Pop Goes the Weasel (39 page)

Helen walked from the building, clutching Amelia to her chest. Colleagues rushed to help, photographers buzzed around her, but she didn’t see any of them. She pushed them roughly aside and carried on, keen to put as much distance as possible between her and the carnage.

People were calling to her but their voices were just noises. Her body was shaking with the trauma of what she’d just experienced, her brain playing and replaying the sharp snap of the sniper’s bullet on an endless repetitive loop. She had tried so hard to save Ella, to rescue her from the wreckage of her life. But she had failed and once more she had blood on her hands.

Passing an attending squad car, Helen caught sight of her reflection in the windscreen. She looked like a monster – crazed, dishevelled, her hair matted, her clothes stained. She now became aware of Charlie guiding her towards the paramedics, gently imploring her to seek medical assistance for herself and the baby.

She allowed herself to be helped into the ambulance, but once there she refused to cooperate. Despite the best endeavours of the paramedics, Helen would not relinquish her grip on Amelia, who had calmed now and clung
to Helen with her tiny, delicate hands. Licking her thumb, Helen began to wipe the blood from the child’s face. The baby smiled at the contact, as if enjoying being tickled. Helen could hear the others talking around her. They assumed she was in shock, that she wasn’t thinking straight, but they were wrong – she knew exactly what she was doing. Whilst Amelia was in Helen’s arms, nothing could happen to her. For a brief moment at least, she would be safe from a dark and unforgiving world.

Helen paused outside the Guildhall, pulling her compact from her bag to check her appearance. Two weeks had passed since Ella had died, and though Helen’s face still looked tired and drawn, she had lost the look of blank horror that had characterized her expression for days afterwards. She had hardly been outside her flat since it happened and suddenly she felt sick with nerves. The Guildhall usually hosted bands and comedians but today it was packed with Hampshire Police’s finest, all gathered together to honour outstanding officers – Helen amongst them. She could think of easier ways to ease herself back into normal life and her strong instinct was to turn tail and run.

As soon as she stepped inside the building, however, she was assailed by an enormous wave of goodwill. Smiles, pats on the back, rounds of applause. The team from the seventh floor swarmed round her, hailing the return of their leader, welcoming her back into the family. They had obviously been worried about her, fearing perhaps that she would never return, and Helen was moved by their affection and concern. As she received their congratulations she realized that, though she might constantly
castigate herself for her failings, to Charlie, Sanderson and the rest she was a hero.

Her nerves grew steadily as each award was given out, then finally it was her turn. An official police commendation handed over in person by the Deputy Chief Constable himself. Standing next to him, waiting patiently to shake Helen’s hand, was Detective Superintendent Harwood.

‘Well done, Helen.’

Helen nodded her thanks, before leaving the stage. As she walked back to her seat in the front row, a feeling of quiet satisfaction crept over her. The coverage of the case had been extensive during the last fortnight – pictures of Helen carrying Amelia from the building had been splashed across the front pages of all the newspapers, both local and national. Helen’s team had pinned the cuttings up on the wall with pride, saving centre spot for the profile pieces in the
Southampton Evening News
, which went out of its way to praise Helen’s character and actions. Harwood’s name had been all but absent from the reports, a forgotten presence. Maybe there was some justice after all.

The team virtually carried Helen from the Guildhall on their shoulders. Awarding themselves an extended lunch break, they frogmarched her to the Crown and Two Chairmen to celebrate the conclusion of this high-profile investigation. Coppers are strange beasts – even though they knew Helen didn’t drink, there was no question of going anywhere other than this much visited pub. Helen
didn’t mind, it was comforting in its familiarity and she was pleased to see the team looking so happy and carefree again.

Finishing her drink, Helen slipped off to the loos, keen to have a moment by herself away from the adulation and praise. But her ordeal wasn’t over yet.

‘Friends?’

Emilia Garanita. She had been there at the commendation ceremony and here she was again. Helen’s shadow.

‘What is it with you and toilets, Emilia?’ Helen replied.

‘You’re a hard woman to get on your own.’

Helen said nothing. She had called a truce with her nemesis in the immediate aftermath of the case, agreeing not to charge the reporter with attempting to blackmail a serving police officer and worse, in return for a promise not to pursue or expose baby Amelia as she grew into her new life. Helen knew there would be endless dissections of the Matthews family – as Alan’s brutality and perversions were explored in endless column inches – but she wanted to protect the innocent. Emilia had honoured the deal, keeping the spotlight firmly on Alan Matthews, whilst simultaneously lavishing praise on DI Grace and her team in double-page spreads, but it cut little ice with Helen. She had made the deal with Emilia for pragmatic reasons. As for the rest of it – particularly the callous dismantling of Robert’s life – she would not forgive, nor would she forget.

‘I’m pleased we’ve come to an arrangement,’ Emilia
continued, breaking the silence, ‘as I would like us to go on working together in the future.’

‘Not jetting off to London?’

‘I’m working on it.’

Clearly Emilia’s scoop hadn’t quite earned her the dream move she was after, but Helen resisted the temptation to put the boot in.

‘Well, good luck with that.’

Helen made to leave but Emilia stopped her.

‘I’d like this to be a fresh start for us and … well, I wanted to say sorry.’

‘For tracking me? Threatening me? Or for ruining a young man’s life?’ Helen countered.

‘For being unprofessional.’

Typical Emilia, Helen thought. Defiant even in apology.

‘I’m sorry and it won’t happen again.’

It wasn’t much but Helen knew it would still cost Emilia to say it. She accepted her apology and left. Emilia was keen to buy her a drink to cement their détente, but Helen demurred. Pubs weren’t her natural habitat and she didn’t feel much like celebrating.

Besides, there was somewhere she needed to be.

Clutching a small posy of flowers, Helen hurried along the pathway. Fallen leaves lay all around, a rich red-and-gold carpet that was oddly beautiful. Even the sun had obliged this morning, poking its head through the clouds to add a warm, hazy glow to the scene.

The cemetery was all but deserted. It was a non-denominational, HMP graveyard on the edge of town. Few people knew about it – it was the final resting ground for the undesirable and the unclaimed. Ella Matthews fitted both these categories.

Her mother and most of her family had abandoned her in death, as they had in life. They had put their house on the market, shunned the press and tried to act as if they were in no way responsible for what had happened. Helen knew otherwise and despised them for their cowardice.

But there was one who hadn’t forgotten. Someone who’d refused to discard a beloved sister so easily. Carrie Matthews looked around as Helen approached and smiled a sheepish smile. The pair of them stood silently together for a moment, looking down at the anonymous wooden cross, each reflecting on the prize and price of sisterly love. They at least would never forget.

A
few yards away, a bright-red baby stroller stood out amidst the rows of grey headstones. In it, Amelia slumbered peacefully, blissfully unaware of her surroundings. After Ella’s death, the tiny baby had been placed with emergency foster carers whilst a more permanent solution was sought. As usual, her relatives were contacted, but nobody seemed to want the blameless baby, until at the last moment Carrie Matthews had come forward. Unable to have children herself, Carrie was determined that her niece would not be brought up in care. Helen had been moved to tears when she’d heard the news – more relieved than she could say that Amelia would escape the fate that had befallen Marianne and herself all those years ago. Many trials lay ahead no doubt, but for now Amelia was safe and well in the bosom of her family.

Carrie exchanged a few words with Helen, then laid her flowers on the grave and kissed the cross. She had defied her husband to be here, rejecting dogma and bullying in order to grieve for her sister properly. Though fully aware of the possible consequences, she had still come. Watching her, Helen could see that there was already something different about Carrie Matthews – a new strength and determination born of a desire to do right by Amelia. Maybe this would be Ella’s legacy then, the flowers that would bloom on her grave. Perhaps after all, Helen thought to herself, there is still hope.

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First published 2014

Copyright © M. J. Arlidge, 2014

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Cover image © Yuji Susaki/Getty Images

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-1-405-91497-0