The baby had been taken away from Marianne minutes after delivery. Even now, after everything that had happened, that image still brought tears to Helen’s eyes. Her sister cuffed to a hospital bed, her baby forcibly taken from her after eighteen hours of labor. Did she fight them? Did she have the strength to resist? Helen knew instinctively that she would have. Despite the brutality of its conception, Marianne would have cared for that baby. She would have loved it fiercely, feeding off its innocence, but, of course, she was never given the chance. She was a killer, who received no sympathy from her captors. There was no humanity in the process, just judgment and retribution.
The baby had vanished into the care system and then to fostering, but Helen had diligently pursued Baby K through the reams of paper and bureaucracy until she’d traced him. He’d been adopted by a childless Jewish couple in Aldershot—who’d named him Robert Stonehill—and he was doing fine. He was rebellious, lippy, frustrating—with scant qualifications to show for his years of schooling—but he was okay. He had a job, a solid home and two loving parents. In spite of the loveless nature of his birth, he had grown up nurtured and loved.
Robert had dodged his inheritance. And Helen knew that because of that, she should have left him well alone. But her curiosity wouldn’t let her. She had attended Marianne’s funeral by herself, her killer and sole mourner, only to discover that she was not alone after all. Someone else had escaped the wreckage. So for Marianne’s sake, as much as her own, she would keep an eye on Robert. If she could help him in any way, she would.
Helen turned the ignition of her bike, revved the engine and roared off down the street. She was so caught up in the moment, so relieved, that for once she didn’t check her mirrors. Had she done so, she would have realized that the same car that had followed her all the way from Southampton was now following her back.
72
Since his daddy’s return, life had got better for Alfie Booker. They had been living in a flat while his dad was in the army. But when he came back, they moved to a caretaker’s house that bordered school playing fields. His dad cut the grass and swept up the leaves. Painted the lines on the football pitches. It was a good job, Alfie thought, and he liked to go with his dad as he did his work.
His dad argued with his mum a lot and was happier when he was working, so that was the best time for Alfie to be with him. He never said much, but he seemed happy to have his son by his side. They made a funny pair, but Alfie wouldn’t have changed it for the world.
His dad hadn’t come home last night. His mum said he had, but Alfie knew that wasn’t true. His work boots were where he’d left them yesterday afternoon and he was nowhere on the grounds. Alfie had covered every blade of grass, listening all the while for the telltale drone of the riding mower. He didn’t know what was going on, but he didn’t like it.
He turned the corner and saw a tall figure walking toward the sports pavilion. It was Sports Day later that day and his first thought was that it was one of the games masters, but he didn’t recognize him. The figure wasn’t broad enough to be his dad, so who was it? He was walking with real purpose toward the pavilion, so he obviously had something of importance to do. Instinct drew Alfie toward the figure, his curiosity getting the better of him.
As he got closer, he slowed. It was a woman. And she was placing a box by the pavilion entrance. What was in the box—a trophy? A prize?
He called out as he ran over. The woman spun round, stopping Alfie in his tracks. She wasn’t smiling and had a nasty face. To his surprise, she turned and walked off without saying a word.
Alfie watched her go, confused. Then he turned his attention to the box. There was a word he couldn’t understand written on it. He tried to spell it out:F. I. L. T. H.But it made no sense to him. Why was it written in red ink?
He looked around, wondering what to do. There was no one to tell him he couldn’t open it.
Double-checking that the coast was clear, Alfie stepped forward and opened the box.
73
It was hours after the event, but Tony’s mind was still reeling. His heart was beating nineteen to the dozen, fired by a mixture of fear, adrenaline and anxiety.
He tried to gather his thoughts but they spun round and round, eluding him. He hadn’t felt like this in ages, yet a little voice was shouting inside him, abusing him, shaming him. It was all he deserved, yet oddly he didn’t care. He didn’t care at all. Which Tony was thinking these thoughts? He didn’t recognize him.
He had always been a by-the-book copper. Some said he was stolid. Others more charitably said he was professional, exemplary. Helen certainly respected him. The thought suddenly made his head hurt. What would she think if she could see him now? It wasn’t uncommon, but that didn’t make it any better.
Melissa stirred next to him, turning over in her sleep. He took in her naked body. It was marked with tattoos and ancient scarring in places, but was still muscular and alluring. His eyes flicked to the bedroom curtains again, checking for the umpteenth time that they were pulled together. On the street outside, a colleague of his was sitting in an unmarked car. Would he have noticed anything? The light going on and off in the bedroom? Surely he would have assumed it was Melissa going to bed finally. But what if he’d done a perimeter check of the house and noticed that Tony wasn’t downstairs?
When it happened he hadn’t thought of the risk at all. He had held her close, enjoying the warmth of her body against his, then she’d looked up at him and drawn him toward her. They had kissed. Then kissed some more. Despite the fact that she was both a prostitute and their key witness, Tony had not hesitated, his desire driving him on. They were in bed minutes later—Tony was stunned to think of his utter recklessness—he had never once paused to draw breath.
He was like a boy again, full of foolish, hopeless thoughts. He wanted to laugh, shout and cry. But all the while that same little voice kept calling to him. Banging out its questions with deafening power. Where was this leading? And where would it end?
74
She pushed the bell down hard and didn’t let go. She had already rung it twice, done a perimeter of the house, but it remained resolutely closed to her, despite the fact that it was obviously occupied. The curtains were closed and she could hear the TV playing inside.
Eventually she heard footsteps, accompanied by a volley of cursing. Emilia Garanita smiled to herself and kept her finger on the bell. Only when the door swung open did she finally take her finger off, restoring peace once more.
“We don’t buy at the door,” the man said, already shutting the door.
“Do I look like I’m selling fucking dusters?” Emilia replied.
The man hesitated, taken aback by her forceful and unrepentant response.
“I know you,” he said eventually. “You’re what’s-her-name...”
“Emilia Garanita.”
“Right. What do you want?”
