Eeny Meeny

23

Dunston Power Station stood proud on the western edge of Southampton Water. In its heyday the coal-fired plant had once provided electricity for the south coast and much beyond. But it had been mothballed in 2012, a victim of the government’s determination to reboot Britain’s energy supply. Dunston was old, inefficient, and couldn’t compete with the low-carbon alternatives that were being built elsewhere in the UK. Staff had been re-employed and the site sealed off. It wasn’t due to be decommissioned for another two years, so for now it was just an empty memorial to a glorious past. The huge central chimney cast a long shadow over the crime scene and made Helen shiver as she walked towards the police cordon that flapped violently in the sea breeze.

Mark’s steps fell in time with Helen’s as they hurried across the site. He had made a point of driving her here from the station. He hadn’t been drinking and seemed a bit more rested. Perhaps Helen’s words had made a difference after all. As they walked side by side, Helen’s eyes darted now this way, now that, processing the possibilities.

The site had been alarmed, but after copper thieves had trashed the alarm system for the umpteenth time, the decision was taken not to bother with it any more. Everything that was worth nicking had been taken already. Which meant all ‘she’ had to do was remove the chain on the main gate and drive in. Would there be tyre tracks? Footprints? The hatch at the top of the underground coal silo was easily accessible once you were on the site and whilst too heavy for an individual to lift could easily have been yanked open by a van with a chain. Deep tyre grooves near the silo suggested that that was exactly what had happened. That left the transportation of the victims.

‘How did she get them from the van into the pit?’ said Mark, reading her mind.

‘Ben’s pushing six foot, but lean. What do you think? Twelve stone?’

‘Sure. It’s possible a woman could drag that dead weight on her own, but Peter…’

‘Got to be fourteen stone. Maybe more.’

Helen bent down to get a better look. The ground near the hatch opening was certainly very disturbed, but was that the result of both victims being dragged in or a terrified Peter scrambling out?

This was obviously bad practice. An experienced copper knows never to make snap, instinctive judgements about the nature of the crime or the identity of the perpetrator. But Helen knew that this was the second murder. Even if one ignored the evidence of sabotage on Ben’s car, Peter Brightston’s story was so close to Amy’s that the link was undeniable. The pain, guilt and horror etched on Peter’s face when they picked him up was the same as on Amy’s. These guys were living calling cards, a flesh-and-blood testament to somebody else’s sadism. Was that the point of all this?

It was obvious now that they were dealing with a serial killer. Helen had done the courses, read the case studies, but still nothing had prepared her for this. Normally the motive, the connection to the victim, was easy to fathom, but not here. This wasn’t an anti-woman thing, wasn’t a sex crime, and there seemed to be no correlation in age, gender or status between the victims. Helen felt herself being sucked into a long, dark tunnel. A wave of depression assailed her and she had to pinch herself to snap out of it. She would catch the person responsible. Of course she would.

Helen and Mark approached the mouth of the pit. Helen called for a ladder to be brought over – she was anxious to get down there quickly, eager to know the worst. The hatch was already open, so she peered inside. And there in the gloom lay the body. The man Peter had murdered. Ben Holland.

‘Do you want to go down or shall I?’

Mark’s question was well-meaning and he was straining not to be patronizing. But Helen had to see this for herself.

‘I’m fine. This won’t take long.’

Carefully, she climbed down her ladder into the body of silo. The smell was strong down here. Gas fused with coal dust and excrement. The forensic team had found strong traces of a powerful sedative, benzodiazepine, in Sam and Amy’s excrement. They’d probably find it here too. Helen turned her attention to the body. He was lying face down, a pool of blood congealed around his head. Taking care not to touch him, Helen knelt down, craning round to look at the victim’s face.

Disgust and then surprise. Disgust at the bloody hole where his left eye used to be. And surprise at the realization that this was not Ben Holland.