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

by M. J. Arlidge

‘Any RTAs involving a Mercedes SLR, reg BG14 JYB …’

  There was a pause, then:

  ‘Nothing involving that vehicle, I’m afraid.’

  Helen pondered this. ‘OK, then do a wider search. Any RTA, collision, hit and run, anything that might have involved a vehicle of that make or model in Southampton …’

  McAndrew was already typing. As she waited, Helen cast an eye over the files in front of her, but this was merely a distraction, her attention was totally focused on McAndrew’s response.

  ‘I’ve got something that might fit the bill. A hit-and-run in Freemantle in December 2015. A teenage boy left for dead in the road near his home …’

  ‘I remember it,’ Helen replied, suddenly excited. ‘No one was ever caught for it. His parents make appeals every year. What was his name? Billy … Billy …’

  ‘Billy Anderson.’

  ‘That was it, Billy Anderson …’

  ‘Anyway, there was only one witness, an elderly neighbour. She didn’t see the incident, but thought she clocked a dark-blue Mercedes saloon racing away from the scene.’

  ‘Which road was it in Freemantle?’

  ‘Barrow Road.’

  ‘And Hill worked in Ocean Village, right … so if she’d been heading home late at night, say from a Christmas do, she might have used that route.’

  ‘For sure, it’s a well-used cut-through, much quicker than sticking to the main roads.’

  ‘And if she was in a hurry, had perhaps been drinking …’

  Helen returned her attention to Hill’s Facebook site, flicking through the posts from 2015, 2016, 2017 … It seemed clear now that Hill’s sudden decision to cycle everywhere, and the escalation in her drinking, had occurred around Christmas 2015. There appeared to be no pictures of Hill with that car, or indeed any other vehicle, after this date.

  ‘Do the Hills still own the car?’

  ‘Hold on a minute … No, according to DVLA records, they sold the Mercedes in January 2016. Odd really, given they’d only bought it five months earlier. Must have taken quite a hit on it …’

  ‘Any garage bills from that time? If Hill was responsible, then there’d presumably be significant damage to the car?’

  More typing, then: ‘Can’t see anything obvious in her account … though there were some significant cash withdrawals in early December, totalling … two thousand, five hundred pounds in total. If she wanted the repairs done discreetly, she would have paid cash presumably.’

  And now the final piece slotted into place. The hit-and-run was infamous locally, Billy’s shattered parents continuing to campaign for justice, renewing their appeal for witnesses annually on the anniversary of his death, hoping against hope that someone’s conscience might be pricked. But Lilah Hill had opted to stay quiet, swallowing her guilt to save her own skin. What toll had this taken on her? And how vulnerable had it made her? Had Martin Hill known about this, using it against her, forcing her to stay in a relationship she found claustrophobic, even toxic? And what of Blythe? Had she confessed her guilt to him during their sessions, delivering up her soul on a plate? Helen suddenly felt convinced that this was what had happened, that this was the key to understanding Blythe’s hold over her.

  But the boot was on the other foot now. Now it was Helen who had the knowledge, the leverage, and she intended to use it to the full.

  Chapter 117

  The strip lights flickered on as she strode across the dirty concrete floor towards her bike. Seized by a conviction that she now had the means to force Lilah Hill to confess, Helen was determined not to waste a second. The custody officers and her lawyer might protest, insisting that she’d endured enough questioning already, but Helen knew that she was within her rights to summon her to the interview suite once more.

  Tearing across the grimy basement, Helen vaulted onto her Kawasaki. Sliding on her helmet, she fired up the ignition and kicked off the brake, moving away. Seconds later, the automatic gates rose and she sped through the gap, up and away onto the street.

  It was deserted, so Helen tore along the empty thoroughfare, enjoying the breeze that battered her body. Though early, the temperature was already high, after a sultry, oppressive night, and it felt good to have the soft balm of the breeze swirling around her. After weeks of frustration, fear and anxiety, Helen now felt assured of victory, that justice would prevail, that finally Blythe would be brought to book. Many lives had been ruined, much blood had been spilt, but at long last, they were nearing the end of the road.

  Reaching a four-way junction, Helen slid left onto Oswald Road, ratcheting up her speed, responding to the kick of the bike as it leapt forward. She was only minutes from Southampton Central, her commute eased by the absence of traffic. Her progress was serene, unstoppable, complimenting her mood, and she powered forward. She was impatient to be in front of Lilah again, to get this thing done. Each metre gained was a metre closer to the station, to the resumption of hostilities.

  Crossing Fairfax Road, she glimpsed Southampton Central in the distance. The tall granite-and-limestone building stood out against the skyline, beckoning to her. She was about to tug on her throttle again, but finally her luck ran out, the lights suddenly changing from amber to red, the first obstruction in an otherwise seamless journey.

  Dropping her speed, Helen came to a halt by the stop line. Exhaling, she tried to gather her thoughts, to prepare herself for what lay ahead. Even now, however, she was to be denied this moment of peace; her phone buzzed in her pocket, demanding her attention. Tapping her Bluetooth helmet, she answered:

  ‘Grace—’

  ‘Guv, it’s DC Bentham.’

  He sounded tense, which immediately concerned her.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Fine – but I wanted to run something by you.’

  ‘Go on …’ Helen replied, flicking a look at the lights, which remained red.

  ‘Well, I’ve been going through the information that was recovered from Gary Bleecher’s microchip, the one we recovered—’

  ‘From his locket. What of it?’

  ‘Well, Bleecher had a full copy of his files on it, everyone who owed him money, in various spreadsheets and lists—’

  ‘And?’ Helen prompted.

  ‘Well, it’s probably nothing, but one of the names on the list rang a bell. Anthony Parks.’

  Helen’s blood ran cold. If someone who worked at Southampton Central was in Bleecher’s debt, then it was possible that Blythe might have some kind of a hold over them, was even now prompting them to take action.

  ‘He works in the custody depart—’

  ‘I know who he is,’ Helen interrupted tersely. ‘Where is he? Is he on duty today?’

  There was a pregnant pause, then Bentham replied:

  ‘Yes, he clocked on half an hour ago.’

  Chapter 118

  The door swung open, but she didn’t move. Lilah Hill remained where she was, sitting on the edge of the wire-framed bed, staring at the ground. She had been in this position since first light, when she’d finally given up the futile attempt to sleep, preferring to contemplate her ruin in an upright position instead. It made her feel less supine, less beaten, though this was an illusion – her ruin was total, whichever way you looked at it.

  Since her interview with DI Grace, Lilah had been in freefall, unable to comprehend how she could have come so low, so quickly. A week ago she had been in a bad place – claustrophobic, trapped, crushed by guilt – but it was bearable. She had her job, a handful of friends, the occasional moment of heady liberation. How she would take that sentence now, how she would love the privations, pain and misery. But that option was gone, now she faced a life behind bars. How naïve she’d been to think that she could get away with something like this – now she had a double stain on her conscience. She would be tortured by Raeburn’s death every bit as much as she was by Billy Anderson’s, she knew that. The latter had coloured her life for years now – she had been poleaxed when she’d spotted his broken parent
s in Westquay a couple of days ago – and Raeburn’s would do so too. Presumably Raeburn had parents, friends, a partner, a life. A life which she had snuffed out. Anderson’s death had been accidental at least, even if Lilah’s cowardice then and in the years after was unforgiveable, but Raeburn’s was something altogether different, something much, much worse.

  A shadow fell across her and she became aware of the custody officer looming over her.

  ‘Come on, Hill. You know the drill.’

  The words were hissed at her, angry and tense. She hated him for his aggression, his coldness, but in truth it was all she deserved, so hauling her frame off the bed, she turned to face the wall, her arms stretched out wide. How she hated this rigmarole, the indignity of it, the not-so-casual brushing of her breasts, as she was examined for weapons, contraband or anything that might be used to try and effect an escape. How laughable it all seemed to her – she wasn’t going anywhere.

  He was standing right behind her. Closing her eyes, she braced herself for what was to come, hoping it would be over quickly. She knew that more questioning awaited her upstairs, but somehow even that was better than being stuck in here. Any company, even that of DI Grace’s, was preferable to this.

  ‘Come on, let’s get this over with …’ Lilah urged.

  She was angry now. Why was he stringing this out?

  ‘Fair enough,’ was the muttered reply.

  Immediately, Lilah’s eyes flicked open. Suddenly, inexplicably, she felt alarmed. There was something heavy in the man’s tone, his voice thick with tension, even regret? Fear arrowed through her, but before she could react, she felt something slide around her neck. She tried to grasp it, it was smooth and leathery, perhaps a belt, but even now her attacker was pulling it tight, forcing the air from her throat. She gasped, terrified and airless, kicking her legs violently as she clawed at the belt, but now he was pulling it tighter. Try as she might, she couldn’t get any purchase on it, couldn’t turn, as he hugged her body to his, all the while increasing the pressure on her throat. Her vision seemed to be crowding in on her now, she was seeing stars, the fight fast going out of her, as the world began to fade. She’d known she might be in danger, but had never expected it to come so quickly. Now she would pay the price. She was helpless to resist, powerless in his clutches, utterly unable to fight back.

  This was the end.

  Chapter 119

  She hit the ramp hard, roaring into the car park. Ignoring the line of bikes to her right, Helen sped straight towards the building’s staff entrance. She was driving too fast, endangering anyone who might cross her path, but she had only one thing in mind. She had to get to Lilah Hill.

  The doors now loomed into view and Helen dismounted, leaping clear of the still-moving bike. Her beloved Kawasaki skittered across the surface, the front wheel spinning wildly, but she was already sprinting away towards the doors. Seconds later, she’d buzzed herself in and was haring down the corridor towards the ground-floor stairwell. Bentham was no doubt racing towards the custody area himself, making his way down from the seventh floor. It was just a question of who’d get there first. And whether they would be too late.

  Why had they not spotted this earlier? As yet, Helen had no way of knowing for sure if Parks had been prompted by Blythe to target Hill, but something told her that that’s exactly what was happening, that this most precise and premeditated of serial killers would stop at nothing to tie up loose ends. The thought made Helen feel nauseous – she shuddered to think what Hill might be enduring even now – but there was no time for recriminations or regret. The clock was ticking.

  Reaching the doors, she hauled them open. The stairs down to the custody were short, fifteen at the most, and Helen took them in one go, leaping from the top, guiding herself in with the handrail. She hit the ground hard, but was immediately on her feet, tearing away down the corridor. Busting through another door, she found herself in the internal custody area, only a few paces from the gateway to the cells. There was no sign of Bentham yet, and even as she hurried forward, she heard the lift ping behind her. He had been fast, but not fast enough, meaning she was now Lilah Hill’s best hope.

  Marching forward, she roared at the guard on the gate.

  ‘Open up!’

  The man looked puzzled, even slightly alarmed. Helen saw him reaching for the alarm button and, realizing her mistake, tugged off her helmet.

  ‘It’s me. DI Grace …’

  Angrily, she yanked out her warrant card, thrusting it at the Perspex screen that separated them.

  ‘I need to see Lilah Hill now …’

  ‘Sure, sure …’ the flustered man responded. ‘But if you wait here, she’ll be right up. Officer Parks has just gone to get—’

  ‘NOW!’ Helen bellowed, kicking the screen.

  Bentham was haring up behind her and this seemed to decide the custody officer, who slammed the release button, buzzing them in. Pushing past him, Helen sprang forward, bursting down the corridor.

  ‘Cell Ten …’

  The custody officer’s panicked cry slowly died out, as Helen raced away. This was it, then – Parks was with Lilah right now. Would they be in time to save her? Or would Blythe triumph once more?

  ‘Lilah?’

  Helen’s cry was shrill and angry, yielding no response.

  ‘Lilah?’

  Louder this time, more breathless, almost drowned out by Helen’s pounding footsteps. But now it got a response. The door of Cell Ten flew open and a figure darted out, racing away down the corridor. Helen had a split second to decide and, skidding to a halt, gestured to Bentham to follow the fleeing suspect, before hurrying into the tiny cell.

  As she’d feared, Hill was lying on the floor, a leather belt discarded next to her. Tossing her helmet onto the bed, Helen knelt down beside the prone woman, gently cupping her face and turning it to her. The sight took her breath away, not just the livid bruising around her neck, but the ghostly pallor of her face. Desperate, anguished, Helen felt for a pulse – but found nothing. She checked again, but still came up short. Why the hell had she been so stupid? How had she not seen this coming?

  Lowering Lilah to the ground, Helen sat astride her. Placing her hands on her chest, she began to pump.

  ‘One, two, three, four …’

  Leaning down, Helen squeezed the woman’s nostrils together and, parting her lips, breathed into her airways. Then she resumed pumping her chest.

  ‘Come on, Lilah, come back to me …’

  Again, she breathed into her mouth, but the woman remained inert beneath her.

  ‘Please Lilah—’

  Helen was surprised to find tears pricking her eyes. She was desperate, panicking, wanting more than anything to save this woman, this one life, from Blythe’s grim circus of death. Hill had done terrible things, wicked things, but, still, she didn’t deserve to die like this, choked to death by a total stranger in a poky, airless cell, the plaything of a man she’d once trusted with her life.

  ‘Please—’

  Still she pumped the young woman’s chest, but with little hope of response. Leaning down, she expelled more air into the woman’s lungs, one last, desperate attempt to foster life into the corpse beneath her. She knew it was fruitless, that she was kidding herself, but she had to try.

  And now, to her immense surprise, Hill’s right eye flickered, then slowly opened. She was utterly bemused, her eyeball swivelling wildly, but there was a spark there, signs of life.

  ‘Dear God …’ Helen breathed the words, even as Hill’s other eye opened.

  For a moment the two women stared at each other, one semi-conscious and reeling, the other tearful and relieved, when a noise behind them made Helen turn. It was Bentham, sweaty and grim-faced, standing in the doorway.

  ‘No luck, I’m afraid …’

  He seemed gutted, crestfallen.

  ‘I’ve already put out a general alert. How’re we doing here?’

  He asked it tentatively, as if fearing the worse. But it
was with real emotion that Helen replied:

  ‘We’re OK, we’ll live …’

  And it was true. Hill had come close to death, very close, but she would survive. After all the bloodshed and mayhem of recent weeks, it was perhaps scant consolation, but it was a victory nevertheless, the first time since this all began that they had been ahead of the game, the first time that they had frustrated the sinister intentions of Alex Blythe.

  Chapter 120

  The barrel charge slammed into the door, shattering the heavy lock. Withdrawing it, the officer swung again and this time the door came off its hinges, landing on the floor with a deafening bang. Standing back, he now let the quartet of armed officers charge inside.

  DC Ellie McAndrew was right behind them, scurrying up the stairs in their wake. Her heart was pounding, her senses on fire. She didn’t normally take part in raids – traditionally, this was DS Brooks’s role and, more recently, DS Hudson’s. He should have been here today, leading the charge, but he’d suddenly and inexplicably been removed from the investigation. Rumours were already beginning to circulate that he’d been disciplined, perhaps even suspended, but that made no odds now. What mattered was that she had to pick up the slack, leading the team as they apprehended Dr Alex Blythe.

  Loud noises above now grabbed her attention, the heavy tread of the armed officers accompanied by aggressive cries for Blythe to give himself up, to surrender. Would Blythe come quietly? Or would he put up a fight? It seemed unlikely that he would pose much of a threat, given his stature and profession, but who could say, given the prolific killer he had turned out to be? You never knew how these things would go, hence the knot in McAndrew’s stomach.

  Reaching the head of the stairs, she pushed through into the main room. It was a simple, welcoming space, with table and chairs and a water dispenser. Off it, were several smaller rooms, including the bathroom and storage area. The blinds were down and it had been hard to get any eyes on the man himself, but the desk light still burned, leading the surveillance team to speculate that Blythe was still present. They had seen him enter the space some hours earlier, but had heard or seen no movement since. McAndrew had feared that he was either holed up, awaiting the final confrontation, or perhaps had even taken his own life, aware that the net was tightening around him.