Helen could sense his anxiety – and his displeasure – and was surprised. He was usually cooler than this. She wanted to allay his fears – she’d always been able to do so in the past – but she had nothing to offer here. Whittaker had a tendency to knee-jerk when the pressure was on. And that wasn’t what Helen needed right now. So she worked hard to reassure him – talking him through the vast efforts that were being made to trace the killer – and slowly he began to relax. He had always trusted Helen and if anyone could keep things on track she could. Although someone like Whittaker would never admit it, Helen was exactly the kind of officer that top brass love. Female, teetotal, a workaholic, with no interest in having babies. No danger of alcoholism, back-handers, maternity leave or any other unpleasantness with Helen. She worked like a dynamo and single-handedly boosted their clear-up rate. So even if she did bullshit them occasionally, they would put up with it, because she was up there with the very best.
She talked such a good game that for a second Helen was buoyed up by her words. But as she biked home that false confidence started to evaporate. It was Christmas Eve tomorrow and the whole of Southampton was seized by the festive spirit. It was as if there had been a collective decision to ignore the lurid headlines in the Evening News in favour of out-and-out celebration instead. Salvation Army bands pumped out seasonal tunes, gaudy lights flashed happily above the shops and you could see excited smiles on the faces of kids everywhere. But Helen didn’t feel any Christmas cheer. The whole thing seemed like a gaudy and inappropriate pageant to her. Out there somewhere was a killer who killed without conscience and never left a trace. Was she busy stalking her next victims right now? Were they already imprisoned and begging for mercy? Helen had never felt so lost. There seemed no solid ground in this case, no safe assumptions. More blood would be spilt and for now all Helen could do was wait and see who would be next.
28
It’s funny the things you remember, isn’t it? Why does that reindeer stick in my mind? He was pretty crummy even for that time, a mangy felt reindeer with whacked-out eyes. He looked as if he was dead. But I couldn’t stop staring at him as we waited in the long queue. Perhaps I’m drawn to hopelessness. Or maybe not. You can overanalyse these things.
It was Xmas and for once life was ok. Dad had done a flit – did he have another family to be with at Christmas? I never found out – so it was just the girls at home. Mum was drinking, but I’d worked out a plan to keep her from getting too wasted. To save her legs, I’d offer to get the booze myself. I’d hop down to the corner shop, pick up a few cans, but get something solid too. Bread, crisps, whatever. When I got back I’d sit with Mum whilst she drank. I think she felt a bit awkward drinking in front of me and without Dad there to egg her on she cut back on the booze little by little, until she was hardly drinking at all. I was never close to her, but we were ok that Christmas. Which is why she took us to the shopping mall.
Muzak, cheap decorations and the smell of fear. As far as the eye could see parents were panicking, boxed into a corner by a festival that had come round too quickly yet again. Our shopping list was short – very short – but it still took a long time. Making sure the security guard in BHS was otherwise engaged before Mum stuffed clothes and tacky costume jewellery up our jumpers. Our ‘treat’ was to go and see Santa afterwards. Given that the guy who did it was a teacher at the local Catholic school, the treat was probably all his.
I’ve got such a vivid memory of his face. He sat me on his knee and, with his best yo ho ho, asked me what I wanted most of all for Christmas. I smiled, looked him in the eye and said, ‘I’d like my dad to die.’
We left rather quickly after that. Santa gossiping with the appalled mothers – bitches who loved throwing insults at white trash like us. As we hurried past, I gave that mangy reindeer a belting right hook. Didn’t get to see the damage – we were out of the door before Security could catch us.
I’d expected Mum to hit me or at least shout. But she didn’t. She just wept. Sat down at the bus shelter and wept. Pity really – it’s one of my happiest memories.
29
Her visit was an unexpected pleasure. They hardly ever had visitors – who in their right mind would come here? – and those that did come were usually up to no good. Thieves or thugs. The police were seldom to be found here and you could forget about Social Services. What a joke they were.
Her mother had jumped when the doorbell went. Marie was so engrossed in Strictly, she hadn’t heard the footsteps coming down the hall. But Anna had. Whenever Anna heard noises outside, her heart beat a little faster. None of the other flats were occupied, so unless it was junkies seeking an empty flat or gypsies on the sniff, then it could only mean they were coming for them. The footsteps slowed, then stopped outside their front door. She wanted to alert her mum and grunted as best she could, but Flavia was doing the Foxtrot and Marie was hooked. Then the doorbell went – clear and confident. Marie shot a look at Anna – a moment’s hesitation – then she decided to ignore it.
Anna was glad. She didn’t like visitors. Didn’t like surprises. And yet she was curious. Because the footsteps down the corridor were light and clip-cloppy. Like someone was wearing heels. That made Anna chuckle inside. She hadn’t heard anything like that since the whores moved on.
The doorbell rang again. Just once – polite but insistent. And then they heard her voice, calling their names, asking if she could speak to them. Marie turned down the TV – perhaps if she couldn’t hear them, she’d think they were out and go away. Pointless really – the light and noise from their flat were like a beacon in the darkness. Then the doorbell rang for a third time and this time Marie got up and padded to the front door. Anna watched her go – she hated being left alone. What if something happened out there?
But then Marie came back, followed by a pretty woman clutching some plastic bags. She kind of looked like a social worker, except she wasn’t depressed and her clothes were all right. She looked around the room, then walked over to Anna and knelt down to her level.
‘Hi, Anna. My name’s Ella.’
She had such a warm smile. Anna liked her instantly.
‘I was just telling your mum that I work for an organization called Shooting Stars. You might have seen our ads in the local newspaper. I know your mum likes to read it to you.’
She smelt lovely. Like roses.
‘Every year we bring Christmas hampers to families like yours that find it hard to get out and about. How does that sound? Good?’
‘We don’t do pity in this house,’ Marie interjected sharply.
‘It’s not pity, Marie,’ Ella said rising. ‘It’s just a helping hand. And you don’t have to take it. There’s plenty of others who’d love to get their hands on these goodies, believe you me!’
The word ‘goodies’ seemed to do the trick. Marie sat quiet as Ella took the tins and packets out of the bag. It was a real treasure trove – Turkish delight and chocolate ginger on top of all the usual stuff – plus soups and smoothies and liquid sherbet for Anna. A lot of thought had gone into it – Anna was surprised anyone cared enough to go to so much trouble. Ella couldn’t have been more attentive, asking Marie a load of questions about Anna – what did she like to have read to her? Was she a fan of Tracy Beaker? What did she watch on TV? Anna basked in the attention.
This year they’d got lucky. This year they were on someone’s radar. Marie was chuffed and the party spirit descended briefly as she went in search of the sherry. Anna looked at their visitor. She was smiling and nodding, but now she seemed tense. Anna thought that perhaps she was on a tight schedule, but she couldn’t have been, because when Marie came back Ella insisted on opening up the mince pies. She didn’t have one herself, but was keen for Marie to tuck in. They were freshly made – a bakery on St Mary’s Road had cooked up dozens of them for free in a fit of Christmas spirit.