Ben is dead. Blood is seeping from the hole in his face. There will be no wedding.
Silence. The most horrible, lonely silence Peter had ever experienced. A killer alone with his victim. Oh God.
Then, a blinding light. The hatch yanked open, the midday sunshine streaming in, burning his eyes. Something heavy falling on to his head.
A rope ladder.
His lungs flooded with fresh air, with oxygen, and his whole body convulsed with a sense of euphoria. He was free, he was alive. He had survived.
He limped along the quiet country road. Nobody came down here any more so what chance did he have of finding a rescuer? Even though he had gained his freedom, he still suspected that it was all a trick. That she was laughing at him as he dragged his protesting body along the road. That he would be hunted down. Peter had reconciled himself to dying in that dark hole – could it be that she was actually going to honour the bargain they’d made? Ahead Peter spotted signs of life and picked up his pace.
He laughed when he saw it. ‘Welcome’ in a jaunty typeface above the convenience shop door. It was so friendly it made him cry. He crashed through the doors to be greeted by a sea of alarmed faces – pensioners and school kids shocked by this hideous vision. Face splattered with blood and stinking of piss, Peter careered towards the till. He fainted before he got there, crashing into a promotional display of Doritos. Nobody moved to help him. He looked just like a corpse.
23
Dunston Power Station stood proud on the western edge of Southampton Water. In its heyday the coal-fired plant had once provided electricity for the south coast and much beyond. But it had been mothballed in 2012, a victim of the government’s determination to reboot Britain’s energy supply. Dunston was old, inefficient, and couldn’t compete with the low-carbon alternatives that were being built elsewhere in the UK. Staff had been re-employed and the site sealed off. It wasn’t due to be decommissioned for another two years, so for now it was just an empty memorial to a glorious past. The huge central chimney cast a long shadow over the crime scene and made Helen shiver as she walked towards the police cordon that flapped violently in the sea breeze.
Mark’s steps fell in time with Helen’s as they hurried across the site. He had made a point of driving her here from the station. He hadn’t been drinking and seemed a bit more rested. Perhaps Helen’s words had made a difference after all. As they walked side by side, Helen’s eyes darted now this way, now that, processing the possibilities.
The site had been alarmed, but after copper thieves had trashed the alarm system for the umpteenth time, the decision was taken not to bother with it any more. Everything that was worth nicking had been taken already. Which meant all ‘she’ had to do was remove the chain on the main gate and drive in. Would there be tyre tracks? Footprints? The hatch at the top of the underground coal silo was easily accessible once you were on the site and whilst too heavy for an individual to lift could easily have been yanked open by a van with a chain. Deep tyre grooves near the silo suggested that that was exactly what had happened. That left the transportation of the victims.
‘How did she get them from the van into the pit?’ said Mark, reading her mind.
‘Ben’s pushing six foot, but lean. What do you think? Twelve stone?’
‘Sure. It’s possible a woman could drag that dead weight on her own, but Peter…’
‘Got to be fourteen stone. Maybe more.’
Helen bent down to get a better look. The ground near the hatch opening was certainly very disturbed, but was that the result of both victims being dragged in or a terrified Peter scrambling out?
This was obviously bad practice. An experienced copper knows never to make snap, instinctive judgements about the nature of the crime or the identity of the perpetrator. But Helen knew that this was the second murder. Even if one ignored the evidence of sabotage on Ben’s car, Peter Brightston’s story was so close to Amy’s that the link was undeniable. The pain, guilt and horror etched on Peter’s face when they picked him up was the same as on Amy’s. These guys were living calling cards, a flesh-and-blood testament to somebody else’s sadism. Was that the point of all this?
It was obvious now that they were dealing with a serial killer. Helen had done the courses, read the case studies, but still nothing had prepared her for this. Normally the motive, the connection to the victim, was easy to fathom, but not here. This wasn’t an anti-woman thing, wasn’t a sex crime, and there seemed to be no correlation in age, gender or status between the victims. Helen felt herself being sucked into a long, dark tunnel. A wave of depression assailed her and she had to pinch herself to snap out of it. She would catch the person responsible. Of course she would.
Helen and Mark approached the mouth of the pit. Helen called for a ladder to be brought over – she was anxious to get down there quickly, eager to know the worst. The hatch was already open, so she peered inside. And there in the gloom lay the body. The man Peter had murdered. Ben Holland.
‘Do you want to go down or shall I?’
Mark’s question was well-meaning and he was straining not to be patronizing. But Helen had to see this for herself.
‘I’m fine. This won’t take long.’
Carefully, she climbed down her ladder into the body of silo. The smell was strong down here. Gas fused with coal dust and excrement. The forensic team had found strong traces of a powerful sedative, benzodiazepine, in Sam and Amy’s excrement. They’d probably find it here too. Helen turned her attention to the body. He was lying face down, a pool of blood congealed around his head. Taking care not to touch him, Helen knelt down, craning round to look at the victim’s face.
Disgust and then surprise. Disgust at the bloody hole where his left eye used to be. And surprise at the realization that this was not Ben Holland.
24
Jake was shocked to see her again so soon. Up until now, she’d been fairly predictable: one hour-long session per month. He’d been tempted not to answer the buzzer when it rang – it was after 11 p.m. and all encounters had to be pre-booked for safety reasons. But when he’d seen her face on the screen, he’d been concerned. Concerned and intrigued.
Something was up. She didn’t look at him when she entered the flat and made no mention of the late hour. Normally, he got a brief smile or hello at least. But not tonight. She was distracted, looking inward, even less communicative than usual. She put the money on the table and removed her clothes without looking at him. Then she took off her bra and knickers – standing naked in front of him. This wasn’t really on – this kind of thing usually led to propositions. He was a dominator, not a whore. He provided a service, but not that kind of service.
He had his speech ready as she walked towards him, but she sailed straight past, towards his armoury of goodies. Another rule broken – only he was allowed to choose the method of punishment. That was part of the gig – the submissive didn’t know exactly how they were going to be punished. But Jake said nothing, something in her actions brooked no argument tonight. Jake felt a little frisson of fear and excitement. It was as if the game were being turned back on him and for once he was not the one in charge.
She ignored the crops, heading straight for the studded whips instead. She ran her fingers along them before selecting the nastiest. This was only for the hardcore masochists, not really her thing, but she gave it to him and marched over to the wall. He shackled her. Still not a word had been spoken.