M. Arlidge: Eeny Meeny

Forensics had linked her to the gun, so there was no doubt she did it, but they’d also confirmed her story about their captivity. Their physical state – the hair, the nails – plus the human waste in the tank all suggested that they’d been there for at least two weeks before she killed him. Had they given up hope and drawn straws? Made a deal?

‘Why him and not you?’ Amy had collapsed again, but Helen repeated the question. Eventually Amy managed to speak:

‘Because he asked me to.’

An act of love then. An act of self-sacrifice. What a thing to have on your conscience… if it was true. And that was what was nagging at her – the plain fact that Amy was destroyed by what had happened. Not just traumatized. She was destroyed, imploding under the weight of guilt. It was an emotion Helen knew all too well and in spite of everything she found herself feeling for Amy. Maybe she’d been too hard on this vulnerable young woman.

It couldn’t be true. Because why would anyone do this? What on earth did they – ‘she’ – stand to gain? She wasn’t even there to watch according to Amy, so what was the point? It couldn’t be true and yet when Helen replied to Mark’s characteristically direct question, she found herself saying:

‘I think she’s telling the truth.’

Ben Holland loathed his weekly trip to Bournemouth. To him it was pointless, a day lost. But the firm was very strong on face time between their various offices, so once a week Ben and Peter (Portsmouth) would share sandwiches and coffee with Malcolm and Eleanor (Bournemouth) and Hellie and Sarah (London). They would discuss the finer points of maritime law, banking litigation and international probate – before reverting to bitching about their respective clients. It was sometimes mildly informative, even entertaining, but once you’d factored in the travel from and back to Portsmouth it was all just a colossal waste of time.

This one was proving to be even worse than usual. As per normal, Ben had given Peter a lift to and from the meeting in Bournemouth – allowing his more senior colleague to drink at lunchtime. Peter was a partner with a quick brain and a record of getting results. He was also boorish, repetitive and suffered from BO. It was bad enough being in a conference room with Peter. Now he was stuck in the car with him for two whole hours. At least he would have been, if they hadn’t run out of petrol.

Ben pulled out his phone, swearing under his breath. His eyes widened in dismay.

‘No reception.’

‘What?’ replied Peter.

‘No reception. You?’

Peter checked his phone.

‘Nothing.’

A long silence.

Ben tried hard to contain his rage. How many cats had he kicked to be here, in the middle of the New Forest, with Peter, with night falling? Ben had filled the tank up at the Esso station just outside Bournemouth – the petrol was cheapest there – and yet not an hour later the tank had been empty. He hadn’t believed the fuel warning sign when it lit up, but anyway he’d been sure he’d have enough to get to Southampton at least. But moments after the fuel warning had first pinged, the car had spluttered to a halt. Sometimes life just keeps kicking you. Would they have to walk to a petrol station? Spend the night together!

‘Platinum service with the AA and what use is it?’ Peter offered helpfully.

Ben looked up and down the quiet woodland lane. Peter wasn’t saying it, but it had been Ben’s idea to cut through the New Forest. He always did this, avoiding the M27 around Southampton by using a sneaky cut-through that brought him out at Calmore, but today it had backfired badly. Ben had a feeling that this would be mentioned, but only once the ordeal was over. Peter would make great capital out of it. He was just biding his time.

‘Are you going to walk or shall I?’ asked Peter.

It was a rhetorical question. Seniority rules and, besides, Peter had ‘bad knees’. So, it was down to Ben. Looking at the map, he saw that there were some holiday cottages only a mile or two away. Perhaps if he hurried he could make it there before it got too dark. Turning up his collar against the cold, he nodded to Peter and trudged off down the road.

‘We’ll meet again…’ sang Peter. Tosser, thought Ben.

But then, suddenly, a stroke of luck. In the gloaming, Ben could make out two pinpricks of light. He squinted. Yup, no doubt about it. Headlights. For the first time that day, Ben felt his body relax. There was a God after all. He waved his hands vigorously in the air, but the van was already slowing down to help.

Thank goodness, thought Ben. Salvation.

Diane Anderson hadn’t seen her daughter for over three weeks. And she wasn’t seeing her now, even though Amy was pinned to her chest in a suffocating hug. They’d cleaned her up at the hospital – let her have a shower and hair wash – but she still didn’t look like Amy.

The attractive police officer – Charlie – had accompanied them home. She said it was to help Amy, to make her feel safe as she rejoined the outside world, but she was a spy. Diane was sure of that. There to wait, watch and report back. Her daughter wasn’t off the hook yet. The two uniformed officers stationed outside their door made that clear. Were they there to protect her, or stop her from running away? Still, at least they had seen off the press. A reporter from the local rag had resorted to shouting through the letterbox – asking in the coarsest terms imaginable why Amy had killed her boyfriend. The fact that the reporter was a young woman made it even worse – what possesses these people?

‘Amy shot Sam.’ That was how the stern one – Detective Inspector Grace – had put it. It didn’t make any sense. Amy would never shoot anyone, least of all Sam. She’d never even held a gun before. This wasn’t America.

She had turned to her husband, Richard, expecting him to correct the police, clear matters up, but his face had been the mirror of hers – blank shock. For a moment a flash of anger had coursed through her – Richard was never there when he was really needed – before she had pulled herself up and once again confronted the bitter present. Amy loved Sam. In many an idle moment, Diane had pondered what it would be like if – when – they got married. She’d always assumed that Amy would follow modern practice and cohabit without getting married. But Amy had surprised her by confiding that she definitely wanted to tie the knot, when the time was right. Typical Amy though, she would do it with a twist. There was no question of her wearing white and she was determined that Diane should give her away rather than her dad. Would Richard wear that? Would other people like it or would they think it odd? With a jolt, Diane realized she was daydreaming again. About a wedding that would never happen.

None of it made any sense. Sam wasn’t violent or aggressive, so it couldn’t have been self-defence. DI Grace had been infuriatingly tight-lipped about what had happened – ‘Better Amy tells you in her own time.’ But Amy hadn’t said a word. She was mute. Diane tried to reach her – by making her malt shakes, opening some French Fancies (a childhood favourite), kitting out the bedroom they’d now share with all her old toys and knick-knacks. But none of it had worked. So they sat there, a stilted threesome. Charlie perching on the end of the sofa trying not to spill her tea, Diane plating yet more unwanted cakes and Amy just staring into space, a shell of the vibrant girl she once was.

It was an ambush. The woman was lying in wait and as Helen got out of her car, she pounced.

‘Spare a couple of minutes, Inspector?’