‘So James changed his name?’
‘Wouldn’t you? He didn’t want that kind of notoriety following him the rest of his life. He went to therapy for a bit, tried to deal with it, but really he wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. I tried to stay in touch with him but a year or two after the murders he dropped me. Didn’t want to be reminded of it. I was sad, but I understood and I wanted him to do well. And he did do well.’
It was true. James had got himself educated, got a good job and eventually found a girl – benign, harmless – who wanted to marry him. From such a miserable, head-fucking start, he’d managed to make a good life for himself. Until someone had forced his colleague to stab him through the eye. Sure it was self-defence, but that was what made it worse. James/Ben loathed violence – what must he have been going through to try to kill Peter?
It was too twisted, too unlucky for words. And yet that was what they were dealing with.
‘Do you think they’re connected? Joel Hawker’s murders and Be-… James’s death?’ Mark interjected, breaking into Helen’s thoughts.
‘Maybe. But Amy and Sam weren’t part of that. Where do they fit in?’
Silence crept over them. Perhaps there were connections to be made but they were hard to see right now.
So what were they left with? A pair of sadistic, motiveless murders that seemed utterly unrelated and a perpetrator who was either a scruffy, blonde heating engineer or a busty, mischievous housewife with long, raven tresses. What they were left with was a mess and they both knew it.
As Mark scanned the pub, he felt the craving growing. All around him men and women were laughing, joking and drinking. Wine, beer, spirits, cocktails, chasers – poured down their necks with abandon.
‘You’re doing really well, Mark.’
Helen’s words snapped him out of it. He eyed her suspiciously. The last thing he wanted was pity.
‘I know it’s hard, but this is the beginning of the end. We’re going to get you better. We’re going to do it together. Ok?’
Mark nodded, grateful.
‘You can tell me to eff off and go to Alcoholics Anonymous instead and I’ll understand. But I don’t think they know you. They don’t know what we go through day after day. What it does to us. Which is why I’m going to help you. Whenever you need company, whenever you need help, I will be there for you. There will be times – loads of times – when you really really want to drink. And that’s ok – it’s going to happen whether you like it or not. But here’s the deal. You only ever drink in my presence. And when I tell you stop, you stop. Right?’
Mark didn’t disagree.
‘That’s how we’ll beat this thing. But if I find that you’ve broken that rule, that you’ve lied to me, then I’ll drop you like a stone. Right? Good.’
She disappeared to the bar and came back holding a bottle of lager in her hand. She pushed it across the table to him. Mark’s hand was shaking slightly as he picked it up. He put it to his lips. The cool lager slid down his throat. But then she was taking it from him. For a moment, he wanted to hit her. But then the alcohol reached his stomach. And all was better again momentarily. He realized now that she was still holding his hand. Instinctively, he started to caress her hand with his thumb. She pulled it away.
‘Let me be clear on one thing, Mark. This isn’t about “us”. It’s about you.’
He’d misread the situation. And now he felt foolish. Stroking the hand of his superior officer. What a prick. They left soon after. Helen watched him drive off – presumably to make sure he didn’t slope back into the pub. The warm, lagery optimism of the afternoon was dissipating now and Mark felt empty and alone.
As dusk fell, Mark’s Golf pulled up outside what was once his family home. Elsie would be up in her bedroom now, with Sheepy, bathed in the green glow of her nightlight. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was there and that filled him with love. It wasn’t enough but it would have to do – for now.
27
Detective Superintendent Michael Whittaker was waiting for Helen when she arrived back at Southampton Central. He was a charismatic 45-year-old – outdoorsy, tanned, fit – a favourite with his female clerical staff, who dreamt of bagging this powerful and successful bachelor. He was also canny, with a keen eye for anything that might help, or hinder, his career. In his day he had been an excellent thief taker – until a nasty shoot-out at a botched bank raid had left him half a lung lighter and flying a desk. Unable to be on the ground directing operations, he was prone to throwing his weight around when he felt things were going too slowly or were spinning out of control. He had survived – and prospered – for so long by always remembering to keep an eye on the detail.
‘How does she do it?’ he barked at Helen. ‘Is she operating alone or does she have help?’
‘Hard to say yet,’ Helen replied. ‘She works under the radar and never leaves a trace, which suggests she’s working alone. She’s meticulous, precise and I suspect unlikely to involve someone else in such a carefully planned operation. She’s using drugs not force to subdue her victims, so again that would imply that she doesn’t need or want help. The obvious next question is how does she shift them? They are transported in a Transit-type van where they can be easily concealed, whilst subdued, until they get to their destination. She chooses remote, forgotten locations for their imprisonment – so there’s little chance of her being spotted moving them from the van. Does she need help to shift them? Possibly, though all four of her victims have pressure burns around their ankles. Which could suggest they’d had their ankles tied together and then were dragged. They have abrasions to their legs, torsos and heads that could fit with being pulled across rough ground, but it would be tough going. Even if you tied cord or a rope round Peter Brightston’s ankles say, he’s still fourteen stone of dead weight to drag behind you. Possible but difficult.’
‘What about the vans?’ Whittaker replied, affording Helen little respite.
‘Nothing concrete. Amy’s unsure what make her van was and there are no traffic cameras near her site to help us. Peter’s sure he was abducted in a Vauxhall Movano, but dozens of those are stolen every month in Hampshire alone. It’s red, which helps a bit, but she could have repainted it. As they were picked up in the New Forest and transported via country lanes to Dunston Power Station, we haven’t got any traffic cameras or CCTV footage to help us.’
Whittaker sighed.
‘I hope I haven’t over-promoted you, Helen.’
His tone was even.
‘I had hoped you might take over from me one day… but cases like this can damage careers. We need arrests, Helen.’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘That bitch Garanita has been camping out in the bloody atrium, winding up the rest of the local hacks. A couple of the nationals got in on the act this morning. The idiots in media liaison have a prolapse whenever The Times rings and come running straight to me. What are we telling them?’
‘Sam’s death is being treated as a domestic. We’re not looking for anyone else et cetera. Ben’s death is being spun as an accident. Story is that he and Peter Brightston were at Dunston on firm business, there was a tragic accident and so on. The press seem to be buying it for now.’
Whittaker was silent. He would never admit that his superiors had been roasting his nuts, but Helen knew how it worked. Shit runs up and then runs down harder in cases like these.
‘It may well break at some point, so we could go public if we felt that was the right thing to do. Tell the press there’s a third party involved. Enlist the help of the public -’
‘Too soon,’ Whittaker interrupted. ‘We haven’t got enough. We’d look like imbeciles.’
‘Yes, sir.’