M. Arlidge - Eeny Meeny

‘You know what one of these can do, don’t you? If memory serves, you trained using a Smith and Wesson, didn’t you?’

Inexplicably Charlie nodded. This woman had a strange power – was it personality or simply the fact that she knew everything about you?

‘So put down your baton and take off your belt. If you’re going to pull your colleague downstairs, you’ll want to travel light.’

The killer threw some sort of harness at her and gestured to her to put it on. Charlie just stared at her. Couldn’t move.

‘Now!’ the killer bellowed, her expression changing from kindness to fury.

Charlie dropped the baton to the floor. They had walked into a massive trap. It was presumably she who’d called the station with the ‘sighting’ of Tanner. And they’d fallen for it. Facing Tanner had been bad, but this was something infinitely worse.

The team assaulted Helen with questions – some of them angry, some of them curious – and Helen stood her ground, answering as honestly and calmly as she could.

‘How long have you suspected?’

‘How long have you known ?’

‘What does she want?’

‘Will she target you directly?’

But there was still so much Helen didn’t know and speculating would only get them so far. So after a frantic half an hour, she called time on the discussion. She needed them out there searching for Suzanne.

As she walked down the corridor towards the awaiting press, Helen realized her hand was shaking. She had buried her past for so long that revealing it now was like opening an old wound. Would her team still follow her? Still believe in her? Helen prayed that they would – she had a nasty feeling that the worst was yet to come.

‘Is the public at risk, Inspector?’ Emilia Garanita made sure she got her question in first. With journalists from the national tabloids and broadsheets in attendance, she wasn’t going to miss this opportunity to twist the knife. Whittaker’s attack on her was still very fresh in her mind.

‘We don’t believe that the general public are in danger, but we would urge people not to approach the suspect. She may be armed and her behaviour is unpredictable. If anyone sees Suzanne Cooke, they should dial 999 immediately.’

‘What is her connection with the recent deaths in Southampton?’ The killer question from The Times .

‘We are still trying to establish the full facts of the situation,’ Helen replied, noting Emilia’s cynical eyebrow rise in response, ‘but we believe she may have been actively involved in inciting the murders of Sam Fisher and Martina Robins.’

Helen tightened a notch internally. It had been a tough call whether or not to mention Martina in the briefing. If the press got on to this and tracked down Caroline, the game would be up. There was no way she would be able to hold back telling them chapter and verse about Suzanne’s diabolical role in these murders.

‘Is it true that you’ve been promoted, Inspector?’ Garanita forced her way back into the conversation. ‘Rumour has it that Detective Superintendent Whittaker has been suspended and is facing possible corruption charges.’

At this point the room erupted – question after question raining down on Helen. It was a sustained assault but Helen had no choice but to weather it, however damaging or provocative the questions were. She needed the public to be vigilant, so she needed the press onside. It was a bitter pill to swallow but the situation was critical now. Sometimes in life you have to feed the hand that bites you.

Pain seared through him. Mark closed his eyes as the agony took hold and then he collapsed to the ground. What the hell had happened to him? Instinctively his hand went to the back of his head and he winced as his fingers probed the deep, bloody wound. His head hurt like hell, but in truth so did the rest of him – it felt like he had sustained a savage and prolonged beating.

Slowly it came back to him. The hunt for Tanner, the chase through the hospital and then… a nasty blank. He vaguely recalled a nanosecond of alarm, a sense of something or someone behind him. Stupid bastard – he must have turned his back on Tanner and paid the price.

He scanned his surroundings. The place smelt antiseptic, but also musty. He tried to lift his head again, acclimatizing his eyes to the gloom. He was in some kind of boiler room. Was this the basement of the hospital? If so, how had they got down here?

‘Mark.’

Charlie. Thank God. Mark craned his neck round slowly, ignoring the shooting pains that accompanied every movement, to see Charlie huddled in the corner. She was cradling a battered camping light, which was their sole source of illumination.

Even as he began to take in this strange image, mental alarm bells started to ring.

‘She’s got us, Mark.’

‘Tanner?’

But Charlie just shook her head and buried her head in her hands. Eventually, she muttered:

‘It was a trap. She’s got us.’

Suddenly Mark was staggering to his feet, scanning the room. But he’d got up too quickly, saw stars, then felt himself falling to the floor with a bump.

When he came to, his head was in Charlie’s lap and she was blowing on his face. He was hot and cold, sweaty – and his throat raged sore. He was glad of the comfort of Charlie’s touch. He looked up to thank her, but saw she was crying.

‘She’s got us, Mark.’

It had been an illusion. There was no comfort here.

The Glock felt snug in her hand. It had been a while since Helen had held a gun but it felt powerful and reassuring to be gripping one now. She signed it out and moved on to pick up her assigned ammunition. On the request sheet, she’d put that it was for personal protection given the possible threat to her life. But was it? Or was there a darker need pushing her to arm herself now?

Protocol decreed that she no longer work alone given the threat level, but this wasn’t a journey she could share with another, so she lied, saying she was required at regional HQ to brief them on the unfolding situation. The team bought it, but others weren’t so easily fooled – as Helen sped north, she noticed Garanita’s red Fiat purring along behind her. Not too obvious – she wasn’t an amateur – but obvious enough. Helen felt anger surge inside her and she pulled the throttle back hard. She shot through the 40 mph zone at over 70, challenging her civilian pursuer to follow her. Thankfully Emilia saw the hopelessness of breaking the law in pursuit of a copper, so gave up the chase. Once out of sight, Helen did a U-turn, heading back towards the ring road and thence towards London.

The list of Helen’s childhood haunts was a short one and once she’d discovered that Chatham Tower was scheduled for demolition, she’d decided to head there first. Given Suzanne’s MO, this was the perfect place to use. It had to be significant. Funny how she kept thinking of her as Suzanne, as if this were somehow less painful than using her real name. That said, Helen herself had comfortably inhabited her new name now – she had chosen the name Grace because of its redemptive associations and Helen because of her maternal grandmother – and it would feel profoundly odd and unsettling to have anyone call her by her real name now.

Helen realized she was driving at 95 mph and eased off on the throttle. She must try and stay calm. Helen had no idea how this game was designed to end, but she must keep her wits about her if she was to end it on her terms.

She realized now that for a long time she had been in denial, repeatedly pushing away the thought that her sister could be involved in the killings. She hadn’t communicated with her in over twenty-five years and that was the way she’d liked it. Out of sight and out of mind. But when she’d seen the forensic report from Sandy Morten’s house, she could deny it no longer. Forensics had found a compromised element of DNA, a fragment of a fingerprint. They’d managed to lift something of it and as it seemed to match Helen’s DNA sequence, they’d signed it off as hers. They always do this to avoid wild-goose chases prompted by police carelessness at crime scenes. But there was just one problem. Helen had never been to Sandy Morten’s house. This anomaly had been overlooked – but to Helen it had leapt off the page, confirming all her very worst fears.