Eeny Meeny (18 page)

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen. And still no sign. In and out of the garages and bodyshops. The supermarkets and minicab offices. But everywhere the same – a look at the photo and a polite shake of the head.

Then a disturbance in the street. Calls for help. A woman lying prostrate on the ground. Charlie covered the distance in seconds to find a young woman in a very bad way. Crazed eyes, blood streaming from cuts on her face. But nothing to do with her. A pissed-up local girl on the receiving end of her violent boyfriend’s displeasure. As uniform led the protesting offender away, Charlie returned to the hunt.

Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes. And still radio silence. Charlie cursed her luck. What was it with this woman that she could disappear into thin air? She was sure Reeves wasn’t lying to her about the location – she’d had to wrench the information out of her – so where the hell was she? She’d give it another thirty minutes, maybe more.
Something
had to turn up.

It started to rain. Gently at first, then big heavy drops, then a sudden attack of hail. As the ice bounced off Charlie’s sodden hair, she cursed her luck. But things were about to get a lot worse.

‘Call off the search.’

Charlie spun round. Helen had arrived. And she didn’t look happy.

They didn’t speak on their way back to the police station. No explanation about why the search had been called off, nor the expected admonishment for losing the prime suspect (twice). Charlie didn’t know what was going on and she didn’t like it. For the first time in her life she realized what it felt like to be picked up by the police. To be a suspect. Charlie desperately wanted to talk, to dispel her nervousness and find out what was going on. But that clearly wasn’t an option. So she sat and suffered in silence imagining a thousand dark scenarios.

They walked through the nick in silence. Helen commandeered an interview room and switched off her mobile. The two women stared at each other.

‘Why did you become a police officer, Charlie?’

Fuck, it was bad. If that was the opening question, she clearly was in deep.

‘To do my bit. Catch the bad guys.’

‘And do you think you’re a good police officer?’

‘Of course.’

A long silence, then:

‘Tell me about Hannah Mickery. And how you let her go.’

Charlie wasn’t going to rise to that one. Whatever was thrown at her, she must keep calm. Everything could depend on that. So Charlie told her about how Hannah had outwitted her. About how they had lost her. No point dressing things up when she was clearly already in serious trouble.

‘How long have you known Hannah Mickery?’

‘Known?’

‘How long?’

‘I don’t know her. We picked her up, interviewed her, dug around her computer … that’s it. I know her as well as you do.’

More silence.

‘Are you excited by her crimes?’

This was getting weirder all the time.

‘Of course not. These crimes are despicable. Abhorrent. If Mickery’s guilty then I hope they throw away the key.’

‘We’ll have to find her first.’

Low. But probably deserved. Charlie had messed up with Mickery, no doubt about that. Would there be more deaths? And would they be on
her
conscience this time?

‘What did you feel when you heard Peter Brightston had killed himself?’

‘What did I “feel”?’

‘Did you think he was weak?’

‘No. Of course not. I felt sorry for the guy. We should all have done mo—’

‘And what about Anna and Marie? Did you feel sorry for them? Or did they deserve it. They were definitely weak. What did the local lads call them? Mongs?’

‘NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT. No one deserves to die like that. And with the greatest of respect –’

‘Do you need money, Charlie? Are you in debt?’

‘No.’

‘Need a bigger house? Better car?’

‘No. I don’t need more money.’

‘Everyone needs money, Charlie. What makes you different? Do you gamble? Drink? Borrow money from the wrong people?’

‘No! A hundred times no.’

‘Then why did you do it?’

Battered, Charlie finally looked up.

‘Do what?’

‘If you tell me now, I can help you.’

‘Please, I don’t know what you want me to say –’

‘I don’t pretend to understand why you let her use you like this. Best-case scenario she had something on you. Worst case you’re as twisted as she is. But understand this, Charlie, if you don’t tell me the truth now – every last detail – then you will go to prison for the rest of your life. Do you know what happens to bent coppers in jail?’

And at once it all fitted into place.

‘I didn’t do it.’

Silence.

‘I know you think someone is helping her. Someone from this station. Someone from the team. But it isn’t me.’

‘But I already know it’s you.’

‘You can’t. I have an alibi. You
know
I have an alibi. Yes, I was in the nick, but I was talking to Jackie Tyler in Missing Persons at that time. I was there for forty minutes at least going through couples who’d gone missing –’

‘She says you weren’t.’

‘No, no, no, that’s wrong. She made a statement saying –’

‘She’s retracted it. She got the timings wrong.’

A heavy, bewildered silence. For the first time, tears sprang to Charlie’s eyes. Helen continued:

‘She didn’t think it was important at first, but she now remembers that it was early afternoon that you came to her –’

‘No, no, she’s lying. I was there, I did spend that time with her, I can tell you the name of every couple we went thr—’

‘You’ve let me down, Charlie. And betrayed us all. If you had a shred of decency or honesty about you, I could have helped you, but it’s in the hands of Anti-Corruption now. They will be here in five minutes, so get your story straight –’

Charlie’s hand shot out and grabbed Helen’s.

‘It’s not me.’

A long beat.

‘I know you don’t like me. I know you don’t rate me. But I
swear
it isn’t me. I …’

Now the tears were coming thick and fast.

‘I would never … I couldn’t. How could you think I would ever do something like that?’

Said with fierce passion. Then she broke down – deep, guttural sobs.

‘It’s not me.’

Helen watched her, then:

‘It’s ok, Charlie. I believe you.’

Charlie looked up, disbelieving.

‘But …’

‘Anti-Corruption aren’t coming. And Jackie never retracted her statement – she’s given you a cast-iron alibi. I’m sorry it had to be this way, but I’ve got no other choice. I need to know who’s doing this.’

‘So?’

‘You’re in the clear, Charlie. Nobody need ever know we’ve had this conversation and it won’t be on your sheet. Get yourself cleaned up and get back to work.’

And with that, she was gone. Charlie buried her head in her hands. Relief and exhaustion mingled with disgust – she had never disliked Helen Grace as much as she did at this moment.

Outside, Helen took a breath. She felt sick to the stomach. Not for what she had put Charlie through, but for what her innocence meant. There was only one possible culprit left now – Mark.

60

Caroline’s whole body was rigid, her ears straining for sounds of movement. It was four days since she’d been liberated and she’d hardly slept a wink since. Visions of Martina played in her head – the gasping for breath, the bulging eyes – but it was fear that was really keeping her awake. The euphoria of survival had slowly given way to a gnawing terror. Why had she been released? What terrible fate awaited her now that she had proved herself to be a killer?

Caroline had discharged herself from hospital as soon as they would let her and hurried back to her flat. She needed to be somewhere familiar, somewhere safe. But Sharon had taken one look at her and fled to her parents, despite Caroline begging her to stay. Looking in the mirror later, Caroline understood why her roomie had fled. She looked crazed and inhuman, the walking dead. All life had been sucked from her – she was pale, ghostly and utterly incoherent. She hadn’t been able to find the words to describe her ordeal – the endless stream of obscenities and non-sequiturs had made little sense.

Left alone, her doubts and fears started to multiply. Racking her brains, she eventually summoned the memory of a guy who could fix you up with anything you wanted and she hurried to his squat, casting fevered glances over her shoulder every five seconds. Her hand was shaking when she used the cash machine, but she’d got what she needed. £500 was enough to get her a gun and six bullets. Walking home with the gun in her bag, she felt relieved. She would at least be armed and ready if – when – the crisis came.

The days passed slowly but without incident, and before long she was so crazed by her own company that she attempted to return to work. Her punters were clearly alarmed by her appearance, wanting to know where she’d been, why she was so skinny, so distracted, but she bullshitted them. Sold them some drab lies and tried to concentrate on the job in hand. All the time she was drinking. And drinking. Vodka, whisky, beer, anything. It’s hard to give someone a handjob when your hands are shaking.

She didn’t feel much guilt any more, just fear. Cyn was still out there somewhere. The God-like Cyn who had played with her life, made her into a murderer, was still out there. Every creak of the floorboard, every door slamming made Caroline jump. Last night, she’d been so startled by a firecracker going off that she’d started to cry in front of a client. The look of confusion on his face as he hurried out made up Caroline’s mind and she legged it home – it had been a mistake to come back to work so soon.

Which is why she was now back in her flat, the covers pulled up to her neck, her hand reaching out to the gun that lay on the table beside her. Someone was trying to get into the flat. It was 5 a.m. and still pitch-black outside. Was this Cyn’s plan? To come for her under cover of darkness? Caroline slipped out of bed – staying put was more scary than actually doing something. She opened the bedroom door, half expecting to find Cyn waiting on the other side, but the corridor was empty.

She crept out, cursing every creaking floorboard. The living room was clear, the hall was clear … but there it was again. A gentle scratch, scratch, as if someone were picking a lock or working their way in. Caroline clutched the gun a little tighter. The noise was coming from the kitchen. Steeling herself, she tiptoed towards it, teasing the door open with her foot.

It was empty, but then suddenly a noise at the window. BANG. Caroline fired without hesitation. Once, twice, three times. Then found herself running towards the shattered window. She looked out into the street below, determined to put her tormentor down once and for all … but all she saw was next door’s cat sprinting away like a bat out of hell. It had been a cat. A stupid bloody cat.

Caroline collapsed to the floor, her chest heaving as the hopelessness and desperation of her situation hit home. She was alive only in name – her life was no longer hers. She was gripped by a ceaseless terror that made her victory over Martina empty and worthless. Throwing the gun in the bin, she called the police and confessed her crime.

Helen regarded Caroline across the table as she stumbled her way through her formal confession. Caroline expected to be punished. She
wanted
to be punished. So she seemed almost disappointed when Helen reassured her that it was unlikely they would press charges –
if
her story stacked up of course and
if
she promised to keep quiet about her ordeal.

She took them to the house where it had happened. Bought by an entrepreneur who’d subsequently gone bust in the recession, it had been left to rot. As had Martina, who had already attracted the attention of the rats and flies. The stench – a decomposing body in a damp cellar – made you retch, but Helen had to see the body.

What had she been expecting? Some bolt of lightning? She both hoped and feared she would know the victim, to give fuel to that line of enquiry, but she’d never seen the young girl before in her life. Truth be told she looked like any number of silicone-enhanced prostitutes who end up in a ditch. Why had the killer chosen her?

Caroline filled them in on Cyn. Who had auburn hair now, it appeared. Caroline explained in graphic detail the tricks she and Martina had performed for her pleasure. There was never any physical contact and their meetings took place in the killer’s van.

‘How did she contact you?’

‘Online. Martina had a website. She emailed her there.’

They’d look into that – see if the email could be traced to an IP address. But Helen wasn’t confident. The armour on this woman was too complete to allow for such a mistake. So she turned her attention back to the victims.

Caroline was nothing particularly out of the ordinary. She’d run away from home aged sixteen to escape the attentions of a grandfather who wouldn’t take no for an answer. She started off conning gullible punters out of cash without delivering the goods – until she encountered someone who could run faster than her. She couldn’t walk for days after that, but once she could, she turned her back on Manchester and headed south. First, Birmingham, then London. And finally to Southampton. Sad to say, she was a common-or-garden prostitute. Let down by her family, kicked by life, surviving by her wits. It was a depressing but unremarkable story.

Was Martina important in the game then? Or were they just chosen at random? Of the two, Martina was the more interesting. At least she would have been if they knew anything about her. She’d arrived in Southampton only two months ago. She had no friends, no family, no social security number. She was a blank sheet. Which in itself was interesting.

Helen took the interviews alone. Regulations said she needed someone with her, but she was paying no heed to that now. She couldn’t afford any more leaks. But just as she was finishing off, news came that changed everything. Finally a chance to find out for certain who had been selling them down the river.

Mickery had resurfaced.