Ben eased himself to his feet. It was impossible to do it quietly, so he did it ostentatiously, loudly. Stretching and yawning, he said:
“I’m going to have to take a shit, Peter. Sorry.”
Nothing.
Ben took a step toward the gun. Then another.
“Did you hear me, Peter?”
Ben bent down slowly. His ankle joint clicked—the noise echoing around the silo, bugger it—and he paused. Then slowly, quietly he picked up the gun. He shot a glance at Peter, expecting him to rear up in alarm, but he didn’t. He wished he would. At least then it would be a fight.
The safety catch was obvious, so he released it. Then he pointed the gun at Peter’s back. No, not like that. He might miss. Or just injure him. Fuck knows what a ricochet might do in this metal can. Kill them both? Yeah, that would be a good joke.
Stop prevaricating. Ben took a step closer.
“Peter?”
He really is dead.Still, I’d better do it, to make sure. To make sure I get out.And suddenly a thought of Jennie flitted through his mind. His fiancée.Who’ll be in pieces. Who I’ll see soon. Who’ll forgive me.Of course she’d forgive him. He only did what had to be done. What anyone would have done.
Another step closer.
Ben lowered the gun so the barrel was almost resting on the back of Peter’s head.This is it,he thought, and began to squeeze the trigger. Which was when Peter suddenly reared up, driving a metal splint right through Ben’s left eye.
21
Helen never made it to the gym. As soon as she stepped into the incident room Charlie collared her. The chirpy DC had her serious face on. After a brief, hushed conversation, the pair marched straight out again. “Lesbian night at the gym,” DC Bridges quipped, trying but failing to hide the fact that he fancied the pants off the very heterosexual Charlie.
Helen and Charlie bustled their way through the city center traffic to the Forensics Unit. The five-minute journey could take twenty-five at rush hour, and with Christmas shoppers and revelers flooding Southampton, today was going to be one of those days. Office party season was in full swing. Helen snarled in frustration at the coaches clogging up the bus lanes. She stuck on the blues and twos and begrudgingly a way was cleared for her. She sped away, plowing straight through a freshly deposited pool of vomit—spraying the surprised culprit in the process. Charlie suppressed a smile.
Ben Holland’s silver Lexus was up on the stand and awaiting inspection when Helen and Charlie entered the Forensics Unit. Sally Stewart, stalwart of the unit, was waiting for them.
“Charlie’s already talked you through the basics, but I thought you should see this for yourself.”
They walked underneath the car and looked up. Sally shone her pen torch at the right rear wheel arch.
“Pretty dirty, as you’d expect, given the amount of miles your driver did every week. But this wheel arch looks—and smells—dirtier than all the others. Why? Because it’s been marinated in petrol.”
She gestured them out again, and once they were all clear Sally lowered the car so it was almost at eye level.
“Here’s why.”
Assisted by her deputy, Sally carefully eased the wing off the right side of the vehicle. The innards of the luxury car were duly revealed and now Sally’s torch zeroed in on the petrol tank. Helen’s eyes widened.
“The fuel tank has been punctured. It’s not a big hole, but because of its position on the underside of the tank would empty it completely over time. Judging by the deposits on the wheel arch, I’d say the tank was pretty full when your pair left Bournemouth. It would have emptied swiftly and steadily—by my estimation at a rate of about 1.5 liters per minute, which means your driver would have run out of fuel roughly halfway through the New Forest. Though why he was going that way beats me.”
Helen said nothing. Her brain was already whirring, trying to process this development.
“Your next question is, was it made accidentally? Anything’s possible, but I’d say no. The puncture hole is too clean, too round—like someone hammered a small nail through the bottom of the tank. If itwassabotage, it was simple and effective.”
And with that, she moved on. Hers was not to reason why—she was just there to provide the facts. Helen and Charlie looked at each other—it was clear they were thinking the same thing. Having just filled the tank, Ben wouldn’t have been watching the fuel gauge and probably wouldn’t have realized until too late that he was almost out of fuel. Even when the fuel warning light did come on, Ben would only have had a minute or two left before the tank was completely empty.
“She must have known,” Helen thought out loud. “She must haveknownthat Ben and Peter did that journey every week. That Ben always filled up at the Esso station. She must have done her research—the size of the tank, rate of fuel consumption, size of the required hole...”
“So they would grind to a halt exactly where she wanted them to.” Charlie finished Helen’s thought for her.
“She wasstalkingthem. That’s our starting point. Get on to Amy’s family—any signs of unwanted attention, suspicious break-ins, anything. Same goes for the Hollands and Brightstons too.”
It was their opening move. Helen hoped it would pay dividends, but had the feeling that this game would be long, hard-fought and deadly. It was clear that they were dealing with someone who was organized, intelligent and precise. The motive for these crimes remained a mystery, but the caliber of this killer was no longer in doubt. The biggest question now was, where were Ben and Peter? And would either of them be seen alive again?
