M. Arlidge - Eeny Meeny

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.

He really needed a drink. The last few days had been torture and his body, his brain, his soul ached for the release of alcohol. The first sip was always the best – you didn’t have to be an alcoholic to know that – and he was straining every sinew now to resist the short walk to the off licence.

He was out in the cold and had no idea why. Was it because he was weak? At the time crying on Helen had seemed the natural thing to do – open, honest, real – but perhaps she now despised him for his vulnerability. Did she regret sleeping with him? Or was it something else?

He hadn’t seen Charlie or Helen for days. They’d been out of the station, or locked in interview rooms together. The atmosphere between them was even more troubled than usual – Helen was short with Charlie at the best of times – something was going on. But at least Charlie existed in Helen’s world, which is more than Mark did.

It was late now, but Mark knew Charlie never missed her boxing class at the police gym. Come hell or high water she’d be there, which is why he was now loitering in the gym car park, drawing inquisitive looks from those that passed.

And here she was. Mark hurried over, calling her name. Charlie – who seconds earlier had been marching across the car park towards the gym – seemed to slow her pace a little. Was she panicking, buying herself a few seconds to work out how to deal with him? Who cares, thought Mark, and he dived straight in.

‘I don’t want to put you in an awkward spot, but I’ve got to know what’s going on, Charlie. What have I done ?’

A brief pause, then:

‘I don’t know, Mark. She’s being a bitch to all of us at the moment. If I knew I’d tell you, I promise.’

She stumbled on – speaking a lot, but saying very little. Mark knew she was lying. She had never been a very good actress. But why? They had always got on, always been mates. What had Helen said to her?

‘Please, Charlie. However embarrassing it is, or bad it is, I have to know what I’ve done. This job is all I’ve got. If I lose it, I can kiss goodbye to seeing Elsie, to all the good things in my life, so if you know anything at all…’

She lied to him again, claiming ignorance whilst averting her eyes from his disbelieving gaze. Mark let her go – his better judgement for once mastering his rising fury. He returned to the station in a deep funk. Wherever he went now he was under a cloud but it was safer for him in the station. Less temptation. And it was as he was sitting at his desk, mentally drafting his CV, that the call came through. It was Jim Grieves.

‘Just thought you ought to know that she was a he.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Martina, the prostitute. She may have been well stacked and all that, but there’s no doubt she was a chap. Probably had the surgery in the last couple of years and by the look of his arse, he may very well have been in this line of work before, albeit for a different clientele. I’d start looking there if I were you.’