Suddenly all his anger dissipated and he was filled with pity. He felt a lump in his throat, a sudden welling of sadness. He had first met Hannah in the aftermath of the botched shooting that ended his frontline career. She had counseled him, healed him, and the pair had fallen in love. He’d kept her existence secret because he didn’t want the world to know he had a shrink, but his feelings for her were sincere.
“We tried, Hannah, my God we tried. We threw everything at it. Every uniform I could spare without arousing—”
Hannah looked up sharply.
“Without giving yourself away?”
It was said with real bitterness.
“I tried, believe me. I really, really tried. But there was no trace of you. Or Sandy. You’d vanished off the face of the earth. I don’t know if this killer is human... or a bloody ghost. But we couldn’t pick up her trail. I am so, so sorry. If I could have swapped places with you, I would have, believe me...”
“Don’t say that. Don’t youdaresay that.”
“What do you want me to say?”
The question hung in the air. Whittaker knew he had only moments left—everything was telling him to leave.
“I want you to tell me it never happened. I want to have never met you. I want never to have fallen in love. I want you to have kept your killer to yourself. I want it all to go away. I wish I wasn’t here anymore. I wish I didn’t exist.”
Whittaker stared, lost for words in the torrent of her despair.
“But you needn’t worry. I’m not going to tell them about you. I’m going to keep quiet. I’m going to do as I’m told and then maybe I will live.”
She returned to her bed and faced the wall.
“Thank you, Hannah.”
It was inadequate, grossly so, but time was pressing, so Whittaker slipped out. Moments later, the young PC reappeared, stinking of cheap cigarettes. Whittaker slapped him on the back and departed. Back in his office, Whittaker exhaled. The original plan had been to retire together with millions in the bank. That was screwed now, but at least he was in the clear. It had all gone horribly, horribly wrong, but he was going to be okay. He’d been up all night and was shattered, but as the sun began to rise, Whittaker felt a surge of energy and optimism.
Which was when there was a sharp knock on the door. Before he had a chance to respond, Helen entered—flanked by two officers from Anti-Corruption.
87
Stephanie Bines was nowhere to be found. Itinerant workers are particularly hard to locate, especially those who work in bars. It’s a promiscuous profession in which the promise of a few bucks more prompts people to jump ship all the time. Stephanie Bines had worked in most of the bars in Southampton—she was attractive and funny, but also flighty and temperamental—and no one had seen her for a while.
After the court case, she’d considered going back home, but she’d run away from Australia for a reason and the idea of returning there with her tail between her legs—still broke and unattached—didn’t appeal. So she hopped from Southampton to Portsmouth and did what she did before: work, drink, screw and sleep. She was a piece of driftwood washed up on the south coast.
There was no response at her last known address. Sanderson had paid a visit, but it was a come-and-go place where you paid by the week, and Stephanie hadn’t been seen there for ages. The owner, suspicious of the police and uncertain who or what might be discovered in his cheap rooms, was not keen to help, demanding a warrant before he’d open any doors. The team immediately applied for one, but it would take time. So they resumed their search in the city center clubs and bars, the local hospitals, cab firms and more. But still there was no trace.
She had vanished.
88
Whittaker eyeballed Helen. Neither was speaking—Anti-Corruption was formally laying out the accusations—but Helen felt she was being interrogated nevertheless. Whittaker’s glare bore into her skull as if he was trying to divine her thoughts.
“I must say, I’m surprised at you, Helen. I thought you had more sense than this.”
DS Lethbridge from Anti-Corruption came to an abrupt halt, surprised by the sudden interruption.
“I thought we’d cleared this matter up,” Whittaker continued, “and now I find it landing on my doorstep. I don’t have to remind you that there is an active investigation going on that should have yourfullattention.”
Helen refused to drop her gaze, refused to be intimidated. Lethbridge started up again but Whittaker just talked over him.
“I can only assume that this is about ambition. Perhaps you felt that you weren’t moving up the ladder quick enough. Perhaps me promoting you to be the youngest female DI this nick’s ever had wasn’t sufficient reward. But let me tell you something—maliciously stabbing senior officers in the back is not the way to get ahead. As you’re about to discover.”
He never took his eyes off her. Helen broke the stare first—a pang of conscience, guilt—though why she should be feeling guilty was beyond her. This was classic Whittaker: reminding her of what she owed him while delivering a veiled threat. He was adept at not crossing the line while nevertheless intimidating and neutralizing anyone who threatened his position. It was true that Whittaker had “spotted” her, plucked her out as a promising DC and helped her slide up the promotion chain all the way to inspector. And then she had turned on him. But what he had done was so bad—not just his relationship with Mickery and his leaking of crucial information, but his scapegoating of Mark and Simon Ashworth—that in reality she should feel nothing but contempt.
Helen was glad when the interview concluded after only twenty minutes. They would have to reconvene with Whittaker’s police representative and lawyer and Helen would be excluded from the process from now on. Whittaker predictably had said little, denying all the charges. Would he crack?
