Helen looked at her as if she were mad—as if she were playing a sick joke on her—but Charlie’s face was so solemn and pained that Helen knew immediately that she was telling the truth.
“When?”
“Call came in half an hour ago. But you were in with the chief and—”
“You should have interrupted. For God’s sake, Charlie, why didn’t you come and get me?”
“I wanted more details first.”
“What details? Why?”
“I think... we think that this might be the third abduction.”
With the eyes of her team on her, Helen tried her damnedest to keep her composure. She instigated the usual procedures, but her mind was already halfway across town. She had to get down there to see for herself if it was really possible. Biking to Melbourne Tower, she thought of all things—good and bad—that they’d been through together. Was this really the end that had been waiting for them all along? Was this their reward for the years of struggling through?
Some days life really kicked you in the throat. Helen had felt sick when Charlie told her the news. She desperately wanted it to be a mistake and wished with all her heart that she could turn back time and somehow make ituntrue. But she couldn’t—Marie and Anna were dead. A team of demolition experts doing recon on the housing project had spotted a weird SOS message, daubed on a bedsheet and hung from a fourth-floor window. They investigated but couldn’t raise anyone, despite the fact that the lights and TV were still on, so they rang the police. The attending constables had been none too pleased—it had taken them ages to get the iron grille off and the front door was so dead-bolted it took repeated attempts to barrel-charge it. They’d been convinced all along that the whole thing was a waste of time—that the inhabitants were deliberately hiding or high on drugs or some such. But on entering, they’d found a mother and daughter lying together on the living room floor.
Their first thought was suicide. Lock yourself in and do the deed. Except, on further investigation, they hadn’t found any keys—to the dead bolts or indeed to the padlocks that secured the grilles. Stranger still, the victims had a loaded gun. It was lying on the floor beside them, unused. There were no ligatures, no empty bottle of pills or bleach—no visible signs anywhere of suicide. An examination of the exterior showed no signs of forced entry and nothing seemed to have been taken. It was all very odd. They were just... dead. The flies that circled their bodies suggested they had been dead for some time.
Helen told uniform to search the block and surrounding grounds—“We’re looking for a mobile phone”—while she joined Forensics with the bodies. She’d never lost her cool in front of fellow officers, but she did now. It was too appalling seeing the pair of them like that. They had been through so much, suffered so much, and yet always the love had been there. There had always been smiles and laughter, even amid the daily degradation and abuse. Helen was convinced this wasn’t suicide on these grounds alone, and the presence of the gun put it beyond doubt.
Helen walked into the tiny kitchen to recover her composure. Idly, she flicked open the cupboards, the fridge. No food. Not even tinned or preserved food. The whole space had been cleared of anything edible and yet... the bin was empty. There were no wrappers or bottles lying around. As the thought started to lodge in her mind, Helen felt vomit rising. She forced it down and marched over to the sink. Turned on the tap. Nothing. As she’d expected. Picked up the phone. Dead. Helen sank down onto the nearest chair.
“You think this is her doing?”Mark had entered the room.
Helen nodded, then:
“She locked them in. Took their food, cut off the water, cut off the phone, left them the gun. We won’t find any keys to the dead bolts or the padlocks because she took them with her...”
Mother and daughter trapped in their own home, unable to escape, unable to rouse anyone who might be concerned about them. It was the most lonely way to die. If there was any consolation in the fact that “she” hadn’t won, hadn’t succeeded in making Marie kill her own daughter, Helen didn’t feel it now.
37
Today had been the darkest of days. The worst since it happened. Today was the day of Ben’s funeral. At first, Peter Brightston had avoided his victim like the plague—didn’t want to know how his fiancée and friends were suffering or what they thought. But as the days passed he found himself spending more and more time online, checking out Ben’s memorial page, the messages on his Facebook page, climbing inside the life he’d destroyed.
Three days ago, he’d seen details of the funeral being posted by Ben’s best mate. It didn’t sound like it was going to be a big affair and Peter found himself wondering who from the firm would go. The partners would all attend, and most of Ben’s team of course. But would the PAs go too? Would Peter be the only person who wasn’t there? For a mad moment he wondered if heshouldgo, before dismissing it out of hand. If Ben’s friends saw him, they’d tear him limb from limb. And who could blame them? And yet a big part of Peter wanted to be there. To say good-bye. To say sorry.
He’d thought about writing to Ben’s fiancée, but Sarah had talked him out of it. She was right, of course. In a fit of pique, he’d defied her and sat down to write to Jennie—but he hadn’t managed a single word. All the things he wanted to say—I didn’t want to do it, I wish I could turn back the clock—all sounded so empty and pointless. What he wanted, what he felt, didn’t matter to her. What mattered to her was the fact that he’d stabbed her fiancé in the face to save his own skin.
Had it been worth it? Peter wasn’t sure anymore. After the adrenaline and shock had worn off, he’d felt nothing but a crushing emptiness, as if he’d lost his sense of taste, smell, touch, and was now merely existing rather than living.
What was he going to do with his life now? Could he go back to work? Would he be accepted? Anything would be better than going slowly crazy at home.
If only Ben had pulled the trigger. He could have done it. He’d had the time. Did he hesitate because he was a chicken or because he was moral? If he’d pulled the trigger, then it would have beenhimdrowning in a sea of guilt while Peter would be safe and sound under the ground.
Selfish bastard.
38
Everybody has to draw the line sometime. And for Jake that time was now. This was not pleasant or fun or even professional anymore; it was a nasty situation that was getting out of control. He’d been with a client when she turned up, but she didn’t seem to care. She had sat outside his flat, face turned to the floor, while Jake finished his session. But the mood had been well and truly broken and he’d had to promise his disgruntled client a free session just to get him out the door. This kind of thing wasn’t good for business—the S&M scene on the south coast was a small world and word would soon get around.
She apologized, but she didn’t mean it. She was incoherent and emotional. Jake wondered if she’d been drinking and asked her as much. She didn’t like that, reminding him that he was a dominator, not a doctor. He’d let that one go, didn’t want to provoke her, and suggested a short, mild session today as a way of calming things down. Then perhaps they could talk.
But she wasn’t having any of that. She wanted a full one-hour, no-holds-barred session. She wanted as much pain as he could muster. More than that, she wanted abuse—she wanted him to tell her that she was evil and ugly, a useless piece of shit who should be killed or worse. She wanted him todestroyher.
When he refused, she got angry, but he had to be honest. Some people he would have happily degraded—whatever floats your boat—but not her. It was not just that he liked her; it was also that he knew instinctively that this wasn’t what she needed. He’d often wondered if she took therapy elsewhere—if she didn’t, he was tempted to suggest it. Rather than escalating their sessions to yet another level of extremity, Jake felt it was time to draw a line and suggest some complementary avenues for her to explore.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Helen exploded. “How dare you tell me what to do?”
