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

by M. J. Arlidge

  Trotting down the stairs, Helen hit the door release, pushing out into the quiet mews street. As she did so, a wall of heat hit her, the temperature outside a marked contrast to the air-conditioned interior. Hauling off her jacket, Helen walked quickly to her bike, flicking open the saddle to toss the leather garment inside, but even as she did so, her phone started to buzz. Retrieving it, she saw it was DC McAndrew calling.

  ‘Hi, Ellie. What’s up?’

  There was a long pause. Immediately, Helen knew it was bad news but even so, she was still rocked back on her heels, as McAndrew replied: ‘There’s been a fatal stabbing in Portswood.’

  Chapter 42

  She was close now. If she could just hold her nerve for a couple more minutes, she would be free and clear.

  So far everything had gone according to plan. She had stationed herself in the alleyway, carefully laying out the tins on the ground, before sliding her hand inside the torn plastic bag, her gloved fingers fumbling for the reassuring bulk of the knife’s handle. No sooner had she got a grip on it, however, than she’d heard footsteps approaching.

  Martin Hill was a man of habit, running down the lonely alleyway at pretty much the same time every day, enjoying the privacy, isolation and free passage it afforded him. This lunchtime, these qualities had served her well, rendering the cut-through the perfect spot for an ambush. Her victim had suspected nothing, nor was there anyone to witness the attack, as she slid the knife into his stomach, catching him off guard.

  This was the point where it could all have gone wrong, had he fought back. But such was his shock, that not only did he not tackle her, he also failed to make even the slightest noise as he slid to the floor. It was all over in less than a minute. It had been easy – terribly, sickeningly, easy.

  For a brief moment, she’d stood and stared, awed by what she’d just done, then her survival instinct kicked in. Dropping the bloody knife into the torn bag, she wrapped it up tightly, depositing the package in the other shopping bag. Then, reaching down, she’d scooped up the tins and flung them in too, before hurrying away. She made swift progress to the northern end of the alleyway, where she was sure there were no tell-tale CCTV cameras. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, driving onward with zealous enthusiasm and it was only right at the last, as she reached the mouth of the alleyway, that she felt compelled to steal a look back.

  Nothing had changed; Martin Hill lay lifeless on the floor, a fallen giant. It was a pitiful sight and, stung by a sudden sense of regret, she turned, needing to be away from the scene of her crime. Now she was back on the main drag, alarmed to see people, cars, life. She realized that she was sweating heavily – she could feel the clamminess under her armpits, beads of perspiration gripping her forehead. She was convinced that her guilt was self-evident, that everyone would stare at her, calling her out for her callous crime. But in fact everyone was going about their business as usual, as if nothing of consequence had happened.

  Lowering her head, she pressed on. Her car was parked several streets away, a five-minute march at the most. If she could get there, if she could drive to her chosen disposal site without arousing suspicion, then it would be done.

  The traffic was busy this morning, and she was held up at one pedestrian crossing after another, muttering impatiently under her breath each time for the cars to pass by. Each wasted second felt like an eternity, her right arm, her conscience, weighed down by the knife that nestled in her shopping bag.

  ‘Come on, come on …’

  Now a gap opened up and she was on her way again, but even as she broke cover, she realized that she’d badly misjudged the situation, that a car in the far lane was speeding towards her, would hit her if she carried on. Grinding to a halt, she just had time to step back, as the car roared past, horn blaring. Rattled, she shot another look to her left, but the road was now clear. Moments later, she was back on the pavement and away, hoping nobody had clocked this near miss.

  On she marched, half walking, half running in an ungainly lope. To sprint would be too attention-grabbing, too suspicious, but somehow she couldn’t just walk. So, she hurried along as she best she could, hoping she looked like a regular professional running late for a meeting.

  With each passing minute, she was putting more distance between herself and the crime scene. With each road crossed, she was a little safer. The sweat still clung to her, but her breathing had stabilized now and it was with a sense of profound relief that she reached Lena Gardens. Her car was parked at the far end and soon she would be away, safe and sound.

  But even as she turned into the street, she ground to a juddering halt. Someone was standing by her car, someone in uniform. Suddenly her heart was in her mouth. Was it possible that she had been discovered already? That she would be caught, arrested, charged? Terrified, she tried to get a grip on her panic, to find some semblance of calm and now, even in her fevered state, she realized that the tall figure by her vehicle was not a police officer. He was a traffic warden.

  ‘What the hell …?’

  The man was bending down to examine her front tyre, taking great interest in its positioning. And now she understood. There had been fewer spaces than usual in the street this morning, so she’d had to park up close to a double yellow line. It wasn’t ideal, but she was sure her wheels were merely kissing the yellow paint, hardly a ticket offence.

  The traffic warden clearly disagreed. Even now he was getting out his camera, taking pictures of the car registration, the offending tyre, the position of the car. Worse still, he was consulting his watch, starting the ten-minute grace period which had to elapse before he could issue his ticket. Dear God, he was even whistling now, looking around happily, evidently in good humour.

  She turned away, stepping behind a tree, desperate not to be seen. What should she do now? Stand and wait here until he was finished? No, there was no way she could do that, anyone might see her loitering in the busy residential street, might even approach her, asking her what she was up to. Suddenly she felt sure that if someone were to stop her she wouldn’t pass the test, wouldn’t be able to lie her way out of the situation, with the bloody kitchen knife swinging by her side. No, she needed to get out of here, returning for the car when the coast was clear. Relieved, she hurried off, back towards the main street, but she had barely walked a few paces, before she stopped once more. She almost couldn’t believe it, but she wasn’t seeing things – two police officers were now standing at the top of the road, at the junction with the main street.

  Where had they come from? And what were they up to? She felt caught between the devil and deep blue sea, danger behind her, danger in front. One of the officers now cast a glance up the road towards her and instinctively she turned away, busying herself with her phone, desperately trying to buy herself some time. There was no way she could stand here in full view; she needed to move, to get away. The simple thing to do would be to cross to the other side of the street and move off, using the phone to shield her face from view. Yes, that was it. She would take it at a steady pace, composed and purposeful, like any other morning commuter. All she needed was a little nerve, a little composure.

  Taking a deep breath, she took one step off the pavement into the road, but even as she did so, she paused. Something had hit her foot. Looking down, she was horrified to see that it was a drop of blood. A single drop of blood.

  The bag was leaking. Somehow the blood had escaped its plastic wrapping, pooling in the corner of her shopping bag. Even now it was seeping from a tiny hole in the plastic, leaving a trail of guilt. Panicking, desperate, she looked up to see the police officers walking towards her. They had been chatting to a local resident, but now had broken off to continue their rounds. Any minute now they would be upon her, their curious gaze drawn to the shaking, terrified woman, with her blood-stained shopping bag …

  Casting around for some means of salvation, her eye now fell on a rainwater drain next to the curb, hidden between two parked cars. Moving forward, she deliberately dropped he
r phone, swore loudly, then crouching down, retrieved the bloody Sainsbury’s bag and shoved it through the wide metal grate. With an enormous sense of relief, she felt it fall from her grasp. She was hoping to hear a reassuring splash, but was not altogether surprised when she heard a dull thud instead, the weather having been so dry recently. Relieved nevertheless, she pulled off her gloves, grabbed her shopping bag and scooped up her phone, clamping it to her face, before hurrying over to the other side of the road. From there it was just a minute’s walk to the main street and safety, but she made it there in barely thirty seconds, never once looking back. This was not how she’d planned it and it might yet come back to haunt her, but right now that didn’t matter. Her heart was pounding fit to burst, her forehead was dripping with sweat, but she had done it. She was free and clear – for now at least.

  Chapter 43

  ‘This is a massive account, so every agency worth its salt is going to be after it. We’re going to need to be at our very best, our most innovative, if we’re going to land it …’

  Joel Jenkins was in full flow, challenging the team to respond to his directive, to seize the prize that lay before them. In the past, his directive would have fired Lilah up, would have inspired her to work harder, longer, better, to ensure that they won the contract, but she had heard too many such speeches and knew instinctively that their efforts were most likely doomed, given the odds. It didn’t help that she’d heard a rumour that the hotel chain in question had already made up their mind to go with another agency, thanks to a cosy relationship between the respective CEOs.

  Even if she had felt there was a chance of victory, it’s unlikely she would have been able to rise to the challenge. She was in a bad way today, no question, and besides, everyone in the room was so much younger, sharper, hungrier than her, so keen to clamber over each other’s corpses to get to the top. She had been like that once, but not anymore, life having intervened forcefully in the interim. Now she felt spent, lifeless, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, let alone compete with the agency’s young guns.

  Looking around the well-appointed meeting room, she felt completely out of place, wondering if she’d ever really fitted in here. Although the company was split evenly along gender lines, the atmosphere was overwhelmingly masculine – aggressive, assertive, Darwinian. The look on the faces of her colleagues, so eager and acquisitive, used to make her feel intimidated. Now it just made her feel ill.

  Perhaps that was the answer. She had been trying to soldier on, concealing her problems from her colleagues, but perhaps it was time to admit that she needed a break. She had used up her paltry holiday allowance, so perhaps the thing to do was to take sick leave, a proper chunk of time off. It would damage her reputation for sure, perhaps even her career, whatever HR might say, but suddenly she didn’t care. The illusory goals she’d been chasing for so long appeared to be just that. What she craved now was space – space to think, heal, perhaps even start over. How would the request go down? she wondered. Would there be endless discussions and meetings, or could it all be done over email, formally, clinically? If so, she would write the email today, as soon as the meeting was—

  ‘Lilah?’

  She looked up to find Joel looking at her intently.

  ‘Yes, sorry, I was just letting an idea turn over in my head. But basically I agree with what Sam was just saying—’

  ‘I wasn’t asking for your input.’

  ‘Right, sorry …’

  ‘I was just alerting you to the fact that Louise has been knocking on the window for the last minute, trying to get your attention …’

  Embarrassed, Lilah turned to see their departmental PA tapping on the glass wall.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, I was just—’ she mumbled, rising.

  She was aware that all eyes were on her, that she appeared foolish and distracted, so moved quickly, sliding across the hard, wooden floor and out into the corridor. Keen to maintain some semblance of professional dignity, she fixed a smile on her face as she turned to their long-serving PA.

  ‘Thank God for you, Louise. Joel is in full flow in there, so you’ve saved me from a fate worse than—’ She petered out as she saw that Louise seemed tearful, even nervous.

  ‘I’ve just had the police on the phone for you,’ she said tentatively.

  Immediately, Lilah felt her insides constrict. Had something happened to her mum and dad? To Eric?

  ‘It’s about Martin …’

  Even as she said it, Lilah knew it was over. That her husband was dead. And that her life would never be the same again.

  Chapter 44

  She stared down at his face, her gaze drawn to his lifeless, bloodshot eyes.

  Helen had wasted no time in racing over to the crime scene in Portswood, determined to get on top of the situation immediately. It didn’t seem possible that yet another violent crime had been committed, so hot on the heels of the attack on Declan McManus, and only a matter of hours after Amar Goj’s suicide, but the reports had proven accurate, a horrified schoolboy stumbling upon a dead body whilst sneaking into an alleyway for a crafty smoke.

  The teenage boy was being looked after by DC Reid, and Helen hadn’t broken stride to talk to him; there would be time for that later. She’d been impatient to see what they were dealing with, ducking under the police tape and picking her way carefully towards the corpse. Meredith Walker and David Spivack were not yet on the scene, meaning that, for now, Helen had the victim to herself.

  The uniformed officers who’d secured the scene had spotted a wallet in the victim’s tracksuit pocket, using this to identify him as Martin Hill. Crouching down, Helen took in his lifeless body. Hill was tall, muscular, and would have been an attractive, arresting presence in normal circumstances. But now he seemed disquieting, repellent even, his features locked into an expression of agony and horror, as if shocked, sickened, that his life should have ended this way. Moving in closer, Helen saw that his face was otherwise untouched, so too his large, open hands, which appeared smooth and without signs of abrasions. The same could not be said for his torso, however, and Helen’s gaze drifted there now.

  The victim was wearing a white T-shirt, crisp and brilliant on the arms and collar, but sodden and crimson around the stomach and chest. Tracing a gloved finger just above the fabric, Helen discovered three significant tears, one around the stomach, two further up, near the heart. Death would have been swift but savage, three sickening blows robbing the victim of breath, consciousness and ultimately life itself. Helen shuddered, it was an awful way to die.

  Stepping away, she straightened up, scanning the alleyway. The heat was stifling this morning and she angrily clawed the hairs away from her face, which even now clung to her cheeks. Surveying the length of the alleyway, Helen saw immediately that Hill’s attacker had chosen the site well – no CCTV, no overlooking windows and very little chance of being disturbed. Had they lain in wait, then, biding their time until their unfortunate victim approached? And if so, to what end? The man’s wallet was still on him and his iPhone 12 remained strapped to his left bicep, a pair of AirPods still nestling incongruously in his ears. Given this, robbery didn’t appear to be the motive, so why had Hill been so viciously dispatched? What did his attacker stand to gain?

  Standing alone by the body, Helen felt unsteady on her feet. The temperature was rising steadily, the sun forcing itself into the alleyway, but it wasn’t that which made Helen’s head swim. It was fear, a rising sense of panic, which she’d felt often recently. The innocent faces of Eve Sutcliffe, Alison Burris and Declan McManus seemed to dance in front of her, reminding her of the relentless tide of bloodshed. Had the city lost its mind? If so, what chance did Helen have of wresting back control of the situation?

  Turning away from the body, Helen hurried back down the alleyway, hoping against hope that the team might have turned up something. A sighting, a witness, a motive, anything – but in truth they looked as shocked and forlorn as she did. They were already working flat
out on other investigations, running on fumes, and now they had to deal with this – another high-profile murder case.

  Lifting the police tape, Helen ducked underneath, pivoting towards the team, but even as she did so, she was confronted by a familiar figure.

  Snap, snap, snap.

  It took Helen a moment to process what was happening, a moment more for the anger to surge within her. Emilia Garanita was standing there, bold as brass, intent on capturing an image of Helen – sweaty, anxious, worried – her camera lens trained upon her.

  ‘What the hell is she doing here?’ Helen barked in the direction of DC Bentham, who looked flustered and embarrassed.

  Snap, snap, snap.

  Helen was tempted to bat the camera from Garanita’s grasp, to smash it on the ground, but she knew this would only add fuel to the fire, so instead she pushed angrily past.

  ‘Any comment to make, DI Grace? Anything to say about this latest outrage?’

  Helen spun round, unable to contain her anger.

  ‘I’ll remind you that this is a crime scene. If you’re not out of here in thirty seconds …’

  ‘Just doing my job,’ Emilia said, smiling broadly, as she backed away. ‘At least one of us is, right?’

  Now Helen really was tempted to go for her, but Emilia was wise to the danger, dropping her camera to her side and casually walking back towards her car. Even as she did so, Helen turned on DC Bentham.

  ‘Would someone please explain to me what the bloody hell’s going on here? Do we have no site management anymore? No protocols? She shouldn’t have got past uniform, let alone you lot …’

  ‘She just appeared from nowhere,’ Bentham protested. ‘I – I didn’t see her.’

  ‘Well, it’s not good enough. And if it happens again, I’ll be holding you responsible, all of you.’ She gestured at the assembled team, who seemed to shrink back as she spoke, looking aggrieved, even a little scared. ‘This is totally unacceptable. A young man is dead in that alleyway and somehow Emilia Garanita has the run of the scene, before forensics, before pathology – I mean, what part of you thinks that’s OK? Have you forgotten everything you were taught at police college?’