“I’ve only been here six months and it’s a bloody good job. I can’t believe you would even ask me that.”
Charlie was momentarily lost for words. She knew Sally loved her job, but still the strength of her reaction surprised her. They had gone through police training together, surviving the experience largely thanks to their shared sense of humor and plenty of corner-cutting. They were coppers, not form-fillers, happy to break the rules when necessary. But sometime in the interim, Sally had become aresponsible grown-up, a career copper with a decent rank, position and pension. Sally was right—she would be a fool to risk all that.
“I know and I feel awful suggesting it, but there’s no other way—”
“Do you really want to skewer both our careers in one go? What have you done, Charlie, that would make you risk that?”
“It’s not me... ,” Charlie continued, then hesitated to go further.
Sally regarded her. Now she looked intrigued, rather than angry. “Then who?”
“Helen Grace.”
“TheHelen Grace?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re off work. And she can go through the normal channels, right?”
“She’s being blocked. It’s... it’s about her nephew, Robert Stonehill.”
Now Sally was silent. The name was familiar to most coppers, if only through newspaper reports and anecdotes.
“His name was mentioned in a crime report—a fight in Northampton city center—but the original’s heavily redacted. No one’s helping her, everyone wants her to just forget him, but he’s her flesh and blood, the only family she has. So I know it’s a lot to ask—too much—but I hope you can see I had no choice. Despite everything, she’s... she’s the best copper I’ve worked for and one of the best people I know.”
Sally looked at Charlie for a long time. Then finally she said:
“IfI do this for you, it’ll be on one condition. You never got it from me—on pain of death, you never got it from me.”
“Of course. I’d rather quit the force than get you into trouble because of me.”
“And if it does lead somewhere,” Sally continued, “you makesureHelen Grace does right by me.”
So that was it. The power of Helen’s reputation had people queuing up to join Hampshire CID—far more than could ever be accommodated. First-rate support officers, however, were at a premium and if Sally fancied the reflected glory of working alongside Helen, then Charlie was sure it could be arranged.
The pair separated shortly afterward, agreeing to meet an hour later in the McDonald’s opposite the station to make the exchange. As Charlie watched Sally go, she was suddenly full of nervous excitement. Against the odds, she had pulled it off. She had done it. But what would it mean for her and Sally?
More important, what would it mean for Helen?
54
“So tell me all about her. I’m dying to know the details.”
Not for the first time, Ceri Harwood’s heart sank. Stuck in another interminable dinner party, she had tried her best to entertain—regaling her guests with stories of the colorful villains she’d nicked, the surprising scrapes she’d survived, while provoking peals of laughter by threatening to frisk them all for banned substances. It was an act—she was dog-tired and couldn’t be bothered—but she performed it well. It was important for her husband’s firm that the local councilors and business leaders look kindly on him, and she was happy to do her bit, but it always ended the same way. People seemed to look past her for something more interesting—and that something was always Helen Grace.
The woman quizzing her was blond, attractive and good company. Divorced, she ran a local advertising agency and made a lot of money out of it. One in the eye for her unfaithful ex-husband. Cerihad been enjoying their chat together, but as they discussed her police work, Ceri could feel the conversation being steered toward her bête noire.
“She’s a good copper,” Ceri replied graciously, “if a little unorthodox and prone to hug the limelight. When you’ve achieved a level of noteworthiness, I’m afraid there is always a part of you that craves adulation and attention. She’s highly effective—don’t get me wrong—but she occasionally forgets that police work is teamwork.”
Her guest—Lucy—seemed little interested in Helen’s ego or procedural misdemeanors. What she wanted was a blow-by-blow account of what had happened during the fatal shoot-out when Marianne Baines died. Did she really pull the trigger on her own sister? And what about Ella Matthews? Did she die at Helen’s hand? And what was it about this DI that meant she had such a nose for these cases?
The questions rushed out in a torrent. It was as if her guest were a little in love with Helen, Ceri thought uncharitably. And she was about to say something deeply disappointing—she liked to pretend these details were classified despite the fact that they’d been all over the newspapers—when she caught Tim’s eye. He was studying her closely. Did he know the subject of the conversation? Either way, he was giving Ceri the eye, tacitly encouraging her to give Lucy what she was asking for.
So, taking another large gulp of Cabernet Franc, Ceri dutifully trotted out the details of Helen’s heroism. It stuck in her craw, but there was nothing for it but to play ball. Another evening ruined, Ceri thought to herself.
One more night languishing in the shadow of Helen Grace.
55
