Then suddenly it happened. Without any warning, a blinding light that set Mickery’s eyes ablaze. She howled in agony – it was as if lasers had shot into her brain – and clamped her hands to her face. A sudden rush of cool air, freezing yet blissful, poured over her body. But the respite was temporary.
She was being dragged. It took her a while to work out what the sensation was, but she was definitely being dragged. Someone had a vice-like grip on her arm and was dragging her across the floor and out into the light. Was she being rescued? Was this Grace?
She struck something metal and yelped. Now the hands were under her, hauling her up. Instinctively she knew this was no rescue, that there would be no salvation here. She landed with a thump in a small, enclosed space. Her hands felt around and slowly, gingerly, she began to open her eyes.
The light was still punishingly bright, but she was lying in someone’s shadow now, so could just about bear it if she snatched glimpses. She was in the boot of a car. Helpless and splayed in the boot of a car.
‘Hello, Hannah. Surprised to see me?’
It was Katherine’s voice – her tormentor and jailer.
‘Don’t be. I’m not the sadistic type, so I’ve decided to spare you.’
Mickery looked up at her, unable to process what she was hearing.
‘But I need you to do one little thing for me first.’
Hannah waited. Reeling as she was, she knew straight away that she would do anything Katherine asked. She wanted to live more than she’d ever wanted anything before.
As the car drove off, Hannah found herself smiling. Something – she didn’t know what – had happened. And she had been delivered from purgatory. Any price – any – was worth paying for that.
It never even occurred to her to wonder what had happened to Sandy. He didn’t exist any more as far as she was concerned.
79
Would she ever stop laughing at them? Mickery and Morten constituted the fifth forced abduction and still the killer didn’t put a foot wrong. Sanderson, Grounds and McAndrew had supervised diligent house-to-house enquiries, hoping to find a witness to this latest abduction. Whittaker had allocated them extra uniformed officers – but all to no avail. Charlie and Bridges had spent the day at the Morten family home supervising the crime scene but not a single shred of forensic evidence had been found. The trio had obviously been drinking champagne – two sedative-laced flutes lay where they had fallen on the floor and the imprint of another was dusted up on the coffee table – but the third glass and the bottle had vanished. Charlie fielded an angry call from Whittaker and was forced to admit she had no positive developments to give him.
Bold to do it in the victim’s home. Sandy’s wife had been abroad visiting relatives, but even so. Was the killer untouchable? It was beginning to look that way. The Morten house was a noisy, stressful place – the forensics circus was in town and there in the background was the wife – Sheila – who refused to go and stay with friends, feeling no doubt that her belated presence there, or at the very least her refusal to desert the family home, would somehow guarantee Sandy’s safe return. It wouldn’t, Charlie knew that, though she obviously couldn’t say anything to the wife. Sandy would return in a body bag or as a traumatized, gibbering wreck. The whole atmosphere was oppressive and as another wave of nausea struck, Charlie hurried outside.
She’d just about made it out of sight when she hurled. A big, feisty regurgitation of her breakfast. Charlie had felt sick all day and in more ways than one. There was something profoundly odd and disquieting about bringing a new life into this dark world. She and Steve had been so looking forward to starting a family, but now Charlie was full of doubts. What right did she have to bring a baby into this? When there was such violence and cruelty and evil all around us. It was a profoundly depressing thought and made Charlie retch again.
As she was wiping herself down, her phone rang. Jaunty and inappropriate. She hurried to answer it.
‘Charlene Brooks.’
‘Help me.’
‘Who is this?’
A long silence, an intake of breath as if the caller were summoning energy to talk, then:
‘It’s… Hannah Mickery.’
Charlie stood bolt upright. It certainly sounded a bit like her. Could it really be?
‘Where are you, Hannah?’
‘I’m outside the Fire Station Diner on Sutton Street. Please come now.’
And with that, she hung up.
Charlie was on the road within minutes. Bridges, Sanderson and Grounds were also on their way there, closely followed by Tactical Support. It was clear to everyone that this might be a trap. But pregnant or not, Charlie was going to walk into it. As they neared Sutton Street, the blues and twos went off and Tactical Support slipped round the block to watch discreetly as per usual.
Mickery looked as if she could barely stand. Her hair was matted, her red coat stood out garishly next to the deathly pallor of her skin and she seemed to be leaning against the wall for support. Charlie was shocked by her transformation. She hurried towards her, her eyes flitting left and right for any sign of danger. Oddly now that she was here facing Mickery she felt more vulnerable than she’d expected. Visions of the baby growing inside her flashed in her head and then were shoved back down. She must concentrate.
Mickery collapsed into her arms. Charlie held her for a moment, running her eyes over her. She was in a pitiful state. What had she been through to be reduced to this?
Charlie called an ambulance and as they waited for it to arrive, she attempted to glean what she could from the terrified therapist. But Mickery wouldn’t talk to her. It seemed as if she had instructions and was intent on following them to the absolute letter. Mickery, who had once seemed so cocky, now looked scared.
‘Grace.’ Mickery’s voice was cracked and quiet.
‘Sorry?’
‘I will only talk to Helen Grace.’
And that was the end of the conversation.
80
Her phone was off, the door was locked, she was utterly alone. It wasn’t standard protocol for the senior investigating officer to sever all contact with her team during such an important investigation, but Helen needed some time alone. She needed to think.
She had pulled her own file from HR and was leafing through her professional history, whilst simultaneously surfing the archives of both the Southampton Evening News and Frontline, Hampshire police’s monthly publication. She was looking for the missing link – the clue that would prove once and for all that the killer was targeting her.
There could be no doubt any more that the killer’s choice of victims was governed by Helen’s past successes as a police officer. She had rescued James Hawker (later Ben Holland) from certain death, when she took down his crazed father. The killer, however, had made sure that James/Ben didn’t have a happy ending. Helen had saved Anna and Marie from teenage arsonists, but the killer had taken care of them too. Martina had been born Matty Armstrong and was working as a rent boy in Brighton, when his life went badly sideways. He’d been trapped, tortured and abused by a gang of men in a basement flat, until Helen and a colleague had fortuitously heard his screams and broken down the door to end his ordeal. Again the killer had made sure he hadn’t survived. Mickery was probably just a bonus, a little joke at Helen’s expense – time would tell on that one – which just left Amy and Sam. They were the missing link. How were they connected to Helen? What had they done to draw themselves to the killer’s attention?