Eeny Meeny (22 page)

And it was whilst reviewing the personnel files that she found something intriguing. Helen had been at the forensics lab on the day that Amy’s testimony was illegally downloaded, Whittaker had been sailing at Poole and Charlie had been accounted for – in Helen’s mind at least. That left Mark and the techies: Peter Johnson, Simon Ashworth and Jeremy Laing. They had all been on strike that day, so it couldn’t have been one of them … but there was something curious about Simon Ashworth. Something Helen had overlooked previously. He had come to Hampshire police from the National Crime Unit in London, where he had been helping to construct the new database, arriving here on the back of a promotion. He had fitted in well, been a good worker, but now he was being transferred back to London. Having only been with them four months. It was a sideways move and a strange one, especially as he had taken a twelve-month lease on a flat in Portsmouth. Something had happened. But not officially. Something unseen and unsettling had sent him scurrying back to London.

Helen was on the scent now and her suspicions were further aroused by the fact that Ashworth was nowhere to be seen. Sick leave – though nobody seemed to know what was wrong with him. No, that wasn’t quite right. People did know what was wrong with him, they just didn’t know if he was sick or not. It had taken Helen quite a while to open Peter Johnson up – to get him to talk about his colleagues – but when she did she soon discovered that Simon Ashworth was not a popular man.

He had broken the strike. Helen felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up when he said it. Ashworth was not a union man, but still he had been expected to follow the lead of his boss and colleagues and honour the one-day walkout. But he hadn’t. He was a loner by nature, socially maladjusted, and often rubbed people up the wrong way. It made him a bad team player and potentially easy for someone like Mickery to pick off? Peter Johnson made his antipathy for Ashworth pretty plain, but denied getting him transferred. He and his colleagues may quite possibly have made him feel unwelcome – usual treatment for a scab – but he would say no more than that, fearing an accusation of harassment, even bullying. The transfer must have been Ashworth’s idea.

‘But you’d have to ask him that yourself,’ Johnson concluded.

Helen would do just that. But she would have to find him first. No one had seen hide nor hair of him for weeks.

73

All she could taste was vomit. Vomit and dried blood. Her mouth felt parched, her throat torn, and her head throbbed with a dull, nagging pain. She hadn’t eaten in days and she could feel the ulcers forming in her stomach. But that didn’t bother her – what she really wanted,
needed
, was water. Usually she would drink litres a day, getting slightly twitchy when she suddenly found herself away from the necessary supply. What a joke those small privations felt now when she was genuinely dying of thirst. She’d never thought about that phrase before, but now she knew what it meant, what it felt like. Despair was setting in – she knew instinctively that there would be no escape.

Sandy lay inert across the way, hoping perhaps to be carried off in his sleep. A peaceful death to end this nightmare. Some hope. They were trapped. And that was all there was to it. Mickery’s eyes flicked left, picking up the flight of the flies that hovered round the effluent piled up in the corner. The flies weren’t there to begin with, so how did they get in? Which tiny fissure in this tin can had they penetrated? Little bastards could probably come and go as they pleased.

When she had first awoken from her stupor, Mickery had been dazed, confused. It was so dark, she couldn’t tell what time of day it was, where she was and what had happened to her. She’d got the fright of her life when she heard Sandy moving. Up until that point she’d assumed she was dreaming, but Sandy’s wild distress had rammed home the grim reality of their situation.

They immediately set about exploring their confines, hammering on the walls, tracing the joins in the metal, slowly coming to the crushing conclusion that they were in some kind of giant metal box. Was it a freight container? Probably, but what did it matter? It was solid, secure, and there was no way out of it. That was all they needed to know. Shortly afterwards, they chanced upon the gun and the phone. And it was then that Mickery’s brave attempts at denial finally collapsed.

‘She’s got us, Sandy.’

‘No. No, no, no, no. There must be another explanation. There must be.’

‘Read the message on the fucking phone.
She’s got us
.’

Sandy wouldn’t look at the phone. Wouldn’t engage at all. But then again, what was there to say? It was clear that there was no easy way out – the choices were starvation or murder. It was Mickery who put these two awful options on the table. Sandy was proving to be a coward, weak, unwilling to face their situation. But Mickery had made him.

They had chosen to take action. The waiting was too much to bear. The despair too crushing. Their life was now slow torture and it was time to do something about it. So they had decided to draw straws – or rather flies as that was all they could find. So Mickery now found herself with arms outstretched facing Sandy. In one of her hands was a dead fly. The other hand was empty. If Sandy picked the fly, he lived. If he didn’t, he would be killed.

Sandy hesitated, willing his eyesight to penetrate the skin and reveal the treasure within Mickery’s palms. Left or right? Death or life?

‘Come on, Sandy. For fuck’s sake just get it over with.’

Mickery’s voice was desperate, entreating. But Sandy didn’t feel any pity, couldn’t feel any pity. He was frozen in the moment, unable to move a muscle.

‘I can’t do it.’

‘Do it now, Sandy. Or I swear to God I’ll make the decision for you.’

Mickery’s tone was savage and it jolted Sandy out of his paralysis. Muttering the Lord’s Prayer, he slowly stretched out his arm, tapping Mickery firmly on the left hand.

A long, terrible moment. Then slowly Mickery turned her hand round and opened it for both to see.

74

It had been the strangest day. The best and worst of days. Charlie lay in bed trying to make sense of it all.

After Helen had gone, the team had hopped to it, driven on by Charlie’s energy and zeal. Encouraging her guys to be brutal with the clinic managers who were evasive, hiding behind client confidentiality, the team had made good progress, working their way steadily through the list, chasing down the surgeons in the Hampshire area who had the expertise to take on a gender reassignment operation. In the end, however, they had drawn a blank. Everyone had been quizzed, but no one recognized Martina or could cast any light on who she might have been when she was a he.

So it was time to widen the search. There were several dozen clinics nationwide that did this kind of thing and they would have to contact them all. Please, God, Martina had not had the op abroad – that would be too much for their limited resources and they were desperate for a clue, something to get them back on track. Charlie left the guys at it. She was sick with tiredness and needed a moment’s respite. As she drove home her mood lifted at the chance of spending a few valuable minutes with her boyfriend and cat, some decent food and, best of all, some sleep.

Roadworks. And a diversion. Irritating, but no more than that. But it meant Charlie had to take an unusual route home. A route that would take her straight past Mark’s flat. With a sudden pang of guilt, she realized that she had momentarily forgotten about him. She had been so intent on proving to herself (and to Helen obviously) that she could lead the team. In so doing she had shown herself to be a bad leader and an unworthy friend – one shouldn’t forget the walking wounded in one’s desperation to win the battle.

Kicking herself for her callousness, she pulled the car over and got out. Was this a good idea? Probably not, but she wanted to be able to sleep tonight and the only way to silence her conscience was to check on Mark. No one else from the force would, that’s for sure.

What had she been hoping for? That he would be bearing up surprisingly well? He was a mess – he stunk of sweat and booze.

‘Do you believe her?’

The blunt question took Charlie by surprise.

‘Believe who?’

‘Her. Do you think I sold you out?’

There was a long silence. There was the official answer and the true answer. In the end, the latter won out.

‘No.’

Mark exhaled loudly as if he’d actually been holding his breath. He looked down at the floor to hide his emotion.

‘Thank you,’ he muttered without looking up, but his voice betrayed the strength of his feelings. Instinctively, Charlie went over to him. Seated next to him, she put her arm round him. He leaned into her, glad of the support.

‘The sad thing is I thought I was falling in love with her.’

Wow. Charlie hadn’t seen that one coming.

‘Did you …?’

Mark nodded.

‘And, stupid fool that I am, I thought it could be something good. And now this …’

‘Perhaps she didn’t have a choice. Perhaps she genuinely thought …’

Charlie hesitated. There was no nice way to finish that sentence. The accusation of corruption is the worst thing you can throw at a copper.

‘I can guess what they’re saying about this at the station. But I am innocent, Charlie. I didn’t do anything wrong. And I want back in. I really badly want back in … So … if there’s anything you can do … any way you can influence her and get her to stop this …’

Mark petered out. Charlie couldn’t think of what to say. They both knew there was no way back now. Even if he were exonerated, who would take him on given his history of false starts and problems? In an era when no one was hiring, you didn’t take bets on potential, especially if there was a hint of unreliability or dishonesty. What could Charlie say that was conciliatory but true?

‘You’ll get through it, Mark. I know you will.’

She wasn’t sure she believed it. And she wasn’t sure Mark believed it either.

She left his flat, promising to pop round again shortly. Mark didn’t really acknowledge her departure, descending once more into self-absorption.

As she drove home, Charlie was full of doubts. Mark wasn’t the type to do anything stupid, was he? She thought not, but who could tell? He was obviously devastated. No wife or kid at home, no job to go to, a tendency to drink … Suddenly all these thoughts crowded in on Charlie. Her head ached, her stomach was churning. A wave of nausea hit her, so she swung the car into a lay-by, just about opening the door in time to vomit her lunch on to the tarmac. She retched heavily once, twice, then it was over.

Later, at home, snuggling in the warm embrace of her boyfriend Steve, she was assailed by doubts of a different kind. Slipping quietly out of their sleepy cuddle, she tiptoed into the bathroom and opened the bathroom cabinet. Expectation mingled with trepidation as she opened the small cardboard tube.

Five minutes later, she had her answer. She was pregnant. They’d been trying for ages without any joy, but there it was. A little blue cross. A second test gave the same answer. Such small things that change your life in such big ways. Steve slumbered on unaware as Charlie remained perched on the toilet, still a little in shock. Not for the first time today her eyes welled up with tears. But these weren’t tears of sadness – they were tears of joy.

75

For a moment, she was staring at his eyeball. And then it was gone. Helen had tracked down Simon Ashworth’s city centre apartment and respectfully rang the doorbell – which showed some restraint given her desire to hammer on the door. A long pause, no sign of movement. So she rang the doorbell again. And again. She paused, listened. Was that the squeak of a floorboard, the tiniest hint of footsteps? And then the eyeball appeared at the peephole. Helen had been expecting – hoping – for this, so was staring down the peephole herself. The eyeball immediately took fright and vanished from view. The tell-tale signs of footsteps padding away made Helen smile – he was busted, so why tiptoe?

A copper faces a number of choices in this kind of situation. You can go the official route, apply for a warrant etc., but when you’re working alone this almost always means that your quarry escapes whilst you’re busy elsewhere filling in forms. You can go the patient route, feigning a departure only to take up a viewing post on the street. This usually works as the fugitive is desperate to leave the flat having been rumbled and is often on the street within the hour. But Helen had never been very good at patience. Which is why she marched into the caretaker’s office – startling him during his elevenses – and demanded he open flat 21.

He would have been well within his rights to ask for – demand – a search warrant, but it’s funny how many people’s brains stop working when they see a warrant card. Fearing censure, or excited by the drama of the moment, they usually comply. And so it was now, the flustered caretaker opening up flat 21 without hesitation. He seemed somewhat surprised and disappointed when Helen shut the door in his face – a brief smile of gratitude was all he got for his pains.

Ashworth was preparing to flee. The packed bags, the car keys – he was a man on the move. But he stood stock still now as Helen crossed the room towards him. He looked scared, blustering about the illegality of what Helen was doing – but not in a convincing or threatening way. Putting her warrant card away, Helen pointed to an empty metal chair. After a brief pause as Ashworth seemed to size up both Helen and the situation, he complied.

‘Why did you do it, Simon?’

Helen had never been very good at pussy-footing, so opted for a full-frontal assault. She laid out the charges – illegally downloading confidential information, compromising an active investigation for financial gain – quickly and crisply, intending to afford Ashworth no time to invent excuses or evasions. To her surprise, he offered a spirited defence of his actions.

‘It couldn’t have been me.’

‘Why not?’