Eeny Meeny (21 page)

68

Hannah Mickery had not had a good night. She had visited prisons many times in a professional capacity and had never failed to be revolted by the experience. So she’d gone to her night in the cells with real dread. And, ok, nothing bad had happened to her. But it had been a long, cold, depressing night with only a seventeen-year-old junkie for company – a junkie who’d pissed herself with fear in the middle of the night. The urine had run into the corner of the cell and stayed there, stinking out the place for the rest of the night.

She just wanted to get home, have a shower and
sleep
. She’d remained calm throughout it all, but now she felt washed out and aggrieved. So when her lawyer, Sandy, arrived to pick her up, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. She kissed him – something she’d never done before – and asked him to take her home. Sandy, however, had other ideas.

‘There’s someone you should meet.’

‘Well, whoever it is they’ll have to wait. I’m going straight home to bed.’

‘It’s a one-time-only offer, Hannah. I think you should take my advice on this one.’

Hannah slowed her march and turned to face Sandy.

‘An hour of your time, that’s all I ask. I’ve brought clothes from your place. You can shower at mine if you’re quick. The meeting starts in just under an hour. Trust me, Helen, it’s the one you’ve been waiting for.’

At Sandy’s house, the water cascaded over Hannah, reviving her instantly. The experience should have been soothing, but Hannah was too wired for that. She was full of questions, but her overriding emotion was one of girlish excitement. She had hit the jackpot. She and Sandy had pulled it off.

On the ride over, he’d outlined the proposition. It was more generous than she could have hoped for. They wanted a lot for it of course, but she had prepared scrupulously and had all the material she needed. After the newspaper deal, they’d wrap up a publishing deal, which would lead to TV appearances and who knows what else. She would make her name, be rich and then who knows? Perhaps she’d move to the States. There was enough devious criminality there to keep her busy for a lifetime.

She hadn’t expected it to be a woman. And especially not such a glamorous one. Just prejudice really – one expected every tabloid hack to be a bloke. Still, she seemed incredibly clued up, impressing both Hannah with her detective work and barefaced cheek in getting to this point. It was all about getting ahead of the competition. The deal was hammered out quickly and generously and the three of them shook on it there and then. At which she produced a bottle of champagne she’d brought with her – just in case. Once again Hannah marvelled at her front.

Still it was good stuff. And had an instant effect. Hannah could take her drink, so it must have been the adrenalin rush of success making her feel light-headed. By the looks of things, Sandy was feeling the same way too.

69

Helen stood in front of Whittaker’s desk like an errant schoolgirl. She knew why she’d been summoned. He knew she knew. But still he took his time, leafing through page after page of the
Evening News
, before folding it up and placing it carefully on the table, the front page facing up.

‘CLUELESS!’

The headline screamed out at her. She had read Emilia Garanita’s article first thing this morning and knew immediately that it would cause ripples up and down the chain. It had a few salient details about Amy and Sam, and Ben and Peter, and a couple of sketchy pointers on Martina. But it led on the release of Mickery and the suspension of ‘a senior officer working on the current investigation’. It looked bad. Helen guessed that Whittaker had already had his ear badly bent by his superiors, such was the look of thunder he’d given her when she entered.

‘I’ll call her,’ Helen found herself saying. ‘See if I can get her to call off the dogs.’

‘Bit late for that, isn’t it? Besides, there’s no need. I’ve called her myself. She’ll be here in five minutes.’

Emilia entered the room, looking like the cat that had got the cream. She took her time deciding between tea and coffee, indulging in small talk and so on. She had been summoned, anointed, and she was clearly going to enjoy herself.

‘Do you have anything to add, Detective Superintendent? Do you still have faith in Inspector Grace’s leadership of the investigation? Have there been any developments?’

‘I’m not here to talk about the case. I’m here to talk about you,’ Whittaker fired back brusquely.

‘I don’t follow –’

‘It’s time you backed off this one. Your interventions are misleading and unhelpful and I want them to stop. No more articles until there is something genuine to report. Get me?’

Helen was amused by the boldness of his approach – no one stood between Whittaker and promotion.

‘I do hope you are not trying to dictate to the press –’

‘That’s precisely what I’m fucking doing. And if I were you I’d heed what I’m saying to you.’

Emilia was stumped for once, but she rallied quickly.

‘With the greatest of respect –’

‘What do you know about respect?’ Whittaker barked over her. ‘What respect have you shown the Anderson family during their ordeal? Shouting through their letterbox, calling their home night and day, sitting outside their house hour after hour, going through their bins.’

‘You’re exaggerating. I have a duty –’

‘Am I? I have a log here detailing every time your red Fiat registration number BD50 JKR has parked up outside their house. The log was compiled by Amy’s father and runs to two pages. It places you there at midnight, 2 a.m., 3 a.m. It goes on and on and on. It’s harassment. It’s stalking. Need I remind you of the Leveson enquiry? And the code of conduct that all journalists, whether national or regional’ – he said this last word with real disdain – ‘have agreed to abide by?’

For once Emilia had no comeback. So Whittaker continued:

‘I could demand a front-page apology to the family. I could have you fined. Fuck it, I could probably get you sacked if I really wanted to. But I’m a kind man so I’m going to be merciful. But keep your ill-informed opinions to yourself or you’ll find yourself hounded out of local journalism and, hell, there’s no way back from that, is there?’

Emilia left shortly afterwards, fuming but helpless. Helen was speechless – and impressed.

‘Do you really have a log of her visits?’ she asked.

‘Of course not’ was the reply. ‘Now get back to work and please, Helen, make some bloody progress. I’ve bought you some time. Make use of it.’

And with that she was dismissed. Helen marvelled at his front and was impressed by his loyalty to the team – and to her. But as she headed back down the corridor, she couldn’t help feeling that this outright attack on the grimly determined journalist would rebound on them. Emilia had survived much worse than this and always came back fighting.

70

As soon as Charlie entered the incident room, she noticed the atmosphere. When an investigation is in full cry, incident rooms are noisy, aggressive, busy places. But today it was quiet, sombre even, and it wasn’t hard to see why. Mark’s desk was clean, his board cleared of personal photos and memorabilia. It was as if he had never existed.

But Mark had been a popular member of the team and everyone felt his absence. He may have been vulnerable, a fuck-up, but that was part of his charm, especially for the girls. The little-boy-lost thing. He was also bright and funny and when he applied himself he was a good copper. But now everyone was privately asking themselves whether the Mark they knew was the real one. Could he have sold them out? Had all their work been wasted, leaked? Were his financial needs really so dire that he would betray them like this? Charlie was troubled by it – she’d always basically liked Mark – and she made a mental note to check what had happened to his personal things. She got on with her work, but the empty chair was always in sight out of the corner of her eye.

Helen entered shortly after 9 a.m. and everyone made a Herculean effort to be cheerful and act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Helen, as was her wont, didn’t mess about, calling Charlie to update her on developments. She seemed on edge and was impatient for news.

‘Tell me about Martina.’

‘Well she was born a he and probably had the op in the last three to five years. Scar tissue suggests it’s no earlier than that.’

‘Did she advertise her services as a post-op transsexual?’

‘No. Her line was that she liked to party and knew how to pleasure. A fun slut, that sort of thing.’

‘Why? You can always get more from punters for being a trannie. More exotic, more specialist. Why not advertise that fact?’

‘Perhaps she didn’t like the crowd it attracted?’

‘Or perhaps she had something to hide?’

The question hung in the air, then:

‘Was she local?’ Helen continued.

‘Doesn’t look like it. The other girls say she started working down here a couple of months back. Her website confirms that – she’s got a local IP address and it was set up eight weeks ago.’

‘What about her real address?’

Charlie shook her head.

‘Nothing so far. She was a bit of a mystery to the other girls, kept herself to herself.’

‘What about a money trail?’

‘We’re talking to the local banks but so far no account in her name.’

Helen exhaled. Nothing about this case was easy.

‘Well, our best bet is the clinics then. How many local clinics are there that do this sort of work?’

‘Fifteen. We’re talking to them all, though most are a little cagey about discussing their clients.’

‘Well, make them uncagey. Tell them what happened to Martina, show them the pictures. We need to know who she was. He was.’

Charlie couldn’t suppress a wry smile and for once Helen couldn’t either. Was Charlie fooling herself or was their relationship improving since Helen had put her through the mill? Charlie had been enraged following the confrontation – to have someone question your integrity like that – and had even contemplated asking for a transfer. And yet she still wanted Helen to like her, still wanted her respect. Truth was that most women in the force wanted to be like her. She was the youngest female DI in Hampshire police and her progress through the ranks had been stellar. She had no husband, no family, which gave her an unfair advantage in many women’s eyes, but she had still done amazingly well. She was a role model for them all.

Helen turned to face the team.

‘DC Brooks will be running things today. Top priority: the clinics. I know we’re a man light now and you’ve all got questions about that. When the time is right, I will tell you more. But for now I need you all to focus. We have a killer to catch.’

And with that, she left. Charlie immediately started handing out tasks to Sanderson, McAndrew and the rest, who took them without complaint, despite many being the same rank as Charlie. Intent on appearing serious and professional, Charlie was brisk and to the point, but inside she was grinning. The first time in living memory that Helen Grace had let someone else steer the ship.

71

She’d had to call the police in the end – she hadn’t wanted to but she didn’t have a choice. She’d been scared at first – Stephen wasn’t at home tonight and the drunken yobs hammering on her door were bloody terrifying her – but when she found out what was really going on, she was sickened rather than scared.

She hadn’t seen Mark drunk for months. He’d cleaned himself up, she’d thought, got himself together. But he was a sorry sight now. His clothes were stained, his hair unkempt and he was slurring his words. Pathetic invective spewed from his lips as he raged at his misfortune, telling the whole street how Christina couldn’t keep her legs together, that Stephen was brainless, a walking dildo. His hammering was getting louder – he would surely wake Elsie up soon – so Christina had to do something.

She opened the door on the chain a little in an attempt to appease him. She wanted to start a conversation, but this only enraged him more. What right did she have to bar his entry, he shouted. When all he wanted was to see his daughter. The daughter she stole from him. Christina tried to shove the door shut, but he manoeuvred his arm inside, brushing her off, ripping the chain out of its holder.

He pushed his way in and marched upstairs towards Elsie’s room. Christina grabbed the phone and rang 999. She’d read about deranged guys who’d killed their kids after a divorce. Was Mark capable of that? She didn’t think so but she wasn’t taking any chances. She told the operator what was going on, gave her address and then sprinted up the stairs.

She didn’t know what she’d find when she entered the room and in many ways it was worse than she’d imagined. Elsie was standing up on her bed. She was shaking with fear, crying soundlessly in shock and terror. And Mark was slumped on the floor, his body convulsing with sobs. What Christina had started Elsie had finished. The look of horror on her face was enough to stop his heart. The drink had beaten him at last, taken all that was good from him.

He was the very image of a broken man – with only a lifetime of self-pity and recrimination to look forward to. And for the first time in ages, Christina felt an emotion which she’d always denied herself.

Guilt.

72

She had to be sure. She had already ruined Mark’s career and probably more besides and logically the case against him
was
sound, but … Helen was full of doubts. He had seemed so hurt, so outraged, so defiant – he couldn’t have acted all that, could he? Having initially been stunned by the existence of a mole within the team, latterly Helen had come to hope that this rat would lead them straight to the killer. Instead it had taken them off on a tangent, distracting them from the main prize. Helen was tempted to let it go. To turn right round and go back into the investigation room, but it was too late for that now. She had served the execution papers to the condemned man and there was a process to follow. But with the axe hovering, Helen had to be sure.