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

by M. J. Arlidge

  This last point continued to nag at her. All of the murders were meticulously conceived, the perpetrators making only fleeting appearances in the victims’ lives before making their move; so fleeting, in fact, that it would have been possible to miss their involvement entirely, had it not been for a couple of lucky breaks. They didn’t appear at their victim’s place of work or at their homes, yet still seemed to know their movements well enough to steal a bag, to follow them through a park, to commit a murder unseen and undetected. There was no sign that they’d been tailing them, stalking their prey over weeks and months, so how were they so clued up on their timetables, their movements? Also, why did they appear in their victim’s lives in the days preceding the act itself, why not just murder them and have done with it? Davis had robbed Eve, then stalked her, before finally taking a hammer to her in the darkened park. Goj had tried to break into McManus’s flat, then stole his laptop from his car, before committing his deadly arson attack. Belinda Raeburn had made an abusive phone call, daubed a swastika on Hill’s house, before attacking the unfortunate man in a deserted alleyway …

  Even as Helen thought this, it struck her: the rule of three. Each of the perpetrators had committed three acts of criminality, culminating in murder. Looking at it now, there could be no question that there was a pattern. This further unnerved Helen, more evidence of the precise, meticulous nature of this chain of killings, but it threw up some interesting questions. Why three acts? What was the purpose of this mini campaign of intimidation and violence? Was it simply to unnerve the victims, so that they would complain to friends, the police and so on, drawing attention to the alleged motive for their eventual murder? Was this done deliberately, then, to make Martin Hill’s murder look like a racist attack, or Eve Sutcliffe’s murder look sexually motivated, when actually they were nothing of the kind?

  It was a seductive explanation, but even now another possibility occurred to Helen. It was notable that the three acts increased in criminality and unpleasantness as they unfolded, the first ‘crime’ being remote, focusing on the victim’s personal possessions or property, the second being more risky for the perpetrator, involving breaking into a car, daubing someone’s home with graffiti or following a young woman through a park. In any of these situations, the perpetrators could have been challenged, surprised, confronted even. The risk level was high, though of course not as high as in the third challenge – the murder itself – where the danger of arrest, injury or even death was acute. Was this escalation deliberate? Did it mean something? Was it possible the three acts had been deliberately designed like that as some kind of test?

  Helen was so lost in thought that it took her a moment to realize she was no longer alone. Looking up, she saw Joseph Hudson standing in front of her. Alarmingly, the door was closed and he had a determined look on his face.

  ‘Can I help you, DS Hudson?’ Helen asked, angry to have been wrenched from her thoughts.

  ‘Oh, you know how you can help me, Helen,’ he replied. ‘Step aside. Hang up your boots and make way for a younger man.’

  ‘Get out of my office,’ Helen spat back, anger flaring within her.

  ‘I’ll go when I’m good and ready. I have something to say first.’

  Helen was tempted to bawl him out, to drag him from the office, but the blinds were up and they were clearly visible to the rest of the team, so, instead, she swallowed down her fury.

  ‘You see, I know all about your little cosy chat with Simmons. How she wanted to help you whilst shitting on me from a great height. But here’s the problem, she’s gone now. Your protector’s gone …’

  He smiled as he said it. Helen had to use every ounce of strength to restrain herself from punching him in the face.

  ‘And guess what? Her signed directive to HR about the incident is gone too. I burnt it this morning.’

  Helen couldn’t conceal her astonishment, or her disgust.

  ‘Have you gone mad?’

  ‘Not at all, I’ve never been able to see more clearly,’ Hudson purred. ‘To see what needs to be done, what will be done. You see, I don’t think Chief Superintendent Peters will be so forgiving about your errant behaviour – sleeping with fellow officers, misusing your powers to force them out, doing secret deals with Simmons, lying, cheating, conniving to save your own skin, all whilst failing to make arrests on any of the current investigations. I think he’ll take a very dim view of the whole situation and will be forced to take action.’

  ‘In your dreams.’

  ‘Too right. I have dreamed of this, dreamed of the moment when, finally, I’ll have you on your knees …’

  He said it salaciously, his twisted desire clear, making Helen feel nauseous. How had she ever had feelings for this creep?

  ‘You know, once I admired you, Helen,’ he continued, moving in closer. ‘Then I wanted to be with you. But now—’ he moved in still closer, until their noses were only inches apart – ‘I’m going to destroy you.’

  Chapter 87

  She froze on the spot, suddenly alive to the danger. Her key hovered by the lock but she made no move to slide it home, Lilah’s gaze drawn to the reflection in the glass. Her front door had glazing in it, to allow light into their dingy hallway, but now, with no illumination within, it caught the light from the lamp posts, providing a reflected view of the street behind her. Lilah hadn’t noticed anything untoward as she hurried home, but now she clocked it. A shape on the far side of the street. A shape that looked very much like someone sitting in a car, watching the house.

  ‘What the fuck –?’

  She knew she had to stay calm. It might be nothing, she might be imagining things, so sliding the key into the lock, she hurried inside. Normally, she would have thrown on the lights in the hall, the living room, the kitchen – she hated darkness – but instead, she dropped her bag and hurried upstairs. Crossing the landing, she crept over to the bedroom window and, using the heavy curtains as cover, peered back down on the street below.

  Even as she did so, her heart skipped a beat. There was no question about it now – there were two people sitting in a car not forty yards from her house. The lights were off, the engine stilled and, though she couldn’t see their faces, she could tell by the angle of their bodies that they were looking at her house, looking at her.

  Were they police officers? If so, what were they planning? Were they about to spring the trap? Rush up the steps to arrest her? Or were they just going to wait and watch? What did they know?

  A dozen jumbled thoughts tumbled over one another. Had they been following her earlier, when she stole the car, when she deliberately ran those red lights under the watchful gaze of those traffic cameras? No, there had been no obvious reaction to these minor violations, no one pursuing her down the empty city streets. What about when she parked the car? Had she been clocked then? No, she was sure she would have noticed something; the refuse tip where she’d secreted the car for the night was so remote, there was no way anyone could have tailed her there without drawing attention to themselves. So why were they here? How had they got a lead on her?

  It didn’t make any sense, but their presence in the dark-blue Mondeo was a clear sign that something had gone wrong. Did they suspect her of some kind of involvement in Martin’s murder? Did they have positive evidence of his ill treatment of her? Or did they have some inkling of what she was planning? Was such a thing even possible? Sweat was forming on her brow as the questions continued to cannon around her brain. There were no answers to these nagging anxieties, no indication of what the police knew or what they intended to do. But as Lilah stared out into the darkness at their shadowy, menacing presence, one thing was beyond doubt:

  The stakes had just got a lot higher.

  Chapter 88

  ‘What the hell did you tell her?’

  ‘I told her the truth, Robert. Something you used to be acquainted with.’

  ‘What exactly did you say?’

  Now Alexia hesitated, as if uncertain how to respon
d to her ex-husband.

  ‘Well?’ Robert barked.

  ‘I told her about McManus …’

  ‘That you instructed your lawyers to spy on your own husband?’

  ‘With good reason, as it turned out.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Do you really want me to spell it out?’

  She cast an anxious eye towards the boys, who were sitting on their Trunkies watching TV, occasionally casting anxious glances towards their parents.

  ‘This is bullshit,’ Robert breathed, angry and unnerved.

  ‘So you deny that you were hooked on drugs? Crystal meth, crack, whatever—’

  ‘Of course I do. I would never put myself in that position, put the kids in danger in that way.’

  ‘Oh Robert, would you look at yourself …’

  It was said more in sadness than in anger, which made it all the worse. Alexia did seem genuinely upset by his appearance and he didn’t need to cast an eye into the hall mirror to know why. He had spent ages cleaning himself, trying to make himself look respectable, but he had scratches on his cheek and looked decidedly odd, his aged Nike top zipped up to his chin. His croaky, hoarse voice didn’t help either, making him sound fractured and husky.

  ‘What’s happened? What have you got yourself into?’

  ‘Nothing, I’ve told you. I ran into a low branch when I was jogging, I really don’t know why you’re making such a fuss.’

  ‘Why do you think?’ she hissed, angry, upset. ‘I have to think of the boys.’

  ‘They are safe,’ Robert fired back at her. ‘They’ve always been perfectly safe, nothing bad is going to happen to them.’

  ‘And what happens when Helen Grace comes back? When she arrests you?’

  ‘She’s not going to arrest me. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘So you can honestly look me in the eye and tell me that none of what she suggested is true? That you had no involvement in McManus’s death?’

  ‘None, whatsoever, I swear.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Then I’m wasting my time here. Boys, we’re going!’

  There was a brief pause, then: ‘Can we finish this?’ Freddie cried, from in front of the TV.

  ‘No, we need to go NOW.’

  The words shot out, harsh and unpleasant, provoking grumbling compliance, as the TV was reluctantly switched off.

  ‘I don’t want you taking them …’

  As Alexia spoke, she grabbed his arm, determined to detain him. Angered, he took a step forward, shoving his face into hers.

  ‘Try and stop me.’

  Tears filled her eyes, but there was fear there too.

  ‘They are my boys – legally, emotionally, in every way that matters – and they are coming home with me.’ He fired the words at her, only now becoming aware that the boys were standing directly behind him.

  ‘Come on, then, lads, say goodbye to your mum and we’ll be on our way.’

  He walked past Alexia to the front door, not once looking back. He heard tearful farewells, whispered words, then the sound of the boys’ Trunkies being dragged along the ground. Marching across the drive, Robert unlocked the car, opening up the boot. Moments later, their bags were safely stowed away, the boys strapped into their seats. Only now did he chance a look at them, but the sight that greeted him broke his heart.

  Both boys looked sad, even tearful. But worse than that, much worse, they looked scared.

  Chapter 89

  Helen pushed out into the smoker’s yard, slamming the door shut behind her. The scrubby space in a forgotten corner of the station was deserted, the noise of the door echoing around the gloom. Pulling her cigarettes from her pocket, she lit one up, inhaling deeply. She hadn’t had a smoke in over a week, but she needed one now.

  Joseph Hudson’s ambush had been totally unexpected and was all the more effective for it, raising urgent, worrying questions. Was Hudson planning to go to Peters with his charges? Was it possible he’d already done so? And if so, on whose side would Peters land? Helen had never been close to the station chief, could sense his distrust of her, and feared she already knew the answer.

  Helen was furious with Hudson, but also with herself – she should have expected some reaction to Simmons’s death, to the loss of her protector – but she was also shaken. She hadn’t expected Joseph’s response to be so swift or so determined. It wasn’t just what he’d said that had alarmed her, he was prone to exaggeration and his desire to oust her from Southampton Central had been clear for a while now. No, it was the way he’d said it that had shaken her. He looked unhinged, wild, as if he would stop at nothing to bring her down, whatever the personal cost might be. Helen had faced many formidable foes over the years and knew from experience that the most dangerous adversaries were the ones who had nothing to lose.

  The nicotine was having the desired effect, thank goodness. Even now, she felt a little calmer, a little more focused. In times of professional stress, she had usually sought out Grace Simmons, but of course that wasn’t an option now. The poor woman was lying in a mortuary across town, her life force snuffed out. Which only left one person. One person she knew she could rely upon.

  ‘Hello, stranger. How are you?’

  Charlie’s voice – warm, informal, friendly – nearly undid Helen. But she kept her voice steady as she responded.

  ‘I’m OK, thanks. You?’

  ‘Yeah, all good.’

  ‘And how are my favourite girls?’

  ‘Oh, a nightmare. You can have them, if you want …’

  Even as Charlie said it, Helen heard shouting, then laughter in the background. It didn’t sound like a nightmare to her, it sounded like a happy family home. Something she had never possessed and probably never would.

  ‘Hold on, I think they’re coming my way,’ Charlie continued. ‘Would you like to say hello?’

  ‘Of course, but I was wondering … would you mind if I popped round?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘If it’s not convenient, that’s fine, but—’

  Helen was already backtracking, feeling foolish and weak. Her nerves were still jangling and she desperately wanted to be amongst people she could trust, but it was pathetic to intrude upon another family like this. But even as she was about to offer an apology and retreat, Charlie replied: ‘Well, the wheels have already come off, so we might as well make a party of it. When can you get here?’

  Helen felt a flood of relief, overjoyed that for a brief time she might be afforded some sanctuary.

  ‘That’s great. I can be there in about ten minutes?’

  But even as she said it, her phone started vibrating. Surprised, she looked down to see that DC Bentham was trying to get hold of her. Part of her was tempted to ignore his summons, but as usual her better side won out.

  ‘Actually, can I buzz you back in a minute, Charlie? I’ve got another call coming through.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Clicking off, Charlie accepted Bentham’s call.

  ‘DI Grace.’

  ‘Sorry to bother you late in the day, guv—’

  It was a call Helen had received countless times over the years and she knew what was coming next.

  ‘—but we’ve found a body.’

  Chapter 90

  Alan Peters sucked in his cheeks, staring down at the carnage in front of him.

  ‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I thought you needed to see it.’

  Peters barely registered Abigail Miller’s words, his eyes fixed on the copy of the Southampton Evening News that lay open on his desk. Miller had skipped over the front page, directing Peters’ attention instead to the double-page spread inside. Here a deeply unflattering picture of Helen Grace stared back at him, flanked by a lengthy article from Emilia Garanita. The photo of his most senior officer was terrible – it appeared to have been taken near the Martin Hill crime scene and showed Grace looking dazed and confused. And beneath it was the damning
headline: ‘Boozing whilst losing’.

  Alarmed, Peters speed-read the article, the gist of which was that the famously abstemious Grace had cracked under the pressure of recent events, hitting the bottle and reverting to damaging, self-destructive behaviour. Usually Peters would have dismissed this rumour mongering out of hand, but now he hesitated.

  ‘Do you think there’s any basis to it?’ he muttered gravely, turning to Miller. ‘I mean, where’s Garanita getting this stuff from?’

  ‘The article says “a source close to the investigation”, which, I’m guessing, means someone in Grace’s team. Whatever she says, we know there’s a leak. We also know there have been issues of morale in the team, grumblings that she doesn’t have a grip on things. So, yes, I think we have to ask ourselves if alcohol may be a contributing factor.’

  Peters said nothing, staring down at the hapless image of Helen Grace.

  ‘We also have to consider how we’re going to respond. This is a full-on assault on the competency of both DI Grace and Southampton Central. We can’t let it pass, we have to respond, because, trust me, these headlines are going to make waves.’

  ‘You think?’ Peters retorted sharply. ‘You can bet your bottom dollar I’ll have the mayor and the police commissioner chewing my ear off tonight.’

  ‘Exactly, so we need to speak to DI Grace, see what she’s got to say.’

  ‘Well, I would if she was here, but there’s been another murder.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  Miller blurted out her response, unable to conceal her shock. But Peters shot her such a dark look that the media liaison chief backtracked.

  ‘Anyway, like I say, you’ll need to hear Grace’s side of the story before you can make any firm decisions. Perhaps if she co-operates, comes clean, then there might be a way we can manage—’

  ‘And why would she do that? I expect her to deny everything, to hunker down and try to ride it out. That’s what I’d do, if I were her.’

  ‘So how are we supposed to respond? Just sit on our hands, whilst the body count mounts day by day?’