“An hour or so?”
“Where?”
“Northam Junction.”
“Okay, let’s focus on her known haunts near there. We must presume she’s seen the publicity about herself so won’t be returning home anytime soon. Her mother mentioned a few places she likes to go—the city library, the pubs on Oakland Street, the Common, the skateboard park, the WestQuay Shopping Centre. Let’s concentrate our fire on those sites nearest Northam and scroll out from there. If we’re in luck, she’ll still be in the neighborhood.”
“Good,” Gardam replied. “In the meantime, we’re liaising with the Transport Police. It’s not impossible she might try to run.”
“Maybe, but she seems very committed. I think she’ll see thisthrough to the end, so we should check out old friends, former schoolmates, anyone who might be sheltering her in the local area. Only those who know her well will want to shield her now.”
Which was exactly what was worrying Helen. She didn’t say this to Sanderson or Gardam, but the simple fact was that Naomie didn’t have any friends. So what would she do now that her latest attack had been foiled? Would she ever contemplate giving herself up or would she be in this to the bitter end? Privately Helen feared the latter. The question was how it would play out. And, more important, who would she take with her?
119
Charlie walked along the quiet path, her eyes ranging over the bleak expanse of Hoglands Park. By day, the large swath of green was a pleasant enough city center picnic spot, complete with cricket ground, a skateboard park and a small kids’ playground. But no sensible person came here at night, when the drug dealers and sex workers drifted in. Now it was a desolate, threatening place, full of shadows and menace. Charlie suddenly felt exposed, pounding the paths alone at this hour.
There were uniformed officers in nearby Sussex Place and Houndwell Park. Plus, she had her baton to defend herself if need be, but still there was something about the feel of this place after dark that affected you. Charlie’s mind took flight across town to Jessica—Steve would be putting her in her bath now—but she pushed the thought away. No point making herself more unhappy by thinking about where she really wanted to be.
It had been a strange and unsettling day so far. She had attended Karen and Alice Simms’s funeral, which was why she was dressed in her dark, charcoal gray suit that seemed so out of place amid the dope-smoking kids who were now making their presence felt in the park. She had been there to support the family in a professional capacity, but like everyone there she had been deeply affected by the ceremony. It was positive and celebratory, but you couldn’t escape the fact that the Simms family had been rent in two, a deeply loved mother and daughter snatched from Luke and Thomas in the most horrific of circumstances. Nobody mentioned the fire—it was the elephant in the room—but it pervaded everything, from the carefully worded euphemisms of the vicar to Charlie’s own presence at the service. Just when you got lost in the happy family memories, it would hit you again—somebody did this to this family. Somebody wanted Karen and Alice Simms to die.
Charlie walked on, her mind twisting around this notion, attempting to settle on a reason why they might have been targeted. She was so lost in her own thoughts that she stumbled on the group of skateboarders lounging in the grass before she saw them. They were amused by her—assuming she was just a dimwit suit who’d lost her way—but the sight of her warrant card shut them up. As soon as she pulled it from her pocket, she felt the mood change and immediately clocked that more than one of those present flicked their eyes nervously toward another, smaller group of dope smokers, idling by the main skateboard ramp.
Instinct took over now and Charlie didn’t stop to ask questions, marching instead toward the small knot of kids who were only fifty-odd feet away. Her approach was fast—she was forty feet away, now thirty—but not fast enough, for as she neared the group, one of them took off at speed. The lighting wasn’t good in this part of the park, but Charlie could make out the frizzy hair and bulky form and she knew immediately that she had stumbled on Naomie Jackson.
Charlie wrenched her radio from her pocket as she ran. She was wearing long boots and her tight suit trousers were irritatingly restrictive—she now regretted her lack of gym time since returning to work. But still she hoped to have the edge on Naomie, who had never been much of an athlete.
“Pursuing suspect through Hoglands Park in the direction of Kingsway Place. I need backup and officers on South Front, Kingsway Place. I’ll cover Hoglands if she tries to double back.”
Charlie clicked off—it was hard to run and speak—and picked up her speed. If Naomie was smart she’d dart across Kingsway Place and into the City College, whose many buildings and walkways offered decent hiding places. But instead Naomie was heading straight for the northern exit of the park—she was in full flight now, panic driving her forward. She was surprisingly fast and Charlie labored to keep up with the fugitive. Her breathing was already short and painful—her lungs burning—and she realized how long it had been since she’d been in an all-out sprint. In her early days it had been a feature of day-to-day work, but now it was an unpleasant anomaly.
“Requesting backup and officers on Kingsway Place and South Front,” Charlie gasped into her radio, before clicking off once more. Nobody had responded and she was suddenly gripped by the fear that Naomie might escape her. This girl who had done so much damage, who’d done such terrible things. Charlie could stop her tonight—but only if she could get to her in time.
They were reaching the edge of the park now. And suddenly Charlie realized what was happening. There was an industrial estate just beyond North Front—a depot and a couple of warehouses surrounded by aging chain-link fences. Did Naomie know this terrain? Did she already have a specific escape route in mind?
Naomie was nearly clear of the park now, despite Charlie’s efforts to chase her down. Charlie strained to keep up, but she could feel herpace slowing. Only fractionally but it would be enough to ensure Naomie’s escape.
Then suddenly and without warning, it was over. Two uniformed officers appeared at the mouth of the park just as Naomie reached it. Her momentum was too great now and even as she tried to turn back, the officers pounced. By the time Charlie finally caught up with her, she was already being read her rights.
As Charlie got her breath back, she looked down at Naomie—and she was surprised by what she saw. She’d been expecting anger and defiance as the killer fought to preserve her liberty. But Naomie was exhibiting none of these emotions. Her head was pointing down, her chin almost touching the ground, and instead of directing any hostility toward her captors, she was simply crying quietly to herself.
120
“Do you self-harm, Naomie?”
It was a strange question for Helen to ask, but one she hoped would get a reaction. So far Naomie had just sat there, slumped in her chair, flanked by a pernickety brief and an earnest social worker, refusing to offer anything except the standard “No comment.” The usual questioning—why, when, how—would get them nowhere, Helen sensed—Naomie wasn’t that kind of collar. As she ran the rule over their prime suspect once more, Helen took in the unkempt hair, the muffin top and the fresh scarring on her left palm. It had been obvious from the start that Naomie had chronic self-esteem issues and Helen had decided to confront these head-on.
For the first time in their interview Naomie looked directly at Helen, before dropping her eyes to the floor once more.
“I’m not judging you, Naomie, or asking you to tell me your life story. I know what it’s like. I know that sometimes things get so bad thatyou feel you have to hurt yourself. And that it can feel like a release, when you can’t see a way forward, when the world seems determined to hurt you.”
Naomie shrugged, which was progress of sorts, so Helen pressed on. “That cross on your palm. It doesn’t look accidental. Did you do that?”
“Yeah, I did it,” Naomie mumbled.
“How?”
“With a lighter.”
