Eeny Meeny (6 page)

Sarah shook her head. Helen’s eyes roamed over the well-appointed interior. Peter’s legal wage was generous and Sarah worked in the antiques trade, so they weren’t strapped for cash.

‘Had anyone asked him for money recently? Have you noticed any changes in your financial circumstances recently? More money? Less?’

‘No, everything was … normal. We’re comfortable. Always have been.’

‘And how would you describe your marriage?’

‘Loving. Faithful. Strong.’

She emphasized the last word, as if slighted by the question.

‘Any problems at work?’ said Helen, changing tack.

Peter and Ben worked for a prestigious solicitors’ firm with a particular interest in maritime law. There was a lot of money involved in their long-running cases, particularly where shipping was concerned. Their disappearance could have benefited someone.

‘Had he felt under any particular pressure on a case?’

‘Not that he told me.’

‘Was he working longer hours than usual?’

A small shake of the head from Sarah.

‘Did he discuss his individual cases with you?’

Sarah claimed ignorance of Peter’s caseload, so Helen made a mental note to follow this up with his firm. But all the while, she had the nasty feeling that she was clutching at straws. Scanning the walls for inspiration, her eyes alighted on a framed photo of Peter on a sunny beach, the smiling paterfamilias at the heart of a group holiday bundle. Sarah followed her eye-line and filled her in on the details, going on to outline their future plans – a family trip to Boston at Easter. Sarah was unwavering in her belief that Peter would turn up and that things would once more return to normal. Helen wanted to believe that but she couldn’t. In her heart of hearts, she feared that Sarah would never see her husband again.

16

It was the middle of the night and Peter Brightston was frozen to the bone. He always wore lightweight suits even in winter because of his tendency to perspire – a habit he bitterly regretted now. Somewhere in the New Forest was Ben’s car and in it was the lined coat that Sarah had bought him for his birthday. Swearing violently, he pulled his suit jacket a little closer round him.

As he breathed out heavily, his frosted breath danced in front of him. It was virtually all he could see – it was pitch black outside tonight. He could sense Ben was nearby, but couldn’t see him. What was he doing? Ben was an ok bloke basically, but he wasn’t good in confined spaces. He had nearly fainted earlier, in the throes of some sort of panic attack, and he screamed in his sleep. The steel walls that enclosed them amplified his night terrors, giving the whole scene a nightmarish feel and inducing a dull, nagging panic in Peter’s guts. Would anybody find them in time? Or would they die in this sorry hole?

Peter cast a glance in Ben’s general direction then, taking advantage of the darkness, slipped his hand into his pocket. He never travelled without a packet of Soft Mints – it didn’t do to go home stinking of booze – and slowly, cautiously, he eased the last sweet from the now empty wrapper. Quickly he dropped it into his mouth. He’d had half a packet in his pocket when they’d been dumped here. He’d worked his way through them without telling Ben. He was sure Ben would have done the same, so why not? Any pangs of conscience he felt had been stilled by the gnawing hunger in his stomach. He swirled the sweet round and round his mouth, letting the sugar slowly dissolve and trickle down his throat. It was warm, sweet and comforting.

What would he do now? His meagre supplies were exhausted. And he couldn’t sleep, which only made him hungrier still. What the hell was he – they – going to eat now? Coal? He laughed bitterly then swallowed it. The echo sounded weird and he was strung out enough already.
He had to keep calm.
He’d had two heart attacks in the last five years and he didn’t need another one – not down here.

He’d been shocked at first by their incarceration but had been pretty active since, desperately trying to find some means of escape. The sides of the silo were rusty in places and after a lot of tugging he’d managed to wrench off a two-inch-long metal splint. It was something to work with. He’d banged on the sides with it, tried to punch a hole in the wall with it, even attempted to use it as a form of crampon to help him climb to safety. But it was all hopeless and he’d slumped to the floor in defeat.

Suddenly the tears were rolling down his face. The thought of dying in an airless hole away from his boys filled him with an inconsolable despair. He had led a good life. Done good things. Or tried to. He didn’t deserve
this
. No one deserved this. Pushing the coal angrily aside, Peter fashioned himself a little hollow and settled down for the night. Was Ben asleep still? He’d gone quiet now and Peter couldn’t be sure. Should he have comforted Ben during his night terrors? Would Ben hold it against him that he hadn’t? Would it affect his thinking, now that they were … Peter let the thought fizzle out – didn’t want to go there. But the truth is he had no idea what Ben was thinking or feeling. He knew him as a colleague but not as a man. Ben had always been very coy about his past – why was that? Was
he
the reason they were here? Fired by the thought, Peter was about to call out to Ben, then suddenly bit his tongue. Best not accuse him of anything – there was no telling how he would react.

As he lay on his freezing bed, Peter berated himself for never having bothered to get to know Ben better. But the bald truth was that you could never really know someone else.

And it was that thought that was going to keep Peter awake all night.

17

The incident room was a buzz of activity. Pictures of Amy and Sam were being pinned up on the board, alongside maps covering their route from London to Hampshire, diagrams and photos outlining the design of the abandoned pool, lists of friends and relatives and so on. Sanderson, McAndrew and Bridges were hitting the phones following up potential witnesses, whilst computer operators inputted the pertinent details into HOLMES2, cross-referencing the particulars of this abduction with the tens of thousands of crimes stored in the vast police database. DC Grounds stood over them, diligently scanning the results.

Mark hovered in the doorway, unable to step inside. His head pounded, he was assailed by wave after wave of nausea – the sheer busyness of the room made his head spin. He was tempted to turn and run, but he knew he had to face the music. He stepped inside, heading straight for Charlie’s desk.

‘Just in time,’ she said brightly. ‘Team briefing starts in ten minutes. I was going to bluff through it, but now you’re here …’

Mark really liked Charlie on days like this. Despite his wretched behaviour and general lack of professionalism, Charlie never judged him. She was always supportive and loyal. Mark felt a pang of remorse for having let her down.

‘Why don’t I grab you some coffee? You can freshen up and get ready to bang some heads together,’ she continued.

Charlie was climbing out of her seat to do just that, when Helen’s voice rang out loud and clear.

‘DS Fuller. Nice of you to join us.’

Mark’s heart sank. His reprieve had been short-lived. Turning on his heel, he took the long walk of shame to Helen’s office. The team acted busy, but everyone had one eye on the condemned man.

Mark shut the door behind him and turned to face Helen. She didn’t offer him a chair, so he remained standing. She clearly wanted him to be visible to the rest of the team. Mark’s shame ratcheted up another notch.

‘I’m sorry, boss.’

Helen looked up from her work.

‘Sorry for what?’

‘For missing our meet. For being unprofessional. For …’

Mark had prepared a speech on the way to the station, but now it eluded him. He racked his brains for it, but it danced away out of reach. His head pounded harder, his dizziness grew – he just wanted to be away from here.

Helen was staring at him, but her expression was hard to read. Was that anger? Disappointment? Or just boredom?

A long silence. And then finally she spoke.

‘So.’

Mark stared – uncertain what she wanted from him.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on? You’re late. You’re drunk. For a young man, you look like shit.’

There was no arguing with that, so Mark remained silent. He knew from experience not to interrupt Helen when she was in full spate.

‘I know you’ve had a tough time, Mark, but I’m telling you now that you’re a whisker away from blowing it here. Whittaker would love an excuse to get rid of you, believe me. I don’t want that to happen, so tell me what’s going on. We’re up against it and I need my deputy here both in body and in spirit.’

‘I went out and had a couple of drinks –’

‘Try again.’

Mark’s head pounded faster, harder.

‘Ok, a lot of drinks, but I was meeting a couple of mates and –’

‘Try again. And if you lie to me once more, I’m going to pick up the phone and call Whittaker myself.’

Mark stared at the floor. He hated the harsh spotlight on his drinking, could sense the disapproval. Everyone knew Helen never drank, so how to admit that he was smashed every night without appearing completely pathetic?

‘Where did you go?’

‘To the Unicorn.’

‘Jesus. And?’

‘I drank there from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. Lager, whisky, vodka.’

There it was – out and on the table.

‘How long?’

‘Two months. Three maybe.’

‘Every night?’

Mark shrugged. He couldn’t actually bring himself to say ‘Yes’, though it was obvious that that was the answer. It was clear now – to Helen as well as Mark – that he was well on his way to alcoholism. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass wall behind Helen. In his mind’s eye he was still the handsome guy of a year ago – tall, rangy with thick curls – but he was in a deep pit now and it showed. His skin was lifeless, his eyes dull. An unshaven, shambolic mess.

‘I don’t think I can do this any more.’

It just came out. He hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn’t wanted to say it. But he really needed to talk to someone. Helen had always been fair with him. He owed it to her to be honest.

‘I don’t think it’s fair to you or the team to drag this out …’

Helen regarded him. For the first time today, Mark noticed a softening in her expression.

‘I know how you feel, Mark, and if you want some time off, that’s fine. But you are
not
quitting on me.’

There was a steely determination in her voice.

‘You’re too good to throw it all away. You’re the best DS I’ve ever worked with.’

Mark didn’t know what to say. He had been expecting derision, but her tone was kind and her offer of help seemed genuine. It was true that they had been through a lot together – solving the Paget Street murders last year had been the highpoint of Mark’s career – and a close professional bond had grown between them over time. In many ways her kindness was worse than a bollocking.

‘I want to help you, Mark,’ she continued. ‘But you’re going to have to work with me here. We are in the middle of a murder enquiry, so when I say I want you somewhere at 9.30 a.m., you’d bloody better be. If you can’t do that – or don’t want to – then I will get you transferred or suspended. Do you understand?’

Mark nodded.

‘No more vodka breakfasts,’ Helen continued. ‘No more lunchtime trips to the pub. No more lies. If you trust me, I’ll help you and we can get through this, but I need you to trust me. Do you trust me?’

Mark raised his eyes to meet hers.

‘Of course I do.’

‘Good, then let’s get on with it. Team briefing in five minutes.’

And with that she resumed her work. Mark left her office, wrong-footed but relieved. Helen Grace never failed to surprise him.

18

Biking home to her city centre flat, Helen replayed the conversation with Mark in her head. Had she been too hard? Too soft? Was she repeating mistakes she’d made before? She was still chewing on it when she shut her front door behind her. Slipping the chain on, she headed straight for the shower. She’d been up for forty-eight hours straight and she needed to feel clean again.

She faced forwards, the water pummelling her neck and breasts, before she turned round. The steaming hot water struck her back and immediately pain coursed through her body. It was agony at first, but slowly the stinging subsided and Helen once more felt calm.

Towelling herself down, she walked back into the bedroom. Now dry, she dropped the towel to the floor and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She was an attractive sight naked, but few had seen her like this. Cautious of intimacy and wary of the inevitable questions, her encounters had mostly been casual and short-lived. Not that the men had cared – by and large they had seemed extremely pleased to find a woman who would go to bed with them and didn’t hang around afterwards.

Opening her wardrobe, Helen eschewed the rows of jeans and shirts in favour of sweat pants and top – she was due at a BoxCombat class later and there seemed little point in changing twice. She paused briefly to take in the police uniforms, neatly preserved in pristine suit bags, that she used to wear when she was on the beat. Those days had been the making of her. The first day she tied her hair back, strapped on the stab vest and hit the streets was one of the happiest of her life. For the first time ever she felt she belonged. That she mattered. She revelled in the way it changed how she looked and felt – the sexless anonymity of the uniform allied to the security and strength it provided. It was like a disguise, but one which everyone recognized and appreciated. There was a small part of her that longed to be back there, but she was too ambitious and restless to have remained a PC for long.

Leaving nostalgia behind, she made herself a cup of tea and headed into the lounge. It was a large, spartan room. Not much in the way of pictures on the walls, no magazines left lying around. Neat and tidy, with everything in its place.

Helen selected a book and started to read. The bookshelves groaned with books. Books on criminal behaviour, serial offending, a history of Quantico – all of them well thumbed. She didn’t really do fiction – Helen didn’t believe in happy endings – but she did prize knowledge. As she thumbed through a favourite tome on criminal psychology, she lit a cigarette. She’d tried to quit many times but had always relented, so now she’d given up trying. She could endure the self-censure for the rush it still gave her. Everyone has a dirty habit or two, she told herself.