M. Arlidge - Eeny Meeny

After Helen had gone, the team had hopped to it, driven on by Charlie’s energy and zeal. Encouraging her guys to be brutal with the clinic managers who were evasive, hiding behind client confidentiality, the team had made good progress, working their way steadily through the list, chasing down the surgeons in the Hampshire area who had the expertise to take on a gender reassignment operation. In the end, however, they had drawn a blank. Everyone had been quizzed, but no one recognized Martina or could cast any light on who she might have been when she was a he.

So it was time to widen the search. There were several dozen clinics nationwide that did this kind of thing and they would have to contact them all. Please, God, Martina had not had the op abroad – that would be too much for their limited resources and they were desperate for a clue, something to get them back on track. Charlie left the guys at it. She was sick with tiredness and needed a moment’s respite. As she drove home her mood lifted at the chance of spending a few valuable minutes with her boyfriend and cat, some decent food and, best of all, some sleep.

Roadworks. And a diversion. Irritating, but no more than that. But it meant Charlie had to take an unusual route home. A route that would take her straight past Mark’s flat. With a sudden pang of guilt, she realized that she had momentarily forgotten about him. She had been so intent on proving to herself (and to Helen obviously) that she could lead the team. In so doing she had shown herself to be a bad leader and an unworthy friend – one shouldn’t forget the walking wounded in one’s desperation to win the battle.

Kicking herself for her callousness, she pulled the car over and got out. Was this a good idea? Probably not, but she wanted to be able to sleep tonight and the only way to silence her conscience was to check on Mark. No one else from the force would, that’s for sure.

What had she been hoping for? That he would be bearing up surprisingly well? He was a mess – he stunk of sweat and booze.

‘Do you believe her?’

The blunt question took Charlie by surprise.

‘Believe who?’

‘Her. Do you think I sold you out?’

There was a long silence. There was the official answer and the true answer. In the end, the latter won out.

‘No.’

Mark exhaled loudly as if he’d actually been holding his breath. He looked down at the floor to hide his emotion.

‘Thank you,’ he muttered without looking up, but his voice betrayed the strength of his feelings. Instinctively, Charlie went over to him. Seated next to him, she put her arm round him. He leaned into her, glad of the support.

‘The sad thing is I thought I was falling in love with her.’

Wow. Charlie hadn’t seen that one coming.

‘Did you…?’

Mark nodded.

‘And, stupid fool that I am, I thought it could be something good. And now this…’

‘Perhaps she didn’t have a choice. Perhaps she genuinely thought…’

Charlie hesitated. There was no nice way to finish that sentence. The accusation of corruption is the worst thing you can throw at a copper.

‘I can guess what they’re saying about this at the station. But I am innocent, Charlie. I didn’t do anything wrong. And I want back in. I really badly want back in… So… if there’s anything you can do… any way you can influence her and get her to stop this…’

Mark petered out. Charlie couldn’t think of what to say. They both knew there was no way back now. Even if he were exonerated, who would take him on given his history of false starts and problems? In an era when no one was hiring, you didn’t take bets on potential, especially if there was a hint of unreliability or dishonesty. What could Charlie say that was conciliatory but true?

‘You’ll get through it, Mark. I know you will.’

She wasn’t sure she believed it. And she wasn’t sure Mark believed it either.

She left his flat, promising to pop round again shortly. Mark didn’t really acknowledge her departure, descending once more into self-absorption.

As she drove home, Charlie was full of doubts. Mark wasn’t the type to do anything stupid, was he? She thought not, but who could tell? He was obviously devastated. No wife or kid at home, no job to go to, a tendency to drink… Suddenly all these thoughts crowded in on Charlie. Her head ached, her stomach was churning. A wave of nausea hit her, so she swung the car into a lay-by, just about opening the door in time to vomit her lunch on to the tarmac. She retched heavily once, twice, then it was over.

Later, at home, snuggling in the warm embrace of her boyfriend Steve, she was assailed by doubts of a different kind. Slipping quietly out of their sleepy cuddle, she tiptoed into the bathroom and opened the bathroom cabinet. Expectation mingled with trepidation as she opened the small cardboard tube.

Five minutes later, she had her answer. She was pregnant. They’d been trying for ages without any joy, but there it was. A little blue cross. A second test gave the same answer. Such small things that change your life in such big ways. Steve slumbered on unaware as Charlie remained perched on the toilet, still a little in shock. Not for the first time today her eyes welled up with tears. But these weren’t tears of sadness – they were tears of joy.

For a moment, she was staring at his eyeball. And then it was gone. Helen had tracked down Simon Ashworth’s city centre apartment and respectfully rang the doorbell – which showed some restraint given her desire to hammer on the door. A long pause, no sign of movement. So she rang the doorbell again. And again. She paused, listened. Was that the squeak of a floorboard, the tiniest hint of footsteps? And then the eyeball appeared at the peephole. Helen had been expecting – hoping – for this, so was staring down the peephole herself. The eyeball immediately took fright and vanished from view. The tell-tale signs of footsteps padding away made Helen smile – he was busted, so why tiptoe?

A copper faces a number of choices in this kind of situation. You can go the official route, apply for a warrant etc., but when you’re working alone this almost always means that your quarry escapes whilst you’re busy elsewhere filling in forms. You can go the patient route, feigning a departure only to take up a viewing post on the street. This usually works as the fugitive is desperate to leave the flat having been rumbled and is often on the street within the hour. But Helen had never been very good at patience. Which is why she marched into the caretaker’s office – startling him during his elevenses – and demanded he open flat 21.

He would have been well within his rights to ask for – demand – a search warrant, but it’s funny how many people’s brains stop working when they see a warrant card. Fearing censure, or excited by the drama of the moment, they usually comply. And so it was now, the flustered caretaker opening up flat 21 without hesitation. He seemed somewhat surprised and disappointed when Helen shut the door in his face – a brief smile of gratitude was all he got for his pains.

Ashworth was preparing to flee. The packed bags, the car keys – he was a man on the move. But he stood stock still now as Helen crossed the room towards him. He looked scared, blustering about the illegality of what Helen was doing – but not in a convincing or threatening way. Putting her warrant card away, Helen pointed to an empty metal chair. After a brief pause as Ashworth seemed to size up both Helen and the situation, he complied.

‘Why did you do it, Simon?’

Helen had never been very good at pussy-footing, so opted for a full-frontal assault. She laid out the charges – illegally downloading confidential information, compromising an active investigation for financial gain – quickly and crisply, intending to afford Ashworth no time to invent excuses or evasions. To her surprise, he offered a spirited defence of his actions.