“You have my word. I won’t let you down.”
“Then thank you.”
Slowly she turned the knife in her hand. Gripping the blade, she held the handle up for Helen to take.
Immediately there was a sharp crack and Ella lurched sideways, crashing into the wardrobe next to her.
Helen froze for a moment, stunned. Then, snapping out of it, she rushed to Ella. Even as she knelt down to help her, she could see that it was hopeless. The bullet had entered through Ella’s temple and she was already dead.
Charlie burst in, but it was too late. Helen was cradling the killer’s corpse and on the bed, spattered with blood, her baby continued to cry.
119
Helen walked from the building, clutching Amelia to her chest. Colleagues rushed to help, photographers buzzed around her, but she didn’t see any of them. She pushed them roughly aside and carried on, keen to put as much distance as possible between herself and the carnage.
People were calling to her, but their voices were just noises. Her body was shaking with the trauma of what she’d just experienced, her brain playing and replaying the sharp snap of the sniper’s bullet on an endless repetitive loop. She had tried so hard to save Ella, to rescue her from the wreckage of her life. But she had failed, and once more she had blood on her hands.
Passing an attending squad car, Helen caught sight of her reflection in the windscreen. She looked like a monster—crazed, disheveled, her hair matted, her clothes stained. She now became aware of Charlie guiding her toward the paramedics, gently imploring her to seek medical assistance for herself and the baby.
She allowed herself to be helped into the ambulance, but once there she refused to cooperate. Despite the best endeavors of the paramedics, Helen would not relinquish her grip on Amelia, who had calmed now and clung to Helen with her tiny, delicate hands. Licking her thumb, Helen began to wipe the blood from the child’s face. The baby smiled at the contact, as if enjoying being tickled. Helen could hear the others talking around her. They assumed she was in shock, that she wasn’t thinking straight, but they were wrong—she knew exactly what she was doing. While Amelia was in Helen’s arms, nothing could happen to her. For a brief moment at least, she would be safe from a dark and unforgiving world.
120
EPILOGUE
Helen paused outside the Guildhall, pulling her compact from her bag to check her appearance. Two weeks had passed since Ella had died, and though Helen’s face still looked tired and drawn, she had lost the look of blank horror that had characterized her expression for days afterward. She had hardly been outside her flat since it happened, and suddenly she felt sick with nerves. The Guildhall usually hosted bands and comedians but today it was packed with Hampshire Police’s finest, all gathered together to honor outstanding officers—Helen among them. She could think of easier ways to ease herself back into normal life and her strong instinct was to turn tail and run.
As soon as she stepped inside the building, however, she was assailed by an enormous wave of goodwill. Smiles, pats on the back, rounds of applause. The team from the seventh floor swarmed round her, hailing the return of their leader, welcoming her back into the family. They had obviously been worried about her, fearing perhaps that she would never return, and Helen was moved by their affection and concern. As she received their congratulations she realized that though she might constantly castigate herself for her failings, to Charlie, Sanderson and the rest, she was a hero.
Her nerves grew steadily as each award was given out; then finally it was her turn. An official police commendation handed over in person by the deputy chief constable himself. Standing next to him, waiting patiently to shake Helen’s hand, was Detective Superintendent Harwood.
“Well done, Helen.”
Helen nodded her thanks, before leaving the stage. As she walked back to her seat in the front row, a feeling of quiet satisfaction crept over her. The coverage of the case had been extensive during the last fortnight—pictures of Helen carrying Amelia from the building had been splashed across the front pages of all the newspapers, both local and national. Helen’s team had pinned the cuttings up on the wall with pride, saving center spot for the profile pieces in theSouthampton Evening News, which went out of its way to praise Helen’s character and actions. Harwood’s name had been all but absent from the reports, a forgotten presence. Maybe there was some justice after all.
The team virtually carried Helen from the Guildhall on their shoulders. Awarding themselves an extended lunch break, they frogmarched her to the Crown and Two Chairmen to celebrate the conclusion of this high-profile investigation. Coppers are strange beasts—even though they knew Helen didn’t drink, there was no question of going anywhere other than this much-visited pub. Helen didn’t mind; it was comforting in its familiarity and she was pleased to see the team looking so happy and carefree again.
Finishing her drink, Helen slipped off to the loo, keen to have a moment by herself away from the adulation and praise. But her ordeal wasn’t over yet.
“Friends?”
Emilia Garanita. She had been there at the commendation ceremony and here she was again. Helen’s shadow.
“What is it with you and toilets, Emilia?” Helen replied.
“You’re a hard woman to get on your own.”
Helen said nothing. She had called a truce with her nemesis in the immediate aftermath of the case, agreeing not to charge the reporter with attempting to blackmail a serving police officer and worse, in return for a promise not to pursue or expose baby Amelia as she grew into her new life. Helen knew there would be numerous dissections of the Matthews family—as Alan’s brutality and perversions were explored in endless column inches—but she wanted to protect the innocent. Emilia had honored the deal, keeping the spotlight firmly on Alan Matthews, while simultaneously lavishing praise on DI Grace and her team in double-page spreads, but it cut little ice with Helen. She had made the deal with Emilia for pragmatic reasons. As for the rest of it—particularly the callous dismantling of Robert’s life—she would not forgive, nor would she forget.
“I’m pleased we’ve come to an arrangement,” Emilia continued, breaking the silence, “as I would like us to go on working together in the future.”
“Not jetting off to London?”
“I’m working on it.”
Clearly Emilia’s scoop hadn’t quite earned her the dream move she was after, but Helen resisted the temptation to put the boot in.
“Well, good luck with that.”
