‘She told me that and a lot more besides,’ Helen lied.
‘I’m sure she did.’
‘She told me every little detail of your thoughts, your plans. But do you know what the most surprising thing she said was?’
‘I don’t like playing games -’
‘She told me she loved you.’
For once Ethan had no response. Was it Helen’s imagination or did he suddenly look a little less cocksure? The assisting police officers were very close to Ethan now, but he seemed to have forgotten about them, so focused was he on Helen.
‘Which means you’ve got something over me.’ She was keen to press home the advantage. ‘I’ve read your blog, Ethan. I know how you met, how you feel about her. You called her your “angel”.’
‘She is.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she has beauty. And goodness. And serenity. Because she’s the only person I ever met who didn’t dismiss me before I’d even opened my mouth.’
‘I get all that, but here’s the thing. Naomie’s just a stone’s throw away, Ethan. Sitting alone in a police cell. And right now she’s carrying the can for your crimes. I think you owe her a little more than that, don’t you?’
Ethan said nothing in response. Helen watched his face closely for signs of guilt, signs of surrender, as she carried on:
‘She’s lonely, she’s scared, she needs you. So if you value her as much as you say you do, then let’s end this now. You can make the difference, Ethan. Tell the world it was your idea, that you duped her, that you controlled her. You can still be the hero in this story – you can still save her. But you have to come with me. And we have to do this now.’
Underneath the bridge, the passing trains provided a tense, rumbling accompaniment to their confrontation. Helen stared at Ethan for what seemed like an eternity, willing him to respond, then finally he nodded. Helen felt the tension seep from her body and she took a step forward, pulling the cuffs from her belt.
‘Did Naomie tell you how we met?’ he said suddenly.
Helen nodded, taking another small step forward.
‘Did she tell you where we met?’
‘No,’ Helen answered, unnerved by the tone of his voice.
‘Here,’ he said, gesturing to the bridge. ‘And we’ve met here pretty much every night since.’
And now Helen realized that Ethan hadn’t been heading for the train station after all. He’d been heading for this bridge.
‘Ethan, you have to come with me -’
Helen was moving forward quickly, all pretence at caution now gone, but Ethan seemed unconcerned by her approach.
‘Our special place. Our ten o’clock shot.’
Helen could hear the train getting closer and knew exactly what Harris was intending to do. He darted towards the safety barrier and Helen went with him, determined to cut him off before he could jump. With one fluid movement, he swivelled up on to the wall, but just as he flipped himself over the edge, Helen managed to grab hold of his coat. The train was almost upon them, rattling over the tracks at speed, but Helen refused to let go, dragging Harris back from the brink. This was one fight she was not prepared to lose.
Then suddenly it was Helen was who falling backwards. As she hit the kerb, she realized that Harris had slipped out of his coat and was free of her grasp. She made one last, desperate attempt to stop him, but was left clutching at thin air. Seconds later, she heard the dull crunch as his body smashed into the metal tracks and immediately after that the desperate, anguished cry of the train’s horn, as the driver realized too late what was happening.
Helen turned away, unable to watch. Why hadn’t she realized what he was planning? Why hadn’t she stopped him? But even as she lacerated herself with these futile thoughts, something made her pause and look up. A sound. The sound of church bells marking the time.
And now Helen realized the enormity of her mistake. Ripping her mobile phone from her pocket, she punched in some numbers and began a desperate sprint back in the direction she’d just come from.
140
DC McAndrew raced down the stairs, barging her startled colleagues aside. Helen had just rung off and was haring back to base, but there was no time to lose. Pushing through the double doors, McAndrew sprinted into the custody area.
‘Cell three. I need it open now.’
The custody sergeant looked up, aggrieved at this sudden intrusion.
‘NOW!’ McAndrew roared.
And now he didn’t hesitate, snatching up his keys and marching with her towards the third cell on the left. Without hesitating to open the viewing hatch, he turned the key and wrenched the door open. McAndrew didn’t wait for the standard invitation to enter, pushing past him aggressively.
But she was too late. Naomie Jackson had made full use of the extra blanket she’d requested, fashioning an impromptu noose from which she now swung. Screaming, McAndrew climbed up on to the toilet seat, pulling frantically at the knot, but she knew it was hopeless. Naomie was already dead.
At the end, the lovers would be together in death.
141
It was Christmas Day. A day Thomas Simms had been dreading.
It was less than a fortnight since he’d buried his wife and daughter and the idea of enjoying some Christmas cheer seemed both unreal and obscene. Karen had loved the festive season, Alice too of course, and he knew that even in years to come, when the wounds were perhaps a little less raw, he would always struggle at this time of year. It would remind him of all he had lost.
Fresh on the back of the funeral they’d heard the news that those responsible had taken their own lives in a prearranged suicide pact. This was the final blow as far as Thomas was concerned and for days he’d raged at the police, reporters, family – anyone who’d listen – furious that the family had been denied justice. He felt nothing for the perpetrators and their death provoked no sense of triumph in him, just a sense of emptiness and deflation.
Luke felt the same – he knew that. Thomas’s son said very little these days – he was a far cry from the chatty, optimistic teenager he’d once been – but Thomas could tell that he too seethed with anger and frustration. Luke was furious with the world, furious with Harris and Jackson, but most of all he was furious with himself for the part he thought he’d played in the family’s misfortune.
It had never occurred to Thomas to blame his son. As far as he was concerned, they had been visited by someone else’s madness. But try as he might he couldn’t get Luke to see things his way. The boy was intent on blaming himself, even though there were others who were far more culpable in his view. Jacqueline Harris had actually written to them – the letter arriving three days before Christmas – clumsily expressing her remorse and guilt. But Luke wasn’t interested and Thomas had torn up the letter before he’d got to the end of the first page. It was clear she was seeking absolution – and he wasn’t going to give her that.
There was nothing to celebrate this year, but Christmas had arrived anyway, unbidden and unwelcome. There was no tree, of course, no decorations, no turkey or presents – none of the trappings they used to enjoy. There were cards, however. These had arrived in a trickle at first, then by the dozen, then in great armloads, as relatives, friends and total strangers felt moved to send Luke and Thomas their fervent hopes for brighter days ahead. Luke didn’t want to look at them, so Thomas spirited them away to his bedroom, where he could read them in private.
Some of them made him cry, others made him smile. But all of them were valuable. None more so than the one from Charlie Brooks, who had kept a discreet but vigilant eye on them since the conclusion of the investigation. She had her own issues to deal with – had her own family – but her concern and affection for Thomas and Luke was not in question. And as Thomas read her card for a third, then a fourth time, he realized why her card – and many others like hers – had given him such comfort.