A Dark and Twisted Tide (31 page)

‘I shouldn’t.’ Dana’s hand went instinctively to her belly.

Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit soon to start acting the pregnant woman?’

Suddenly inexplicably angry, Dana stepped closer to the window and looked down into the garden. The song thrush had gone. Just the sound of traffic now, an aeroplane passing overhead, an argument in the garden next door. Nothing out there as loud as the noise in her head.

‘Guess that wasn’t the most sensitive thing to say right now.’ Helen had moved forward too, was directly behind her. Dana kept her eyes down. ‘It’s just not in my dour Scottish nature to count chickens before they’re hatched.’ Helen never wore perfume, and yet somehow the smell of her skin and hair always made Dana think of summer mornings.

‘Are you angry with me?’ Helen’s breath tickled Dana’s ear.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Dana took a deep breath. ‘Because I have to spend hundreds of pounds and beg for help from total strangers who couldn’t care less about me, not to mention suffering untold humiliation, just to get something that every other woman on the bloody planet takes for granted. I’m angry with you because you don’t have balls.’

Behind her came the sound of a breath being taken and slowly released. ‘I can think of a few guys in Dundee nick who might take issue with that.’

Still, Dana didn’t, couldn’t, look up. She’d had no idea how much rage was inside her. ‘Children are supposed to be created out of love. Ours – if we’re lucky enough to have any – will be conceived with a pair of stirrups and a syringe.’

From somewhere a breeze had arrived. It crept its way inside Dana’s robe, stroking her skin.

‘No man ever loved his wife more than I love you,’ said Helen. ‘I’d say the rest is just detail.’

As the breeze cooled Dana, she felt herself calming down. It had just been the heat. The heat and the frustrations of a case she didn’t believe she’d ever solve. She felt the tension in her body give way, come tumbling down like the bricks in a child’s tower. Either Helen had moved closer or Dana had leaned back. She could feel the warmth of her partner’s body through the cotton of her robe and it felt good. The cool of the breeze, the warmth of Helen and somewhere in between maybe, just maybe, the start of something new and incredibly special. Whatever unorthodox route it had taken to get here.

‘Do you want to get married?’ Helen asked, her fingers brushing the side of Dana’s neck.

Dana held her breath, ran the words over again in her head, making sure they really were what she thought she’d heard. And then a giggle rose in her throat. ‘Are you proposing?’

‘Well, someone’s got to make an honest woman out of you.’

The robe was at her feet. Helen’s fingers were running slowly up her right arm. Goosebumps responded immediately, turning her arms into a mass of pimples. Helen loved that, she knew, loved the feel of her dark hairs standing to attention. Sometimes, she ran her hands over Dana’s body just close enough to touch the hairs. Sometimes, she made love to her for long, long minutes before really touching her at all. She was three inches taller than Dana, just tall enough to have to bow her head to kiss the side of her neck.

‘Yes,’ Dana said, closing her eyes. ‘Let’s get married.’

70

Lacey

LACEY SAID GOODNIGHT
to Alex and then, accompanied by Thessa, walked round to the front of the house, where a narrow path led through a small, neat garden to the high metal gates and perimeter brick walls. The cooling temperature had intensified the scents of the garden, the rich, heady perfume of old-fashioned roses and the strong sweetness of jasmine. Thessa had been chatting, her usual mix of local gossip, folklore and nonsense, pointing out plants and flowers, when she stopped her chair abruptly, just ahead of Lacey’s bike.

‘There!’ She was pointing towards the back of the flower bed, to the tall, spiked columns that grew against the wall. ‘Blooming in your honour. Aren’t they beautiful?’

Lacey looked at the spears of blue, lilac and white flowers, standing proud amidst the mass of greenery and colour. ‘They’re delphiniums, aren’t they?’ She smiled at Thessa’s quizzical look. ‘I like flowers. I used to hang around the flower market a lot, when I lived in Kennington.’

Thessa looked politely impressed. ‘Do you know their common name?’

Lacey didn’t, but she could hazard a guess. ‘Larkspur by any chance? Goodnight, Thessa. Thank you for a lovely evening.’

She bent to kiss her friend on the cheek, the first time she’d ever done so, but at the last second Thessa pulled back.

‘I read up on that woman in Durham prison you were telling me about, dear. I didn’t mean to pry, but I remembered the case and I was curious.’

‘It’s all a matter of public record.’ Lacey straightened up and stepped back from Thessa, conscious of her chest suddenly constricting.

‘It was a sad story. Those poor girls.’

‘We don’t concern ourselves too much with the why.’ Lacey picked up her bike and switched on both lights, although it wasn’t nearly dark enough to need them. She bent to check the tyre pressure, although she’d never known it need attention. ‘We leave that to the defence.’

‘And yet, being a “why?” sort of person, I found myself deeply curious as to what would turn a perfectly normal girl into a killer.’ Thessa moved away, her chair crunching across the gravel. Lacey felt a moment of relief that was soon over.

Thessa’s wheels stopped turning. ‘There was a particularly insightful feature in one of the Sunday papers. I don’t know if you read it. Two sisters, brought up in care, subjected to a horrible attack one night, denied any level of justice.’

She’d positioned herself directly ahead of Lacey on the path. There was no getting past her.

‘According to the story, the younger sister, Catherine, went completely off the rails, ran away from home, lived on the streets and then died in a river accident. She’d been living in a houseboat on the creek, not so very far from where you are now. Such a coincidence, I thought.’

Lacey tried to look up, got as far as the blue and lilac pointed columns of flowers.

‘The older one couldn’t get over her sister’s death.’ Thessa was relentless. ‘She spent years plotting her revenge. She turned herself into a killer, constructed an elaborate and deadly plan and put it into action. Killed four women, nearly got a fifth, too, but she was caught. Does that just about sum it up?’

‘I knew Victoria Llewellyn a few years ago.’ Lacey had found her
voice at last. ‘We were friends for a while. That’s why I was able to track her down, how I persuaded her to give herself up. It’s why I’ve kept in touch.’

‘Yes, I gathered you were the unnamed young constable instrumental in her arrest. And I’d probably have left it at that if there hadn’t been such a clear photograph of her accompanying the article. My dear girl, the resemblance is unmistakable.’

Lacey watched Thessa’s strong, brown hand reach out and break off a column of deep blue flowers. Resting her hands back on her lap, she began to twirl the stem in her fingers and Lacey wondered if she’d ever be able to smell garden flowers again without feeling sick.

‘I simply couldn’t understand why nobody else has spotted it. But as Alex is fond of pointing out, not everyone sees what I see.’

Surprise gave Lacey the ability to make eye contact. ‘You’ve discussed this with Alex?’

For a second the shine in Thessa’s eyes grew dull. ‘No. These days Alex and I have more secrets from each other than I’d have once thought possible. But that’s why you dress the way you do, isn’t it? Hiding under those ugly baggy clothes. Why you never wear make-up, and always keep your hair tied back. Do you wear sunglasses when you go to see her, so that no one will spot that your eyes and hers are identical?’

She had to get a grip, put a stop to this once and for all. ‘You have quite an imagination, Thessa. And that’s a very entertaining theory, but Catherine Llewellyn is dead.’

‘Yes, yes, very clever. But someone who swims the way you do would have no problem surviving a river accident.’

‘I’m not Catherine Llewellyn.’ Seeing no alternative, Lacey picked up her bike, stepped into a flower-bed and strode round Thessa. A rose thorn tore into her bare leg. She ignored it, put her bike down and pushed it along the gravel, making more noise than was necessary.

‘I know you’re not, dear. I did a bit more digging, you see. I found the girls’ birthdays. Catherine was a Valentine baby, born on 14 February.’

Thessa was having to raise her voice now, as Lacey was almost at
the gate. ‘Victoria, on the other hand, when do you think she was born?’

She’d reached the gate. She pushed it open with one hand.

‘The ninth of July.’ Thessa’s voice came drifting towards her like the tendrils of a poisonous plant. ‘Midsummer. Her birth flower is the Larkspur.’

TUESDAY, 1 JULY

71

Lacey and the Swimmer

JOESBURY WAS GONE
. The cabin he’d been sleeping in was empty, with no trace, not even a lingering scent, that he’d ever been in it. It was stupid to be disappointed, really; better by far that he’d gone. By tomorrow night Deptford Creek would be crawling with undercover police officers. In the morning, the Met would begin a systematic search of all the creekside properties. Lacey switched off the torch and let the faint light from the stars guide her back up on deck.

For a moment she stood in the shadow of the wheelhouse. Back at the Theatre Arm, all looked still. There was a uniformed constable in the main cabin of Ray and Eileen’s boat, another on Lacey’s own boat. It hadn’t been easy, to creep out of the hatch above her borrowed bunk, cross the boat without making any sound, and climb down to where she’d left her canoe, ready for a quick getaway. There were police officers in the yard, too, but she’d dressed in black and was pretty certain no one had seen her. It had been a risk, just one that had felt worth taking. Except he’d already gone.

Suddenly weak, she sank down on to the deck of the dredger and laid her aching head against the cold metal wall of the wheelhouse. She simply hadn’t allowed herself to think about how much she’d wanted to see Joesbury until she’d discovered it was impossible, and
now the trembling that she’d managed to keep at bay since she’d left Sayes Court was creeping up on her. For so long, she’d thought Joesbury would be her nemesis, the one who would drag her secrets to the surface and blow apart her carefully constructed life. How had she not seen the real danger?

She had to get back. Lacey pulled herself to her feet and set off towards the stern of the dredger. The creek was different tonight. It had its moods, like the Thames, like any living thing, and the only word Lacey could think of to describe its present one was fractious. The minor currents were odd, for one thing. There were more of them, some seeming to run completely against the tide. At one point on the way over, she’d felt herself being pushed downstream. Closer to the bank, there had been small whirlpools and eddies.

Light. A sudden flash of a torch-beam across the channel, roughly beneath the old power station. Lacey stopped in mid stride. It could have been a reflection, a light from a boat on the main river bouncing off the steel plating of the creek walls. Somehow, though, it had seemed too bright for that.

There it was again. Definitely a torch. The beam probably couldn’t reach her here, but even so, Lacey kept very still. It was at water level, probably in a boat.

Back in her canoe, Lacey let grumpy little waves smack hard against the hull while she tried to decide what to do. She had her mobile phone, police radio, a camera and binoculars in the small waterproof bag between her shoulder blades. A light on the creek at this hour was worth checking out, surely? Maybe just get a bit closer?

She loosened the rope and began paddling, keeping close to the bank. At Dowell’s Wharf a small inlet offered shelter and a mooring ring. Holding the canoe still in the water with the paddle, she tied herself up.

The walls here were the highest along the creek, rising up yards above her, cutting out all light. On the other hand, they were protecting her from the wind and the rougher waves. The water moved more slowly in here, seeming almost still in comparison with the swift flow in the main channel. It was a good place to lie in wait.

The swimmer looked towards the boat. It was close now, too close to risk the torch again.

Had Lacey seen the light or not? Surely she had, or she’d have gone back to the marina, not be hiding up in that tiny inlet, barely visible against the dark of the bank. Oh, she was a creature of the river all right, whether swimming or in that little boat of hers. She moved around silently, at speed.

Nothing more to be done. Lacey would either see the boat or not. If she did, she would follow it.

And if she followed it, she wouldn’t be the only one.

The swimmer started breathing heavily, taking on more and more oxygen, getting close to the point of hyperventilation, knowing that a fast, hard swim was coming and determined to be ready.

All around Lacey there was noise, the incessant drone of London, but after a few seconds it became surprisingly easy to tune out, to hear instead the sounds of the river. The low, constant grumble of water moving between high, hard walls, the swirling, splashing and sucking as the current hit the bricks just in front of her before bouncing away again. The tiny waves that smacked against the hull of her canoe. And the scuttling of creatures around her. One such, mistaking the smooth hull of the boat for the river wall, climbed up and started clack-clacking towards her. Lacey knocked it back into the water with the paddle. It might be some time before she felt comfortable around mitten crabs.

Slowly, she raised her binoculars and immediately saw the boat. Small, wooden-framed, with a modest outboard engine. Two, maybe three passengers. No movement of water around the engine. One man at the stern was looking out towards the Thames, another at the bow holding on to the river wall to keep them in place. The third passenger sat in the middle, a scarf wrapped around her head.