The heavy door opened and a man exited at speed, his coat pulled up around his face. The door swung slowly forward, then began to roll back toward the frame. Helen didn’t hesitate, darting from her hiding place in the shadows and jamming her foot into the shrinking gap.
Charging up the stairs, she came to a second-floor door and knocked on it with a swift, familiarrat-a-tat. Moments later, the door opened to reveal Max Paine. He looked like he was expecting it to be his recent client, who’d forgotten something perhaps, and the blood drained from his face when he saw who it actually was. He moved to slam the door on Helen, but she was expecting this and shouldered it roughly open, sending Paine barrelling back into the room. Helen shut the door firmly behind her, locking them both in.
“What the fuck do you want?” Paine demanded angrily. Despite heavy makeup, his bruising was still obvious and unsightly. His eyes darted this way and that, searching for something to defend himself with.
“I just want to talk,” Helen replied calmly.
“So talk.”
“I want to know what you intend to do.”
Max Paine eyed her warily, then replied:
“Worried I’m going to report you,Helen?”
Helen regarded him for a moment, before responding:
“You obviously know who I am. And the awkward situation I find myself in. I wouldn’t blame you for reporting me—what I did was wrong—and you could probably get me thrown off the force if you tried hard enough. But here’s why you’re not going to do that. Because I’m a good officer. Because I’m in the middle of a major investigation. And because, if you do, I’ll be forced to tell the investigating officers what a sadistic, cocaine-snorting, woman-hating little shit you are. I’ll be pushing for attempted murder, but I’d settle for GBH or even ABH at a push. Any one of those would land you in jail, Max.”
She said his name with the full contempt she felt for him. He glared at her but said nothing in return.
“So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to go back to your life and I will go back to mine and we’ll pretend it never happened. Deal?”
***
As Helen walked away from Paine’s building, having gained his begrudging acquiescence, she felt her spirits rise. She had been under so much pressure, been so hemmed in on all sides, that it felt good to be finally taking positive action. She had messed up big-time, but the fault was primarily his and she was damned if she was going to be brought down by the likes of Max Paine. A surge of adrenaline coursed through her now—Helen suddenly felt as if she could take on the world and win, that everything would be okay, and she smiled to herself at this sudden burst of optimism.
A blast of icy wind roared over her now, as if in defiant response to her improving mood, but even this couldn’t dampen Helen’s spirits. Itdid, however, remind her that she’d forgotten to check whether she had left her much-missed scarf at Paine’s flat, as she rather suspected she had. Too late now. Helen had bigger fish to fry and she couldn’t exactly return and ask Paine for it, so she would have to make do without. Pulling up her collar to ward off the chill wind, Helen lowered her head and walked away toward her bike.
124
“What the fuck do you want?”
The girl’s nose was wrinkled up in mock disgust, as if the mere sight of a police officer turned her stomach. It was done for effect and it worked—Charlie already wanted to slap her and they’d only been talking for a few seconds. But Charlie swallowed down her irritation, refusing to be deflected from her purpose.
She had risen early after a sleepless night. A worrying thought had kept turning and turning in her head and now she needed to find out if her concerns were justified—or if she was just going mad. She hadn’t known where to find her quarry, except that she lived somewhere near Naomie Jackson. Charlie was on the streets of St. Mary’s by eight a.m. She didn’t expect to find Naomie’s mate up and about then—didn’t look the type—but she couldn’t discount the possibility that she had a job or went to college and would be on the move early.
Predictably, however, there was no sign of her and after an hourCharlie had begun to wonder if she was wasting her time. Then suddenly she saw her—dressed comically in pajama trousers, fake UGG boots and a Puffa jacket, meandering her way to the corner shop. Moments later, she emerged clutching a carton of milk and began to make her way home.
Charlie approached her at speed. They had last met the day after the Denise Roberts fire, when the ratty little ringleader of a gaggle of girls had pushed Charlie toward Naomie Jackson, claiming her friend had seen their runaway arsonist.
“Nice to see you again too. What’s your name?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Name.”
“Danielle Mulligan.”
“That’s better—see, you can be nice when you want to.”
“What’s this about? I can’t stand here like this—”
“You’ll stand there until I’ve finished with you. Got it?”
Danielle shrugged, seemingly determined not to give Charlie the satisfaction of her full acquiescence.
“Talk to me about Wednesday night.”
