‘What now?’ Sanderson barked through a coughing fit.
Helen was already casting her eyes over the back of the house for another means of entry. There was no shed, no sign of anything that might contain a ladder, so acting on instinct Helen grabbed a wheelie bin and rammed it up against the wall.
‘Climb on and give me a hand up,’ she said quickly.
Before she had finished her sentence, Sanderson was on top of it, holding out her hand to pull Helen up. Helen climbed up and pressing her heel into Sanderson’s interlinked hands made a sudden, upwards lunge for the first-floor windowsill. Her fingers scrambled up the rough brickwork and just as she felt her body begin to fall again after its swift ascent, she caught hold of the windowsill with three fingers of her left hand. She hung there for a moment, out of Sanderson’s reach now and suddenly exposed, before, swinging her body to the right, she managed to get some purchase with her other hand. Now the momentum was with her and, using her legs to push herself up the brickwork, she jammed first one elbow, then the other on to the narrow sill.
The window was a cheap double-glazed unit and Helen was relieved to see that the small ventilation window at the top was ajar. Manoeuvring her right knee on to the sill, Helen pushed upwards 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 on to the landing, Helen made to move towards 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 towards 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 were human – 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 was mad. She stared at Helen uncomprehendingly, stunned by this sudden apparition in her bathroom.
‘Mandy, please.’
Helen took another step towards her, offering her hand. But to Helen’s alarm, Mandy backed away, crouching down into the water, raising her arms to fight off her 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 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 felt the woman’s teeth sinking into her arm. Withdrawing her arm sharply, she now feinted to the left, drawing Mandy’s defence that way, before slamming the open palm of her right hand on 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 it now.’
And with that she hauled the young woman up and out of the bath. Seconds later the pair stumbled back 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 becomes 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 neighbourhood, 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 culled from the loose lips of a PA, receptionist, nurse or even school caretaker, especially when flattery and a few free drinks 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 neighbour, who it now turned out had been harbouring 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 the News. 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 the paper’s profile and massively boosted sales. Her editor had certainly changed his tune – offering her a bonus and hinting at 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.