Eeny Meeny - [8]

Sam. In many an idle moment, Diane had pondered what it would be like if – when – they got married. She’d always assumed that Amy would follow modern practice and cohabit without getting married. But Amy had surprised her by confiding that she definitely wanted to tie the knot, when the time was right. Typical Amy though, she would do it with a twist. There was no question of her wearing white and she was determined that Diane should give her away rather than her dad. Would Richard wear that? Would other people like it or would they think it odd? With a jolt, Diane realized she was daydreaming again. About a wedding that would never happen.

None of it made any sense. Sam wasn’t violent or aggressive, so it couldn’t have been self-defence. DI Grace had been infuriatingly tight-lipped about what had happened – ‘Better Amy tells you in her own time.’ But Amy hadn’t said a word. She was mute. Diane tried to reach her – by making her malt shakes, opening some French Fancies (a childhood favourite), kitting out the bedroom they’d now share with all her old toys and knick-knacks. But none of it had worked. So they sat there, a stilted threesome. Charlie perching on the end of the sofa trying not to spill her tea, Diane plating yet more unwanted cakes and Amy just staring into space, a shell of the vibrant girl she once was.

11

It was an ambush. The woman was lying in wait and as Helen got out of her car, she pounced.

‘Spare a couple of minutes, Inspector?’

Helen’s heart sank. It was beginning already.

‘Nice to see you, Emilia, but as you’ll appreciate I’m very busy.’

Helen moved off but an arm shot out, stopping her in her tracks. Helen glared – are you serious? – and her adversary took the hint, slowly releasing her grip. Unabashed, Emilia Garanita broke into a broad grin. She was a striking figure – youthful and svelte but also broken and disfigured. As a teenager she’d set hearts on fire, but aged only eighteen had been the victim of a savage acid attack. If you looked at her profile from the left, she was handsome and attractive. From the right, you felt only pity – her features distorted, her cosmetic eye unmoving. She was known locally as ‘Beauty and the Beast’ and was the Chief Crime Reporter for the Southampton Evening News.

‘The Amy Anderson case. We know she killed him but we don’t know why. What did he do to her?’

Helen tried to conceal her disdain – she felt sure it was Emilia who’d been shouting through the Anderson letterbox earlier, but it wasn’t a wise move to antagonize the press this early in an investigation.

‘Was it a sexual thing? Did he beat her? Are you looking for anyone else?’ she continued.

‘You know the drill, Emilia, as soon as we have anything to say media liaison will be in touch. Now if you’ll excuse m-’

‘I’m just curious because you’ve released her. She’s not even on bail. You normally make them sweat a bit longer than that, don’t you?’

‘We don’t make anyone “sweat”, Emilia. I’m a by-the-book girl – you know that. Which is why all communication with the press will be via the usual channels, ok?’

Helen flashed her best smile and continued on her way. She had won the first skirmish in what would no doubt prove to be a long campaign. Emilia had crime in her blood. The eldest of six children, she had become famous when her drug dealer dad was sentenced to eighteen years’ imprisonment for using his children as drug mules. Ever since they were tiny Emilia and her five siblings had been forced to swallow condoms of cocaine as they journeyed home to Southampton docks from one of their many Caribbean cruises. When her Portuguese father went to jail, his paymasters tried to force Emilia to resume her life as a drug mule to help recover their losses. She refused, so they punished her – two broken ankles and half a litre of sulphuric acid in the face. She’d written a book about it, which eventually took her to journalism. Despite the fact that she still walked with a limp, she was scared of no one and utterly tireless in her pursuit of a story.

‘Don’t be a stranger,’ Emilia called out as Helen buzzed into the police mortuary.

Helen knew that life had just got a little bit harder. But she had no time to ponder that now.

Helen had a date with a corpse.

12

He looked like a ghost. The carefree, handsome face that beamed out from his Facebook page bore no resemblance to the sunken death mask that now confronted Helen. Sam’s emaciated body lay on the mortuary slab in front of her, mocking the happy, hopeful person he used to be. It was a profoundly distressing sight.

Helen turned away, distracting herself by checking on the progress of the pathologist, Jim Grieves. Even after thirty years in the business Jim still took an age to clean and robe himself for a PM. The endless hand-washing made him appear like a modern-day Lady Macbeth (albeit an overweight one) and watching his clumsy attempts to sheathe his hands in sterile gloves made you want to march over there and do it for him yourself. Some officers actually had. Others thought he was past it, but Helen knew better and didn’t rush him. He was worth waiting for and there was something vaguely miraculous about the slow transformation from a hefty, heavily tattooed oaf to a gowned, incisive pathologist who had helped open up many a case for Helen.