Eeny Meeny (7 page)

Suddenly Mark popped up into her head. Had her words had the desired effect or was he in the Unicorn right now, drowning his sorrows? His dirty habit could cost him his job or even his life – she profoundly hoped he could pull himself back from the brink. She didn’t want to lose him.

Helen tried to concentrate on her book, but she read the words without taking in their meaning and soon had to double-back to pick up the thread of the logic. She had never been good at being idle – it was one of the reasons she worked so hard. Helen drew harder on her cigarette – she could feel those familiar unpleasant feelings creeping up on her again. Stubbing out her cigarette, she dumped the book on the coffee table, grabbed her gym bag and ran down to her bike. Perhaps she would call in on the incident room en route to the gym – maybe something had turned up. Either way she would keep herself busy for a couple of hours and that way the darkness would not win.

19

I can’t remember when I first saw my father hit my mother. I don’t really remember things I see anyway. It’s sounds I remember most clearly. The sound of a fist on a face. Of a body crashing into the kitchen table. A skull hitting a wall. Whimpering. Shouting. The endless abuse.

You never become inured to it. But you come to expect it. And each time it happens you get a little bit angrier. And feel a little more helpless.

She never fought back. That’s what pissed me off. She just took it. Like she deserved it. Is that what she really thought? Whatever, if she wasn’t going to fight him, I was. The next time he started on her, I’d get involved.

I didn’t have to wait long. My dad’s best mate Johnno died from a heroin overdose and after the funeral my dad drank for thirty-six hours non-stop. When my mum tried to get him to stop, he head-butted her – broke her bloody nose. I wasn’t having that. So I kicked the stupid tosser in the balls.

He broke my arm, knocked my front teeth out and choked the life out of me with his belt. I really thought he was going to kill me.

A therapist once suggested that this was the root cause of my inability to form meaningful relationships with men. I just nodded, but really I wanted to spit in her eye.

20

Is it possible to die of fear? Peter hadn’t moved in hours.

‘Peter?’

Still nothing – hope sprang up in Ben’s heart. Perhaps his heart had given out, overwhelmed by theatrical self-pity. Yes, that’s what it was. And wouldn’t it be great. The perfect solution. Survival of the fittest.

Ben immediately felt black. Wishing someone dead. Pitiful to even think of it, given what he’d been through. And anyway even if he
was
dead, would it count? Would he be released? He hadn’t killed him after all.

Ben’s thoughts strayed back to his abductor. He hadn’t recognized her – she was striking with those long black tresses and plump pink lips – so why had she chosen them? Was this some sick reality TV joke? Would someone jump out soon and reveal the gun to be full of blanks? The tone of her voice on the phone suggested otherwise. She wanted blood.

Ben started to cry. There had been so much bloodshed in his life already that it seemed the ultimate cruelty to end his days like this.

Now. Why not? Just to see if Peter is dead or not. He looks dead, so where would be the harm?

‘Peter? … Peter?’

Ben eased himself to his feet. It was impossible to do it quietly, so he did it ostentatiously loudly. Stretching and yawning, he said:

‘I’m going to have to take a shit, Peter. Sorry.’

Nothing.

Ben took a step towards the gun. Then another.

‘Did you hear me, Peter?’

Ben bent down slowly. His ankle joint clicked – the noise echoing around the silo, bugger it – and he paused. Then slowly, quietly, he picked up the gun. He shot a glance at Peter, expecting him to rear up in alarm, but he didn’t. He wished he would. At least then it would be a fight.

The safety catch was obvious, so he released it. Then he pointed the gun at Peter’s back. No, not like that. He might miss. Or just injure him. Fuck knows what a ricochet might do in this metal can. Kill them both? Yeah, that would be a good joke.

Stop prevaricating. Ben took a step closer.

‘Peter?’

He really is dead. Still, he’d better do it to make sure. To make sure he gets out. And suddenly a thought of Jennie flitted through his mind. His fiancée. Who’ll be in pieces. Who he’ll see soon. Who’ll forgive him. Of course she’ll forgive him. He only did what had to be done. What anyone would have done.

Another step closer.

Ben lowered the gun so the barrel was almost resting on the back of Peter’s head. This is it, he thought, and began to squeeze the trigger. Which was when Peter suddenly reared up, driving a metal splint right through Ben’s left eye.

21

Helen never made it to the gym. As soon as she stepped into the incident room Charlie collared her. The chirpy DC had her serious face on. After a brief, hushed conversation, the pair marched straight out again. ‘Lesbian night at the gym,’ DC Bridges quipped, trying but failing to hide the fact that he fancied the pants off the very heterosexual Charlie.

Helen and Charlie bustled their way through the city centre traffic to the Forensics Unit. The five-minute journey could take twenty-five at rush hour and with Christmas shoppers and revellers flooding Southampton, today was going to be one of those days. Office party season was in full swing. Helen snarled in frustration at the coaches clogging up the bus lanes. She stuck on the blues and twos and begrudgingly a way was cleared for her. She sped away, ploughing straight through a freshly deposited pool of vomit – spraying the surprised culprit in the process. Charlie suppressed a smile.

Ben Holland’s Silver Lexus was up on the stand and awaiting inspection when Helen and Charlie entered the Forensics Unit. Sally Stewart, stalwart of the unit, was waiting for them.

‘Charlie’s already talked you through the basics, but I thought you should see this for yourself.’

They walked underneath the car and looked up. Sally shone her pen torch at the rear-right wheel arch.

‘Pretty dirty as you’d expect, given the amount of miles your driver did every week. But this wheel arch looks – and smells – dirtier than all the others. Why? Because it’s been marinated in petrol.’

She gestured them out again and once they were all clear, Sally lowered the car so it was almost at eye level.

‘Here’s why.’

Assisted by her deputy, Sally carefully eased the wing off the right side of the vehicle. The innards of the prestige car were duly revealed and now Sally’s torch zeroed in on the petrol tank. Helen’s eyes widened.

‘The fuel tank has been punctured. It’s not a big hole, but because of its position on the underside of the tank would empty it completely over time. Judging by the deposits on the wheel arch, I’d say the tank was pretty full when your pair left Bournemouth. It would have emptied swiftly and steadily – by my estimation at a rate of about 1.5 litres per minute – which means your driver would have run out of fuel roughly halfway through the New Forest. Though why he was going that way beats me.’

Helen said nothing. Her brain was already whirring, trying to process this development.

‘Your next question is was it made accidentally? Anything’s possible, but I’d say no. The puncture hole is too clean, too round – like someone’s hammered a small nail through the bottom of the tank. If it
was
sabotage, it was simple and effective.’

And with that, she moved on. Hers was not to reason why – she was just there to provide the facts. Helen and Charlie looked at each other – it was clear they were thinking the same thing. Having just filled the tank, Ben wouldn’t have been watching the fuel gauge and probably wouldn’t have realized until too late that he was almost out of fuel. Even when the fuel warning light did come on, Ben would only have had a minute or two left before the tank was completely empty.

‘She must have known,’ Helen thought out loud. ‘She must have
known
that Ben and Peter did that journey every week. That Ben always filled up at the Esso station. She must have done her research – the size of the tank, rate of fuel consumption, size of the required hole …’

‘So they would grind to a halt exactly where she wanted them to.’ Charlie finished Helen’s thought for her.

‘She was
stalking
them. That’s our starting point. Get on to Amy’s family – any signs of unwanted attention, suspicious break-ins, anything. Same goes for the Hollands and Brightstons too.’

It was their opening move. Helen hoped it would pay dividends but had the feeling that this game would be long, hard-fought and deadly. It was clear that they were dealing with someone who was organized, intelligent and precise. The motive for these crimes remained a mystery, but the calibre of this killer was no longer in doubt. The biggest question now was where were Ben and Peter? And would either of them be seen alive again?

22

Hours after the event and the adrenalin was still pumping. Anger hadn’t yet given way to guilt, so Peter Brightston paced up and down abusing his victim. The guy was going to
shoot
him, shoot him in the back of the head – what did he fucking expect?

He laughed bitterly as he remembered giving Ben his job at the firm – over and above better-qualified candidates – because he liked his balls, his drive. And this was how he repaid him? They guy hadn’t thought twice, he was just going to blow his head off. Prick. Still he’d got his comeuppance – howling in agony as Peter had driven the splint home.

Peter’s fist gripped the weapon on which Ben’s blood was slowly congealing. Even though the worst was now done, Peter wouldn’t – couldn’t – relinquish it.

It was self-defence. Of course it was. He must keep telling himself that. And yet, he’d fashioned his weapon so carefully, so quietly, surely he was kidding himself that he hadn’t planned it? He knew Ben didn’t like him. Disrespected him. Made jokes about him behind his back. Was there ever any doubt that Ben would put himself first? Peter had known that and planned accordingly. It was the only sensible thing to do. He had a wife and kids. What did Ben have? A fiancée whom the world acknowledged to be brainless and grasping. Their wedding promised to rival Katie Price’s for naffness – a pink carriage, meringue dresses, ponies and pageboys, a sub
Hello!
affair that would be talked ab—

Ben is dead. Blood is seeping from the hole in his face. There will be no wedding.

Silence. The most horrible, lonely silence Peter had ever experienced. A killer alone with his victim. Oh God.

Then, a blinding light. The hatch yanked open, the midday sunshine streaming in, burning his eyes. Something heavy falling on to his head.

A rope ladder.

His lungs flooded with fresh air, with oxygen, and his whole body convulsed with a sense of euphoria. He was free, he was alive. He had
survived
.

He limped along the quiet country road. Nobody came down here any more so what chance did he have of finding a rescuer? Even though he had gained his freedom, he still suspected that it was all a trick. That she was laughing at him as he dragged his protesting body along the road. That he would be hunted down. Peter had reconciled himself to dying in that dark hole – could it be that she was actually going to honour the bargain they’d made? Ahead Peter spotted signs of life and picked up his pace.

He laughed when he saw it. ‘Welcome’ in a jaunty typeface above the convenience shop door. It was so friendly it made him cry. He crashed through the doors to be greeted by a sea of alarmed faces – pensioners and school kids shocked by this hideous vision. Face splattered with blood and stinking of piss, Peter careered towards the till. He fainted before he got there, crashing into a promotional display of Doritos. Nobody moved to help him. He looked just like a corpse.

23

Dunston Power Station stood proud on the western edge of Southampton Water. In its heyday the coal-fired plant had once provided electricity for the south coast and much beyond. But it had been mothballed in 2012, a victim of the government’s determination to reboot Britain’s energy supply. Dunston was old, inefficient, and couldn’t compete with the low-carbon alternatives that were being built elsewhere in the UK. Staff had been re-employed and the site sealed off. It wasn’t due to be decommissioned for another two years, so for now it was just an empty memorial to a glorious past. The huge central chimney cast a long shadow over the crime scene and made Helen shiver as she walked towards the police cordon that flapped violently in the sea breeze.

Mark’s steps fell in time with Helen’s as they hurried across the site. He had made a point of driving her here from the station. He hadn’t been drinking and seemed a bit more rested. Perhaps Helen’s words had made a difference after all. As they walked side by side, Helen’s eyes darted now this way, now that, processing the possibilities.

The site had been alarmed, but after copper thieves had trashed the alarm system for the umpteenth time, the decision was taken not to bother with it any more. Everything that was worth nicking had been taken already. Which meant all ‘she’ had to do was remove the chain on the main gate and drive in. Would there be tyre tracks? Footprints? The hatch at the top of the underground coal silo was easily accessible once you were on the site and whilst too heavy for an individual to lift could easily have been yanked open by a van with a chain. Deep tyre grooves near the silo suggested that that was exactly what had happened. That left the transportation of the victims.

‘How did she get them from the van into the pit?’ said Mark, reading her mind.

‘Ben’s pushing six foot, but lean. What do you think? Twelve stone?’

‘Sure. It’s possible a woman could drag that dead weight on her own, but Peter …’