66
The eyes. It was all there in the eyes. Set in a slender face and framed by long black tresses, they demanded your attention, fixing you with an intense piercing gaze. There were other features that should have drawn your attention—the full lips, the strong nose, the slightly pointed chin—but it was those big, beautiful eyes and the intensity of her stare that gripped you.
“How accurate a likeness is this?” said Ceri Harwood, looking up from the sketch she’d been studying.
“Very,” Helen replied. “Melissa was up all night with our best artist. I only let her go once we were one hundred percent sure we’d got it right.”
“And what do we know about Lyra Campbell?”
“Not a lot, but we’re working on it. We’ve got uniform out looking for Anton Gardiner, and this morning we’re going to sweep his area of operation, talk to every girl that we know has worked for him, see if anyone can tell us any more about her.”
“And what’s your working theory?”
“In some ways it’s not that extraordinary. She falls into prostitution, then makes another bad choice in taking Anton as her pimp. He brutalizes her. This in combination with the job takes its toll on her psychologically. The drug and alcohol abuse, the stress, the sexual assaults, the diseases—and then one day Anton crosses the line. Does something to her that makes her snap. She attacks him, probably kills him. Either way, she takes out the years of misery on him and this sets her off. We know from Forensics that she talks or shouts at her victims—perhaps she denigrates them, avenges herself upon them...”
“The floodgates have opened and now she can’t stop?” Harwood interrupted.
“Something like that.”
“You sound almost... sympathetic toward her.”
“I am. She wouldn’t be doing this unless she’d been to hell and back, but my real sympathies lie with Eileen Matthews and Jessica Reid and the others. Lyra is a vicious killer who won’t stop until we bring her in.”
“My thoughts exactly. To that end I’m going to suggest that I take today’s press conference, while you get out there and lead the team. Time is of the essence and I want the press and the public to know that our very best people are on the case.”
There was a brief, pregnant pause before Helen replied:
“It is customary for the senior investigating officer to handle the press and it’s probably best if I do it. I know all the hacks round here—”
“I think I can handle a few journalists. I’ve had more experience with this sort of thing than you and it is imperative that it runs smoothly this time. I’ll ask DS Brooks to sit in to answer any specifics if that becomes necessary. I really think you’ll be better used out there.”
Helen nodded but could feel the ground shifting beneath her feet once more.
“It’s your call.”
“Indeed. Keep me up to speed with any developments.”
“Ma’am.”
Helen turned and left. As she walked down the corridor back to the investigation room, her blood boiled. Now that they were finally making progress, she was being nudged out of the picture. She had seen it before—senior officers who climb high by riding on the coattails of others—and she’d always abhorred it. She had to put her irritation to one side, though. They had a killer to catch. But even as she locked her anger away, it fizzled and burned.
Helen had hoped she would be able to work with Harwood. That she would be a pleasant change from Whittaker. But the truth was, Helen deeply disliked her.
And they both knew it.
67
“Thanks for staying with me, Tony. I’d have gone crazy on my own.”
It was nearly ten a.m., but neither Tony nor Melissa had slept. Once they had completed the sketch, they had been whisked across town in an unmarked car to a safe house in the center of Southampton. A plainclothes officer sat in a car out front to ward off any casual callers, while Tony and Melissa holed up inside. She had insisted that Tony stay and he’d been happy to do so—now that they were making progress, he didn’t want to take any chances.
Despite the exhaustion that gripped them both, they were too wired to relax. Tony knew where the “emergency” bottle of whisky was kept, so he’d dug it out and they’d both had a couple to try to take the edge off the day. Slowly the relaxing effect of the alcohol had done its work, reducing the anxiety and adrenaline a little.
Melissa hated silence—hated her own thoughts—so they had talked and talked. She had asked him questions about the case, about Angel, and he’d answered as best he could and in return he’d asked her questions about herself. She told him she’d fled an alcoholic mother in Manchester but had left her younger brother behind. She often wondered what had become of him and clearly felt guilty for deserting him. She had got herself into endless trouble as she’d freewheeled south, but in spite of everything she had survived. The booze and drugs hadn’t killed her and neither had the job.
The darkness of the night had cocooned them, making Melissa feel anonymous and out of harm’s way. But as the sun rose and another day dawned, her anxiety began to grow. She paced the house, peering through the curtains, as if expecting trouble.
“Shouldn’t there be someone out back as well?” she asked.
