Eeny Meeny - [4]
In the site office, swathed in a blanket, she didn’t look any less mental. She wouldn’t tell them where she’d been or where she was from. She didn’t even seem to know what day it was. In fact, all they could get out of her was that she was called Amy and that she’d murdered her boyfriend that morning.
Helen jabbed the brakes and came to a halt outside Southampton Central Police Station. The futuristic glass and limestone building towered above her, commanding fantastic views over the city and the docks. It was only a year or two old and by any measure was an impressive nick. State-of-the-art custody facilities, a CPS unit on site, SmartWater testing facilities, it had everything a modern copper needed. She parked up and walked inside.
‘Sleeping on the job, Jerry?’
The desk sergeant snapped out of his daydream and tried to look as busy as possible. They always sat up a bit straighter when Helen entered. This wasn’t just because she was a Detective Inspector; it was also something to do with the way she carried herself. Entering the building clad in her bike leathers, she was six foot of driving ambition and energy. Never late, never hungover, never sick. She lived and breathed her job with a fierceness they could only dream of.
Helen headed straight for the offices of the Major Incident Team. Southampton’s flagship nick might be revolutionary, but the city it watched over remained unchanged. As Helen surveyed the caseload she sagged a little at the predictable familiarity of it all. A domestic argument that had ended in murder – two lives ruined and a young child taken into care. The attempted murder of a Saints fan by travelling Leeds Utd supporters and most recently the brutal killing of an 82-year-old man in a botched mugging. His attacker had dropped the stolen wallet whilst fleeing the scene, handing the police a clean fingerprint and a swift ID. The perpetrator was well known to Southampton police – just another lowlife who had devastated an unsuspecting family in the run-up to Christmas. Helen was due to brief CPS on the particulars this morning. She opened the file, determined that the case against this little thug should be absolutely watertight.
‘Don’t get too comfortable. Job’s on.’
Mark Fuller, her DS, approached. A handsome and talented copper, Mark had worked hand in glove with Helen for the last five years. Murder, child abduction, rape, sex trafficking – he’d helped her solve numerous unpleasant cases and she had come to rely on his dedication, intuition and bravery. A nasty divorce had taken its toll however and recently he’d become erratic and unreliable. Helen was depressed to notice that he once again smelt of booze.
‘Young girl who says she’s killed her boyfriend.’
Mark extracted a photo from his file and handed it to Helen. It had the distinctive Missing Persons stamp on the top right-hand corner.
‘Victim’s name is Sam Fisher.’
Helen looked down at the snapshot of a fresh-faced young man. Clean-cut, optimistic, even a touch naive. Mark paused a moment, allowing Helen to examine the photo, before handing her another.
‘And our suspect. Amy Anderson.’
Helen couldn’t hide her surprise as she took in the image. A beautiful and bohemian girl – twenty-one years old at the very most. With long flowing hair, striking cobalt eyes and delicate lips, she looked the definition of youth and innocence. Helen picked up her jacket.
‘Let’s go then.’
‘Do you want to drive or shall -’
‘I will.’
They walked down to the car pool in silence. En route, Helen extracted her DC, who’d been liaising with Missing Persons. The irrepressibly perky Charlene ‘Charlie’ Brooks was a good officer, diligent and spirited, who resolutely refused to dress like a cop. Today’s offering was skin-tight leather trousers. It was beyond Helen’s remit to take her to task over her dress sense, but she was tempted to nevertheless.
In the car, the stale alcohol on Mark’s breath smelt even stronger. Helen cast a sideways look at him before winding down the window.
‘So what have we got?’ she asked.
Charlie already had the file open.
‘Amy Anderson. Reported missing a little over two weeks ago. Last seen at a gig in London. She emailed her mother on the evening of the second of December to say she was hitching home with Sam and would be back before midnight. No sign of either since. Her mother phoned it in.’
‘Then what?’
‘She turns up at Sampson’s this morning. Says she’s killed her boyfriend then clams up. Won’t say a word to anybody now.’
‘And where’s she been all this time?’
Mark and Charlie looked at each other, before Mark eventually replied:
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
They parked the car in the Winter Wonderland car park and marched to the site office. Entering the tired Portakabin, Helen was shocked by the sight that greeted her. The young woman huddling beneath a tatty blanket looked wild, unhinged and painfully thin.
‘Hello, Amy. My name’s Detective Inspector Helen Grace – you can call me Helen. May I sit down?’
No response. Helen carefully eased herself into the chair opposite.
