Chapter 43
Rubberneckers are an easy target, aren’t they? They are ghouls, feeding on the misfortune of others. And yet which of us can say we wouldn’t look? That we haven’t looked as we crawled past a motorway pileup or idled by a police cordon. What are we looking for? Signs of life? Or signs of death?
Peter Brightston had certainly pulled a big crowd, eager to see what fourteen stone of flesh and bone looks like as it collides with the pavement.
Helen and her team arrived only minutes after the paramedics.
But unlike the poor souls whose job it was to scoop up his remains, Helen, Charlie and Mark were not interested in Peter.
He’d been seen by coworkers jumping—there could be no question of coercion; it was an open-and-shut case of suicide.
No, what interested Helen was the rubberneckers.
Those who had come to enjoy the carnage.
Something told Helen that the killer wouldn’t abandon her victims once she’d set them in motion.
Peter’s suicide was surely the climax of all her hopes and dreams. The living calling card unable to cope with the guilt forced upon him by his abductor.
The killer didn’t even have to do anything this time.
Just sit back and enjoy her handiwork. Surely, though, you’d want to see it?
Which was why they’d brought cameras. From various discreet positions—some elevated, some on street level—they scanned the crowds, recording the masses’ morbid interest in a middle-aged man’s despair.
Reviewing the footage later was a depressing affair.
They’d caught the moment when his wife, Sarah, had turned up.
She was raving, frantic. She hadn’t yet taken in Peter’s abduction and bizarre reappearance.
She hadn’t been able to penetrate his all-encompassing gloom ever since—she’d tried counselors, but his armor was too strong.
And now this. Her entire world—and her place in it—had been destroyed in a matter of weeks.
Before, it had been a world of comfort, private education, skiing trips, a sense of serenity and contentment.
Now the world was a dark place, full of evil, sadism and danger.
“Let’s fast-forward a bit,” Helen suggested, and no one disagreed.
The images sped up briefly, then settled back down to normal. An endless parade of paramedics and gawpers.
“We’re looking for a woman of medium height between five-four and five-eight in height, slender build. Strong nose, fullish lips. Medium to large bust. Pierced ears.” Mark reminded the group what they were looking for.
But even as he said it, he wondered if they were wasting their time.
Even if they saw the killer, would they know her?
They had the e-fits as compiled by Amy and Charlie up on the board, but they were rough and ready, with different-colored hair and so on.
Would they look the killer straight in the eye and not know her?
Shortly after, the footage came to an end.
“What do you want to do now, boss?” Charlie asked.
They had watched it twice without anyone spotting anything of interest. But it was hard to be across everyone—there were so many people on-screen—so after a moment’s hesitation, Helen replied:
“Let’s watch it one more time.”
They settled in for another viewing. Mark offered his Oreos around—they all needed a sugar hit and were grateful for a crack at his secret stash of goodies. They fixed their eyes on the screen once more and tried to concentrate harder than ever.
“There.”
Charlie said it so loud, she made Mark and Helen jump. Charlie spooled the footage back before replaying it. Then suddenly she paused it.
“Look there.”
She was pointing to a woman deep in the crowd who was watching the paramedics loading the body bag onto a trolley.
“If I just zoom in a bit, we might get a better picture—”
“Who is she?” Helen interrupted.
“I’ve seen her before. At Ben Holland’s funeral. She was alone and disappeared as soon as the service was over. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but actually I don’t think I saw her speak to anyone there.”
The woman’s face loomed large on the screen now.
Was this their first view of their serial killer?
They studied the face closely. She was thin faced, with a prominent-ish nose, blond bob, well dressed, respectable.
She could be the woman in the e-fits. It was so hard to tell with those things—you so wanted them to fit that sometimes your eyes played tricks on you.
* * *
As they drove to the Anderson household, Helen felt a profound sense of relief. And something else too: hope. Finally, she had something to work with. She stared at the printed image of the suspect as Mark drove—who was this woman?
They were let into the Anderson household with the usual bad grace. Funny how victims come to resent the police intrusion, even when they need your help. Seated in the living room, Helen wasted no time getting to the point.
“We have an image of a suspect, Amy. And we’d like you to take a look at it.”
Now there was an interest in their presence.
Helen noted Amy’s parents exchanging a look—were they beginning to hope too?
She handed Amy the printout. She examined it closely, then closed her eyes, willing the memory of her abductor back into her mind’s eye.
Silence. She opened her eyes again. Stared at the image once more.
A long, long silence, then:
“It could be her.”
Could?
“How sure are you, Amy?”
“Hard to say. I’d have to see her in the flesh to be sure, but it definitely could be her. The hair, the nose . . . yes, it could be her.”
It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough for now. Amy handed the picture to her parents, who were only too eager to see the bitch who’d kidnapped their daughter. Helen wanted to snatch the image off them—this was no time for pass the parcel.
“I know her.” Diane Anderson’s voice rang out crisp and clear.
For a moment, no one said anything. Then Helen said:
“You’re saying you’ve seen her before?”
“I’ve met her. I’ve spoken to her. I know who she is.”
Helen looked at Mark—a link between the victims at last. It had taken them a long time—too long—to get here. But now they had a prime suspect. Helen felt a surge of adrenaline fire through her and for a brief moment remembered why she’d become a cop in the first place.