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

by M. J. Arlidge

  Suddenly, unbidden, an image of the twins popped into his head. Would they ever find out what had happened to their dad? That he ended his life here on a dirty concrete floor? Or would his fate remain forever a mystery, his body buried in some grim wasteland? Would they go to their graves thinking their dad had deserted them?

  Robert was losing consciousness, stars studding his vision. Bleecher was swearing viciously, enjoying his triumph, but it was not him Robert saw now, but Freddie and Joshua, laughing, joking, running to him. The image, rather than tormenting him, seemed to rouse him. From nowhere, energy suddenly coursed through his veins and he bucked once more, desperate to throw his attacker off. Bleecher wasn’t expecting this sudden resistance and wobbled violently, only just managing to stay on top by shifting his position. Again, Robert bucked, sensing an opportunity. Bleecher swayed backwards, his weight carrying him to the left, and now Robert struck, bringing his knee up sharply into the man’s groin. Off balance, unprepared, Bleecher crumpled in on himself, his breath exploding from his open mouth. With one last push, Robert heaved him off, the large man landing with a crash on his back. Even now Bleecher’s fingers were scrambling for purchase, but Robert was quicker, scrambling onto his knees, grasping his prone attacker. An arm came up to repel him but Robert batted it away with his spare hand, the hard metal of the gun smashing into Bleecher’s stubby fingers. The loan shark cried out in pain, his attention momentarily diverted. Robert didn’t hesitate. Raising the jammed gun high above his head, he held it there for a second, screamed out in fury, then brought it down hard, driving it into the man’s fleshy face.

  Chapter 83

  DC Malik was staring up at Robert Downing’s house, as Edwards asked:

  ‘Do you want to go or shall I?’

  He offered this up even-handedly, as if there was a choice, but it was clear that he had no intention of moving. And though they were the same rank, there was no point in Malik pushing back, of forcing him to get off his fat arse. Edwards had been at Southampton Central significantly longer than her and with that came a strange, unspoken superiority. She didn’t get that from her female colleagues, of course, just the men, but sadly it was par for the course.

  ‘I’ll go. I could do with the exercise …’ she replied quietly.

  Smiling thinly, DC Malik climbed out of the car. Though she hated Edwards’s casual assertion of authority, there was nevertheless a part of her that was glad to be free of him. With each passing day, the atmosphere within the team seemed to be worsening, with individual officers overtly taking sides. Edwards had made no secret of his support and admiration for DS Hudson, but that was not a choice Malik could support. To her mind, Hudson was reckless, self-interested and underhand, a threat to the cohesion and smooth working of the team. She could never voice this in front of Edwards, of course, so perhaps it was better to be out on the street, rather than stuck in a poky car making small talk.

  Pacing away from the vehicle, Malik turned to look up at the house. They had been stationed on Wentworth Road for over two hours now, waiting for Robert Downing to put in an appearance. But so far their surveillance had yielded nothing, other than extreme boredom and pins and needles. Stretching, Malik began to walk along the road, pretending to consult her phone, whilst actually casting an eye towards the impressive terraced house opposite.

  It was four storeys high and impressively finished, the front door gleaming with the confidence of fresh paint. The house was a status symbol and until recently would have been an attractive family home. But now Downing lived alone, a spurned single dad. What arguments, what disagreements, what events had taken place behind those locked doors that had led the eminent barrister to this sorry pass? Suddenly Malik burned to know, but there was no sign of the man himself, no opportunity to shake the answers out of him. Where was he? Was it possible that even now he was engaged in some desperate act, hoping to pay back those who’d saved his skin? Or was his unusual absence just a coincidence?

  Checking her notebook, Malik dialled Downing’s home number, not once breaking stride. She was at least forty yards from the house, on the other side of the road, but even so, she heard the landline ring, a faint melodic trill. It rang, six, seven times, then cut out, as the voicemail clicked in. There had been no movement within, no disturbance at all, except the ringing phone. Clicking off, Malik walked a bit further, before casually exercising an about turn, heading back in the direction of the car. Even as she did so, however, her phone started ringing, making her jump. Alarmed, she darted a look towards the house, worried Downing might be inside, executing a call back, but looking down at the caller ID, she realized it was just her boss calling.

  ‘Guv?’ she said quietly, scanning about her to make sure she wouldn’t be overheard.

  ‘Just checking in,’ Helen Grace replied down the tinny line. ‘Any sign of our man?’

  ‘Not yet. We’ve been here two hours now and there’s no sign at all. What would you like us to do?’

  ‘Sit tight. As soon as there’s any movement, let me know.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Ringing off, Malik headed back to the car with a heavy heart. Surveillance work was always challenging, but this outing seemed even more difficult than usual. If walls could talk, the handsome terraced house would no doubt reveal the full horror of this deadly scheme, and Downing’s part in it. But, for now, it was giving up nothing – dark, brooding and as quiet as the grave.

  Chapter 84

  He turned the key in the ignition, killing the engine. Suddenly he was surrounded by silence – lifeless, suffocating silence.

  The car park at the Riverside Park Sports Field was deserted, the athletes long since departed. In one sense this was comforting, no witnesses to clock him or the car, but it was also unnerving and eerie. He longed to be away.

  Teasing the door open, Robert hauled himself off the plastic sheeting that clung to the driver’s seat, climbing out and shutting the door gently behind him. Then he was on his way. The important thing now was speed. He was covered in blood and would have a hard time explaining his appearance should he bump into a late-night dog walker, or, worse still, a police officer.

  Hurrying away, he stepped over a small fence, taking care not to leave any trace. Blood coated his trousers, his shirt, his skin and hair. He felt stained by the act, as if drowning in sin, and wanted desperately to be rid of it. Even now, he could feel the blood congealing on his skin, attaching itself to him. He wondered if he would ever be able to rid himself of the feeling.

  Scurrying across the field, he found a gap in the bushes. Pushing through the narrow space, he descended, scrambling down the bank towards the River Itchen. This had always been his intended disposal site, overlooked and out of the way, but in his imagination he’d always appeared calm and collected, clean and untouched, carefully disposing of the evidence. The reality was very different. He was blood-soaked, trembling and scared.

  Bleecher was dead. That was the only positive from an evening when pretty much everything else had gone wrong. There was no question he would have left forensic evidence – blood, sweat, prints – at the scene, but as Robert had no criminal record this needn’t necessarily count against him, if he could cover his tracks. This was why the next few minutes were so important.

  Pulling the bin bag from his pocket, he looked around. By the river’s edge were a couple of small rocks and he scooped them up, dropping them into the reinforced bag. Now he undressed, tearing off the damp, sticky clothes that clung to him, depositing them in the bin liner. Shirt, trousers, belt, socks, shoes, even underpants, everything went in. Now he added the final, but most important piece, flinging the gun inside, before tying the bag together with a secure double knot. He tested it – once, twice – then flung the bundle as far as he could from the bank. It landed with a satisfying splash, then there was silence once more.

  Shivering, Robert wrapped his arms around himself. The original plan had been to bring his change of clothes down to the river with him,
but there was no way he could do that – the chance of cross-contamination was too high. So he would have to scurry back to the car naked. At least, if anyone clocked him now, they would think he was a naturist or a pervert, rather than a killer.

  Kneeling down by the river’s edge, he scooped up some water, desperate to wash off the blood that caked his arms, neck and face. As he did so, however, the sight of his face stopped him in his tracks. He didn’t recognize himself – the crazed expression, the unkempt hair and the awful blood spatters on his face.

  Suddenly he was back in that room, that awful, airless room, straddling his victim. Bleecher had tried to kill him, would have killed him, but Robert had the loan shark at his mercy, straddling his arms with his knees. Now he was raising the gun, bringing it down hard on the defenceless man’s face. Once, twice, three times. He felt Bleecher’s nose break, heard the air escaping from his lungs as his victim groaned, but still he didn’t stop, pulverizing the man’s features. He could feel the blood hitting his face, spraying up at him, a few droplets landing in his eyes, blinding him temporarily. Only then did he stop. Only then did he see the terrible carnage beneath him.

  Snapping out of this nightmare, Robert realized he was crying, his tears diluting the stains on his face. Bereft, broken, he scooped up great handfuls of water. He couldn’t bear to look at himself anymore, to see what he’d become, so on he went, until his hair was dripping wet, his face frozen by the cold water. Now he did chance a look and this time was pleased to see that no trace of Bleecher remained, he was whole and clean once more.

  For now, the job was done. Robert was shivering violently, the cold mixing with shock, so he rose quickly. Casting one last look at the river, which now concealed his secrets, he offered a silent prayer for salvation, then turned, hurrying off into the darkened undergrowth.

  Chapter 85

  ‘The light’s pretty good in this still and you can see her clearly. It’s taken from a CCTV feed from the municipal pool on the Horsham Road.’ Helen flicked a look at the officers crowded around her, then carried on. ‘From the time-coding we can see that this woman arrived two minutes after Eve Sutcliffe. Eve used the pool twice, sometimes three times a week, usually staying for around forty-five minutes to an hour. This woman—’ she gestured to the middle-aged brunette in running gear – ‘stayed for less than ten minutes. Certainly not enough time to change, swim and change back again, but still she paid her money and followed Eve into the locker room. Now maybe she just changed her mind, didn’t fancy it, but it was on this day, at around this time, that Eve’s bag was stolen from her locker.’

  She let the team process this, before turning to them once more. Barring Malik and Edwards, all her officers were present, even Joseph Hudson. He had failed to show up this morning for Helen’s rallying cry, hadn’t even mentioned Grace Simmons’s death in her hearing and seemed to have no intention of accounting for his whereabouts during what had proved to be a very busy day. Worse still, he seemed strangely cocksure, apparently unworried that he was about to be exiled back to Cheshire. But she couldn’t let herself be distracted by his mind games – not now that they were finally making progress.

  ‘DC McAndrew uncovered another image that I think you’ll find useful …’ She turned to McAndrew, who stepped forward, pinning another CCTV grab to the board.

  ‘This was taken two days later,’ McAndrew told them. ‘It’s from a camera outside a cash and carry on Oakmont Avenue, just by the Common. This was the evening Eve complained to her parents that she thought someone had followed her through the park. It was dark and she couldn’t be sure, so she didn’t contact the police, but she was certainly rattled. The camera picked Eve up, walking towards the park around 10.30 p.m. – this person was only moments behind her.’

  The officers leaned in, drinking in the image.

  ‘Now obviously you can’t see a face because she’s wearing a hat, but her build and hair length is a match for the woman seen both at the swimming baths and at Lakeside Country Park. And look at the trainers. They’re the same brand and dark colour on all three occasions …’

  ‘So far, so circumstantial,’ Helen added, nodding her thanks to McAndrew, as she took over. ‘But it’s an intriguing coincidence and means we can potentially link this individual to the bag theft, the stalking incident and Eve’s murder.’

  A ripple of excitement spread through the team.

  ‘The suspect’s name is Amanda Davis. She’s a Finance Director at a luxury yacht firm and, more importantly, she’s the only person who links all three events …’

  ‘So she was stalking Eve?’ DC Reid queried.

  ‘Possibly, though we haven’t found any evidence of her having targeted Eve at the girl’s house or school, so she’d clearly done her homework, was being careful.’

  ‘So, what do we do now?’ Reid continued. ‘Bring her in? Put a watch on her?’

  ‘Amanda Davis is currently in Sydney, Australia,’ Bentham piped up, ‘visiting her parents. All attempts to contact her have so far yielded nothing, but we’re going to liaise with the police there. Their CID department should be waking up about now. Obviously, we need to speak with Davis ASAP, so she can account for her movements on the night of Eve’s murder, but the critical thing now is the question of motive. Amanda Davis jetted off to Australia the morning after her husband’s funeral – Alastair Davis was beaten to death in what appeared to be an aggravated burglary just over a fortnight ago.’

  Several eyes strayed to the murder board, where Alastair Davis’s gaunt features stared back at them.

  ‘DC Osbourne has done a bit of digging on the couple,’ Helen continued, ceding the floor to the junior officer.

  ‘So on paper they look like a successful, aspirational couple,’ Osbourne told the assembled officers. ‘She’s got a high-powered job, he’s a self-made tech millionaire. They’ve got the big house, fancy cars and are regular, generous entertainers. They lead a very visible, very public life, promoting themselves and their exploits on social media constantly, but there was a side to their relationship that remained hidden.’

  Osbourne handed out photocopies of a charge sheet.

  ‘You’ll see from this that, three months ago, Mrs Davis complained that she’d been sexually assaulted, a charge she later withdrew. I’ve redacted the identity of the alleged attacker, but it wasn’t her husband. A similar thing had happened eight months previously – an accusation made, charges readied, then the complainant withdrew the charge.’

  ‘Under duress? From the attacker?’

  ‘Or from her husband. It’s interesting that both alleged attacks took place in sex clubs, during sex parties or prearranged orgies.’

  ‘They were swingers?’ DC Reid asked, suddenly interested.

  ‘Looks that way. We can see from his bank records that they had memberships at several sex clubs. Interestingly, there’s no record of her having paid for or set up any of these memberships, and from the brief conversations we’ve had with members of Southampton’s swinging community, it appears Alastair was the driving force in terms of their attendance—’

  ‘So she was coerced into doing it?’

  ‘Quite possibly. It’s certainly intriguing that the charges she made – which were detailed, specific, angry – were suddenly and swiftly withdrawn. It’s notable, also, how regular their visits to these clubs were – three, sometimes four nights a week. How she managed to do that, often staying out all night, and hold down a demanding job is hard to fathom.’

  ‘What are we saying?’ Hudson demanded, finally speaking up. ‘That she wanted her husband dead? She wanted out?’

  ‘Well, that’s what we need to work out. Which is why running her to ground is—’

  ‘If that’s really what you’re saying,’ Hudson interrupted, ‘then surely by extension we should be re-examining Alastair Davis’s murder too?’

  ‘That’s exactly what we are doing.’

  ‘Because if you follow your theory through,’ Hudson continued, �
��then it suggests that some random punter with no connection to Davis lay in wait in his living room and stove his head in at the first available opportunity.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ Helen replied calmly, turning to face him. ‘But that’s precisely what I’m suggesting.’

  Already Hudson was shaking his head.

  ‘So how far does this go back? Are we going to have to re-examine every murder in the last six months? The last year? Two years? And why? Why are all these people suddenly doing this?’

  It was a blatant challenge to her theory, to her authority. One Helen couldn’t duck. So, turning to face Hudson, she replied: ‘That is what I intend to find out.’

  Chapter 86

  She retreated to her office, shutting the door carefully behind her. Helen’s brief spat with Hudson had been aggravating and concerning, but nevertheless it underlined some important avenues of investigation, or, put another way, some gaping holes in her theory.

  Helen felt certain she’d correctly identified the perpetrators of the most recent murders – Goj, Raeburn and now Davis – potentially having enough evidence to warrant the arrest of those who were still in the land of the living. But the CPS would want more before they’d consider charging them. Motive could be established in all three cases, presuming they were right about the unhealthy dynamic between Amanda Davis and her husband, but the CPS lawyers would want more on the connection between the attackers. Had they communicated? How did they know each other? How were the murders planned, coordinated, executed?