Absent Light (6 page)

She snuggled in, making herself comfortable, and told Ed about the aborted meet and the mugging. She told him she thought she was going to die.

“You poor baby,” Ed said, kneading her toes. “Shouldn't you have some counselling or something?”

She almost choked. It hadn't even crossed her mind. She didn't believe in that kind of scary stuff. Ed cast her an indulgent smile. “So this woman you were going to meet, you haven't spoken to her since?”

“Nope.”

“And she hasn't phoned?”

“Not yet.”

“Mmmm,” Ed said.

She took a deep drink. So did Ed. “Don't you think you were a bit reckless?” Ed said pointedly.

“A crowded bar, a single woman, where's the threat?”

“She might have been the lure.”

“You've been reading too much fiction,” she laughed.

“Quite probably, but you can't trust anyone these days, male or female. Didn't the cops teach you anything?”

“I wasn't a cop.” She hadn't meant to sound chippy but, from the dismayed expression on Ed's face, she knew she hadn't quite pulled it off. She took a deep breath and smiled. “Sorry,” Helen said, squeezing his arm.

“You're forgiven,” Ed said, giving her the sort of look that was reproving and mischievous at the same time. “Didn't mean to sound flippant.”

“Yes, you did,” Helen teased him affectionately. And maybe, just maybe, Ed had a point.

As soon as she left Ed's, she screwed up her courage and walked the short distance from his flat to The Pitcher and Piano. She told herself that she was simply taking a look, nothing heavy-duty, no camera shots, no fingertip search, no checking for missed evidence, none of the paraphernalia: lifting tape, powders, Zephyr brushes, vinyl sheets, magnifying glass, search lights. The chance of something happening again in broad daylight was remote so there was absolutely nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. She couldn't quite admit that she was about to review her own scene of crime.

Wanting to retrace her route, she entered the bar from the top entrance, walked into the modern interior through a crowded eating area, then down the stairs to the ground-floor, scanning faces in the same way she'd done two nights before. She spotted a certain sort of tiredness in the expressions, a result of too much boozing, too much eating, too much time spent inside confined with people one should care about but couldn't. She also registered the dogged determination to keep the momentum going – by ordering another drink. Someone was sitting at her table but it didn't really matter. That wasn't what she was there for.

Deliberately sauntering through the busy bar, glancing at her mirrored reflection, she passed through double opening-doors and out onto a paved area from where she could see the water winking menacingly at her. A blade of sun penetrated through a break in the clouds. This was it, she thought nervously. This was where it happened. Her professional expertise deserted her. She felt no adrenaline rush, no crucial sense of cool detachment, vital to carry out the job. Rather her fists were clenched and her palms were sweating. A sharp pain inserted itself behind her left eye, signalling the start of a blistering headache.

There were a couple of white plastic tables and chairs for those brave enough to sit outside, the rest of the outdoor furniture stacked against a brick-built wall. Beyond this, a tarmac path ran alongside the canal. To her right was one of the many tunnels, the footpath hived off from the water by a single metal, slightly kicked out of shape, handrail. She thought it might have been a good spot for someone with malign intent to hide, but the presence of a light at the opening of the tunnel meant the individual was exposed to some risk of being seen.

She looked to her left where a solitary painted barge, selling teas and coffees, lay anchored. Her gaze transferred to the pedestrian footbridge leading to the International Convention Centre. That wouldn't work, she thought. She would have heard the clatter of footsteps, and met her assailant head-on. The attack had come from behind, she reminded herself. So, she thought, pivoting slowly on one foot so that she was facing the Pitcher and Piano, there was only one other possibility. Whoever mugged her had waited inside and followed her out.

CHAPTER FOUR

A
DAM WAS STANDING THERE
, a kitchen knife in his hand, fresh blood on the blade.

“What have you done?” she screamed.

He said nothing. Just stood there with his lop-sided smile.

“Please, Adam, please…”

“It's all right,” he said soothingly. “She's in here. She's not really dead. Look.”

Heart in her throat, Helen followed him down a dark corridor into a small, windowless room. A pile of clothes lay in a corner. She knew the body was underneath.

“Go on,” he said encouragingly. “See for yourself.”

She nodded, as if in a dream, crossed the room, drew back the clothing, saw the face.
Her
face.

“Christ Almighty,” Helen sat up and switched on the light. She was bathed in sweat and her limbs were trembling. The spectre of Adam Roscoe seemed to inhabit every corner of the room, even though he'd never even set foot in the place. She saw Adam standing by the window. Adam taking her clothes off. Adam joyous. Adam angry. Tossing back the bedclothes, she leapt out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Putting the thermostat on its hottest setting, she closed her eyes, trying to wash him out of her head. But the image of that filthy flat, the wrenched-up clothes, Rose Buchanan's broken body, the baby already dead inside her, just wouldn't go away. She let out a bitter laugh. All the time she'd been there in the flat, taking photographs, combing through every piece of detritus for evidence, she hadn't known that Adam Roscoe, the love of her life, had unwittingly contributed to the young girl's murder. She was blissfully unaware that Adam knew for months that Rose Buchanan was at risk from Jacks. She'd no idea then that Adam's blind desire to protect his informer, at all costs, meant Rose's life, or any girl Jacks took up with, was deemed a necessary sacrifice. Worse, she didn't yet understand the significance of an earlier case of indecent assault, in which both she and Adam were professionally involved, and in which the charges were later dropped.
About which she'd stayed silent
.

Fuck it, she thought, stepping out of the shower, reaching for a towel, willing herself to be rational. The mugging had understandably upset her equilibrium, resurrecting a series of unpleasant events that were history. Simple as that. Nothing more to it. No links. No connections. What was needed was focus. Thank God she'd arranged to go round to Jen's first thing to help prepare for the New Year's Eve party that evening. Anything to blank out the mugging.

Anything to eradicate the past.

She dressed in black jeans and a thick polo-neck sweater, and decided to give breakfast and make-up a miss. Grabbing a thickly padded jacket, she bowled down the stairs, swiping her car keys, and let herself out onto a sharply gravelled path, her ears keening at the steady drone of city traffic.

In spite of the sun, the chill air made her teeth ache. Digging her hands deep into her pockets, she tramped up the path that led out onto the back of the property to where her car, a chilli red MR2 Roadster, was parked. She climbed into the black leather interior, and once she'd defrosted the windscreen, slipped Robert Palmer's
At His Very Best
into the CD player, and started the engine, revelling in the throaty roar. When she'd worked as a SOCO, she'd received driving instruction as part of extra training. She was commended, she remembered with some pride. She was always up for things then: charity events, marathons, even a self-defence course for female officers. She did it for a laugh, or so she said, but really it was to prove herself to Adam Roscoe, to give her an edge, to impress him, to make her worthy of his love. She expelled a heavy sigh. In spite of all her good intentions, she couldn't help but remember.

“Goodness, you scrub up well,” Adam said admiringly.

She was sitting having a drink with some colleagues at the Gate Hangs Well, a popular haunt for police officers and associated staff.

“Not that difficult. Protective suits must be the most unflattering outfits on the planet.”

“I reckon you'd look good in a bin-liner,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Thanks,” she said, flattered. “Gin and tonic, please.”

He ordered the drinks, picked both of them up, and walked to a corner of the room away from the others.

“Oh, shouldn't we…” she began, half-looking over her shoulder at her friends.

“I'm sure they won't miss you for five minutes. Anyway, I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“You did a good job on the shooting.”

She bridled a bit. She thought he sounded patronising. “It's my job. It's what I do.”

“A pity people like Davies don't appreciate it.”

“No harm done,” she said, sipping her drink. It wasn't wise to slag off officers, whatever their rank, whatever she thought.

He nodded and let his dark eyes rest on hers. “Didn't have you down for a complainer.”

“What did you have me down for?” she smiled flirtatiously.

“Someone who cares.”

Oh, she thought, the last thing she dreamt he'd say.

After stopping off to collect some wine for the party, she called in at the car jet wash in the expectation it wouldn't be busy. There was only one car ahead. She took her place and switched from CD Player to radio, hoping to catch some news. Slade's Merry Christmas was blasting out from the speakers. She'd never particularly liked it but found herself singing along until riveted by the driver of the car in front, a dark blue Audi A4. Dressed in galoshes, yellow waterproofs and wearing Marigolds, the Audi's driver attacked his car with the hose as if it were a dog that had rolled in fresh cow-shit. Every time she thought he'd finished, he pushed the button for an extra wash. There was a lot of fumbling underneath, the hose poised just so to get the full effect. It looked highly suspicious, forcing her to seriously consider what he was eradicating. She switched off the radio, and found herself watching with a professional eye. Water was the enemy of forensics. Critical trace evidence could easily be washed away. Fibres might remain – if you were lucky. Then she pinched herself, jolting back to the present. You're not in the business any more, she told herself, you walked away, left it all behind.

Twenty-five minutes later, he waved her in and drove off. Probably a wannabe BMW driver, she concluded with a smile, as she got out and fed the meter.

Jen lived in Bristol Road, in an annexe of her parent's Regency townhouse. She represented the new breed of stay-at-home older children who ate into their parents' pensions. While Helen fled from her home environment at the first opportunity, Jen chose a rent-free roof over her head the size of a football pitch, her washing done, meals when she wanted them, and all the freedom because Jen's parents were fond of travelling. At the present time, they were whooping it up in Cuba.

Helen parked on the gravelled drive. Loud music was belting out from Jen's side of the house. Helen walked in and was greeted by George, the family's bearded collie-cross. As she squatted down to pat him, he stuck both muddy paws on her chest and licked her face. Not much of a guard-dog, she thought fondly, stroking his hairy head.

“Tell George to bugger off,” Jen called from a small galleried area that had been converted into a kitchen. The rest of the annexe was open-plan, which meant that guests could as easily sit on the large double bed as on the sofa. The idea was that certain spaces had their own distinct functions but Jen was so pathologically untidy, everything seemed to meld into one big mess. The bathroom was the only sane bit, tucked at the other end of the gallery with proper doors that locked.

Helen gave George an affectionate shove, crossed the obstacle course that covered several hundred square feet of floor, and went up the two steps to the kitchen.

“What do you reckon to this?” Jen said, holding out a soup ladle. Pink-faced, she was wearing denims and an old sweater that failed to conceal her voluptuous build. Her long blonde hair was unceremoniously pinned up on top of her head.

Helen sniffed it. “What is it?”

“Chicken Gloop.”

“Sounds dodgy.”

“Oh ye of little faith. Go on, give it a try.”

Helen tasted it. “Funnily enough, it's quite nice. What else are we cooking?”

“Industrial-sized quantities of Beef in Beer, George's favourite,” Jen regarded him affectionately as he trotted into the kitchen and slumped down near her feet. “What is it with dogs? They always park themselves in the most inconvenient places.” She gave him a gentle nudge with her foot.

Helen knelt down and stroked his soft, fluffy coat. George gave a contented grunt and closed his eyes.

“No, you don't,” Jen said, clapping her hands, “Come on, up Georgie boy, you'll have to go in the parent-pad.” George twitched his hairy eyebrows, got up with great reluctance and threw Helen a reproachful look.

“What do you want me to do?” Helen said as Jen carted George away.

“Saved you a special job.” Jen had a wicked light in her eyes.

“What's that?”

“Make a start on the onions.”

“Wow,” Jen said, goggle-eyed.

Helen flinched at Jen's too obvious enthusiasm.

They were taking a well-earned break. Helen was beginning to wonder whether she'd ever recover. God knows how many onions she'd peeled, but the rims of her eyes were bright red and her eyeballs felt on fire.

“Any idea who rescued you?”

In a random moment, she wondered if it was the taller of the two guys she'd spied in the Pitcher and Piano, the better-looking one. Wishful thinking. She shook her head.

“Hot chocolate?” Jen said, as if Helen's near drowning were cause for celebration.

“Thought you were on a diet,” Helen teased.

“After New Year, silly. Anyway, chocolate's good for you.”

Unlike Jen, Helen didn't have to watch what she ate. She'd always kept reasonably physically fit by twice-weekly swimming – not that it seemed to have done her much good. She shrugged a
fine by me
and scrabbled in her handbag for a tissue.

“And you say you were pushed,” Jen continued ghoulishly, pouring a pint of milk into a saucepan.

“Well, I…”

“God, he could have killed you.”

Helen was beginning to regret her confession. Jen's strange fascination with the misfortunes of others was something that had, up until that moment, been mildly amusing. If something terrible was reported in the newspapers, or on the radio or television, it was guaranteed that Jen would call and let her know. Jen's collection of true-crime stories was awesome, her memory for ghoulish events irrefutable. She should have been a copper, Helen thought. Instead she worked in the alien, blokeish world of the motor dealer, selling Jaguars.

“So you're helping the police with their enquiries,” Jen said, whisking chocolate powder into the boiling milk. That was the other thing about Jen, Helen thought, she loved the jargon.

“Don't say it like that,” Helen let out a laugh. “Makes me sound like a potential suspect. How many are you expecting tonight?” she asked, rapidly changing the subject.

“I've invited sixty but I don't know if they'll all come.”

“Be a crush if they do.”

“S'pose if the worst comes to it, we could always spill over into the parent-pad.”

“They'll love that,” Helen grinned, with heavy irony. Jen looked unconcerned. She put two mugs down on the table. “Got enough booze?” Helen asked.

“Hope so,” Jen replied. “Ed's collecting two barrels of beer and four cases of wine.” She lowered her gaze. “Did I tell you Martin's coming?”

Oh shit, Helen thought. “No, you didn't.”

Jen blew on her drink and took a sip. “It's OK. He's bringing some woman with him.”

“Good,” Helen said.

“Really?”

“Really,” Helen insisted.

“Told you he'd get over it,” Jen said with a shrewd smile.

Dear sweet Martin, Helen thought, as she drove slowly back to the coach-house. He'd genuinely loved her. Of that, she was certain. It should have been enough.
He
should have been enough. Wasn't as if she hadn't cared or had strong feelings for him. But these had come at the wrong time, if that didn't sound too perverse. The truth was that she'd been on the rebound. Adam was under her skin. Still was.

With Martin she'd felt such a rush of unfamiliar happiness, such a strange, uncomplicated and unaccustomed emotion that it was no surprise she'd wanted to run for it. Perhaps it was her upbringing. There were always boundaries not to be crossed. Getting too close wasn't welcomed and it wasn't advisable to try. She was schooled to be solitary. If ill, carry on. If unhappy, say nothing. There was a certain family philosophy in which she'd been steeped: work hard and trust nobody.

One day, she and Martin were walking together along New Street. It was a bitterly cold January afternoon and the light was fading. They passed a young lad who was sitting huddled in a vacant shop doorway. He asked for some change. With his pinched face and sunken eyes, he couldn't have been much older than fourteen years of age. Something in his despairing expression tugged at her. She sensed his loneliness, his bleak isolation. She knew of old that he was a potential victim of crime statistic. As she slowed down, Martin pulled at her sleeve.

“I'll be back,” she called over her shoulder to the boy as Martin bundled her away.

“What do you mean?” Martin said, confounded.

“Won't take a second,” she said, absently scanning the shop-fronts. “Here, this will do,” she said, darting into a bakery.

“You can't be serious,” he said, half of him appalled, the other fascinated.

She ordered a meat pie, one cheese and onion pasty, and asked for both of them to be heated. She asked for a carton of hot vegetable soup and two rounds of sandwiches, one cheese and tomato, the other ham and salad.