Eeny Meeny (31 page)

Charlie hauled herself to her feet. It was so desperate it was almost funny. Her stomach ached for food, her throat was on fire. She had to have something. Some relief. Some sustenance.

She gave in and did what she had vowed she wouldn’t stoop to. Dropping her knickers, she urinated into her cupped hand, then drank the warm liquid down in one go.

101

Was it her imagination or did they blame her? Charlie and Mark had been missing for over forty-eight hours and the team’s anxiety was morphing into shock and distress. Now as Helen marshalled the team’s hunt for their missing colleagues, she began to see accusing stares everywhere, as if they had collectively decided that this was all her doing.

Phone triangulation last placed Mark and Charlie on Spire Street. This tallied with the anonymous tipoff about Tanner that had prompted them to head to that area. But after that the trail went cold. They had turned off their mobiles and radios and hadn’t been in touch with any of their police colleagues. Initially the team had hoped that the spotting of Tanner was genuine and that somehow – somewhere – Charlie and Mark were still working the case. But slowly it had become obvious to all that the phone call was bogus. There had been no attempted mugging – Mark and Charlie had been deliberately guided to this location. It smacked of a trap. Everyone was thinking the same thing – had
she
got them?

Spreading out from Spire Street they investigated every building, spoke to every shop owner and passer-by and on the second circuit of the former children’s hospital a sharp-eyed constable had spotted a loose board on one of the windows. There was fresh mud on the sill as if someone had climbed through it recently. Helen wanted to get officers inside immediately, but her superiors had refused to let her do so without tactical support.

It had taken a frustratingly long time to mobilize an armed unit, but Helen had knocked heads together and was now speeding towards the old hospital with S019 in tow. It was a big building with multiple exits and she didn’t want to allow Suzanne to slip through their fingers. If she was there of course.

They effected their entry as carefully and as quietly as they could. SO19 took point, with Helen, DC Bridges and a dozen PCs right behind them. It was a massive area to search, but fanning out they could cover it fairly quickly, keeping in constant touch via radio.

Helen’s whole body was tense. She knew she must try and control her nerves – excessive nerves lead to bad decisions, especially when you’ve got a Glock in your hands. It was a blustery day and the wind that whistled through the broken windows made the whole place feel unearthly, even haunted. Get a grip, she told herself – she mustn’t see shadows or phantoms where they don’t exist.

But it was hard to relax when there was so much at stake. This
was
all her fault. Not just because she had inspired the killings, but because she had pleaded with Mark to return to the job. If she’d only left him alone, he would have been a sad but
safe
fuck-up. He had returned to work without a hint of recrimination or anger. Because he believed in what he did and because – in spite of everything – he believed in her. And what a bitter harvest he had reaped for his dedication.

She crept upstairs, breaking with protocol by peeling off on her own. She peered in the first room. It was lonely and forgotten, a dark dusty place. Helen released the safety catch on her weapon. Instinct told her that her sister would not be careless enough to walk into an SO19 unit. It was Helen she was after. She raised her gun as she darted her head into the next doorway – convinced that she would soon be face to face with her nemesis.

A sudden squawk on the radio. It was DC Bridges. He sounded excited, rather than alarmed. He had heard noises. Coming from downstairs. He was on his way there now to investigate. Helen immediately turned tail and sprinted down the stairs.

Running fast in the direction of the banging, DC Bridges was surprised to see Helen pull ahead of him. He had always prided himself on his speed, but his DI was a woman possessed. She was trying to keep it all in, but Bridges could see she was a coiled spring. Now, driven on by fear, apprehension and anger, she was making this story hers. She wanted to be the one to end the nightmare.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, the corridors splintered off in four directions. The radio squawked again, and Bridges turned it down, silenced by a venomous look from Helen. They strained their ears to hear.

Straight ahead. The noise was definitely coming from the corridor right in front of them. They sprinted forwards. The first door was locked, but the sound was from further up. They were on the move again. There was the sound, repetitive and insistent – bang, bang, bang. From the next-door room. The door was locked. But they would get through. They had to get through.

As Helen screamed through the door, hoping for a response, a PC hared off to get a crowbar. He was back in under a minute, bringing more officers with him. Putting his shoulder into it, he worked the lock on the heavy metal door. Back and forth, back and forth until eventually with a protesting crack the door gave way. Shoving him out the way, Helen and Bridges tore inside.

To find an empty room.

A broken window, half off its hinges, beat an insistent rhythm on the metal window frame, as it flapped angrily in the wind.

102

He wanted to die.

For Mark death would be a blessing now, a relief from the pain that racked his body. He had tried to fight the fever, to concentrate on the here and now, to try and work out how he and Charlie could effect some sort of escape, but that made his brain ache even worse than usual so he’d succumbed to lethargy instead.

How long does it take to die of starvation? Too long. He had lost track of time but was certain they’d been in their prison for the best part of three days now. His stomach cramped constantly, his throat was swollen and raw, he barely had the energy to lift himself up. To pass the time he tried to conjure memories of his childhood, but thoughts of school bled into thoughts of
Paradise Lost
, the poem he’d studied (hated studying) at secondary school. He felt like a character in that nightmare vision now, endlessly tortured by the freezing cold at nights and the awful sweats that gripped him during the neverending days. There was no release.

He knew his fever was getting worse. He had good moments and bad moments. Moments when he was lucid and could talk to Charlie, others when he knew he was babbling incoherently. Would he lose the plot completely at some point? He pushed that idea from his mind.

His hand reached round to the back of his head to explore his wound. The gash was wide and deep and his dirty fingers probed it now.

‘Leave it, Mark.’ Charlie’s voice penetrated the gloom. Even after three days of purgatory, she was still looking out for him. ‘You’ll only make it worse.’

But Mark ignored her for something was moving against his finger. His wound was alive. He pulled his fingers out and brought them up to his nose. Maggots. His wound was infested with maggots.

He held his fingers up to his mouth and swept the little worms into his mouth with his tongue. It felt strange as they slipped down his throat. Strange but good. He plucked a few more from his wound and crammed them into his mouth.

Charlie was already wandering over. She lowered herself to the ground beside him. Mark paused – their friendship and common decency kicking in once more. With an effort, he turned his head, offering himself to her. Hesitantly she plucked two fingers’ worth of maggots out of his wound and dropped them into her mouth. She savoured them, letting them dissolve on her tongue, then took a fingerful more.

Too soon it was over. The maggot meal was finished. Now their stomachs pulsed with hunger – the tiny morsels they’d consumed only reminding their innards how utterly empty they were. More. More. More. Their stomachs wanted more. Their stomachs
needed
more.

But there was nothing more to give them.

103

They had pored over every inch of land within a two-mile radius of the old hospital, but there was still no sign of Mark or Charlie. What they had found was fresh blood, in a corridor on the fourth floor of the hospital. Tests had subsequently confirmed that it was Mark’s. DC McAndrew was in tears and she wasn’t the only member of the team that was visibly distraught. Helen hadn’t realized until now how popular he was within the team. No wonder they hated her.

So Mark and Charlie had been tricked into the hospital, attacked and then taken elsewhere. There was no CCTV in the immediate vicinity of the hospital. CCTV on busy streets nearby had picked up numerous Transit vans in the area at about the right time, but which one was
their
one? Where had she taken them? There were certainly plenty of disused buildings and warehouses in the area. Uniform were already working their way through them, aided by the dogs Helen had demanded. They were canvassing every potential witness and passer-by and doing extensive house-to-house interviews. Anyone acting suspiciously would have their house searched from top to bottom – torn apart if need be. They
had
to find them.

Helen was gambling all on the idea that they would still be close by. Suzanne might have moved them elsewhere, but these were police officers who would be on their guard, a harder proposition than her other victims. She wouldn’t want to mess things up – surely she would play safe now. They needed eyes and ears – as many as possible – scouring Southampton, Portsmouth and beyond. Helen had already requested extra officers from neighbouring forces, pulled in auxiliary Community Support officers and cancelled leave for everyone at Southampton Central. But still it wasn’t enough.

There was one more obvious play to make. Emilia Garanita had got wind of the aborted raid on the former children’s hospital. Annoyed at not having been tipped off in time, she’d been plaguing Helen with calls, desperate to know what the raid was about and why there had been so much activity since. Were they searching for Suzanne? Or for more victims?

It was a risky move, but Helen had no choice. It was day four of their search and they still had nothing. So she picked up the phone and dialled her number.

104

Emilia Garanita loved her job. The hours were long, the pay was rubbish and many in authority were openly rude to reporters from the local rag, but none of that mattered to Emilia. She was addicted to the adrenalin, the unpredictability and the excitement that her job provided on a daily basis.

Then there was the power. As dismissive as politicians, coppers and councillors were, they were all terrified of reporters. They were so reliant on the goodwill of the public for career advancement – and it was reporters like Emilia that told the public what to think. Emilia felt that power now as she sat opposite Helen Grace. Emilia had chosen the venue – not Grace – and it was she who was setting the agenda now. Grace needed her help, so there would be no more lies or obfuscations.

‘Two of our officers are missing,’ Grace began briskly. ‘Charlie Brooks and Mark Fuller – you know them, I think. They may have been abducted and we need your help – your readers’ help – in our search for them.’

As Grace continued, Emilia felt that familiar tingling. This was the other great thing about being a reporter – at any given time a juicy story, a real whopper, could fall into your lap. These were the days that you grafted for. All those lost hours spent covering cases at the magistrates’ courts – the vandalism, the fights, the burglaries – were the price you had to pay to earn yourself a
real
story. And when one did come along, you’d better be ready. These were the stories that made your name.

Emilia couldn’t write quick enough, even though she was using shorthand. The developments in this story were astonishing, she could already see the spread in her head. And to be ahead of the nationals on something like this – that really was gold dust.

Emilia promised to do all she could and Grace departed. The DI said she was pleased with the outcome of their ‘chat’, but she looked rather green around the gills, Emilia thought. Not a woman who was comfortable asking for help or playing second fiddle to another girl. So much for the sorority.

Emilia sped back to the office. The nervous excitement she’d felt earlier had dissipated now and she felt oddly calm. She knew exactly what she would do.

Throughout her working life, she had used journalism as a weapon – to expose, harm or destroy those who had it coming.

This time would be no different.

105

It was 6.30 a.m. and the sun refused to rise. A thick, dank fog hugged Southampton – the perfect embodiment of Helen’s mood. She slammed the front door shut behind her, mounted her bike and raced off towards the city centre, gunning the throttle unnecessarily hard.

Another thirty-six hours had passed and still no news. No, that wasn’t true, there’d been plenty of ‘news’, but none that had been helpful. Ever since she’d left Emilia, Helen had been kicking herself, fearing she’d made a bad mistake. She hadn’t really had much choice, the press
had
to be informed, but still she had only made things worse. She had met Emilia late at night, so the following morning’s story was sensational, but light on the details. Today’s offering from the
Evening News
promised to be a rather different affair.

A copy of the paper was lying on Helen’s desk when she arrived. A member of the team being helpful or someone making a point? Helen skipped the lurid headline and went straight to the detail on the inner pages. It was awful. Torture porn in all but name. In exhaustive and prurient detail, they took their readers through the various stages of starvation and dehydration, speculating on which officer would hold out longer and what were the possible causes of death. For the cloth-headed reader, they even had a helpful graphic – a schedule of physical and mental decline – outlining how Charlie and Mark would feel on Day One. And Day Two. Three. Four. Five. A big question hung over the days beyond, but it only meant one thing.