Eeny Meeny

5

The rain poured down, washing away her tears. It should have felt cleansing, but it didn’t – she was too far gone for that. She plunged madly through the tangled foliage of the wood, not heeding her direction. She just needed to keep going. Away. Away. Away.

Thorns tore at her face, stones lacerated her feet. But on she went. Her eyes scanned desperately for someone, something, but all she could see were trees. For a moment she had a terrible thought – was she even in England still? She screamed for help, but her cries were feeble, her throat too hoarse to function.

At Sampson’s Winter Wonderland, families were queuing patiently for Santa’s Grotto. The whole site was really just a handful of marquees hastily erected on muddy farmland, but the kids seemed to like it. Father-of-four Freddie Williams had just bitten into his first mince pie of the season, when he saw her. Through the driving rain, she appeared ghostly. Freddie’s mince pie hung in mid-air as she limped slowly but deliberately across the site, her eyes fixed on him. On closer inspection, she wasn’t ghostly, she was pitiful – bedraggled, bleeding and deathly pale. Freddie didn’t want any part of her – she looked mental – but his legs wouldn’t move, rendered immobile by the fierceness of her gaze. She covered the last few yards quicker than he’d expected and suddenly he was reeling backwards as she launched herself upon him. His mince pie somersaulted into the sky, landing with a satisfying plat in a puddle.

In the site office, swathed in a blanket, she didn’t look any less mental. She wouldn’t tell them where she’d been or where she was from. She didn’t even seem to know what day it was. In fact, all they could get out of her was that she was called Amy and that she’d murdered her boyfriend that morning.

Helen jabbed the brakes and came to a halt outside Southampton Central Police Station. The futuristic glass and limestone building towered above her, commanding fantastic views over the city and the docks. It was only a year or two old and by any measure was an impressive nick. State-of-the-art custody facilities, a CPS unit on site, SmartWater testing facilities, it had everything a modern copper needed. She parked up and walked inside.

‘Sleeping on the job, Jerry?’

The desk sergeant snapped out of his daydream and tried to look as busy as possible. They always sat up a bit straighter when Helen entered. This wasn’t just because she was a Detective Inspector; it was also something to do with the way she carried herself. Entering the building clad in her bike leathers, she was six foot of driving ambition and energy. Never late, never hungover, never sick. She lived and breathed her job with a fierceness they could only dream of.

Helen headed straight for the offices of the Major Incident Team. Southampton’s flagship nick might be revolutionary, but the city it watched over remained unchanged. As Helen surveyed the caseload she sagged a little at the predictable familiarity of it all. A domestic argument that had ended in murder – two lives ruined and a young child taken into care. The attempted murder of a Saints fan by travelling Leeds Utd supporters and most recently the brutal killing of an 82-year-old man in a botched mugging. His attacker had dropped the stolen wallet whilst fleeing the scene, handing the police a clean fingerprint and a swift ID. The perpetrator was well known to Southampton police – just another lowlife who had devastated an unsuspecting family in the run-up to Christmas. Helen was due to brief CPS on the particulars this morning. She opened the file, determined that the case against this little thug should be absolutely watertight.

‘Don’t get too comfortable. Job’s on.’

Mark Fuller, her DS, approached. A handsome and talented copper, Mark had worked hand in glove with Helen for the last five years. Murder, child abduction, rape, sex trafficking – he’d helped her solve numerous unpleasant cases and she had come to rely on his dedication, intuition and bravery. A nasty divorce had taken its toll however and recently he’d become erratic and unreliable. Helen was depressed to notice that he once again smelt of booze.

‘Young girl who says she’s killed her boyfriend.’

Mark extracted a photo from his file and handed it to Helen. It had the distinctive Missing Persons stamp on the top right-hand corner.

‘Victim’s name is Sam Fisher.’

Helen looked down at the snapshot of a fresh-faced young man. Clean-cut, optimistic, even a touch naive. Mark paused a moment, allowing Helen to examine the photo, before handing her another.

‘And our suspect. Amy Anderson.’

Helen couldn’t hide her surprise as she took in the image. A beautiful and bohemian girl – twenty-one years old at the very most. With long flowing hair, striking cobalt eyes and delicate lips, she looked the definition of youth and innocence. Helen picked up her jacket.

‘Let’s go then.’

‘Do you want to drive or shall -’

‘I will.’

They walked down to the car pool in silence. En route, Helen extracted her DC, who’d been liaising with Missing Persons. The irrepressibly perky Charlene ‘Charlie’ Brooks was a good officer, diligent and spirited, who resolutely refused to dress like a cop. Today’s offering was skin-tight leather trousers. It was beyond Helen’s remit to take her to task over her dress sense, but she was tempted to nevertheless.

In the car, the stale alcohol on Mark’s breath smelt even stronger. Helen cast a sideways look at him before winding down the window.

‘So what have we got?’ she asked.

Charlie already had the file open.

‘Amy Anderson. Reported missing a little over two weeks ago. Last seen at a gig in London. She emailed her mother on the evening of the second of December to say she was hitching home with Sam and would be back before midnight. No sign of either since. Her mother phoned it in.’

‘Then what?’

‘She turns up at Sampson’s this morning. Says she’s killed her boyfriend then clams up. Won’t say a word to anybody now.’

‘And where’s she been all this time?’

Mark and Charlie looked at each other, before Mark eventually replied:

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

They parked the car in the Winter Wonderland car park and marched to the site office. Entering the tired Portakabin, Helen was shocked by the sight that greeted her. The young woman huddling beneath a tatty blanket looked wild, unhinged and painfully thin.

‘Hello, Amy. My name’s Detective Inspector Helen Grace – you can call me Helen. May I sit down?’

No response. Helen carefully eased herself into the chair opposite.

‘I’d like to talk to you about Sam. Is that ok?’

The girl looked up, a horrified expression spread over her ravaged features. Helen studied her face intently, mentally comparing it to the photo she’d seen earlier. If it hadn’t been for her piercing blue eyes and the historic scar on her chin, they’d have struggled to ID her. Her once lustrous hair was lank, knotted and greasy. Her fingernails were long and dirty. Her face, arms and legs looked like a frenzy of self-harm. And then there was the smell. It was the smell that hit you first. Sweet. Pungent. Revolting.

‘I need to find Sam. Can you tell me where he is?’

Amy closed her eyes. A single tear escaped its confines and ran down her cheek.

‘Where is he, Amy?’

A long silence and then finally she whispered:

‘The woods.’

Amy categorically refused to leave the sanctuary of the Portakabin, so Helen had to use the dog. She left Charlie to babysit Amy, ordering Mark with her. Simpson, the retriever, buried his nose in the bloodstained rags that had once been Amy’s clothes, then shot off through the woods.

It wasn’t hard to see where she’d been. Her progress through the wood had been so blind, so crashing, that she’d rent great holes in the thick undergrowth. Bits of cloth, bits of skin decorated her path. Simpson hoovered these up, bounding through the foliage. Helen kept pace behind him and Mark was determined not to be outrun by a woman. But he was labouring, sweating alcohol.

The lonely building came into view. A municipal swimming baths, long since earmarked for demolition, a sad relic of fun times gone by. Simpson clawed at the padlocked door, then broke away, racing around the building before eventually coming to rest by a broken window. Fresh blood decorated the cracked panes. They had found Amy’s cocoon.

Getting inside was tough. Despite the building’s dereliction, care had been taken to secure every possible entry and exit. Secure it against whom? Nobody lived round here. Eventually, the lock was forced and the usual ballet began, shoes cased in sterile covers skating over the floor.

And there he was. Lying fifteen feet below them in the diving pool. A brief delay as a long ladder was sought, then Helen was in the pool, face to face with Amy’s ‘Sam’. He was a straitlaced kid, bound for a law firm, but you wouldn’t have known that to look at him. He looked like the corpse of any old dosser you might find on the streets. His clothes were stained with urine and excrement, his fingernails cracked and dirty. And his face. His gaunt face was contorted into a hideous expression – fear, agony and horror written in his twisted features. In life he had been handsome and winning. In death he was repulsive.