her lips, but as she did so, Martin stopped her.

  ‘And so am I.’

  Taking the cup from her, he placed it on the bedside table, then turned back to her, sliding the strap of her vest top from her shoulder, kissing her skin gently.

  ‘Martin, I’ve got to go to work …’

  ‘It’s only seven o’clock, we’ve got plenty of time.’

  He kissed the top of her chest, gently sliding the strap down to reveal more skin.

  ‘But I was so late yesterday, I wanted to get in early …’

  ‘Forget about them. They’ve had more than their pound of flesh from you over the years.’

  He caressed the edge of her breast. In spite of herself, Lilah felt a shiver of desire.

  ‘And besides,’ Martin continued, ‘what’s a reconciliation without a bit of making up?’

  Hauling his powerful frame upwards, Martin straddled her, pushing her back gently down onto the bed and kissing her urgently. Lilah submitted, part of her wanting it, part of her not, yet knowing there was no point fighting his desire. In days gone by, she had held the upper hand in their relationship, but no longer, and today, as so often recently, she was powerless to resist.

  Chapter 33

  He looked small, vulnerable even, hunched on a broken chair, framed by the expansive backdrop of the interview suite. But the expression on Lee Moffat’s face gave the lie to that notion. A night in the cells had not softened him – he stared unflinchingly across the table at Joseph Hudson, defiant and scornful.

  ‘I’ll ask you again. Where were you on the night of the twelfth of August? Between the hours of 10 p.m. and midnight?’

  There were three of them in the room, DS Hudson and DC Reid playing bad cop, bad cop with their truculent suspect. Moffat had declined a lawyer, declined refreshments and, so far, had declined to comment. In response to Joseph Hudson’s question, he simply chewed his gum, loudly, aggressively, the white, rubbery substance snapping and crackling in his mouth.

  ‘Were you in the Locks Heath area between those hours?’

  Moffat shrugged, but said nothing.

  ‘OK, how about the small hours of the second of August? Between midnight and 2 a.m.?’

  Lee Moffat narrowed his eyes, as if thinking hard, then leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his long, lank hair, in the process revealing a vivid snake tattoo on his forearm.

  ‘That is when you’re generally out and about, right?’ Reid spoke up.

  ‘From what we hear, you’ve been very busy,’ Hudson added. ‘But nicking other people’s cars comes with certain risks, doesn’t it?’

  Click, click, click, the chewing gum going round and round.

  ‘Especially if your victims don’t want to give up their vehicles. Does the name Alison Burris mean anything to you?’

  Now there was a reaction, the chewing ceasing briefly, before resuming, more aggressively this time.

  ‘She was murdered in the Carlton Road car park in the early hours of the second of August. Can you explain to me why you had two screwdrivers on you when we picked you up last night?’

  Moffat stared at him, looking slightly less amused now. ‘Tools of the trade. I’m a handyman …’

  The scorn was back and Hudson was quick to slap it down.

  ‘The screwdriver heads were sharpened, Lee. They weren’t tools, they were weapons.’

  ‘Nah …’

  ‘What’s more, they’re being examined right now in the lab. If we can link them to the attack on Alison Burris—’

  ‘Knock yourself out.’

  It was said decisively, as if ending the conversation. Hudson stared at Moffat for a moment, saying nothing in response. Was Moffat dismissive of the accusation because he was innocent? Or because he was confident no trace of his crime remained?

  ‘I will, Lee, don’t worry. Because I intend to prove that you killed Alison Burris and Declan McManus.’

 
‘Fuck off. I never touched them …’

  ‘Makes no difference if it was you, or one of your guys. That doesn’t matter in the eyes of the law. You’re the ringmaster, the instigator …’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re on about—’

  ‘Your warehouse has got parts from thirty, forty luxury vehicles, maybe more. You must be turning a tidy profit …’

  Click, click, click. The gum was back, Moffat retreating from the fray.

  ‘Was that why you targeted McManus?’ Reid asked, picking up the baton.

  ‘You’ve lost me …’

  ‘Declan McManus was working for ARG Insurance. They’d hired him to look into car thefts in Southampton, Portsmouth, Bournemouth. They’re having to make a lot of payouts and, trust me, they’re not happy about it. McManus had been working for them for over three weeks, visiting the mechanics, body shops, black-market dealers, trying to figure out who was the source of all this unpleasantness. The head of the snake …’ Reid said.

  ‘Which threatened your interests, didn’t it?’ Hudson added. ‘Is that why you chose to do it with petrol?’

  Moffat stared at him, determined not to break eye contact.

  ‘Lighter fluid, or meths, would have been easier, certainly less dangerous. But using petrol – well, that sent out a clear message, didn’t it?’

  Moffat shook his head slowly, but said nothing.

  ‘Is that why you killed McManus? To stop his investigation? To deter others from poking their noses into your business?’

  ‘You’ve got the wrong man,’ Moffat replied, turning his palms upwards in a show of innocence. ‘I don’t know the guy.’

  ‘OK, Lee, have it your way,’ Hudson said. ‘Do you own one of these?’

  He slid a photo of the Rick Owens hoodie across the table. Moffat paused, then looked down at it. As he did so, first a frown of confusion, then consternation, passed across his face.

  ‘It’s designer wear, something you’re very keen on. Got to do something with all those ill-gotten gains, right?’

  Moffat’s eyes were glued to the picture.

  ‘Well, guess what? Fibres from a hoodie like that were found at the crime scene in Locks Heath, snagged on a fence as the perpetrator fled. You got one like that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, you do. I’ve got a copy of the order form. Paid for by a debit card registered to a “Lee Moffat” and delivered to your mother’s address six weeks ago.’

  Moffat kept his counsel, the chewing stilled for now.

  ‘Other than that, it was a very professional job, I must say …’

  ‘Wasn’t me.’

  ‘So where’s the hoodie?’

  Silence.

  ‘I’d love to take a look at it, see if it’s got a tear in it, traces of petrol …’

  ‘Haven’t got it.’

  ‘You only bought it six weeks ago.’

  ‘Must have lost it or given it away or something …’

  ‘It cost a thousand pounds.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, I know you’re loaded, Lee, but surely that kind of money means something to you. People have been killed for less.’

  Moffat said nothing, eyeballing Hudson venomously. All traces of amusement, of cocksureness, were now gone.

  ‘Look, Lee. I know you did it. And I know why. So let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I want you to take me through your movements on the second and the twelfth, minute by minute. Where you were, what you were doing, who you were with. We’ve got your phone now, we can track your movements, so don’t even think about lying to me. This is it, mate, the end of the road …’ He stared at Moffat, smiling as he concluded: ‘It’s time for you to tell me the truth.’

  Chapter 34

  Helen had the distinct impression he was stalling, attempting to deflect her questions by asking some of his own.

  ‘Can I ask the nature of your interest in Mr Goj?’

  Helen took him in, amused by the polished slickness of Jeremy Blake. CEOs of hospital trusts tended to look more like Forbes 500 execs than healthcare providers and Blake was no exception. Southampton Children’s Hospital was one of the biggest in the country, providing outstanding care, support and hope to young people all over the South Coast, but the meeting room they were ensconced in would not have been out of place in Silicon Valley. It was modern, expensive, impressive, much like the CEO who sat opposite her.

  ‘It’s an incident involving threat to life,’ Helen replied crisply. ‘You don’t come to the attention of the Major Incident Team unless it’s something serious.’

  Blake was taken aback, clearly he had not been expecting this.

  Helen let her words linger for a moment, before continuing. ‘Before we get into that, however, I’d just like to double-check a few of the basics. So, Mr Goj started work here in 1992, as a trainee manager in procurement.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Blake replied cautiously. ‘Procurement is a huge operation for a hospital of this size, so we’re always taking on new staff.’

  ‘So his job was to source surgical gowns, nurses’ uniforms, computers—’

  ‘Cleaning equipment, lanyards, blankets and sheets, pens, paper clips, printer paper, whatever we need to run the hospital safely and efficiently.’

  ‘I see. And over time, he rose up the ranks, eventually becoming Chief Operating Officer, right?’

  A marked reaction from Blake – confusion and concern.

  ‘Or perhaps I’ve got that wrong,’ Helen added, looking at her notes.

  ‘Well …’ Blake replied tentatively. ‘Amar is a long-standing, loyal member of hospital staff, been here nearly twenty years … but he’s not exactly scaled the heights. He’s a good worker, but he was promoted to the position of departmental manager in procurement in 2006 and he’s been doing that ever since.’

  Helen stared at Blake, taken aback.

  ‘I can run off his service record and pay slips. I’ll get HR to do it now, if you like …’

  Helen nodded absently, her thoughts turning to the larger-than-life figure she had met last night. He certainly presented himself as a man of importance, of means, but appearances could be deceiving. Gathering herself, she slid the printout of Goj’s Facebook page across the desk towards him.

  ‘You can see why we were confused …’

  Blake took in the page, his face ashen. ‘Jesus Christ, I had no idea …’ He handed it back to her. ‘The current COO’s going to be none too pleased, I can tell you.’ It was an attempt at humour, but felt forced.

  ‘And is Mr Goj a good employee?’

  ‘Yes. By and large.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning nothing. He is what he is. A middle manager in procurement.’

  ‘And have you had any problems in that department? Recently, I mean.’

  ‘Well, you’ll know that we suffered a tragic bereavement recently. One of our deputy managers—’

  ‘Alison Burris.’

  ‘That’s right. Such a sad loss, she was a very able administrator and a popular, valued colleague. Have you made progress with your investigation? We were supposed to get an update from someone in your team but—’

  ‘Presumably that means extra work for Mr Goj now,’ Helen interrupted, cutting off Blake’s attempt at diversion. ‘As her direct superior, he’ll have to do two jobs basically, until such time as you can find a replacement?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it. It’ll be tough for him, but I’m sure he’ll cope.’

  ‘That’s funny, because I checked with reception when I arrived. Mr Goj is not expected in today,’ Helen fired back. ‘In fact, his security clearance has been revoked.’

  Blake stared at her, caught out.

  ‘Would you care to explain why that is, Mr Blake?’

  There was a long, heavy silence.

  ‘Inspector, can I suggest that we reconvene with lawyers present. I want to provide what assistance I can, but it must be done in the right way. I could meet you tomorr
ow or the day after at their offices—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’m sure you’d love to delay this conversation, but I have two serious crimes to investigate – the murder of one of your employees and the attempted murder of another man. If Amar Goj is in any way connected to these crimes, if you even suspect he had any involvement, I need to know. And I need to know now.’

  She glared at him, challenging him to push back. She half expected him to do just that, but now she saw his body sag. The smart suit and power glasses were just for show – Blake was weak and scared.

  ‘Look, I can’t say … I don’t know … if Amar has any involvement in these matters, what he may or may not have been up to—’

  ‘But—’ Helen interrupted, impatiently.

  ‘But, we had to suspend him following allegations of financial impropriety.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  Now it was Helen’s turn to be surprised. The man she’d met last night, who’d appeared so ebullient, so popular, so successful, had only hours earlier been suspended from the job he’d held for nearly twenty years.

  ‘Why? What had he done?’

  ‘Well, we don’t know the ins and outs of it. A full internal enquiry is just getting under way.’

  Helen noted the way he stressed the word ‘internal’ as if privacy and discretion were paramount.

  ‘But it appears he may have been defrauding the Trust.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well …’ Blake replied, giving every impression of not wanting to elaborate, ‘procurement is a very complicated business. There are thousands, tens of thousands of transactions every month. We can’t double-check every single one, there has to be a certain amount of trust extended towards the managers, and their staff—’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we think that trust might have been betrayed. We believe that Amar might have set up a shell company – a fictitious supplier – then started procuring items from them, at significantly inflated prices.’