Eeny Meeny (8 page)

‘Got to be fourteen stone. Maybe more.’

Helen bent down to get a better look. The ground near the hatch opening was certainly very disturbed, but was that the result of both victims being dragged in or a terrified Peter scrambling out?

This was obviously bad practice. An experienced copper knows never to make snap, instinctive judgements about the nature of the crime or the identity of the perpetrator. But Helen
knew
that this was the second murder. Even if one ignored the evidence of sabotage on Ben’s car, Peter Brightston’s story was so close to Amy’s that the link was undeniable. The pain, guilt and horror etched on Peter’s face when they picked him up was the same as on Amy’s. These guys were living calling cards, a flesh-and-blood testament to somebody else’s sadism. Was that the point of all this?

It was obvious now that they were dealing with a serial killer. Helen had done the courses, read the case studies, but still nothing had prepared her for this. Normally the motive, the connection to the victim, was easy to fathom, but not here. This wasn’t an anti-woman thing, wasn’t a sex crime, and there seemed to be no correlation in age, gender or status between the victims. Helen felt herself being sucked into a long, dark tunnel. A wave of depression assailed her and she had to pinch herself to snap out of it. She would catch the person responsible. Of course she would.

Helen and Mark approached the mouth of the pit. Helen called for a ladder to be brought over – she was anxious to get down there quickly, eager to know the worst. The hatch was already open, so she peered inside. And there in the gloom lay the body. The man Peter had murdered. Ben Holland.

‘Do you want to go down or shall I?’

Mark’s question was well-meaning and he was straining not to be patronizing. But Helen had to see this for herself.

‘I’m fine. This won’t take long.’

Carefully, she climbed down her ladder into the body of silo. The smell was strong down here. Gas fused with coal dust and excrement. The forensic team had found strong traces of a powerful sedative, benzodiazepine, in Sam and Amy’s excrement. They’d probably find it here too. Helen turned her attention to the body. He was lying face down, a pool of blood congealed around his head. Taking care not to touch him, Helen knelt down, craning round to look at the victim’s face.

Disgust and then surprise. Disgust at the bloody hole where his left eye used to be. And surprise at the realization that this was not Ben Holland.

24

Jake was shocked to see her again so soon. Up until now, she’d been fairly predictable: one hour-long session per month. He’d been tempted not to answer the buzzer when it rang – it was after 11 p.m. and all encounters had to be pre-booked for safety reasons. But when he’d seen her face on the screen, he’d been concerned. Concerned and intrigued.

Something was up. She didn’t look at him when she entered the flat and made no mention of the late hour. Normally, he got a brief smile or hello at least. But not tonight. She was distracted, looking inward, even less communicative than usual. She put the money on the table and removed her clothes without looking at him. Then she took off her bra and knickers – standing naked in front of him. This wasn’t really on – this kind of thing usually led to propositions. He was a dominator, not a whore. He provided a service, but not that kind of service.

He had his speech ready as she walked towards him, but she sailed straight past, towards his armoury of goodies. Another rule broken – only he was allowed to choose the method of punishment. That was part of the gig – the submissive didn’t know exactly how they were going to be punished. But Jake said nothing, something in her actions brooked no argument tonight. Jake felt a little frisson of fear and excitement. It was as if the game were being turned back on him and for once he was not the one in charge.

She ignored the crops, heading straight for the studded whips instead. She ran her fingers along them before selecting the nastiest. This was only for the hardcore masochists, not really her thing, but she gave it to him and marched over to the wall. He shackled her. Still not a word had been spoken.

He felt oddly tentative as if he didn’t know what game he was playing. So his first strike was a bit soft.

‘Harder.’

He obliged, but it wasn’t enough.

‘HARDER.’

So he let her have it. And this time he drew blood. Her body flinched with the pain, then seemed to relax as a trickle of blood ran down her back.

‘Again.’

Where was this going to end? He couldn’t tell. The only thing he knew for certain was that this woman wanted to bleed.

25

‘Tell me again what happened’.

Amy shut her eyes and hung her head. Charlie seemed like a nice person and had handled her with kid gloves, but why did she have to do this? Since she’d been released from police custody, she had tried anything and everything to
stop
thinking about it. Her mother had followed her around like a bloodhound to begin with, but had backed off after Amy had flipped out. Momentarily free of her shadow, she’d hunted out left-over party booze and her mum’s ‘secret’ stash of Valium, and when they didn’t work resorted to her dad’s sleeping pills. Big mistake. In her dreams – nightmares – Sam was ever present. Smiling at her. Laughing. It was unbearable and she’d woken up screaming – to find herself by the front door rattling the chain, desperately trying to escape. She’d decided there and then to stay awake for the rest of her life – never giving in to sleep – and to avoid all human contact. But here were the police again, reminding her of her horrific betrayal.

‘You were hitching. It was raining. A van pulled up.’

Amy nodded mutely.

‘Describe the van to me.’

‘I’ve already made a statement, I –’

‘Please.’

A heavy, breathless sigh. A feeling of suffocation. And suddenly tears were springing up again – Amy forced them down.

‘It was a Transit van.’

‘What make?’

‘Ford? Vauxhall? Something like that. It was white.’

‘What did she say to you? Exact words, please.’

Amy paused, unwillingly climbing back inside the memory.

‘“You need rescuing?” – that’s what she said. “You need rescuing?” Then she opened the passenger door, there was space enough for three in the cab, so we got in. I wish to fuck we hadn’t.’

And this time she did cry. Charlie let her for a second, before handing her a tissue.

‘Did she have an accent?’

‘Southern.’

‘Any more specific than that?’

Amy shook her head.

‘Then what did she say?’

Amy went through it again, beat by beat. The woman had said she was a heating engineer on her way home from an emergency call-out. Amy didn’t remember seeing a logo or name on the van, perhaps there had been, she wasn’t looking. She’d talked about her husband – who was useless at all things practical – and her kids – two of them. She asked them where they were going on a cold winter’s night then offered them a drink.

‘What words did she use?’

‘She noticed I was shivering a bit and said, “You could do with warming up.” That was it. Then she offered us her flask.’

‘Was the drink hot? What did it smell of?’

‘It smelt like what it was. Coffee.’

‘And the taste?’

‘Fine.’

‘What did she look like?’

When would this end?

‘She had short blonde hair. She wore mirror sunglasses on her head. Overalls. Stud earrings, I think. Short, grimy nails. I could see them on the wheel. Dirty hands. Only saw her face from the side. Strong nose, fullish lips. No make-up. Height, average. She looked normal. Completely fucking normal, ok?’

And with that Amy walked out of the sitting room and straight upstairs, choking with tears, struggling to breathe. Assailed by the most awful guilt, she allowed herself a flash of anger. Sam had got it easy. He was dead.
His
suffering was over. But hers would endure. She would never be allowed to forget what she’d done. Looking down to the paving stones below from her attic bedroom window, Amy wondered if Sam would welcome her if she decided to join him. Suddenly she was seized by the idea and tugged at the handle, but the window lock was on and the key had vanished. Even her family were torturing her now.

26

‘What did she look like?’

Peter Brightston shivered. Ever since they’d picked him up, he’d been shivering. His whole body was quaking, beating out the rhythm of his trauma in some weird, primal way. Helen was certain he was going to keel over at any moment. But the hospital doctors had given them the all-clear to talk to him, so …

He wouldn’t look at her. Just stared down at his hands, pulling at the IV tubes that emanated from him like tentacles.

‘What did she look like, Peter?’

A long beat and then through gritted teeth:

‘She looked bloody gorgeous.’

Helen hadn’t been expecting that.

‘Describe her.’

A deep breath, then:

‘Tall, muscular … black hair … raven black hair. Long. Down to below her shoulders. Tight white T-shirt. Good tits.’

‘Face?’

‘Made up. Full lips. Couldn’t see the eyes. Tinted glasses – Prada ones.’

‘You sure, Prada?’

‘I liked them. Made a mental note. Thought I might get Sarah a pair for our anniversa—’

Then he started to sob.

They got a bit more out of him eventually. The woman had been driving a Red Vauxhall Movano that belonged to her husband. She lived with her chap and three kids in Thornhill. They were in the midst of moving to Bournemouth and were saving cash by doing the removals themselves, hence the van. She was talkative, breezy and mischievous, which is why she’d offered up her husband’s hip flask, badly hidden as ever under the road atlas in the glove compartment. Peter had of course accepted and then slung it Ben’s way. At which point in his testimony, Peter froze once more.

Helen left Charlie to babysit him. Charlie was good with men. She was more conventionally pretty than Helen and had an easy, unthreatening manner – no wonder men flocked to her. In her meaner moments, Helen felt her bland, but she certainly had her uses and would be a good copper in time. But Mark was her sounding board and that was who she needed now.

The White Bear was tucked away in a side street behind the hospital. Helen had deliberately – provocatively – chosen the venue as a test and so far Mark was doing ok, nursing a slimline tonic. It was strange meeting in a pub, made it almost like a date and both felt it. But there were bigger things to occupy them.

‘So what are we dealing with?’ Mark opened the conversation.

He could tell Helen’s mind was spinning, trying to comprehend the latest unexpected developments.

‘Ben Holland is not Ben Holland. His real name is James Hawker.’

Whenever Helen thought of James, she always conjured up the same image – a blood-splattered young man looking utterly lost. Catatonic with shock.

‘His father was a businessman. He was also a fantasist and a fraudster. Joel Hawker lost everything in a bad deal and decided to call time on himself and his family, rather than face the music … He killed the horses first, then the family dog, before setting fire to the stables. Neighbours called 999, but I got there first.’

Helen’s voice wavered a little as she remembered the scene. Mark watched her intently.

‘I was a beat copper back then. I saw the smoke and heard screaming from inside the house so I barged my way in. The wife was dead, the eldest daughter and her boyfriend too, and he was setting about James with a carving knife when I arrived.’

Helen paused before continuing:

‘I took him down. Beat him longer and harder than I needed to. I got a commendation for it, but also a warning as to my future conduct.’

Helen managed a rueful smile, which Mark reciprocated.

‘But I didn’t care. I wished I’d beaten him harder.’

‘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?’