***
They got a bit more out of him eventually. The woman had been driving a red Vauxhall Movano that belonged to her husband. She lived with her chap and three kids in Thornhill. They were in the midst of moving to Bournemouth and were saving cash by doing the removals themselves, hence the van. She was talkative, breezy and mischievous, which was why she’d offered up her husband’s hip flask, badly hidden as ever under the road atlas in the glove compartment. Peter had of course accepted and then slung it Ben’s way. At which point in his testimony, Peter froze once more.
Helen left Charlie to babysit him. Charlie was good with men. She was more conventionally pretty than Helen and had an easy, unthreatening manner—no wonder men flocked to her. In her meaner moments, Helen felt her bland, but she certainly had her uses and would be a good copper in time. But Mark was her sounding board and that was who she needed now.
The White Bear was tucked away in a side street behind the hospital. Helen had deliberately—provocatively—chosen the venue as a test and so far Mark was doing okay, nursing a diet tonic. It was strange meeting in a pub—made it almost like a date, and both felt it. But there were bigger things to occupy them.
“So what are we dealing with?” Mark opened the conversation.
He could tell Helen’s mind was spinning, trying to comprehend the latest unexpected developments.
“Ben Holland is not Ben Holland. His real name is James Hawker.”
Whenever Helen thought of James, she always conjured up the same image—a blood-splattered young man looking utterly lost. Catatonic with shock.
“His father was a businessman. He was also a fantasist and a fraudster. Joel Hawker lost everything in a bad deal and decided to call time on himself and his family, rather than face the music... He killed the horses first, then the family dog, before setting fire to the stables. Neighbors called 999, but I got there first.”
Helen’s voice wavered a little as she remembered the scene. Mark watched her intently.
“I was a beat copper back then. I saw the smoke and heard screaming from inside the house so I barged my way in. The wife was dead, the eldest daughter and her boyfriend too, and he was setting about James with a carving knife when I arrived.”
Helen paused before continuing:
“I took him down. Beat him longer and harder than I needed to. I got a commendation for it, but also a warning as to my future conduct.”
Helen managed a rueful smile, which Mark reciprocated.
“But I didn’t care. I wished I’d beaten him harder.”
“So James changed his name?”
“Wouldn’t you? He didn’t want that kind of notoriety following him the rest of his life. He went to therapy for a bit, tried to deal with it, but really he wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. I tried to stay in touch with him, but a year or two after the murders he dropped me. Didn’t want to be reminded of it. I was sad, but I understood and I wanted him to do well. And he did do well.”
It was true. James had got himself educated, got a good job and eventually found a girl—benign, harmless—who wanted to marry him. From such a miserable, head-fucking start, he’d managed to make a good life for himself. Until someone had forced his colleague to stab him through the eye. Sure, it was self-defense, but that was what made it worse. James/Ben loathed violence—what must he have been going through to try to kill Peter?
It was too twisted, too unlucky for words. And yet that was what they were dealing with.
“Do you think they’re connected? Joel Hawker’s murders and Be— James’s death?” Mark interjected, breaking into Helen’s thoughts.
“Maybe. But Amy and Sam weren’t part of that. Where do they fit in?”
Silence crept over them. Perhaps there were connections to be made, but they were hard to see right now.
So what were they left with? A pair of sadistic, motiveless murders that seemed utterly unrelated and a perpetrator who was either a scruffy blond heating engineer or a busty, mischievous housewife with long raven tresses. What they were left with was a mess and they both knew it.
As Mark scanned the pub, he felt the craving growing. All around him men and women were laughing, joking and drinking. Wine, beer, spirits, cocktails, chasers—poured down their necks with abandon.
“You’re doing really well, Mark.”
Helen’s words snapped him out of it. He eyed her suspiciously. The last thing he wanted was pity.
“I know it’s hard, but this is the beginning of the end. We’re going to get you better. We’re going to do it together. Okay?”
Mark nodded, grateful.
“You can tell me to F off and go to Alcoholics Anonymous instead and I’ll understand. But I don’t think they know you. They don’t know what we go through day after day. What it does to us. Which is why I’m going to help you. Whenever you need company, whenever you need help, I will be there for you. There will be times—loads of times—when you really, really want to drink. And that’s okay—it’s going to happen whether you like it or not. But here’s the deal. You only ever drink in my presence. And when I tell you stop, you stop. Right?”
Mark didn’t disagree.
