110
Carrie Matthews’s hand shook as she gave DC Sanderson the photo. It was of Ella. It was a selfie that Ella had taken and then e-mailed to her sister—a message of solidarity from her exile and something to remember her by. When Sanderson had turned up at Carrie’s home in Shirley, her husband, Paul, had tried to take over proceedings, forcing his young wife into the background. He was a bull of a man—an elder of the church and the founding father of Christian Domestic Order. Sanderson had taken great pleasure in ordering him out of the room, threatening him with a very public arrest if he didn’t comply. He seemed shocked—appalled might be more accurate—but eventually he’d done as he was told.
“Please find her. Please help her,” Carrie begged as she withdrew the photo from its hiding place in the dresser and handed it over to Sanderson. “She’s not what everyone thinks she is.”
“I know,” Sanderson replied. “We’re doing everything we can.”
But Sanderson knew even as she said it that the chances of this thing ending well were slim. Harwood was determined to stop Ella in her tracks by any means necessary and Ella was probably too far gone to fear death. Nevertheless, she reassured Carrie and went on her way, adding as she left that there were many organizations and shelters that could help her if she ever needed them.
As soon as she stepped outside, her radio squawked into life.
A woman matching Ella’s description had just been seen shoplifting in a branch of Boots in Bevois. She had escaped the security guards and taken refuge somewhere in the Fairview estate.
Sanderson was in her car and on the road in seconds, her siren blaring as she bullied the midday traffic out of her way. This was it, then. The endgame had begun. And Sanderson was determined to be in at the death.
111
She slunk into the room like a thief. It felt shameful and wrong to be here, even though she had run things for so many years. Now she was an outsider, unnecessary and unwelcome.
Following her confrontation with Robert’s mother, Helen had been adrift, reeling from the weight of the damage she had done. She had called Jake, but he was with a client. After that she had momentarily ground to a halt, unsure of what to do next. Therewasno one else to call.
Slowly her emotions had calmed and sense prevailed. There was one useful thing she could do. Though she had been taken off the case, she still had most of the case files with her, and besides, it was important that she set down her discoveries about Ella for Sanderson, Harwood and the others. If it ever came to court, every “i” would have to be dotted, every “t” crossed. She couldn’t afford a mistake that would rob the victims’ families of the justice they deserved. So, summoning up her last vestige of resolve, Helen had headed to Southampton Central to do her duty.
The desk sergeant had thought she was on leave and was surprised to see her.
“No rest for the wicked?” he offered jauntily.
“Paperwork” was Helen’s deliberately jaded response.
He buzzed her through. She took the lift up to the seventh floor. A journey she’d done many times—but never as an outcast.
Once inside the room, she wrote up her report and left it and the case files on Harwood’s desk. As she was about to leave, a noise startled her. She was momentarily confused—Harwood and the team were out chasing leads—then surprised. It was Tony Bridges, another victim of the wreckage. They stared at each other for a second. Then Helen said:
“You’ve heard?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry, Helen. If it had anything to do with me, I can ta—”
“It’s nothing to do with you, Tony. It’s personal. She wants me out.”
“She’s an idiot.”
Helen smiled.
“Be that as it may, she’s in charge, so...”
“Sure, I just wanted to give you... her... this. It’s my report.”
“Great minds,” Helen said, smiling once more. “Leave it on her desk.”
Tony raised a rueful eyebrow and headed for Harwood’s office. As she watched him go, Helen could only think what a waste it all was. He was a talented and dedicated officer brought low by a moment of weakness. He had been stupid, but surely he deserved better than this. Melissa was a raw but artful character who’d seized an opportunity and mercilessly exploited Tony’s feelings for her own ends. It was the commonly held view now that “Lyra” was a fiction. Helen was furious with herself at having been duped. How easily Melissa had pulled the wool over their eyes. On the say-so of one person, they had gone down a massive blind alley and compromised the invest—
Helen’s internal tirade ground to a halt, frozen by the thought. Because of course Melissa hadn’t been the only person who “knew” Lyra. There was another person who claimed to have met this fictitious phantom. A young woman. A young woman with a baby.
Helen’s mind flew back to that interview—she pictured the young prostitute opposite her, awkwardly cradling her wriggling baby as she told them how she “knew” Lyra. The girl had been monosyllabic and seemed ill-educated, but now Helen saw something else in her. The shaved head and the multiple piercings had disguised her identity, but there was something in the shape of her face. Looking up at the most recent picture of Ella, which Sanderson had stuck to the board, Helen knew in an instant that the young girl—with her high cheekbones and wide, full mouth—was Ella.
She snapped out of it to find Tony staring at her. He looked concerned.
“You okay, boss?”
