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

by M. J. Arlidge

  Stunned silence.

  ‘She taught Eve, I believe?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Andrew mumbled.

  ‘Did they spend a lot of time together?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Eve – well, it’s not immodest to say that Eve was her star pupil. Eve worked really hard in the run up to her music GCSE exam, plus she was hoping to be leader of the first violins for the National Youth Orchestra this summer, so they spent a lot of time together …’

  There was defiance, but pride too in his assertion.

  ‘And these lessons took place at school?’

  ‘Yes, mostly.’

  Even as he said it, he darted an anguished look at his wife. A long silence followed, before Jean finally took up the reins.

  ‘There were – there were private lessons too. They were mostly at the weekend, at Belinda’s flat.’

  ‘I see. And were there phone calls, messages and so on, between them?’

  ‘Yes, but only to make arrangements for lessons. Of course, they tailed off after she’d done her exams.’

  ‘That’s the thing,’ DC Malik intervened. ‘We don’t think they did. We had a more detailed look at Eve’s call history this morning and, if anything, the regularity of calls and messages increased. Up until about six weeks ago at least, when Belinda Raeburn suddenly stopped responding. Eve called, sent messages asking to talk, but received nothing in response.’

  ‘Did Eve seem upset at all in the weeks leading up to her death?’ Helen overlapped. ‘Did you notice that she was depressed, unhappy at all?’

  There was a long beat, then a meaningful look from wife to husband.

  ‘Yes, now that you mention it, she was … she was very down in those last few weeks. I thought it was just the come-down after her exams, plus the anxiety of waiting for the results.’

  ‘But it did surprise us at the time,’ Andrew added, in support of his wife. ‘It wasn’t like Eve to be so blue. She was generally a happy, confident girl …’

  As he said it, the bitter reality crushed him once more – his bubbly talented daughter was gone. Helen really wanted to spare him – spare them – any more pain. But there was one more question she had to put to them.

  ‘Last thing, then, can I ask when Eve first met Belinda Raeburn? Properly, I mean.’

  ‘Well – well, it would have been when they first started one-on-one lessons.’

  ‘Which was …?’

  Jean gave her husband another anguished look, then: ‘Well, it was about a year ago …’ She paused briefly, her mind in tumult, as she concluded: ‘Just before her fifteenth birthday.’

  Chapter 68

  ‘OK, so we now have a potential motive for Eve Sutcliffe’s murder.’

  Helen’s voice was firm and decisive, despite the many questions that remained. She had issued a general alert, summoning the team back to Southampton Central. Everyone had complied and they were now crammed into the incident room, even Joseph Hudson, who stood at the back of the crowd, avoiding her eye. Helen knew Grace Simmons had spoken to him, given him both barrels, and he seemed compliant for now. Helen felt relieved and empowered by this, launching into the briefing with renewed confidence.

  ‘Since our chat with Eve’s parents, DC Bentham has been going over Belinda Raeburn’s professional history …’

  ‘And it appears she moved around a lot, never staying at any one school too long,’ Bentham elaborated. ‘Looked at one way, she’s just restless, itchy feet and all that. But it may be there’s another reason why she kept moving on, or was moved on …’

  ‘Half an hour ago, I spoke to the head teacher of Stanborough Ladies Academy in Berkshire,’ Helen added. ‘One of her previous postings. He wasn’t very forthcoming; in fact, he was decidedly coy, but when I put my suspicions to him he pretty much confirmed that he’d had to dispense with Raeburn’s services because of a possible inappropriate relationship. He won’t name names or go further unless we make it official, but this does suggest that Raeburn might have a history of this kind of thing, of actively seeking out romantic or sexual relationships with her female students.’

  ‘Even though she’s got a long-term partner?’ DC Edwards queried.

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ Helen returned briskly. ‘Now, maybe previous victims kept quiet, or perhaps it was deemed best to keep everything under wraps once she’d been moved on. Whatever, in this instance, I don’t think Eve Sutcliffe was prepared to be tossed aside, to go quietly.’

  ‘Have a look at this printout of her call history,’ DC Malik said, handing out the sheets. ‘She called Raeburn once, twice, occasionally three times a day in the weeks leading up to her death. We didn’t think much of it when we had her attacker down as male and sexually motivated, but looked at with a fresh pair of eyes, it’s intriguing, especially as Raeburn failed to answer the calls or respond in any meaningful way, despite having done so assiduously, earlier in their relationship …’

  ‘This might suggest that Eve wanted to continue their liaison, or at least let her older lover know how she was feeling,’ Helen added. ‘Who knows, perhaps she’d even threatened her? If their relationship was exposed, then it would have had profound consequences for Raeburn. It would have cost her her job, her relationship and perhaps even her liberty, as Eve Sutcliffe was still a minor.’

  ‘It would have meant a stretch, no question, plus she’d be on the sex offenders register for life, rendering her totally unemployable,’ DC Osbourne agreed. ‘It would have ruined her.’

  ‘So what are we saying?’ Hudson had finally raised his head above the parapet, his scepticism all too clear. ‘That this music teacher killed Martin Hill and Eve Sutcliffe?’

  ‘No, it’s worse than that,’ Helen countered. ‘Much worse.’

  Now she had their attention. All eyes were on her, as the team tried to fathom the connections between these baffling murders. Turning to the murder board, Helen pointed to the picture of Alison Burris, the young NHS manager stabbed to death nearly a fortnight ago.

  ‘Alison Burris was killed by a person or persons unknown, potentially benefitting this man – Amar Goj. He wasn’t to know Burris had already emailed his boss with her suspicions and presumably he wanted to silence her …’ She moved her finger to the middle-aged man’s smiling face. ‘Goj in turn murdered Declan McManus. He had no motive for doing so, no connection to the dead man, but someone must have benefitted …’

  She then moved on to the picture of Belinda Raeburn.

  ‘Two days later, Belinda Raeburn murders Martin Hill. Again, Raeburn has no history of violence and no connection to the dead man, but—’

  ‘But perhaps she had a debt to pay?’ McAndrew added, suddenly getting it.

  ‘Exactly. We know that Raeburn didn’t kill Eve Sutcliffe, she was involved in a summer school concert at the time of the murder, but Eve’s death was certainly conveniently timed, saving Raeburn from exposure, from ruin.’

  ‘So who benefits from Martin Hill’s death?’ DC Edwards challenged.

  ‘His wife, Lilah,’ Helen replied. ‘She’s painting a rosy picture of their relationship, but I don’t buy it. I think he was a controlling, violent presence whom she was probably glad to be rid of …’

  Helen paused to catch her breath. Turning away from the board, she addressed the team directly.

  ‘We’ve been struggling of late, I’ll be the first to admit that. Struggling to find credible suspects for a series of violent crimes – carjackings, sexual assaults, racist attacks. I think there’s a reason for that. All of these victims – Burris, Sutcliffe, McManus, Hill – were killed by people who had no obvious motive or connection to them.’

  ‘The perfect murder …’ Hudson breathed, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘Almost. In fact, if it wasn’t for tiny mistakes by Goj and Raeburn in the execution of these crimes, we wouldn’t have any leads at all …’

  Hudson looked like he was about to respond, but Helen carried on quickly.

  ‘We thoug
ht we were facing an unprecedented crime wave. But actually we’re facing something much more sinister, something joined up.’

  Helen let this thought land.

  ‘All the murders were made to look like one thing, when, in fact, they were something else entirely. Think about it – Eve’s body was stripped, but she wasn’t sexually molested in any way. Was that because her killer wasn’t interested or couldn’t go through with it? Perhaps her murderer was even a woman; we have no way of knowing for sure. Likewise, the stripping of Alison Burris’s car. The obvious, easy things – like the info screen – were removed to make it look like theft, but the expensive hand-stitched leather seats were left intact. What self-respecting car thief would do that? These are only small details, but they’re things that have been nagging at me, things that only make sense if someone was trying to disguise the true motive behind the crime.’

  Silence, as the team processed these troubling thoughts, then finally DC McAndrew spoke up:

  ‘So are we saying that they all know each other? That Goj, Raeburn and the others are in this together? That they’re coordinating these murders in order to help each other out?’

  ‘Perhaps they’re in some kind of club,’ Hudson added, drily.

  ‘Well, that’s what we’ve got to work out,’ Helen responded defiantly. ‘Which is why I want you to drop every other line of enquiry.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’ Now the sarcasm was gone, Hudson’s protest sincere. ‘I can link Lee Moffat to every one of these crimes—’

  ‘Lee Moffat is no longer of any interest to us,’ Helen replied coolly. ‘And I’ll say it again, so there’s no confusion …’

  She let her eyes drift over the faces in front of her, some of whom were friendly, some of whom were not.

  ‘I want us to drop every other avenue of investigation and drill down into the lives of Amar Goj, Belinda Raeburn and Lilah Hill. I want us to focus on possible contact – phone calls, messages, movements. A place they might all go, a way that they can connect. Any evidence of communication, of conspiracy, of premeditation, I want to know about it straightaway. We’ve been clutching at straws for a while, but these guys hold the key to cracking this case …’ she turned to the murder board, gesturing at the photos – ‘now we just need to find it.’

  Chapter 69

  She slipped inside the house, slamming the door behind her. Her head was pounding, her dress clinging to her and, buckling under the strain, Lilah dropped her bag, leaning against the wall for support. It was cool to the touch, the relief pleasurable, and she stayed there, glued to it, sucking up the respite after what had been one of the most difficult days of her life.

  Her whole existence had turned on its axis. The past week had played out like some kind of bad dream, a never-ending nightmare, in which the next moment of disaster or despair was just around the corner. What should she do now? What was the right thing to do? Every decision seemed fraught with danger.

  Peeling herself off the wall, she snatched up her bag and headed for the kitchen. It felt leaden in her hand, weighed down by her impulse buy on the way home, but there was bounty within, something she badly needed. Depositing the moleskin bag on the worktop, she undid the zip to reveal her groceries: a family-sized bar of Fruit and Nut, two cans of lemon Fanta and, in between them, a bottle of gin.

  Opening the cupboard, she pulled out a glass. She didn’t waste time with ice, lemon or the mixers, simply unscrewing the bottle and pouring two inches. Slowly, deliberately, she raised it to her lips. A moment’s hesitation – a prayer for the dying – then she downed it in one go. The effect was electrifying, the alcohol burning her throat, even as her body reacted with something close to euphoria. A pleasant glow spread through her and with it a surge of adrenaline, of excitement, of pure unfettered joy. Laughing, she poured another two fingers in and drained that. Then another.

  Now she paused, placing the glass noisily back on the surface. She didn’t want to rush this, didn’t want to burn through the bottle in five minutes. Not when it made her feel this good. Suddenly, the whole awful situation – the graffiti on the door, Martin’s murder, the distressing events of the day – seemed at a safe remove. Out there, the world was dangerous, hateful and unforgiving, but here, safe in her little house, everything seemed fine. She knew relief would be temporary, that she was just anaesthetizing herself, but she was fine with that. It was her funeral, after all.

  An evening of pointless hedonism lay ahead, a thought that made her giddy. The room seemed to be swaying slightly, threatening to disconnect her from reality, and she gripped the corner of the work surface to steady herself.

  ‘Get a grip, now. Take it slow …’

  She whispered these words to her better self, urging caution. And even as she picked up the gin bottle for another shot, she paused, replacing it on the surface and delving into her bag once more. She needed some sustenance, and the dilution of a mixer, to truly savour the abandon that lay ahead. Digging out the chocolate, she grabbed the cold cans and placed them next to her glass, but even as she did so, her gaze was drawn to something else, something that stopped her in her tracks.

  She didn’t want to look at it, but somehow she felt compelled to. And even though she longed to tug at the zip, to hide it from view, she found she couldn’t. So instead she stood there, barely moving, barely breathing, staring at the mobile phone burning a hole in the bottom of her bag.

  Chapter 70

  The house was as quiet as the grave. Normally this would have crushed Robert, but today he was glad of the silence, the stillness. It was how he needed it.

  Crossing to the front door, he double-locked it from the inside, then made his way to the rear of the house. The slider was already secured, but he checked it anyway, before returning to the hall to pick up his briefcase. Now he didn’t hesitate, striding up the stairs, past the twin’s room, past the master bedroom and on up, eventually cresting the third-floor landing. Now he paused, placing his briefcase on the floor and grabbing the long metal pole that lounged against the wall. Reaching up, he slipped the crook through the hook, and moments later, the loft ladder descended, beckoning him upwards. Grabbing the bag, he obliged, ascending quickly, disappearing into the shadowy loft.

  Inside, he flicked on the light, and hauled up the ladder. He knew he was being ridiculously overcautious, but he couldn’t risk discovery, not when he was so close to the end. If an eagle-eyed neighbour or unfortunately positioned camera should catch a sight of him, then all he’d sacrificed, all he’d risked would have been for nothing. And that was unthinkable, especially when the stakes were so high.

  Crossing to the workbench, he swept the tools aside, placing the briefcase in their place. Clicking it open, he removed the legal briefs, the magazines – all useful cover – to reveal the important contents beneath. The phone and, next to it, a 9mm Glock pistol.

  Sliding on disposable gloves, he picked up the gun, weighing it in his hand. It was heavy, far heavier than he’d been expecting, but oddly the weight was reassuring, seeming to suggest power. He looked down the sight, then released the magazine, checking that all eight bullets were in place. Satisfied, he clicked it back into position, then raised the gun in both hands, as if aiming at an invisible foe.

  The next part was tricky, dangerous even, so he took his time, easing the safety catch off to make the weapon live. Tentatively, he placed his trigger finger in position, holding it there, willing his hands to be steady. Satisfied, he reinstated the safety catch, only realizing now that he had held his breath throughout the entire operation.

  Putting the gun down, he exhaled, laughing at his own stupidity, but his relief was short-lived. Right on cue, the mobile phone concealed in his pocket started ringing. The ring tone was low but insistent, demanding his attention, urging him to answer. And, of course, he was powerless to resist. Because this was it.

  The moment of truth.

  Chapter 71

  Her wheels bit the tarmac, propelling her through the da
rkened streets. Helen had spent the evening driving the team forward, searching for connections, clues, leads, urging them on until they were dead on their feet. At that point, she had finally relented, sending them home to grab some rest, albeit with a solemn promise to be back on the case first thing in the morning.

  Helen had lingered a little, keen to set some final lines of enquiry in motion, before departing herself. It had been a long, gruelling, surprising day, but it was with energy and optimism that she had strode towards the bike park. Last night, she had been in a dark place, floundering in their investigations, on the defensive with a vengeful, assertive Joseph Hudson, but now she felt very different. Finally, they were making progress, and though the next few days still promised to be incredibly tough, for the first time Helen scented victory.

  Firing up her bike, she’d roared away and was soon gliding down the streets she knew so well. She had ridden these roads so often that she had to actively disengage her autopilot, so as not to drive straight home. She would head there shortly – she desperately needed a shower and a good night’s sleep – but there was somewhere else she needed to be first.

  Ever since her early morning interview with Grace Simmons, she’d been on tenterhooks, nervous as to how the day’s events would play out. She knew that Simmons would be as good as her word, would tackle Hudson about his insubordination, his lies, his threats, but she had no idea how Joseph would react. Would he fight back? Would he double down, going straight to Peters? Or would he bide his time, waiting for an opportunity to regain the initiative? Helen suspected the latter, he had been angry and hostile in the team briefing earlier, but suddenly Helen was desperate to know how the interview had gone. To get a full debrief from Simmons on their showdown.

  Her superior lived in a pretty little house in Shirley and Helen made it there in less than ten minutes. Killing her engine, she slid off the bike and strolled up the path, admiring the floral borders that Simmons tended to at the weekend. She lived alone, following the death of her husband, and though occasionally she got lonely, Simmons’s house and garden kept her occupied – her release from work, stress and the general travails of life.