Eeny Meeny (27 page)

Helen was glad when the interview concluded after only twenty minutes. They would have to reconvene with Whittaker’s police representative and lawyer and Helen would be excluded from the process from now on. Whittaker predictably had said little, denying all the charges. Would he crack?

There was simply too much smoke for there not to be a fire. Charlie seemed innocent. Hand on heart, Mark had put up a convincing case too. And Simon Ashworth had been so compelling in his account. It all pointed to Whittaker’s guilt. But Helen knew that senior officers were very seldom hung out to dry publicly. And it was even less likely in this case, as the investigation that he had compromised was so sensational. These corruption cases tended to drag on behind very closed doors for months, even years. And what was the betting that at the end of it he would be pensioned off without any real censure or punishment. Helen hated the realpolitik of it all.

The process would take time to play out but two things were immediately apparent. First, that Helen would take over Whittaker’s role in an acting capacity. And second that she wanted Mark back on the team.

Helen took a deep breath and rang his bell. This wasn’t going to be easy, but there was no time for hesitation. Charlie was still chasing down Louise Tanner, there was no sign of Stephanie Bines and they were no closer to ending this nightmare. She needed all her best people round her.

‘Come on, come on,’ Helen muttered, as she listened for signs of life. A minute ticked by. Then another. She was about to cut her losses and go, when she heard someone fumbling with the lock. She turned, just as the door swung open to reveal Mark. Or what was left of him at least.

He was a sorry sight. Unshaven, red-eyed and unsteady on his feet. A daytime drinker with nothing – or no one – to make him stop. He was wearing a tracksuit, but exercise was not on the cards. He had shut down. Helen felt a pang of regret. She had offered to save Mark, then driven him to the bottle once more. He stared at her with a mixture of surprise and contempt, so Helen jumped straight in:

‘Mark, we’ve been through too much together for me to beat around the bush or try and dress things up, so I’m just going to say it straight. I know that you are innocent of everything I threw at you. I know I fucked up big time. And I want you back on the team straight away. If you don’t have the energy or can’t face being in the same room as me, I would understand, but I want to find a way to get you back in – you’re too talented a copper to be thrown on the scrapheap. I was wrong. But I’ve nailed the right guy now and I want to make amends.’

A long silence. Mark looked stunned. Then:

‘Who?’

‘Whittaker.’

Mark whistled, then laughed. He was incredulous.

‘We don’t know yet if it was a financial relationship with Mickery or a romantic one, but I’m totally convinced it was him. He lied about his alibi, pressured other officers to lie … it’s a big mess.’

‘So who’s taking over?’

‘I am.’

‘Well, congratulations.’

He had been polite until now, but the first hints of sarcasm were creeping in.

‘I know I upset you, Mark. I know I betrayed our … friendship. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I did it all for the right reasons. I just got it wrong. Badly, badly wrong.’

She drew breath then carried straight on.

‘But things have developed and I need you back. I know now that the killer is motivated by a personal hatred of me. We’re getting closer, Mark, but I need your help to get me over the line.’

She swiftly explained the situation – the victims, the commendations. Mark took it all in, passively at first but then slowly he ventured questions, becoming more and more engaged in the narrative. The old instincts were awakening, Helen thought to herself.

‘Have you told the rest of the team? That I’m innocent,’ Mark fired back, wresting the initiative from Helen.

‘Charlie knows, I’ll tell the others later today.’

‘That’s the very
minimum
that has to happen before I will even think about what you’ve said today.’

‘Of course.’

‘And I want you to apologize. I know you’re not very good at tha—’

‘I’m sorry, Mark. Truly, truly sorry. I should never have doubted you. I should have listened to my instincts. But I didn’t.’

Mark stared at her, surprised by the comprehensive nature of her apology.

‘I know I drove you to this, but I want to make amends. Clean yourself up and help us catch her. Please.’

He wouldn’t commit there and then. Helen knew he wouldn’t, though there was a part of her that was hoping he might. Instant forgiveness is always desirable, if not very probable. So she left him pondering and got back on the job. Had she left it too late to repair the damage? Time would tell.

89

Charlie Brooks didn’t like alcohol. Never had. And pubs that opened at 9 a.m. weren’t her natural habitat. But she was trawling them today, taking a step into a different, darker world. There are some pubs where you go to woo your lover. There are others where you go to stand on the tables and sing. And there are others where you go to drink yourself to death. It was still early morning and yet the Anchor was already pretty full – of pensioners, alcoholics and those who’d rather be anywhere than on their own.

Despite the smoking ban, there was a strong smell of cigarette smoke. Charlie wondered what else they turned a blind eye to in this insalubrious establishment. For years the council had tried to get these portside pubs closed down, but the might of the breweries was strong and pubs that sell strong beer at £1.99 a pint will always be popular with the punters.

It had already been an exhausting search. There were plenty of dodgy drinking dens near Southampton docks and Charlie would have to visit them all. Eyes darted and ears pricked up the moment she entered. Despite dressing down, she was still too attractive, too fresh, for these places and the clientele were instantly intrigued or in some cases on their guard. No one afforded her a warm welcome and she was starting to get disheartened when finally she got a break.

Louise Tanner, or Louie as she was known locally, was a regular at the Anchor. She’d be here at some point. All you had to do was sit and wait.

Was this progress? It was better than nothing, so Charlie bought herself a drink and took a corner seat at the back. It afforded her a good view of the entrance without revealing herself and would be a good vantage point.

She tried to imagine what Louise might look like. They only had her official police association photo to go on and that was years old. Then she was a muscular officer, with blonde hair tied tight back in a ponytail and a slight gap between her front teeth. Not attractive you’d say, but nonetheless an imposing and impressive character. Her physical strength had come in handy when she and Helen had pulled those people to safety, but the aftermath revealed a distinct lack of mental strength. You can never tell how you might react to a traumatic experience, but whereas Helen Grace had managed to bottle it up, or clamp it down or deal with it in some way, Louise Tanner hadn’t. Was it the burn injuries on some of the young victims? Was it the driver crushed between bus and pillar? Was it the heat, the smell, the fear and the darkness? Whatever it was, Louise struggled to shrug off the after-effects. She had counselling, halved her hours and had all the support you would expect, but a year later she quit.

Colleagues and friends tried to stay in touch, but Louise became increasingly aggressive and bitter. People said she drank too much, even speculated that she might be involved in petty crime. And one by one they broke contact with her, until in the end there was no one, not even her family, who could positively vouch for where she was. Her life could not have contrasted more unfavourably with Helen’s, who had shot to the top of her profession and now enjoyed the money and status that came with the rank of Detective Inspector. Tanner somehow blamed Helen for her problems, hence the hate mail which she occasionally sent to Southampton nick. Helen had let it go, but it proved useful now, the Southampton postmark revealing that Tanner still lived locally. There had been the occasional Southampton sighting and Helen’s gut instinct was that Louise wouldn’t stray far from what she knew. Which is why Charlie was now clutching a tepid orange juice at the back of one of the nastiest pubs she’d ever been in.

Time crawled by. Charlie started to wonder if this was an elaborate joke. Had the owner somehow tipped Louise off? Perhaps they were both chuckling now at the dimwit DC wasting her time on a pointless stakeout.

But then movement by the entrance. A woman in a puffa and tracksuit bottoms semi-pimp rolling into the place. Clearly a regular. A glimpse of the face and a wisp of lank blonde hair. Was it Louise?

She sashayed up to the bar and cracked a joke with the owner. A couple of words in response and she immediately turned to look at Charlie. The owner had obviously said something and there was no doubt as she peered towards the gloom at the back of the bar that it was Louise. Her eyes met Charlie’s, a split-second appraisal of the situation, then Louise Tanner turned and fled.

Charlie was swiftly after her. Louise was thirty yards ahead and running for her life. Down the narrow cobbled streets that criss-crossed this once medieval area, then across the main road and towards the freight warehouses on the Western Docks. Charlie redoubled her efforts, her lungs already starting to burn. Louise was clearly not in a good way – she had a weird lolloping run that suggested a historic injury of some kind – yet despite this she was surprisingly fast, driven on by desperation.

Charlie was only ten yards behind her when Louise suddenly darted right and into warehouse 24, a repository for Polish freight where the containers were packed sky high. Charlie changed course and charged inside. But Louise was nowhere to be seen.

Charlie cursed. She must be almost within touching distance, but with so many tiny alleyways between the containers and so many corners to hide in, where on earth should she start? She dived left, then pulled up short. She listened. Yes, there it was again. A muffled cough. Louise was a heavy smoker and the sprint would have done her smoker’s cough no good. Creeping round the back of the nearest container, she padded along softly, guided in by the concealed but persistent coughing. And there she was, with her back to her, trapped now if Charlie could only get to her.

Charlie was ten yards from her, when Louise spun round, wild-eyed and desperate. Which was when Charlie saw the knife – a stubby but nasty-looking thing which Louise thrust towards her. Charlie instinctively stepped back, for the first time realizing the danger that she had put herself – and her unborn baby – in.

Now Louise advanced upon her. Charlie sped up her retreat, furiously back-pedalling whilst urging calm.

‘I just want to talk to you, Louise.’

But her quarry said nothing, pulling the hood back over her head as if to hide her identity from her pursuer. Closer, closer, Charlie’s eyes were locked on the approaching blade.

Bang! Charlie thudded into the metal wall of a container. She turned round and too late realized she had walked into a cul-de-sac. There was just time to turn and raise her arms in capitulation as Louise grabbed her by the collar, thrusting her back. With the knife poised at Charlie’s throat, Louise began to search her for valuables. A look of fury turned to disgust when she came across the police badge and radio. She tossed them on the floor and spat on them.

‘Who sent you?’ Louise barked.

‘We’re conducting an enquiry –’

‘WHO sent you?’

‘Helen Grace … DI Grace.’

A moment’s pause then Louise broke into a gappy-tooth grin.

‘Well, give her a message from me?’

‘Sure.’

At which, Louise slashed the knife across Charlie’s chest, narrowly missing her throat. Blood seeped from the long wound just above her breasts. Charlie stood transfixed in shock, before being brought back to earth by the nasty sound of Louise’s chuckling.

‘Not enough for you?’

Suddenly a huge burst of static erupted from Charlie’s discarded police radio. Louise shot a glance sideways, fearful of interruption, and Charlie flicked her left arm sharply up, batting the knife from Louise’s hand. Charlie launched herself forward, but as she did so Louise’s flailing left fist caught her in the throat. It felt for a moment as if her larynx had been crushed. She choked, couldn’t breathe and had to steady herself on the wall. When she looked up, Louise was already out the door and legging it to freedom. Charlie started to pursue her, then immediately pulled up short and vomited. She couldn’t go another step.

Charlie radioed for backup, then walked slowly to the entrance. The shock was kicking in and she needed fresh air. She breathed in deeply, filling her lungs with sea air, and momentarily felt better. Then she raised her eyes and was surprised to see uniformed officers already hurrying towards her. Beyond them she now glimpsed a police incident scene in the vicinity of warehouse number 1. It hadn’t been used for years, or so they’d thought. Something had been going on there and as uniform tended to Charlie they filled her in. Truant schoolkids had found a middle-aged man earlier that morning – not dead but getting there – lying comatose in an effluent-smeared freight container.

They had found Sandy Morten.

90

The local probation service was based in Southam Street in what was once a school. Sarah Miles, an old colleague from the police training college at Netley, worked there and it was to her that Helen hurried now. She hated deceiving a good friend, but there was no other way. She couldn’t be transparent about her suspicions until she was absolutely sure. There would be plenty of time for explanations later. If there was a later.

She’d asked to see what they had on Lee Jarrot, a serial petty criminal who Helen suggested may have breached the terms of his probation. It was a mean trick to play on Sarah, and probably Lee too as he had to Helen’s knowledge done absolutely nothing wrong, but there it was. As Sarah swiped into the records department in the basement, Helen followed. It wasn’t allowed for non-departmental officers to be down there, but Helen often accompanied Sarah to gossip and chat. They were halfway to the Js, walking on and on past the endless lines of files, when Helen realized she’d left her mobile in the car.