Little Boy Blue: DI Helen Grace 5 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (26 page)

Helen checked her mirrors, but the car was still there. She’d first noticed she was being tailed when heading north up Kingsway. She had sped fast round the Charlotte Place roundabout, then forked left up The Avenue. The grey saloon kept pace without ever seeming to speed up or slow down. The tactics she recognized, the car she didn’t – which made her very nervous indeed.

It had to be police, but who and why? Helen suddenly had the nasty feeling that she hadn’t walked away from Angelique’s flat unseen after all. Were they watching her then? If so they would have photos of her entering and leaving the flat – photos that would look pretty damning if given the right twist. If they were following her from the flat, then had they followed her on to the Common too?

She could see the large expanse of green to her left now, as she flashed past on her bike, though trees shielded the lake from view. Were the police there right now? Searching for evidence? There was an alternative scenario – that they had just picked up her tail this morning, following her to Wilkinson’s and beyond. But that scarcely made her feel any better. They clearly still had their suspicions about her. In normal circumstances she would have gone straight to her boss to get the lowdown,
but how could she do that now? Failing that she would have gone to the team, to her DSs, but perhaps even they were working against her? Someone must have raised concerns with top brass.

Helen tugged at the throttle, speeding north. The tailing car kept pace. Helen
could
call Charlie to try and get the lie of the land, but it was an inherently risky play. Her communications might be monitored, and even if Charlie
was
onside – as Helen fervently hoped she was – it would put her in a terribly difficult position. Nobody had called her this morning, which was unheard of. They were deliberately giving her a wide berth, which meant that something was up.

There was no one she could turn to, so she would have to handle things herself. Someone was intent on setting her up and it was up to her to resolve the situation. But first she would need to lose her tail.

Highfield Lane was fast approaching. Helen lowered her speed, then suddenly cut hard right, yanking the throttle once more. Her back wheel skidded, screeching loudly, then suddenly she was shooting forward. Moments earlier she’d been heading due north, now she was tearing west, testing the speed limit as she did so. She was expecting the blues and twos to come on, but the grey car remained as unobtrusive – but persistent – as ever. She raised her speed now – 40 then 50 mph. She could get pulled over for speeding, but that was the last thing on anyone’s mind at the moment. The fact that they hadn’t pulled her in meant either that this was just a surveillance gig or that they wanted to do so discreetly.

They would obviously be radioing her progress in and there was every chance she might be riding into a trap. Cobden Bridge was coming up – this was a good place to trap a fleeing suspect, as they generally didn’t fancy a swim. It looked clear, but … Helen pumped her speed up to 70 mph, overtaking three cars before zooming back into lane. At any moment she expected unmarked cars to appear, blocking the other end of the bridge. But as she ate up the yards to the end of the bridge, the way remained clear. As she reached the end, she dropped down on to her right knee, biting hard into the tarmac as she spun down Bullar Road. She roared down it, then braked hard, not daring to cross Bitterne Way without looking. It was busy today, vans and lorries speeding along, and as Helen awaited her opportunity, she flashed a look in the rearview mirror.

The grey car was still with her, moving fast down Bullar Road towards her. It was fifty yards away, now forty, now thirty … Throwing caution to the wind, Helen tore across the four-lane carriageway, narrowly avoiding another bike, before speeding on. The pursuing car bided its time and Helen now became aware of a red estate car up ahead that seemed to be taking its time to reach Freemantle Common, almost as if it were waiting for someone.

The road was pretty quiet today. It would be a great place to strike and sure enough the Astra now pulled across the road, blocking her route. The blue light was out now, the doors opening in readiness for an arrest. The grey car was not far behind, so Helen didn’t hesitate,
lowering her speed, then ramming back the throttle to mount the pavement. The officers were already getting back into their car, so Helen raced down the empty pavement before joining the road and speeding off.

There was no need for stealth – now it was all about speed. She sped through Merry Oak and Itchen, paying heed only to the space in front of her, ignoring the traffic signals that attempted to arrest her progress. And as she reached Weston, Abbey Hill cemetery came into view in the distance.

This had been her destination all along. If she could get there she had a chance of escape. The pursuing cars were not far behind, their high-powered engines helping them to keep pace with her Kawasaki. Now Helen was leaving the main road, mounting the single-track road to the cemetery. There was no way down now – she was boxed in – so she cut loose, ripping her speed up to the max. Within moments, the cemetery gates appeared in front of her. Jamming the brakes, Helen skidded to a halt in front of them and was off and away before her bike had stopped moving.

As she vaulted the gates, she heard the cars pull up but Helen didn’t hesitate, darting off down the main path towards the far end of the cemetery. This was her terrain and she planned to use her knowledge of it to her advantage, cutting diagonally across the minor paths, making maximum use of the cover the tombs and statues provided. She could hear shouts behind her, but they seemed a way away – she had a few minutes’ grace now but she would have to use them wisely.

She found herself in the most secluded part of the cemetery. She had bent her path this way partly out of an instinct to stay hidden but also out of habit. This was the location of her sister Marianne’s final resting place and as Helen approached her grave she suddenly slowed her pace dramatically. Not because she thought she was safe, but because of what she now saw in front of her.

Leaning against Marianne’s grave was a simple bouquet of flowers. Suddenly Helen knew exactly who wanted to destroy her. And, more importantly, she knew why.

Her heel dug sharply into the turf and the ground seemed to give way beneath her. Hearing her pursuers approaching, Helen had vaulted the railings at the far end of the cemetery and thrown herself down the hill, hoping to disappear from view and confuse her pursuers. But the ground was wet and slippery and she lost her footing almost immediately, careering down the hill on her back, picking up speed as she did so.

For a moment, Helen didn’t know which way was up. Then suddenly she came to an abrupt halt, somebody punching her hard in the side. Recovering herself, Helen now realized she was in a thorn bush and the sharp pain in her side was a thick branch that had rammed into her ribs. She was winded and muddy, but as she was still wearing her leathers and helmet, was largely unscathed.

Picking herself up, she looked up at the cemetery, now a good seventy or eighty feet above her. She could still hear voices, but no one was peering over the railings in her direction. If she moved swiftly, she had a chance of evading her pursuers completely, so breaking cover she ran down the side of the hill. She moved from bush to thicket to bush, occasionally casting a wary look behind her.

Before long she’d made it to the bottom of the hill
and, cutting her way along a footpath, made it back to civilization. Hurrying down a side street, she spotted Chamberlayne College, then heading left, hurried towards Weston. Spotting a bin, she pulled off her helmet and jacket and dumped them. The call would have gone out to uniform as well as other surveillance officers now, so she would have to be careful.

Her side was hurting her now, but she pressed on. She couldn’t head home and needed somewhere – a sanctuary – to gather her thoughts. Somewhere public but not too public. Suddenly a Ladbroke’s came into view and Helen ducked inside. There were a smattering of punters about, but they were far more interested in the dog racing and fruit machines than her. Buying a coffee, Helen sat down at the betting bar, a copy of the
Racing Post
open in front of her. She barely took in the text on the page, her brain pulsing with urgent, disquieting thoughts. Why had she been so complacent? Why had she ignored the evidence that was staring her in the face? She had seen someone in the derelict flats opposite her months ago but had dismissed the apparition as a junkie. But the person within had been watching her all the while, waiting for the moment to strike. How long had he been there? How many times had he seen her sitting at her window? How many months had he been inveigling his way into her life?

Since Max Paine’s death, she’d feared the murders might be connected to her, but she’d suppressed these thoughts. Her chat with Gardam had reassured her, but how naïve and foolish that looked now. The fact that she
was summoned to the third murder confirmed to her that she was being set up and the use of clingfilm confirmed for her the identity of the perpetrator. Her sister, Marianne, had killed their parents in the same way, securing their limbs then wrapping their heads in clingfilm. She too was now dead but her son, Robert, was alive. Helen had ruined his life by accidentally outing him as the son of a serial killer. He had remained hidden for several years since that devastating moment, but had finally resurfaced. Helen had wanted to be his guardian angel but her cursed touch had brought him only misery, rejection and pain.

Now he was back for revenge.

‘Do you have any eyes on her?’ Sanderson barked, her stress levels hitting the roof.

‘Negative.’

‘Any idea where she might have gone?’

‘She probably hopped the fence and made her way down the hill – but I couldn’t tell you in which direction.’

Sanderson cursed. Another member of the team looked up, intrigued, so pushing the door to Helen’s office shut, Sanderson lowered her voice.

‘Where is the nearest road? If she wanted to head back into town, where would she head to?’

There was silence on the other end, as the surveillance officer conferred with his colleague, then he eventually replied:

‘Probably Weston or Newton.’

‘Ok, leave one man at the cemetery in case she doubles back for her bike, but the rest of you get to Weston and Newton and fan out from there. We’ll circulate her description to uniform, but keep your eyes peeled. You lost her, you can bloody well find her.’

Sanderson clicked off, realizing too late that she had raised her voice once again, to the evident interest of her colleagues. It was not surprising – in spite of everything
she’d experienced with this team she had never felt so stressed as she did right now. Getting Gardam to agree to the arrest had been hard enough, but then to lose her … They had got too close, blown their cover and Helen now knew that she was being pursued. Having been so upbeat earlier, Sanderson suddenly felt deeply anxious. She had no idea where Helen was right now and, more importantly, no idea of what she might do next.

Her phone rang suddenly and Sanderson glanced down eagerly at the screen. But it was just Emilia Garanita – again. Rejecting it, she marched from Helen’s office, slamming the door behind her.

What the hell was she playing at?

As her call went to voicemail, Emilia clicked off and threw her phone angrily on to her desk. She and Sanderson had made a pact to keep in touch, but she had the distinct feeling she was being kept at arm’s length. Sanderson wouldn’t have a case at all if Emilia hadn’t given her the story. That whole team – Sanderson included – had been so infatuated with Grace that they’d never stopped to ask any questions of her. She’d had to lead them to Helen’s wrongdoing and she was damned if she was going to be shut out at the moment of triumph.

She wanted to wait until they had made an arrest before publishing the story. With a suitable tipoff from Sanderson, Emilia could be in position to get a photo of Grace being marched to the cop car in cuffs or driven through the back door in custody. She’d had a four-word text this afternoon, suggesting an arrest warrant was imminent, but since then nothing from Sanderson.

Suddenly Emilia wondered if she’d backed the right horse. She couldn’t have approached DS Brooks of course – it was clear where her loyalties lay – and everybody else was too inferior in rank. She’d felt certain that Sanderson was the one – she was suggestible, frustrated and lacking in confidence – but, then again, you never
know how people will respond when it comes to the crunch. Perhaps Sanderson was just inexperienced at playing the game or maybe she was a little less innocent than she let on. Could she have taken Emilia for a ride?

She sincerely hoped not. Because Emilia was in a position to do serious damage not only to Sanderson’s career but also to the Hampshire Police in general. She needed them and vice versa, yet they had always treated her badly – at best like an irritant, but more often as a necessary evil. Grace had been a particularly bad offender in this regard – her hostility to Emilia very clear. Often Emilia had been on the back foot in their relationship, but now finally she was poised to attack.

And her weapon of choice would be tomorrow’s edition with its screaming banner headline:

COP TURNED KILLER.

Helen walked quickly towards the back of the store, keeping her head down. She was an odd sight for a cold autumn evening – boots and leathers on her bottom half, but only a thin black vest top above. More curious still were the scratches on her face and arms. She looked a little like she had been dragged through a hedge backwards, which of course she had.

It was cold in the refrigerated section of the supermarket and Helen didn’t linger, marching to the manager’s office at the rear and pushing inside. Peter Banyard was still unnerved from their first meeting and looked positively shocked now by her second appearance of the day.

‘Are you ok? Can I get you anything?’ he eventually said, clocking her strange appearance.

‘I’m fine, but I need to ask you another question.’

‘I haven’t got your paperwork ready yet if that’s –’

‘That’s not why I’m here. I want you to look at this picture, tell me if you recognize this man.’

Her hand was shaking slightly as she held up her phone for him. On the screen was one of the photos the press had used when they’d ‘outed’ Robert Stonehill several years earlier.

The manager stared at the photo.

‘Do you know him?’ Helen repeated more loudly.

‘Well, yes. That’s Aaron West.’

‘He works for you?’ Helen continued, insistent.

‘He’s one of our temporary workers. We take them on around Halloween, Bonfire Night and so on.’

‘Does he work the tills?’

‘Tills, shelves, wherever we need him. He does a few shifts a week – has been for a few months now.’

Just enough time for him to plan Helen’s downfall. He had lifted customers’ credit card details while working the tills, then used their details to purchase his specialist S&M gear – gear that would eventually lead the police back to her.

‘Did you check his credentials? His ID?’

‘Yes,’ Banyard replied, looking unnerved, ‘although the checks for temporary workers aren’t perhaps as rigorous as for our permanent staff.’

‘I bet they’re not,’ Helen snarled back, just about containing her anger. ‘Do you have an address for him?’

‘We should do,’ the manager replied, ‘but I’m not sure that will be necessary.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I just saw him out the back. In the locker area. I can take you th—’

But he didn’t get to finish. Helen was already gone.