The window was a cheap double-glazed unit and Helen was relieved to see that the small ventilation window at the top was ajar. Maneuvering her right knee onto the sill, she pushed upward and, catching hold of the lip of the open window, hauled herself upright. Reaching down inside, she levered the main window open and seconds later she was crawling along the floor of what appeared to be the spare bedroom, keeping her head as low as possible and her eyes pointed down, moving in the thin layer of clear air underneath the blanket of smoke.
“Mandy?”
Her shout was loud but seemed to rebound off the dense smoke. There was no reply. Crawling out onto the landing, Helen made to move toward what she assumed was the master bedroom, then stopped in her tracks, her eyes drawn to another door, which remained firmly shut. Instinct now guided her toward it and as she neared it she heard a strange noise from inside. Signs of life? It was the most unnatural, animalistic noise she had ever heard, but as she reached the door Helen realized that the sounds emanating from behind the door werehuman—a grotesque mixture of coughing, gasping and crying.
“Mandy?”
Still no reply, so moving up into a crouched position, Helen covered her hand with her sleeve and forced the handle down. Pushing inside, she was relieved to see a young woman cowering in the bathtub in front of her.
She had made the right call in coming here, but their escape now depended on swift and decisive action. Helen was already beginning to feel light-headed as the smoke crept into her mouth and nose, despite her attempts to shield herself from its effects. It took her back to her last major case and a scene she’d rather forget.
“Mandy, I’m a police officer. I’m here to help you, but we need to go now.”
The naked woman in the bathtub looked at her as if she were mad. She stared at Helen uncomprehendingly, stunned by this sudden apparition in her bathroom.
“Mandy,please.”
Helen took another step toward her, offering her hand. But to Helen’s alarm, Mandy backed away, crouching down into the water, raising her arms as if to fight off an attacker. She was screaming now, high and keening, her whole body trapped in a suffocating panic that would be the death of her—and possibly of Helen too.
Helen reached forward but was beaten back. Flicking Mandy’s flailing arm aside, Helen lunged for her now, but as she did so she felt the woman’s teeth sinking into her arm. Withdrawing her arm sharply, she now feinted to the left, drawing Mandy’s defense that way, before slamming the open palm of her right hand to her antagonist’s face.
The connection was hard and true and for a moment Mandy just blinked at Helen, rocked by the severity of the blow. Helen seized the moment, leaning in to grasp the woman under both arms.
“If you want to live, Mandy, you need to come with me. But you need to do it quickly and you need to do itnow.”
And with that she hauled the young woman up and out of the bath. Seconds later the pair stumbled into the inferno, disappearing into the thick black smoke.
117
Everybody loves a love rat.
The journalist in Emilia bridled at that sentence—the use of the word “love” twice in quick succession—but it was true nevertheless. Love rats made good copy, offering up plenty of salacious material while playing on the fears of their female readers. Throw a series of major crimes into the mix and the story became irresistible.
Helen Grace had kept the fourth estate away from Sharon Jackson for now, posting uniformed coppers front and back to keep the hacks away. Emilia hadn’t wasted any time there, taking off immediately to do door-to-doors in the neighborhood before visiting the local GP’s surgery, as well as Naomie’s former school. In Emilia’s experience, the professionals—head teachers, doctors, social workers—always remained tight-lipped, but those who assisted them were more willing to talk. Many a story had been collected from the loose lips of a PA, receptionist, nurse or even school caretaker, especially when flattery and a few freedrinks were offered. And so it proved now as Emilia quickly put together a picture of a lonely, disenfranchised young woman who had often arrived at school with unexplained bruises. She would never point the finger at her mother, but, then again, why would she? The poor kid had nowhere else to go.
And when she was at home, what did she find? Her mother fawning over a man who just wanted to get his leg over without offering anything in return. The other mothers on Sharon Jackson’s estate had been only too glad to talk about their neighbor, who it now turned out had been harboring a serial killer—painting a picture of her as an insecure, needy woman who had never managed to hold on to a man and took what pleasures she could when they were offered.
And in the end it had cost her. One of her love rivals—Denise Roberts—was already dead, while another had just had her house razed to the ground while she took a bath. Every punch, every clipped ear that Sharon Jackson had given Naomie had been paid back with interest, and though she would never betray this in print, Emilia felt a sneaking regard for the young woman who’d refused to take her punishment lying down. Her mother would rue taking her daughter’s submission for granted.
Emilia typed fast, the adrenaline of a big story driving her on, helping to craft the story by instinct rather than forethought. It was all taking shape very nicely and had played just as she’d hoped. She had been the first one to speak to Naomie, and though she couldn’t locate her now, she would ride that connection for all it was worth. This coup had been the result of clever investigative work—something she prided herself on—and she was pleased to see that her coverage of the arson attacks had already engendered a sea change in relations at theNews. The national dailies had picked up on her interview with Naomie, she’d been on the radio discussing it and was due to appear on TV later today in an interview with BBC South—all of which had helped raise thepaper’s profile and massively boosted sales. Her editor had certainly changed his tune, offering her a bonus and hinting at a promotion. It had all worked out well, and though she had sacrificed her good relations with Helen Grace in the process, it had been worth it. Her career was on the up at last and she was happy to weather any fallout that was coming her way.
Bring it on,Emilia thought to herself as she continued to type.
118
The battle was over. They had survived.
Mandy Blayne was swaddled in an emergency blanket and being loaded into an ambulance. They would need to check her out at the hospital—principally for the effects of smoke inhalation. But the initial tests conducted by the paramedics had been encouraging and Helen knew that she would be fine—shaken up, but fine. During the course of the paramedics’ examination, Mandy had admitted she was in the early stages of pregnancy, a revelation that hit home with Helen. They had been so much on the back foot in this investigation that it felt good to have saved not one, but two of Naomie’s intended victims. Did the fact that Mandy was pregnant have anything to do with the attack? Did Naomie know about it? Did she feel threatened? It was a bleak picture that was now emerging.
Helen submitted herself to the paramedics’ attention but refused a hospital visit, despite the fact that her whole body was racked with pain.Her bruises from her beating were still livid and her heroics in rescuing Mandy had only added to her injuries. She had never really liked the phrase “walking wounded,” but she was the very definition of it now. Still, she was determined to lead from the front, so, having obtained a couple of painkillers from the paramedics, she joined Gardam and Sanderson in conference outside Mandy Blayne’s house.
Gardam was solicitous, offering to run the show for her if she needed rest, but Helen dismissed the idea out of hand. She could tell he had news and she wanted to know what it was.
“We’ve had a sighting of Naomie Jackson,” Gardam told her. “A train driver reported a bizarre game of chicken he’d played with a young girl who refused to get off his tracks until the very last second. He was pretty shaken up by it and caught sight of Naomie’s mug shot on the local news as he was resting up back at base. He’s convinced it’s the same girl.”
Helen digested this, then said:
“Okay, let’s get everyone out—the whole of MIT as well as uniforms. How long ago was this?”
