M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

‘Two females.’

‘Grace?’

‘And another.’

‘What’s happening?’

A long pause.

‘I can’t see. They are kind of locked together. It’s hard to get a good angle from here.’

‘There’s nowhere else to go, so work with it. Can you see a weapon?’

‘Negative.’

‘Can you get a clear shot?’

‘Negative.’

‘Well what the fuck can you give me?’

‘You want to be hauled up in front of the IPCC, be my guest,’ the irritated sniper replied. ‘But I can’t get a clear shot and I’m not doing anything until I can. You know better, then take over, please.’

He spat the words out without once looking up, his vision locked on the drama playing out across the road. Harwood scowled inwardly. She knew he was right but it didn’t make it any better. She had staked a lot on this investigation and it had to turn out right.

What the fuck was going on in there?

Helen refused to drop her gaze. Ella was virtually eyeball to eyeball with her. Helen could smell her rank breath, could feel the cold steel of the knife pressing against her leg. Still Ella refused to relinquish it.

‘Why do you want to save me, Helen?’ Ella asked suddenly.

‘Because I think you’ve been wronged. Because I think the world owes you.’

‘You think I’m good?’ A snarl came and went in her voice.

‘I know you’re good.’

Ella smiled bitterly.

‘Well then, you listen to me. I want you to know something.’

She was about to speak, then paused, distracted by a sudden squeak from the living room. A board creaking. Helen knew immediately that they had company. Charlie? Tony? Tactical Support? Helen wanted to scream at them to stay the fuck away, but she stayed stock still, not breaking eye contact, not breathing. Ella hesitated for a second, then leaned in closer.

‘I don’t regret it, Helen. Whatever I say afterwards, I want you to know. I don’t regret a single thing.’

Helen said nothing. Ella’s pupils were dilated, her breathing unsteady.

‘Those men… those hypocrites… they deserved to be exposed,’ she continued. ‘They were happy enough to flaunt their wedding rings, play the husband and father. They weren’t so happy to be seen with girls like me . Well, I changed all that. I showed them up for what they really are. Sometimes the world needs a wake-up call, right?’

She looked at Helen fiercely for a moment, then the fire seemed to die in her eyes.

‘But I want to do right by Amelia. So I’m going to trust you. Can I trust you, Helen?’

‘You have my word. I won’t let you down.’

‘Then thank you.’

Slowly she turned the knife in her hand. Gripping the blade, she held the handle up for Helen to take.

Immediately there was a sharp crack and Ella lurched sideways, crashing into the wardrobe next to her.

Helen froze for a moment, stunned. Then snapping out of it, she rushed to Ella. Even as she knelt down to help her, she could see that it was already hopeless. The bullet had entered through Ella’s temple and she was already dead.

Charlie burst in, but it was too late. Helen was cradling the killer’s corpse and on the bed, spattered with blood, her baby continued to cry.

Helen walked from the building, clutching Amelia to her chest. Colleagues rushed to help, photographers buzzed around her, but she didn’t see any of them. She pushed them roughly aside and carried on, keen to put as much distance as possible between her and the carnage.

People were calling to her but their voices were just noises. Her body was shaking with the trauma of what she’d just experienced, her brain playing and replaying the sharp snap of the sniper’s bullet on an endless repetitive loop. She had tried so hard to save Ella, to rescue her from the wreckage of her life. But she had failed and once more she had blood on her hands.

Passing an attending squad car, Helen caught sight of her reflection in the windscreen. She looked like a monster – crazed, dishevelled, her hair matted, her clothes stained. She now became aware of Charlie guiding her towards the paramedics, gently imploring her to seek medical assistance for herself and the baby.

She allowed herself to be helped into the ambulance, but once there she refused to cooperate. Despite the best endeavours of the paramedics, Helen would not relinquish her grip on Amelia, who had calmed now and clung to Helen with her tiny, delicate hands. Licking her thumb, Helen began to wipe the blood from the child’s face. The baby smiled at the contact, as if enjoying being tickled. Helen could hear the others talking around her. They assumed she was in shock, that she wasn’t thinking straight, but they were wrong – she knew exactly what she was doing. Whilst Amelia was in Helen’s arms, nothing could happen to her. For a brief moment at least, she would be safe from a dark and unforgiving world.

Helen paused outside the Guildhall, pulling her compact from her bag to check her appearance. Two weeks had passed since Ella had died, and though Helen’s face still looked tired and drawn, she had lost the look of blank horror that had characterized her expression for days afterwards. She had hardly been outside her flat since it happened and suddenly she felt sick with nerves. The Guildhall usually hosted bands and comedians but today it was packed with Hampshire Police’s finest, all gathered together to honour outstanding officers – Helen amongst them. She could think of easier ways to ease herself back into normal life and her strong instinct was to turn tail and run.

As soon as she stepped inside the building, however, she was assailed by an enormous wave of goodwill. Smiles, pats on the back, rounds of applause. The team from the seventh floor swarmed round her, hailing the return of their leader, welcoming her back into the family. They had obviously been worried about her, fearing perhaps that she would never return, and Helen was moved by their affection and concern. As she received their congratulations she realized that, though she might constantly castigate herself for her failings, to Charlie, Sanderson and the rest she was a hero.

Her nerves grew steadily as each award was given out, then finally it was her turn. An official police commendation handed over in person by the Deputy Chief Constable himself. Standing next to him, waiting patiently to shake Helen’s hand, was Detective Superintendent Harwood.

‘Well done, Helen.’

Helen nodded her thanks, before leaving the stage. As she walked back to her seat in the front row, a feeling of quiet satisfaction crept over her. The coverage of the case had been extensive during the last fortnight – pictures of Helen carrying Amelia from the building had been splashed across the front pages of all the newspapers, both local and national. Helen’s team had pinned the cuttings up on the wall with pride, saving centre spot for the profile pieces in the Southampton Evening News , which went out of its way to praise Helen’s character and actions. Harwood’s name had been all but absent from the reports, a forgotten presence. Maybe there was some justice after all.

The team virtually carried Helen from the Guildhall on their shoulders. Awarding themselves an extended lunch break, they frogmarched her to the Crown and Two Chairmen to celebrate the conclusion of this high-profile investigation. Coppers are strange beasts – even though they knew Helen didn’t drink, there was no question of going anywhere other than this much visited pub. Helen didn’t mind, it was comforting in its familiarity and she was pleased to see the team looking so happy and carefree again.