Eeny Meeny

60

Caroline’s whole body was rigid, her ears straining for sounds of movement. It was four days since she’d been liberated and she’d hardly slept a wink since. Visions of Martina played in her head – the gasping for breath, the bulging eyes – but it was fear that was really keeping her awake. The euphoria of survival had slowly given way to a gnawing terror. Why had she been released? What terrible fate awaited her now that she had proved herself to be a killer?

Caroline had discharged herself from hospital as soon as they would let her and hurried back to her flat. She needed to be somewhere familiar, somewhere safe. But Sharon had taken one look at her and fled to her parents, despite Caroline begging her to stay. Looking in the mirror later, Caroline understood why her roomie had fled. She looked crazed and inhuman, the walking dead. All life had been sucked from her – she was pale, ghostly and utterly incoherent. She hadn’t been able to find the words to describe her ordeal – the endless stream of obscenities and non-sequiturs had made little sense.

Left alone, her doubts and fears started to multiply. Racking her brains, she eventually summoned the memory of a guy who could fix you up with anything you wanted and she hurried to his squat, casting fevered glances over her shoulder every five seconds. Her hand was shaking when she used the cash machine, but she’d got what she needed. £500 was enough to get her a gun and six bullets. Walking home with the gun in her bag, she felt relieved. She would at least be armed and ready if – when – the crisis came.

The days passed slowly but without incident, and before long she was so crazed by her own company that she attempted to return to work. Her punters were clearly alarmed by her appearance, wanting to know where she’d been, why she was so skinny, so distracted, but she bullshitted them. Sold them some drab lies and tried to concentrate on the job in hand. All the time she was drinking. And drinking. Vodka, whisky, beer, anything. It’s hard to give someone a handjob when your hands are shaking.

She didn’t feel much guilt any more, just fear. Cyn was still out there somewhere. The God-like Cyn who had played with her life, made her into a murderer, was still out there. Every creak of the floorboard, every door slamming made Caroline jump. Last night, she’d been so startled by a firecracker going off that she’d started to cry in front of a client. The look of confusion on his face as he hurried out made up Caroline’s mind and she legged it home – it had been a mistake to come back to work so soon.

Which is why she was now back in her flat, the covers pulled up to her neck, her hand reaching out to the gun that lay on the table beside her. Someone was trying to get into the flat. It was 5 a.m. and still pitch-black outside. Was this Cyn’s plan? To come for her under cover of darkness? Caroline slipped out of bed – staying put was more scary than actually doing something. She opened the bedroom door, half expecting to find Cyn waiting on the other side, but the corridor was empty.

She crept out, cursing every creaking floorboard. The living room was clear, the hall was clear… but there it was again. A gentle scratch, scratch, as if someone were picking a lock or working their way in. Caroline clutched the gun a little tighter. The noise was coming from the kitchen. Steeling herself, she tiptoed towards it, teasing the door open with her foot.

It was empty, but then suddenly a noise at the window. BANG. Caroline fired without hesitation. Once, twice, three times. Then found herself running towards the shattered window. She looked out into the street below, determined to put her tormentor down once and for all… but all she saw was next door’s cat sprinting away like a bat out of hell. It had been a cat. A stupid bloody cat.

Caroline collapsed to the floor, her chest heaving as the hopelessness and desperation of her situation hit home. She was alive only in name – her life was no longer hers. She was gripped by a ceaseless terror that made her victory over Martina empty and worthless. Throwing the gun in the bin, she called the police and confessed her crime.

Helen regarded Caroline across the table as she stumbled her way through her formal confession. Caroline expected to be punished. She wanted to be punished. So she seemed almost disappointed when Helen reassured her that it was unlikely they would press charges – if her story stacked up of course and if she promised to keep quiet about her ordeal.

She took them to the house where it had happened. Bought by an entrepreneur who’d subsequently gone bust in the recession, it had been left to rot. As had Martina, who had already attracted the attention of the rats and flies. The stench – a decomposing body in a damp cellar – made you retch, but Helen had to see the body.

What had she been expecting? Some bolt of lightning? She both hoped and feared she would know the victim, to give fuel to that line of enquiry, but she’d never seen the young girl before in her life. Truth be told she looked like any number of silicone-enhanced prostitutes who end up in a ditch. Why had the killer chosen her?

Caroline filled them in on Cyn. Who had auburn hair now, it appeared. Caroline explained in graphic detail the tricks she and Martina had performed for her pleasure. There was never any physical contact and their meetings took place in the killer’s van.

‘How did she contact you?’

‘Online. Martina had a website. She emailed her there.’

They’d look into that – see if the email could be traced to an IP address. But Helen wasn’t confident. The armour on this woman was too complete to allow for such a mistake. So she turned her attention back to the victims.

Caroline was nothing particularly out of the ordinary. She’d run away from home aged sixteen to escape the attentions of a grandfather who wouldn’t take no for an answer. She started off conning gullible punters out of cash without delivering the goods – until she encountered someone who could run faster than her. She couldn’t walk for days after that, but once she could, she turned her back on Manchester and headed south. First, Birmingham, then London. And finally to Southampton. Sad to say, she was a common-or-garden prostitute. Let down by her family, kicked by life, surviving by her wits. It was a depressing but unremarkable story.

Was Martina important in the game then? Or were they just chosen at random? Of the two, Martina was the more interesting. At least she would have been if they knew anything about her. She’d arrived in Southampton only two months ago. She had no friends, no family, no social security number. She was a blank sheet. Which in itself was interesting.

Helen took the interviews alone. Regulations said she needed someone with her, but she was paying no heed to that now. She couldn’t afford any more leaks. But just as she was finishing off, news came that changed everything. Finally a chance to find out for certain who had been selling them down the river.

Mickery had resurfaced.