“Tell me how you got out of the pool, Amy.”
“A ladder.”
“I didn’t see a ladder there.”
Amy scowled and turned away. Pulling the hospital blankets up round her chin, she receded into herself once more. Helen regarded her, intrigued. If she was lying, she was a bloody good actress. She shot a look at Mark, then continued:
“What sort of ladder was it?”
“A rope ladder. It was dropped down just after I—”
Tears stung Amy’s eyes and she dropped her head to her chest. Thereweremild burns on the palms of Amy’s hands. Consistent perhaps with someone scrambling up a rope ladder? Helen gave herself a mental slap—why was she even considering the possibility? Amy’s story was insane. According to her, they’d been picked up on the motorway, drugged, abducted, starved—and then forced to commit murder. Why would anyone do such a thing? On the face of it, Amy and Sam were two good kids, but the answer to this awful crime must lie within their own lives.
“Tell me about your relationship with Sam.”
At this Amy started to sob.
“Perhaps now would be a good time to break, Detective Inspector?” Amy’s mother had insisted on a solicitor being present.
“We’re not finished yet,” Helen snapped back.
“But you can see she’s exhausted. Surely we ca—”
“All I see is a dead boy called Sam Fisher. Who’s been shot in the back. At close range. By your client.”
“My client doesn’t deny pulling the tr—”
“But she won’t tell uswhy.”
“I’vetoldyou why,”Amy spat out in response.
“Yes, and it’s a great story, Amy.But it doesn’t make any sense.”
Helen let her words hang in the air. Without having to be told, Mark took his cue to ratchet up the pressure.
“Nobody saw you. Or the van, Amy. The truckers didn’t. The traffic cops didn’t. The other kids hitching that route didn’t. So why don’t you cut the crap and tell us why you killed your boyfriend? Did he hit you? Did he threaten you? Why did he take you to that awful place?”
Amy said nothing, refusing even to look up. It was as if Mark hadn’t spoken at all. Helen took up the baton, softening her tone.
“Don’t think you’re the first, Amy. To fall for a nice guy who turned out to be sadistic and violent. It’s not your fault—no one’s judging you, and if you can tell me what happened, what went wrong, then I promise I can help you. Did he assault you? Were others involved? Why did he take you there?”
Still nothing. Impatience seeped back into Helen’s voice.
“Two hours ago, I had to tell Sam’s mum that he’d been shot and killed. What she needs, what his little brothers and sisters need, is someone to be held to account for this. And right now you’re the only person in the frame. So for your own sake as well as theirs, stop bullshitting and tell me the truth. Why did you do it, Amy? Why?”
There was a long silence. Then Amy looked up, angry eyes flaring through the tears:
“Shemade me do it.”
8
“So what do you think, boss?”
For the first time in her life, Helen couldn’t answer. Yes or no, guilty or not guilty, Helen Grace always had an answer. But not here. This was something different. All her experience told her that Amy was lying. The abduction story was crazy enough, but the fact that the perpetrator was a lone female was the clincher. Female murderers kill their husbands, their children or people in their care. They don’t go for stranger abductions, nor do they favor high-risk scenarios such as the one Amy had described, where they are outnumbered by their victims. Even if this onehad, how was she strong enough to maneuver two grown adults out of a van and into the diving pool? Helen was more than tempted to throw the book at Amy. Perhaps when she was facing a murder charge, she would finally give up the truth.
And yet, why would she make up such a story unless itwastrue? Amy was a smart, together girl with no history of mental illness. Through it all, her testimony had been clear and consistent. Her description of her “abductor” had been precise—dirty blond crop, sunglasses, short grimy nails—and she’d stuck to it religiously. Right down to the tiny details about how she’d overrevved the van in the low gears. And it was clear that she loved—reallyloved—Sam and was devastated by his death. Everyone described them as inseparable, two halves of a whole. They had met at Bristol University; then each had applied to do a master’s degree in science at Warwick so they could stay together, deferring entry to working life and possible separation. They didn’t have much cash, but during their time together they had hitched all round the country, seldom holidaying with anyone else.
Forensics had linked her to the gun, so there was no doubt she did it, but they’d also confirmed her story about their captivity. Their physical state—the hair, the nails—plus the human waste in the tank all suggested that they’d been there for at least two weeks before she killed him. Had they given up hope and drawn straws? Made a deal?
