Eeny Meeny

27

Detective Superintendent Michael Whittaker was waiting for Helen when she arrived back at Southampton Central. He was a charismatic 45-year-old – outdoorsy, tanned, fit – a favourite with his female clerical staff, who dreamt of bagging this powerful and successful bachelor. He was also canny, with a keen eye for anything that might help, or hinder, his career. In his day he had been an excellent thief taker – until a nasty shoot-out at a botched bank raid had left him half a lung lighter and flying a desk. Unable to be on the ground directing operations, he was prone to throwing his weight around when he felt things were going too slowly or were spinning out of control. He had survived – and prospered – for so long by always remembering to keep an eye on the detail.

‘How does she do it?’ he barked at Helen. ‘Is she operating alone or does she have help?’

‘Hard to say yet,’ Helen replied. ‘She works under the radar and never leaves a trace, which suggests she’s working alone. She’s meticulous, precise and I suspect unlikely to involve someone else in such a carefully planned operation. She’s using drugs not force to subdue her victims, so again that would imply that she doesn’t need or want help. The obvious next question is how does she shift them? They are transported in a Transit-type van where they can be easily concealed, whilst subdued, until they get to their destination. She chooses remote, forgotten locations for their imprisonment – so there’s little chance of her being spotted moving them from the van. Does she need help to shift them? Possibly, though all four of her victims have pressure burns around their ankles. Which could suggest they’d had their ankles tied together and then were dragged. They have abrasions to their legs, torsos and heads that could fit with being pulled across rough ground, but it would be tough going. Even if you tied cord or a rope round Peter Brightston’s ankles say, he’s still fourteen stone of dead weight to drag behind you. Possible but difficult.’

‘What about the vans?’ Whittaker replied, affording Helen little respite.

‘Nothing concrete. Amy’s unsure what make her van was and there are no traffic cameras near her site to help us. Peter’s sure he was abducted in a Vauxhall Movano, but dozens of those are stolen every month in Hampshire alone. It’s red, which helps a bit, but she could have repainted it. As they were picked up in the New Forest and transported via country lanes to Dunston Power Station, we haven’t got any traffic cameras or CCTV footage to help us.’

Whittaker sighed.

‘I hope I haven’t over-promoted you, Helen.’

His tone was even.

‘I had hoped you might take over from me one day… but cases like this can damage careers. We need arrests, Helen.’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘That bitch Garanita has been camping out in the bloody atrium, winding up the rest of the local hacks. A couple of the nationals got in on the act this morning. The idiots in media liaison have a prolapse whenever The Times rings and come running straight to me. What are we telling them?’

‘Sam’s death is being treated as a domestic. We’re not looking for anyone else et cetera. Ben’s death is being spun as an accident. Story is that he and Peter Brightston were at Dunston on firm business, there was a tragic accident and so on. The press seem to be buying it for now.’

Whittaker was silent. He would never admit that his superiors had been roasting his nuts, but Helen knew how it worked. Shit runs up and then runs down harder in cases like these.

‘It may well break at some point, so we could go public if we felt that was the right thing to do. Tell the press there’s a third party involved. Enlist the help of the public -’

‘Too soon,’ Whittaker interrupted. ‘We haven’t got enough. We’d look like imbeciles.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Helen could sense his anxiety – and his displeasure – and was surprised. He was usually cooler than this. She wanted to allay his fears – she’d always been able to do so in the past – but she had nothing to offer here. Whittaker had a tendency to knee-jerk when the pressure was on. And that wasn’t what Helen needed right now. So she worked hard to reassure him – talking him through the vast efforts that were being made to trace the killer – and slowly he began to relax. He had always trusted Helen and if anyone could keep things on track she could. Although someone like Whittaker would never admit it, Helen was exactly the kind of officer that top brass love. Female, teetotal, a workaholic, with no interest in having babies. No danger of alcoholism, back-handers, maternity leave or any other unpleasantness with Helen. She worked like a dynamo and single-handedly boosted their clear-up rate. So even if she did bullshit them occasionally, they would put up with it, because she was up there with the very best.

She talked such a good game that for a second Helen was buoyed up by her words. But as she biked home that false confidence started to evaporate. It was Christmas Eve tomorrow and the whole of Southampton was seized by the festive spirit. It was as if there had been a collective decision to ignore the lurid headlines in the Evening News in favour of out-and-out celebration instead. Salvation Army bands pumped out seasonal tunes, gaudy lights flashed happily above the shops and you could see excited smiles on the faces of kids everywhere. But Helen didn’t feel any Christmas cheer. The whole thing seemed like a gaudy and inappropriate pageant to her. Out there somewhere was a killer who killed without conscience and never left a trace. Was she busy stalking her next victims right now? Were they already imprisoned and begging for mercy? Helen had never felt so lost. There seemed no solid ground in this case, no safe assumptions. More blood would be spilt and for now all Helen could do was wait and see who would be next.