Mummy's Favourite (17 page)

‘Please no,' she whimpered, barely audible. ‘Please, not in front of my daughter.'

He ignored her. It would do Daisy good to see her mother getting enjoyment from someone other than her.

‘Do what I say.' He put the knife to his lips and let the tip of his tongue flick across its sharpened point.

Daisy was crying. Helena started to remove her clothing. She stopped at her underwear, crouching down on her knees and crossing her hands across her chest. The action made her breasts fuller.

‘Take it off,' he commanded, watching as she shook her head and didn't move.

‘I said, take it off.' He wanted to see her smile but she was crying. He would have to help her. Bending down, he hooked the blade of the knife behind the thin material of the bra. It was thin and lacy and easily split along the blade edge. She kept her arms folded.

‘Let me see you.' He gestured with his knife towards Daisy, ‘Or she gets it.'

Helena let her arms slip down to her sides. He gestured towards her groin, swinging the knife in Daisy's direction as he did so.

She did what she was told. She was totally naked now. She closed her eyes and he could see the tears squeezing out from the edges. He could see her shaking. She wanted him so much. She was trembling with pleasure, just like his mummy had. And now he would make her smile too. Leaning forward, he grasped her roughly, kissing her hard on the lips. She turned her head away so their lips separated, stiffening at his touch. He tried to kiss her again, but she kept moving away from him, whimpering quietly and begging him to stop. It angered him. All he wanted to do was give her pleasure. She should be smiling like his mummy had when he'd done this to her.

He tried again this time pulling his trousers down so that he too was exposed. This was where she was meant to say what a big boy he was, how good he was, how she wanted him. This was meant to be where she moaned with pleasure, like his mummy had, smiling and laughing with delight. But Helena wasn't smiling. She was crying and her eyes were full of fear.

He pushed her down on to the grass and climbed on top of her. She was too bony and lay motionless and stiff. He didn't like it. He didn't like it all. He could feel his temper rising as she failed to respond. The more he moved, the more she sobbed. He looked over at Daisy. She wasn't even facing in their direction. How could she know what pleasure he was giving unless she watched; the bitch, the conniving little bitch? She didn't want any other person making her mummy happy, except her.

He wanted to climax but he couldn't. Daisy was not watching and Helena was not enjoying it. They were both bitches and he hated them. He could feel the pleasure leaving him, draining away. He tried to keep going but it was useless. And the anger was rising in him; hot burning anger that was overwhelming him as it had done before. He knew what he had to do now. If he couldn't give pleasure, then he would give pain and it was all their fault. It wasn't his fault; he was trying to make them happy.

‘Fuck you. Fuck you both.'

He pulled away from her and grabbed his knife. Helena immediately curled herself up into a ball. Daisy had her back to him. How dare she ignore him? He pulled his trousers back up and crawled across the grass to where Daisy sat. She didn't even turn her head to see him. Holding the knife between his teeth, he grabbed her around the neck and stood up. Her body arched out beneath him as she struggled to find her feet. She struck out with her arms trying to find something to hold on to, but the binding prevented her from getting her balance. Her neck lay bare, stretched out under his arm, and she was crying in discomfort. He pulled the knife from between his teeth and held it against her throat. His hands could feel the warmth of her flesh; his body craved the warmth and stickiness of her blood. It would calm his anger. He loved the blood.

Helena was on her knees now struggling to get up. He could see the terror in her eyes. He hated her for it. He hated Daisy for it too. How dare she love Daisy and not Abigail? How dare she turn him away when he was trying to make her happy? She was crawling towards him now but it was too late, way, way too late. She couldn't stop him. With a sweep of his arm, it was over. And as he looked at the shock and horror on Helena's face, he knew he had truly punished her.

Mummy's favourite was dead. The final Act was complete.

*

It was late by the time Charlie got to the family home. She hadn't meant to stay quite so long with Ben, having promised her mum she'd visit, in the hope that she might be able to inject some calm and civility into the house. She herself was not so sure. She did know, however, that she loved the general hubbub there, rather than her own empty flat. Empty places always bothered her.

True to form both Lucy and Beth threw themselves at her as she let herself in, full of what they were doing and who they were doing it with. She barely had a chance to get a word in.

They sat around the kitchen table swapping stories: Lucy confident in her unfolding ambitions, Beth avoiding having any. Meg kept them supplied with hot chocolate and joined in where she could. By the time they eventually wound their way up to their respective bedrooms, Charlie felt rejuvenated.

She could hear Meg in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher and noisily putting the saucepans and crockery back in the cupboards. The sound of the kettle was growing to a crescendo as it came to the boil for a final bedtime cuppa.

As she climbed into her bed in the still of her room, however, she thought of how quiet and empty it must be for Ryan Hubbard, without Julie or Richard to keep him company. Not knowing where they were even. How frightened and alone he must feel.

She thought of Dana Latchmere and Aiden, on their own, while Justin remained at the police station. What would Dana be thinking? Would she suspect him of abducting Julie and Richard, possibly even harming them? If she did, how on earth could she live with him under the same roof if he got bail?

She pulled the covers up around her neck and tried to relax. Nothing had changed since she'd last slept here. The duvet and duvet cover still smelt of her mother's favourite fabric conditioner. It was comfortable and soothing and made the stresses of the day dwindle away.

She glanced up at the compilation of family photographs on her wall and the familiar feeling of loss ran through her. It was multiplying with each hour, as Wednesday got closer. She plugged in her iPod and allowed her favourite songs to drift into her head, gently nudging the ever-present nightmares away.

Her thoughts turned back to work.

Did they have the right suspects in Keith Hubbard and Justin Latchmere?

They still had no idea where Julie and Richard could be. Nothing had been heard from them since the day of their disappearance, just over two weeks ago, despite all the publicity and appeals. The priority must be to find them. After all, two people could not just disappear without trace.

Charlie concentrated on the knowledge that she at least had a family around her, that would always be there for her, and as the familiar smells and scents wrapped themselves around her she felt herself falling into a deep, comfortable sleep.

*

Helena McPherson did not sleep that night.

Locked deep under a heavy sheet of boarding, she lay, barely able to breathe, never mind move. Her body was wrapped in a thick layer of bedding, her clothes pulled back on in haste, but she was still cold, the memories of what she had witnessed filling her with freezing fear and unrelenting pain.

Daisy, the baby girl she'd sworn to protect with her life, lay next to her, her neck gaping wide, dead eyes staring straight upwards at the boarding. The man had lifted her into the pit, dumping her down roughly before moving her limbs into position so that she was laid straight. Helena had pleaded for him to shut her eyes, to let her sleep, but he wouldn't carry out even this small request. She'd failed her daughter even in this small way. The only small mercy was that Daisy hadn't been touched. She hadn't been raped. And for that Helena was irrationally but immensely grateful.

Her daughter's blood lay clotted around her. It was pooled on the leaves on which her body was positioned. Her Daisy, her beautiful, talented, special little girl was dead. The pain of knowing this was far greater than any pain he could deliver physically. She wanted to hold her daughter in her arms, cradle her, reverse things so that she could take Daisy's place, but she knew deep down he would never have allowed that. He had a plan. She could see it in his eyes. He was methodical and systematic, even though he allowed bursts of anger to sometimes overwhelm him. Now, as she lay bruised and bloodied, she wondered when it would all end; when his knife would slice through her flesh too. She wanted it to be over soon. She didn't want him to lay another finger on her. She wanted to wake from the nightmare and find it had all been a bad dream; that she was back at home with Daisy, Abigail and her husband and that nothing, and no-one could tear them apart .

Helena McPherson didn't sleep that night at all. Instead she lay, paralysed with fear and guilt staring into the blackness.

The office was awash with senior officers when Charlie arrived the next morning.

One missing mother and son was bad enough; a second pair was catastrophic. Everyone was on their way in. The public would be frightened and the Commissioner, press and politicians would all want quick results now there were four missing persons. They would be desperate to know whether arrests were imminent. The signs were not looking good.

She made her way to the office to get the lowdown on what was happening. Most of the others were already in, their faces grim, silently interrogating the computer screens in front of them. She went over to Bet, who looked physically distressed.

‘What's happening?'

‘Hunter asked if we could start to go through the system and see if the new missing mother is known to us.'

‘And is she?'

‘I don't know yet, the poor woman; there's nothing obvious, but then we haven't had this system for that long. I think we're going to have to go back way further through the old paper records.'

‘We may as well set up home here then,' Paul interjected. ‘As far as I recall there wasn't a proper system for collating all that stuff until far more recently. You know as well as I do how bad coppers were if they were called to a domestic. They'd rather write it off than write it down and actually have to do something about it.'

Naz came in, throwing her coat over the back of her chair, breathless and agitated. ‘Sorry I'm late. I heard on the news about the second missing pair, even before you called me. It's awful, isn't it? I would have been here half an hour ago but for Nathaniel playing up again. I could quite happily wring his neck. Wouldn't get up, wouldn't get dressed. And all because he'd got a Wagon Wheel rather than a Twix in his lunchbox!'

‘That's kids' priorities for you.' Charlie shrugged. ‘I know what our priority will be. And it'll be more about saving the Commissioner's skin than dealing with the real victims. Paul's right. Be prepared to forget any vestige of life out-side work until this is all over.'

‘You haven't got one anyway, Charlie,' Paul chipped in. ‘You spend far too much time at work already.'

‘Dedication, that's what it's called. Besides, I have a vested interest in this case with that bastard Hubbard, as you well know.'

‘Well I have a life outside this office and I'm not about to give it up.' Colin was busily scanning the newspaper as he did every day. He wouldn't start work any morning without first catching up on what was making the headlines.

‘I've been there and done that in the past.' He pointed to a particularly critical headline. ‘The trouble is, and it looks as if the papers are picking up on it, we don't have much of a clue about anything to do with this case at the moment.'

Charlie was irrationally annoyed; Colin might not be interested in putting in the hours, but they now had four potential victims. Surely that should provide the motivation, if nothing else did. She knew Colin was only stating the truth about the lack of progress on the case too, but somehow, verbalizing it just made it even more frustrating. She tried to ignore her irritation.

‘Has anyone seen Hunter yet?'

‘He's already at the briefing.' Bet looked up. ‘We've all got to go in a few minutes, but he's been called in early to discuss the situation so far with the bosses.'

Charlie nodded her understanding and headed off. She wanted to be first into the room to show how much the case meant to her. Colin and Paul might not be dedicated, but she was. The briefing room was soon filled to capacity. Detectives in casual attire mingled with uniformed officers and senior officers in more formal suits. They lined the walls, leaning against every spare inch and sat on desks around the edges talking to one another. Tension crackled around the room as conversations were shared and thoughts aired.

Charlie was joined by Bet, Naz, Paul, Colin and Sabira and they all stood quietly to one side, their conversation restrained. Bet sighed heavily and shook her head.

‘This is all just awful. We really need a bit of luck to get this madman stopped.'

The others all murmured their agreement, but no one seemed to have an answer.

The door opened and a contingent of senior officers walked in. The room became immediately silent.

Detective Chief Inspector Declan O'Connor was flanked by the Detective Superintendent and a couple of Detective Inspectors, Hunter included. The DCI was a strange mix of intelligence, aloofness and sheer bloody-mindedness, but it was his appearance that people remembered the most. He had the look of a scruffy Irish traveller, more at home at the side of a bare-knuckle boxing ring than the stuffiness of a senior managers briefing office.

He wore a cream linen suit that looked like it hadn't seen the inside of a dry-cleaners for several years. His hair was too long, with a natural kink that left half resting on his tattered collar and the other half swept off to one side of his neck. A tie hung loosely from the top of his unbuttoned shirt. He ran his hands through his hair constantly, either in an attempt to tame the abundant waves or to appear as if he was too busy to worry about such insignificant details like submitting to a haircut. His voice was authoritative and clear but with a distinct Irish drawl that left his companions unsure whether he meant what he said or was teasing. Today there would be no time for jokes. He took his place at the front of the room.