Eeny Meeny (19 page)

61

He really needed a drink. The last few days had been torture and his body, his brain, his soul ached for the release of alcohol. The first sip was always the best – you didn’t have to be an alcoholic to know that – and he was straining every sinew now to resist the short walk to the off licence.

He was out in the cold and had no idea why. Was it because he was weak? At the time crying on Helen had seemed the natural thing to do – open, honest, real – but perhaps she now despised him for his vulnerability. Did she regret sleeping with him? Or was it something else?

He hadn’t seen Charlie or Helen for days. They’d been out of the station, or locked in interview rooms together. The atmosphere between them was even more troubled than usual – Helen was short with Charlie at the best of times – something was going on. But at least Charlie existed in Helen’s world, which is more than Mark did.

It was late now, but Mark knew Charlie never missed her boxing class at the police gym. Come hell or high water she’d be there, which is why he was now loitering in the gym car park, drawing inquisitive looks from those that passed.

And here she was. Mark hurried over, calling her name. Charlie – who seconds earlier had been marching across the car park towards the gym – seemed to slow her pace a little. Was she panicking, buying herself a few seconds to work out how to deal with him? Who cares, thought Mark, and he dived straight in.

‘I don’t want to put you in an awkward spot, but I’ve got to know what’s going on, Charlie. What have I
done
?’

A brief pause, then:

‘I don’t know, Mark. She’s being a bitch to all of us at the moment. If I knew I’d tell you, I promise.’

She stumbled on – speaking a lot, but saying very little. Mark knew she was lying. She had never been a very good actress. But why? They had always got on, always been mates. What had Helen said to her?

‘Please, Charlie. However embarrassing it is, or bad it is, I have to know what I’ve done. This job is all I’ve got. If I lose it, I can kiss goodbye to seeing Elsie, to all the good things in my life, so if you know anything at all …’

She lied to him again, claiming ignorance whilst averting her eyes from his disbelieving gaze. Mark let her go – his better judgement for once mastering his rising fury. He returned to the station in a deep funk. Wherever he went now he was under a cloud but it was safer for him in the station. Less temptation. And it was as he was sitting at his desk, mentally drafting his CV, that the call came through. It was Jim Grieves.

‘Just thought you ought to know that she was a he.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Martina, the prostitute. She may have been well stacked and all that, but there’s no doubt she was a chap. Probably had the surgery in the last couple of years and by the look of his arse, he may very well have been in this line of work before, albeit for a different clientele. I’d start looking there if I were you.’

So Martina was born a boy. Immediately Mark was energized – a little crumb which if it yielded anything might start the process of defrosting Helen. Suddenly Mark was back in the game.

62

‘Twenty Marlboro Gold, please.’

Helen was smoking too much – she knew that. But she wanted to gather her thoughts before sitting opposite Mickery and smoking had always had a calming effect on her. So she’d slipped out to the local newsagent. The owner reached back and pulled out the reassuring white and gold packet. He tossed them on to the counter and with a straight face told her the scandalous price.

‘Let me get those.’

Emilia Garanita. Another ambush. I really must be more vigilant, Helen thought to herself, getting caught out this often only encourages her.

‘No need,’ said Helen handing a ten-pound note to the outstretched hand. The owner was staring blatantly at Emilia. Was this because he recognized her from the newspaper or because of her ravaged face? For a moment, Helen felt a modicum of sympathy for her adversary.

‘How are you, Emilia? You’re looking well.’

‘Just dandy. It’s you I’m worried about. How are you coping investigating
three
murders?’

‘As I’ve said before, Ben Holland’s death was an accid—’

‘Sam Fisher, Ben Holland, Martina Robins. All
murdered
. This is unprecedented for Southampton. They were all remote locations, the killings were out of character. What are we dealing with here?’

The recording device was visible in Emilia’s hand, clearly she was hoping to record Helen’s discomfort – or was it humiliation she was hoping for? Helen eyed her up, enjoying the tension, before replying.

‘Speculation, Emilia. But I hope to have more for you very soon. We have someone in custody right now who is helping us with our enquiries. You can print that if you like. That’s not speculation. That’s a fact. You do still print facts, don’t you?’

And with that she left. Heading back to the station, Helen had a spring in her step. It was nice to have the upper hand for once. She drew deeply on her cigarette, savouring the thought of what was to come.

63

Mickery was saying nothing. She and Helen had been staring at each other across the interview table for over an hour now, but still she wouldn’t reveal where she had been.

‘It was all perfectly innocent,’ Mickery said, just about suppressing a smile.

‘So why the disguise? The chase? A police officer ordered you to stop and you didn’t. I should throw you in jail for that alone.’

‘I was seeing a client,’ Mickery retorted, ‘and I didn’t feel it was right to bring the local constabulary down on their heads. They’ve got problems enough as it is, believe me.’

‘But that’s just it – I don’t.’

Mickery just shrugged – she clearly couldn’t give two figs what Helen thought. Her lawyer flanked her, looking equally smug. The clock ticked by. A minute of silence. Two minutes. Then:

‘Let’s start again from the beginning. Where were you yesterday afternoon? Who were you meeting and why?’ Helen barked.

‘I’ve said all I’m going to say. I cannot and will not break professional confidences.’

Now Helen was really riled.

‘Do you have any idea how serious this is?’

The two women eyeballed each other.

‘You’re the prime suspect in a multiple-murder case. When I arrest and charge you, I am going to be pushing for five life sentences. Without parole and without any chance of reduction. You are going to serve every day of the rest of your life in prison and any minor, fleeting concessions you receive will be because of what you do now. Right here in this room. If you tell me why you did it – why you killed Martina and all the others – then I can help you.’

‘Martina?’ Mickery queried.

‘Don’t be cute. I want answers, not questions. And if you don’t start giving me some in the next five seconds, then I am going to arrest you and charge you with five counts of murder.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’re not going to arrest me. You’re not going to charge me. Which is why I’m going to tell you absolutely nothing.’

Helen stared at her – was this woman for real?

‘There’s no one else in the frame, Hannah. You are the prime suspect. And you are going to be charged. There’s no escape this time.’

‘I’m guessing you don’t play poker, Inspector, otherwise your bluff would be rather better than this. Let me help you out.’

Helen wanted to punch her between the eyes and Mickery knew it. She continued:

‘You are currently hunting a serial killer. Let’s not dress it up as anything else. But more than that you are hunting a very rare kind of serial killer. A woman. How many female serial killers can you name? Eileen Wournos, Rose West, Myra Hindley. It’s not a long list. Which is why they are box office. Everybody
loves
female serial killers. The tabloids, film-makers, the guy on the street – everyone is fascinated by women who kill again and again. But this one …’ She paused for effect. ‘… this one really takes the cheese. Why? Because she’s so canny, so organized yet so elusive. How does she target her victims? And why? Does she hate both of the people she abducts or just one? How can she predict the outcome? Does she care who lives and who dies? And why them? What have they done to her? Is she the first serial killer in history to get off on those who survive her crimes, rather than through those who are killed? She’s a one-off, unique. And she’s going to be an utter sensation.’

Helen said nothing. She knew Mickery was baiting her and wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of reacting. Mickery smiled and continued:

‘There are several endings to this extraordinary story. But the best one – and the one every tabloid hack and reader wants – is that the dogged cop gets her girl in the end. And then we can all have fun poring over her mugshot and reading the twelve-page special full of gory details, “expert” opinions and thinly disguised prurience.’

Mickery was warming to her theme.

‘The ending that no one wants – you especially – starts with a blunder. The arrest of an innocent, respected professional’ – she stressed that word – ‘which results in the story breaking before the killer is caught. The tabloids are up in arms, the man on the street is terrified and suddenly you’ve got millions of eyes scanning millions of faces, driving the killer underground whilst flooding your incident room with a thousand bogus leads. The killer’s vanished, you’re hung out to dry and I get a very hefty compensation payout with which I buy that boat I’ve always wanted.’

She paused for effect.

‘So the question you have to ask yourself, Inspector,’ she continued, ‘is are you absolutely sure I did it? And can you prove it? Because if you’re not, if you can see the massive blunder you are about to make, then there’s still time for you to stop. To make the right move. To let me go and get back to your investigation. I am innocent, Helen.’

Her name had never sounded so much like a ‘fuck you’. It was a good speech no doubt about it. And it raised some pertinent questions. Could Mickery really be so pathologically unhinged and yet so convincing and articulate at the same time? Could someone with such a firm grasp on how others thought and felt really be so sociopathic?

‘Am I free to go?’ Mickery couldn’t help rubbing it in.

Helen regarded her for a minute, then said:

‘I won’t be pressing formal charges over the matters we’ve discussed in this room yet – matters which I shouldn’t have to remind you must remain confidential as our investigation is ongoing.’

Mickery smiled and gathered her things to go.

‘But you did fail to stop when asked to by a police officer and I think that warrants a night in the cells at the very least, don’t you?’

And with that Helen left, leaving Mickery speechless for once.

64

A thousand questions spun around Helen’s head. Was Mickery telling the truth? Maybe Mickery
wasn’t
the killer – maybe her obsession with these killings was about something completely different: money. Mickery knew that this story was going to be a worldwide sensation when it broke and perhaps she was desperate to use her inside knowledge of the case to get ahead of the pack.

The more Helen thought about it the more it made sense. She was probably already drafting an authoritative account of the killings, complete with psychological insights into the killer’s mindset and bona fide evidence from the police investigation. Her lucky connection with two of the victims had put her on the scent, but she was an ambitious woman and wanted more. When had she made her first approach to Mark? And why him? And where did she get the brass neck to bribe a serving officer to give her chapter and verse on the continuing investigation? If it could ever be shown that her corrupting influence had hampered police attempts to catch the killer, then she would be looking at jail time. That at least was some consolation, Helen thought grimly.

With Hannah cooling her heels in a cell, Helen had a window in which to act. But she would have to do it carefully and by the book. So her first stop was to see Whittaker. As she outlined her case, he sat there grim-faced. They had to take Mark off the investigation obviously, but could they do that without arousing his and others’ suspicions? No – of course not. So they would have to suspend him and charge him. He might of course then go straight to the press out of revenge and a desire for profit. But Whittaker thought that a healthy payoff, perhaps even the retention of his police pension and service payments, might induce him to keep quiet. It had worked before and Mark hardly came from a rich background. Whilst it stuck in Helen’s craw to think about rewarding Mark’s treachery in this way, Whittaker was more of a pragmatist.

‘Do you want me to handle it?’ he asked.

‘No, I’ll do it.’

‘It’s customary for the senior officer to take the lead when disciplining –’

‘Yes, I know and I understand why that’s the case, but I need to know what he’s leaked and to whom. I think I’ve got more chance of getting that if I tackle him alone.’

Whittaker eyeballed her.

‘Do you have some special kind of pull on him?’

‘No, but he respects me,’ Helen said quickly. ‘He knows I don’t bullshit and that if I offer him a deal that it’ll be genuine and offered in good faith.’

Whittaker seemed appeased by that. So Helen departed. She’d never been so glad to get out of his office. Then again, that was the easy bit. The hard part would be facing Mark.

Helen climbed into her car and pulled the door shut behind her. For a moment, the sound of the world with all its cares was muffled. A moment’s peace from a world that kept raining stones on her. Why had she allowed Mark to get so close to her? Why had she chosen him as her sounding board, when he was obviously leaking every last detail of her investigation. She winced as she remembered their chats in the pub, in the incident room, rehearsing theories, considering suspects. Who knows, perhaps there was some hideous caricature of her – the bumbling, ineffectual copper – already taking shape in Mickery’s book. A brilliant phantom of a killer, pursued haplessly by ignorant cops.