Angered, Peters turned to Miller, unimpressed by her bluntness, but this time Miller showed no signs of retreating.
‘Listen, sir, I know operational command isn’t my area, so tell me to shut up if you want, but facts are facts. We’ve made no arrests, have no tangible leads and DI Grace is currently stalking a local barrister of unimpeachable good character. We’re a laughing stock, a joke.’
Peters couldn’t deny Miller’s damning assessment of the situation. Suddenly he felt exhausted and depressed by the whole damn thing. He had never faced challenges on so many fronts before, nor felt so powerless to remedy them.
‘Now, you’ve shown admirable loyalty to DI Grace, as a good station boss would. But if that faith isn’t repaid, if it’s felt in the wider world, even in her own team, that DI Grace has lost her authority, her equilibrium, her ability to lead, then what’s to be gained by continuing to support her?’
It was a fair point, one Peters couldn’t refute.
‘I hate to say it, but perhaps it is time for a fresh pair of eyes?’ Miller ventured.
‘You think I should cut her loose?’
It felt odd, but also a relief, to say it out loud.
‘I think you should protect the reputation of Southampton Central,’ Miller replied firmly.
And there it was, in a nutshell. This station was his domain, his career, his legacy. Failure to grapple with the lawlessness and violence gripping Southampton would be his failure, the end of what had been a highly successful career. But even as he thought this, he hesitated. To dispense with Helen Grace would be highly controversial and problematic, given her track record and standing within the Force. Could he really make that call? Perhaps he had to make that call, given how far the rot seemed to have spread?
He was so deep in thought, caught on the horns of this impossible dilemma, that he was oblivious not only to Miller’s presence, but also to the sudden appearance of his secretary in the doorway. A sharp rapping on the door now snapped him from his introspection.
‘Sorry to bother you, sir … it’s just that I’ve got the police commissioner on the phone and he seems very keen to talk to you.’
And in that moment, Chief Superintendent Alan Peters had his answer.
Chapter 91
Helen ducked underneath the police tape, marching towards the uniformed officer.
‘Where is it?’ she demanded, dispensing with all pleasantries.
‘Down the corridor and to the left. DC McAndrew’s managing the scene.’
Nodding, Helen took in the dilapidated building in front of her. It was an awful, cheerless place, a cheap, prefabricated unit that had been designed for maximum profit with minimum investment. Clearly the storage business had never got off the ground, however; the building which had been quickly thrown up now well on the way to falling down. Helen eyed the darkened doorway with mistrust, it looked like the entry to the underworld.
Ducking inside, she held up her torch, the powerful beam illuminating a long, lonely corridor. Her shoe coverings made a strange swishing sound on the dusty floor, almost as if some dark spirit was whispering to her, making her shudder. She was not prone to being spooked, but something about this place unsettled her. Perhaps it was the hangover of her confrontation with Joseph earlier. Perhaps it was the overriding sense of decay, of corruption, that clung to the place. Or perhaps it was just her knowledge of what lay in store.
Hurrying down the corridor, she angled left. And now she heard voices. The characteristic purposeful voices of officers on site. She hastened towards them, soon finding herself standing opposite DC McAndrew in what appeared to be some kind of storage unit-cum-office. There were papers everywhere, an upturned table and, amidst the wreckage, a man lying flat on his back.
‘Any idea who it is?’
‘No ID on him,’ McAndrew replied, shaking her head. ‘But the laptop might tell us something.’
Nodding, Helen stepped past her towards the body. The victim was a portly, middle-aged man, probably in his late forties. If this was his office, he clearly didn’t care much for appearances, a trait that seemed to extend to his person. He was dressed in dirty jogging bottoms and a velour tracksuit top which had seen better days. His trainers, too, were tired, one of them hanging off his left foot, presumably having been dislodged during the struggle. Clearly there had been an epic confrontation – this was obvious from the upturned furniture and scattered personal effects, but also from the numerous cuts and scratches on the man’s hands. But it was not these injuries that Helen’s eye was drawn to. Instead her gaze settled on what remained of the man’s face.
It was an awful sight. The man had not just been beaten, he had been crushed. His nose was broken, his eyes sockets fractured, his teeth knocked clean out. Whoever had done this must have been driven by rage or desperation, such was the brutality of the attack. The man’s whole face seemed to have sunk in on itself, like a morass of crimson quicksand. He didn’t even resemble a human being anymore, just a body which had once had life. It was hideous to behold and Helen shuddered once more.
Whoever had done this didn’t just want to kill their victim. They wanted to obliterate him.
Day Six
Chapter 92
‘Come on, people. I want photographs completed and the images on the system within the hour, please …’
The please was an afterthought. Politeness was not DS Hudson’s strongpoint, a fact that shone through now, as he strutted the crime scene, handing out orders and ultimatums. Helen Grace was elsewhere this morning, paying a visit to Robert Downing, meaning DS Hudson was the SIO on site, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. Then again, Meredith Walker had never liked this presumptuous, self-regarding upstart. How she longed for the return of DS Charlie Brooks.
Shooting a knowing look at the photographer – which was returned with interest – Meredith resumed her task. The main confrontation site had been extensively photographed at first light, meaning Meredith could get in amongst the papers, the personal effects, not to mention the victim himself. She had sifted the blood-spattered documents, the empty Lucozade bottles and Pot Noodle tubs, but had found little of any interest, so had then turned her attention to the laptop instead. She assumed this belonged to the victim and had hoped it would furnish them with useful information concerning identity or motive, but even her cursory initial examination put paid to that idea. Repeated attempts to turn it on yielded no response and, teasing up the damaged keyboard, Meredith soon discovered why. The circuit board, the battery, everything within the laptop’s titanium casing seemed to have melted. It would have to be taken away and examined at the lab, but Meredith already had a strong suspicion about what might have caused the damage, the white residue of what looked like industrial acid clinging to the microchips and processors.
Disappointed, Meredith bagged and labelled the computer, before turning her attention to the dead man. It would be for Jim Grieves to determine cause of death, though this appeared to be in little doubt, but still there might be important clues that could be garnered even now, before the body was taken away. Kneeling down next to the man’s devastated face, Meredith ran an eye over his torso, arms, hands. There didn’t seem to be any obvious hair or fabric in his hands, though Jim might well harvest DNA from under his nails or in the creases of his palms, as there had clearly been a sustained struggle. She was intrigued to note, however, that his scruffy velour tracksuit top had been torn in several places – analysis of these rips could well yield important clues, especially if they had been torn by hand. Meredith now found herself making a mental inventory of the clothes she would pore over later, once they had been removed from the body – the tracksuit top, the shabby jeans and, of course, the trainers. If the victim had met his killer elsewhere and brought him here, then dirt, pollen or vegetation caught in the grooves of his soles might help them uncover his last movements, perhaps even the identity of his attacker. Turning away from his shoes, Meredith resumed her examination of the tor
so, spotting first a bulky watch on his left wrist, and then a gold medallion that lay helpless on his traumatized neck.
It was a strange piece, at odds with the cumbersome watch and ostentatious rings on his fingers, being rather small, even insignificant by comparison. She would have expected this guy to go for something bigger, something more in the Tom Jones line, but, handling it now, she realized that it was small and also extremely light. In fact, to her it felt very much as if it must be hollow.
Intrigued, she cupped it in her hand, running a finger gently round the edge, until she found a catch. Teasing it with her finger, she gently increased the pressure, until the face of the medallion suddenly popped open. Curious as to why this kind of bloke would be wearing a locket, she peered inside. Immediately, she had her answer. Because nestling neatly within the locket, safe from prying eyes, was a tiny microchip.
Chapter 93
‘This is an outrage. A bloody outrage …’
Helen let Downing’s words wash over her. The warrant she had just handed him gave the lie to his protests.
‘This is a family home, my family home.’
‘It’s the principal address of a key suspect and, as you well know, we have every right to search it.’
Sensing that Helen could not be browbeaten, Downing changed tack.
‘Look, Helen, I’ve got the boys here. They’re freaking out …’
‘And I’m sorry about that. Could Alexia take them? I can ask our FLO to call her on your behalf.’
Downing hesitated, clearly torn. He didn’t want to have to call his ex, but nor did he want a stranger to do it.
‘All right, I’ll call her, but this is all a massive misunderstanding.’
The scratches on his cheeks and hands suggested to Helen that he was lying, but she said nothing by way of response.
‘If you could just give me five minutes …’
As he spoke, he made to leave the room, but Helen laid a hand on his arm.
‘I’d prefer it if you did it here.’
This clearly wasn’t a request, so with great reluctance Downing complied, moving away from her to conduct a hushed conversation in the corner of the room. As he did so, half a dozen officers in sterile suits, gloves and masks walked past him, fanning out to conduct a fingertip search of the property. From the landing above, Downing’s two boys watched on, open-mouthed.
Finishing his call, Downing returned to Helen, all signs of friendliness, of bonhomie, well and truly gone.
‘She’ll be here in ten minutes,’ he said tersely.
‘Then I suggest we get the formalities over with.’
Stepping forward, Helen lowered her voice, conscious of the audience above, delivering the standard caution in hushed tones.
‘Robert Downing, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Downing surely knew these words by heart, but they seemed to have a profound effect on him now. The blood had drained from his face; he seemed shocked, flustered and afraid.
In fact, he looked every inch the condemned man.
Chapter 94
‘Get out of my sight. I can’t even bear to look at you …’
Carol was incandescent, every word dripping with bitterness and bile. Belinda wanted to calm her, to console her partner in some way, but what the hell could she say? Every accusation was true, every insult justified.
‘Please, Carol, I never meant to hurt you …’
‘By fucking one of your students. Again.’
‘It was a brief affair. It meant nothing.’
‘Like the time before? And the time before that?’
Crossing to the wardrobe, Carol flung open the doors. Snatching up a suitcase, she hurled it at Belinda, before scooping great piles of her clothes from the rail and dumping them on the floor.
‘Please, Carol, you don’t have to do this …’
‘Yes, I do. In fact, I should have done it years ago.’
‘We can get through this.’
This weak assertion got the withering response it deserved. Belinda wanted it to be true, wanted to believe they could recover from this latest betrayal, but she knew in her heart that it was over. Already this morning, she had been suspended from her post at school, following a formal accusation of impropriety by Eve Sutcliffe’s parents. It was perhaps fitting that her relationship should die too, sacrificed on the altar of her lust.
Gathering up her clothes, Belinda laid them in the case, but they felt heavy, leaden, even, the task almost beyond her.
‘Carol, I want you to know that I do love you.’
‘Oh please, spare me.’
‘That I always will love you.’
It was true. She did love her. It was just not the kind of love Carol needed or craved. In truth, it never had been. Carol had always been a worshipper, rather than a soulmate, a solid, dependable partner who would always love more than she was loved. When Belinda had finally abandoned her erratic, neglectful parents all those years ago this had seemed enough – it was the stability and dependability she craved – but it had never really satisfied her, if she was honest with herself.
‘And I’m desperately sorry for having hurt you. You deserved better, much better.’
Carol continued to stare at her, her eyes pinpricks of cold, grey hatred.
‘Look, I know we’re through. That I’ve hurt you too many times, but you should know that the years we spent together meant something. All the good times we had together, that wasn’t a lie, and … and I hope that somehow in the future we might be friends again, because … because I would hate to lose you …’ She felt a lump in her throat, then tears sliding down her cheeks. She was desperate, desolate, suddenly fearful that she would never see her loyal, loving partner again.
‘Well, it’s too late. Because you have.’
Grabbing the suitcase, Carol marched from the room, almost running down the stairs, in her haste to be rid of her. Belinda followed, watching as her irate partner wrenched open the front door, tossing the bag outside.
‘Carol, please—’
But this time her lover didn’t let her finish, grabbing her by the collar and manhandling her out of the house, screaming at her as she did so.
‘I never want to see you again, as long as I live …’
Belinda wanted to stop her, wanted to beg for a further hearing, but she didn’t get the chance, the front door slamming firmly shut in her face.
Chapter 95
She peered down through a gap in the curtains, her heart thumping. They were still there, parked just across the street, watching and waiting.
Part of her had hoped the police would be gone by now, that it was just a one-off, a spot check to ensure she hadn’t left the area. But in truth Lilah Hill knew that they would still be there, patiently plying their trade, hoping for her to make a mistake. That could be the only explanation for their sudden appearance, some misguided notion that she would incriminate herself in Martin’s murder. That was crazy, of course, his death had been nothing to do with her, but that must be why they were spying on her. They couldn’t have any idea of her current situation, of what she was planning to do. Could they?
She had hardly slept, a dozen scenarios, each worse than the next, filling her thoughts. She’d gone over and over the events of the last few days, minutely analysing her actions to see if somehow she had unwittingly drawn attention to herself. Dismissing this as improbable, she’d then started to wonder if the whole thing was a trap, some sick game deliberately designed to entrap and destroy her. But that seemed preposterous too, all the evidence suggesting that this thing was real. Which left her in a difficult place.
The police were on the wrong scent. They rightly sensed that her relationship with Martin was flawed – DI Grace suspected him of being violent and controlling – and that she might therefore have ha
d some hand in his murder, even if she hadn’t committed the act herself. So far, unless they bent the truth or fabricated evidence, they would find nothing against her that would stick. But their presence did present practical problems.
Today was the day, the moment when she would kill, when she would perhaps finally be free, but how could she do so with a police escort in tow? It was ridiculous, almost funny, the idea of them trailing her, hoping to pin one murder on her, whilst witnessing another. In reality, however, it was awful, beyond unfortunate, a crazy cosmic coincidence that made her feel sick.
What should she do? There were other ways she could leave the house, of course, other than by the front door. She could venture into the garden, scale the back wall … but would they be waiting for her there too? If she was caught, sneaking away down the back alleyway, how would she explain herself? Even if they didn’t apprehend her immediately, how would she shake them off? She wasn’t trained in these things, she wasn’t a spy, for God’s sake.
The curtains fluttered in front of her and, looking down, she realized that her hand was shaking. She was still clutching the phone – part of her was tempted to hurl it to the floor, to scream out in anger and distress, but there could be no room for weakness, not today. The deed couldn’t be postponed, it had to be now, everything had been leading up to this moment. But could she really go through with it, with the odds now stacked against her? Was she brave enough to face arrest and exposure to see this thing through? These were questions that couldn’t be ducked, that must be confronted head on.
It was decision time.
Chapter 96
‘All I’m saying is that sometimes you have to make choices.’
Joseph Hudson lingered over that last word, looking at each of the three faces in turn. He was talking quietly but decisively, and it was clear that Edwards, McAndrew and Reid were taking in every word, alive to the importance of both this meeting and Hudson’s message. They’d known something was up when he’d pulled them away from operational duties to a private meeting in the Lamb and Flag, a quiet boozer a stone’s throw from Southampton Central – now they knew what.
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