M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

She found herself in the most secluded part of the cemetery. She had bent her path this way partly out of an instinct to stay hidden but also out of habit. This was the location of her sister Marianne’s final resting place and as Helen approached her grave she suddenly slowed her pace dramatically. Not because she thought she was safe, but because of what she now saw in front of her.

Leaning against Marianne’s grave was a simple bouquet of flowers. Suddenly Helen knew exactly who wanted to destroy her. And, more importantly, she knew why.

Her heel dug sharply into the turf and the ground seemed to give way beneath her. Hearing her pursuers approaching, Helen had vaulted the railings at the far end of the cemetery and thrown herself down the hill, hoping to disappear from view and confuse her pursuers. But the ground was wet and slippery and she lost her footing almost immediately, careering down the hill on her back, picking up speed as she did so.

For a moment, Helen didn’t know which way was up. Then suddenly she came to an abrupt halt, somebody punching her hard in the side. Recovering herself, Helen now realized she was in a thorn bush and the sharp pain in her side was a thick branch that had rammed into her ribs. She was winded and muddy, but as she was still wearing her leathers and helmet, was largely unscathed.

Picking herself up, she looked up at the cemetery, now a good seventy or eighty feet above her. She could still hear voices, but no one was peering over the railings in her direction. If she moved swiftly, she had a chance of evading her pursuers completely, so breaking cover she ran down the side of the hill. She moved from bush to thicket to bush, occasionally casting a wary look behind her.

Before long she’d made it to the bottom of the hill and, cutting her way along a footpath, made it back to civilization. Hurrying down a side street, she spotted Chamberlayne College, then heading left, hurried towards Weston. Spotting a bin, she pulled off her helmet and jacket and dumped them. The call would have gone out to uniform as well as other surveillance officers now, so she would have to be careful.

Her side was hurting her now, but she pressed on. She couldn’t head home and needed somewhere – a sanctuary – to gather her thoughts. Somewhere public but not too public. Suddenly a Ladbroke’s came into view and Helen ducked inside. There were a smattering of punters about, but they were far more interested in the dog racing and fruit machines than her. Buying a coffee, Helen sat down at the betting bar, a copy of the Racing Post open in front of her. She barely took in the text on the page, her brain pulsing with urgent, disquieting thoughts. Why had she been so complacent? Why had she ignored the evidence that was staring her in the face? She had seen someone in the derelict flats opposite her months ago but had dismissed the apparition as a junkie. But the person within had been watching her all the while, waiting for the moment to strike. How long had he been there? How many times had he seen her sitting at her window? How many months had he been inveigling his way into her life?

Since Max Paine’s death, she’d feared the murders might be connected to her, but she’d suppressed these thoughts. Her chat with Gardam had reassured her, but how naïve and foolish that looked now. The fact that she was summoned to the third murder confirmed to her that she was being set up and the use of clingfilm confirmed for her the identity of the perpetrator. Her sister, Marianne, had killed their parents in the same way, securing their limbs then wrapping their heads in clingfilm. She too was now dead but her son, Robert, was alive. Helen had ruined his life by accidentally outing him as the son of a serial killer. He had remained hidden for several years since that devastating moment, but had finally resurfaced. Helen had wanted to be his guardian angel but her cursed touch had brought him only misery, rejection and pain.

Now he was back for revenge.

‘Do you have any eyes on her?’ Sanderson barked, her stress levels hitting the roof.

‘Negative.’

‘Any idea where she might have gone?’

‘She probably hopped the fence and made her way down the hill – but I couldn’t tell you in which direction.’

Sanderson cursed. Another member of the team looked up, intrigued, so pushing the door to Helen’s office shut, Sanderson lowered her voice.

‘Where is the nearest road? If she wanted to head back into town, where would she head to?’

There was silence on the other end, as the surveillance officer conferred with his colleague, then he eventually replied:

‘Probably Weston or Newton.’

‘Ok, leave one man at the cemetery in case she doubles back for her bike, but the rest of you get to Weston and Newton and fan out from there. We’ll circulate her description to uniform, but keep your eyes peeled. You lost her, you can bloody well find her.’

Sanderson clicked off, realizing too late that she had raised her voice once again, to the evident interest of her colleagues. It was not surprising – in spite of everything she’d experienced with this team she had never felt so stressed as she did right now. Getting Gardam to agree to the arrest had been hard enough, but then to lose her… They had got too close, blown their cover and Helen now knew that she was being pursued. Having been so upbeat earlier, Sanderson suddenly felt deeply anxious. She had no idea where Helen was right now and, more importantly, no idea of what she might do next.

Her phone rang suddenly and Sanderson glanced down eagerly at the screen. But it was just Emilia Garanita – again. Rejecting it, she marched from Helen’s office, slamming the door behind her.

What the hell was she playing at?

As her call went to voicemail, Emilia clicked off and threw her phone angrily on to her desk. She and Sanderson had made a pact to keep in touch, but she had the distinct feeling she was being kept at arm’s length. Sanderson wouldn’t have a case at all if Emilia hadn’t given her the story. That whole team – Sanderson included – had been so infatuated with Grace that they’d never stopped to ask any questions of her. She’d had to lead them to Helen’s wrongdoing and she was damned if she was going to be shut out at the moment of triumph.

She wanted to wait until they had made an arrest before publishing the story. With a suitable tipoff from Sanderson, Emilia could be in position to get a photo of Grace being marched to the cop car in cuffs or driven through the back door in custody. She’d had a four-word text this afternoon, suggesting an arrest warrant was imminent, but since then nothing from Sanderson.

Suddenly Emilia wondered if she’d backed the right horse. She couldn’t have approached DS Brooks of course – it was clear where her loyalties lay – and everybody else was too inferior in rank. She’d felt certain that Sanderson was the one – she was suggestible, frustrated and lacking in confidence – but, then again, you never know how people will respond when it comes to the crunch. Perhaps Sanderson was just inexperienced at playing the game or maybe she was a little less innocent than she let on. Could she have taken Emilia for a ride?

She sincerely hoped not. Because Emilia was in a position to do serious damage not only to Sanderson’s career but also to the Hampshire Police in general. She needed them and vice versa, yet they had always treated her badly – at best like an irritant, but more often as a necessary evil. Grace had been a particularly bad offender in this regard – her hostility to Emilia very clear. Often Emilia had been on the back foot in their relationship, but now finally she was poised to attack.