Eeny Meeny (4 page)

9

Ben Holland loathed his weekly trip to Bournemouth. To him it was pointless, a day lost. But the firm was very strong on face time between their various offices, so once a week Ben and Peter (Portsmouth) would share sandwiches and coffee with Malcolm and Eleanor (Bournemouth) and Hellie and Sarah (London). They would discuss the finer points of maritime law, banking litigation and international probate – before reverting to bitching about their respective clients. It was sometimes mildly informative, even entertaining, but once you’d factored in the travel from and back to Portsmouth it was all just a colossal waste of time.

This one was proving to be even worse than usual. As per normal, Ben had given Peter a lift to and from the meeting in Bournemouth – allowing his more senior colleague to drink at lunchtime. Peter was a partner with a quick brain and a record of getting results. He was also boorish, repetitive and suffered from BO. It was bad enough being in a conference room with Peter. Now he was stuck in the car with him for two whole hours. At least he would have been, if they hadn’t run out of petrol.

Ben pulled out his phone, swearing under his breath. His eyes widened in dismay.

‘No reception.’

‘What?’ replied Peter.

‘No reception. You?’

Peter checked his phone.

‘Nothing.’

A long silence.

Ben tried hard to contain his rage. How many cats had he kicked to be here, in the middle of the New Forest, with Peter, with night falling? Ben had filled the tank up at the Esso station just outside Bournemouth – the petrol was cheapest there – and yet not an hour later the tank had been empty. He hadn’t believed the fuel warning sign when it lit up, but anyway he’d been sure he’d have enough to get to Southampton at least. But moments after the fuel warning had first pinged, the car had spluttered to a halt. Sometimes life just keeps kicking you. Would they have to walk to a petrol station? Spend the night together!

‘Platinum service with the AA and what use is it?’ Peter offered helpfully.

Ben looked up and down the quiet woodland lane. Peter wasn’t saying it, but it had been Ben’s idea to cut through the New Forest. He always did this, avoiding the M27 around Southampton by using a sneaky cut-through that brought him out at Calmore, but today it had backfired badly. Ben had a feeling that this would be mentioned, but only once the ordeal was over. Peter would make great capital out of it. He was just biding his time.

‘Are you going to walk or shall I?’ asked Peter.

It was a rhetorical question. Seniority rules and, besides, Peter had ‘bad knees’. So, it was down to Ben. Looking at the map, he saw that there were some holiday cottages only a mile or two away. Perhaps if he hurried he could make it there before it got too dark. Turning up his collar against the cold, he nodded to Peter and trudged off down the road.

‘We’ll meet again …’ sang Peter. Tosser, thought Ben.

But then, suddenly, a stroke of luck. In the gloaming, Ben could make out two pinpricks of light. He squinted. Yup, no doubt about it. Headlights. For the first time that day, Ben felt his body relax. There was a God after all. He waved his hands vigorously in the air, but the van was already slowing down to help.

Thank goodness, thought Ben. Salvation.

10

Diane Anderson hadn’t seen her daughter for over three weeks. And she wasn’t seeing her now, even though Amy was pinned to her chest in a suffocating hug. They’d cleaned her up at the hospital – let her have a shower and hair wash – but she still didn’t look like Amy.

The attractive police officer – Charlie – had accompanied them home. She said it was to help Amy, to make her feel safe as she rejoined the outside world, but she was a spy. Diane was sure of that. There to wait, watch and report back. Her daughter wasn’t off the hook yet. The two uniformed officers stationed outside their door made that clear. Were they there to protect her, or stop her from running away? Still, at least they had seen off the press. A reporter from the local rag had resorted to shouting through the letterbox – asking in the coarsest terms imaginable why Amy had killed her boyfriend. The fact that the reporter was a young woman made it even worse – what possesses these people?

‘Amy shot Sam.’ That was how the stern one – Detective Inspector Grace – had put it. It didn’t make any sense. Amy would never shoot anyone, least of all Sam. She’d never even held a gun before. This wasn’t America.

She had turned to her husband, Richard, expecting him to correct the police, clear matters up, but his face had been the mirror of hers – blank shock. For a moment a flash of anger had coursed through her – Richard was never there when he was really needed – before she had pulled herself up and once again confronted the bitter present. Amy
loved
Sam. In many an idle moment, Diane had pondered what it would be like if – when – they got married. She’d always assumed that Amy would follow modern practice and cohabit without getting married. But Amy had surprised her by confiding that she definitely wanted to tie the knot, when the time was right. Typical Amy though, she would do it with a twist. There was no question of her wearing white and she was determined that Diane should give her away rather than her dad. Would Richard wear that? Would other people like it or would they think it odd? With a jolt, Diane realized she was daydreaming again. About a wedding that would never happen.

None of it made any sense. Sam wasn’t violent or aggressive, so it couldn’t have been self-defence. DI Grace had been infuriatingly tight-lipped about what had happened – ‘Better Amy tells you in her own time.’ But Amy hadn’t said a word. She was mute. Diane tried to reach her – by making her malt shakes, opening some French Fancies (a childhood favourite), kitting out the bedroom they’d now share with all her old toys and knick-knacks. But none of it had worked. So they sat there, a stilted threesome. Charlie perching on the end of the sofa trying not to spill her tea, Diane plating yet more unwanted cakes and Amy just staring into space, a shell of the vibrant girl she once was.

11

It was an ambush. The woman was lying in wait and as Helen got out of her car, she pounced.

‘Spare a couple of minutes, Inspector?’

Helen’s heart sank. It was beginning already.

‘Nice to see you, Emilia, but as you’ll appreciate I’m very busy.’

Helen moved off but an arm shot out, stopping her in her tracks. Helen glared – are you serious? – and her adversary took the hint, slowly releasing her grip. Unabashed, Emilia Garanita broke into a broad grin. She was a striking figure – youthful and svelte but also broken and disfigured. As a teenager she’d set hearts on fire, but aged only eighteen had been the victim of a savage acid attack. If you looked at her profile from the left, she was handsome and attractive. From the right, you felt only pity – her features distorted, her cosmetic eye unmoving. She was known locally as ‘Beauty and the Beast’ and was the Chief Crime Reporter for the
Southampton Evening News
.

‘The Amy Anderson case. We know she killed him but we don’t know why. What did he
do
to her?’

Helen tried to conceal her disdain – she felt sure it was Emilia who’d been shouting through the Anderson letterbox earlier, but it wasn’t a wise move to antagonize the press this early in an investigation.

‘Was it a sexual thing? Did he beat her? Are you looking for anyone else?’ she continued.

‘You know the drill, Emilia, as soon as we have anything to say media liaison will be in touch. Now if you’ll excuse m—’

‘I’m just curious because you’ve released her. She’s not even on bail. You normally make them sweat a bit longer than that, don’t you?’

‘We don’t make anyone “sweat”, Emilia. I’m a by-the-book girl – you know that. Which is why all communication with the press will be via the usual channels, ok?’

Helen flashed her best smile and continued on her way. She had won the first skirmish in what would no doubt prove to be a long campaign. Emilia had crime in her blood. The eldest of six children, she had become famous when her drug dealer dad was sentenced to eighteen years’ imprisonment for using his children as drug mules. Ever since they were tiny Emilia and her five siblings had been forced to swallow condoms of cocaine as they journeyed home to Southampton docks from one of their many Caribbean cruises. When her Portuguese father went to jail, his paymasters tried to force Emilia to resume her life as a drug mule to help recover their losses. She refused, so they punished her – two broken ankles and half a litre of sulphuric acid in the face. She’d written a book about it, which eventually took her to journalism. Despite the fact that she still walked with a limp, she was scared of no one and utterly tireless in her pursuit of a story.

‘Don’t be a stranger,’ Emilia called out as Helen buzzed into the police mortuary.

Helen knew that life had just got a little bit harder. But she had no time to ponder that now.

Helen had a date with a corpse.

12

He looked like a ghost. The carefree, handsome face that beamed out from his Facebook page bore no resemblance to the sunken death mask that now confronted Helen. Sam’s emaciated body lay on the mortuary slab in front of her, mocking the happy, hopeful person he used to be. It was a profoundly distressing sight.

Helen turned away, distracting herself by checking on the progress of the pathologist, Jim Grieves. Even after thirty years in the business Jim still took an age to clean and robe himself for a PM. The endless hand-washing made him appear like a modern-day Lady Macbeth (albeit an overweight one) and watching his clumsy attempts to sheathe his hands in sterile gloves made you want to march over there and do it for him yourself. Some officers actually had. Others thought he was past it, but Helen knew better and didn’t rush him. He was worth waiting for and there was something vaguely miraculous about the slow transformation from a hefty, heavily tattooed oaf to a gowned, incisive pathologist who had helped open up many a case for Helen.

‘What I am about to say comes with all the usual caveats, as I’m being rushed yet again …’

Helen smiled – used to Jim’s grumblings – and let him go on. She
was
rushing him, but needs must. Telling Sam’s mother about his death had been awful, partly because Helen had been able to tell her so
little
. Olivia Taylor had been widowed some years back, so she had no partner to support her now. Somehow, alone, she had to help her children come to terms with the death of their beloved older brother, and Helen had to give her the tools to do that. So she needed to corroborate or destroy Amy’s story fast.

Jim had finished grumbling. He turned to Sam’s body and began his summing up:

‘Single gunshot to the back. The bullet entered under the right shoulder blade and ended up in the rib cage. I’m using technical terms, so do tell me if there’s anything you don’t understand, ok?’

Helen let that ride. Jim’s sarcasm was a feature of every PM she’d ever attended. He carried on without waiting for a reaction:

‘Cause of death: cardiac arrest. Possibly caused by blood loss but more likely by the shock of the impact. He was in a bad way even before he was shot. Evidence of emaciation in the torso, limbs and the face – note the sunken eye sockets, the blood around his gums, the hair loss. Bladder and bowels basically empty, the stomach contained fragments of cloth, hair, tile mastic and also human flesh.’

Jim moved round the table to lift Sam’s right arm.

‘The flesh was his own, bitten from his right forearm. By the looks of it, I’d say he managed three or four mouthfuls before he gave up.’

Helen closed her eyes – the horror of Sam’s last days sinking in – then forced herself to open them again. Jim held Sam’s ravaged forearm up for her to get a good look, then gently laid it down again.

‘I would estimate he hadn’t eaten properly or taken in liquid for at least two weeks, probably more. His body would have been living off fat reserves during that time, and when they ran out, it would have started to leach nutrients from his internal organs. He was a whisker away from total organ failure when he was killed. From what I’ve been told about the girl’s medical state, she was going the same way. Another few days and they both would have been dead of natural causes.’

Jim paused once more, this time to ferret through his paperwork.

‘Bloods. What you’d expect from someone suffering extreme dehydration on a fast track to organ failure. The only unusual constituent was trace elements of benzodiazepine. I expect you’ll also find traces in her blood and stronger traces in their waste.’

Helen nodded – forensics had already confirmed traces of the powerful sedative in the excreta recovered from the diving pool. Helen suppressed her growing anxiety, but this was all heading one way now. Jim carried on for another ten minutes, then Helen called time on it. She had all she needed.

Against all the odds, Amy’s story was starting to stack up. Forensics had found particles of rope near a corner of the pool, tallying with the use of a rope ladder as Amy’s means of escape. Furthermore, their recovered clothes had deep soil stains on them, suggesting Amy and Sam could have been dragged from a vehicle across open ground to the abandoned pool. Could a woman have dragged Sam by herself – all twelve stone of him – or would she have needed an accomplice?

As she headed back to Southampton Central, Helen knew this would consume her totally from now on. She would not rest until she had solved this strange crime. Entering the incident room, she was pleased to see that Mark was already cracking the whip. There were numerous practical and bureaucratic issues that could stymie a major investigation like this and Helen needed things to run like clockwork. Mark was the classic DS – an abrasive but effective instrument – adept at making everyone row in the same direction. He’d rounded up a good team of officers – DCs Bridges, Grounds, Sanderson, McAndrew – in addition to support staff; already the investigation was coming to life in front of her eyes. Mark hurried over when he saw her enter.