‘I’m starting to think maybe I don’t. Have you considered that Grace might be able to give us the names of others who were abused like her and who can back her story up?’
‘What, you mean other runaways, prostitutes and assorted cast-offs whose word carries no more weight than hers?’
‘Mark Baxley isn’t any of those things. There could be others like him out there.’
‘Yeah, and if there are, they’ve no doubt been pumped full of enough Rohypnol to turn their brains into scrambled eggs too.’
‘Well what about the desk? Whoever did that was obviously looking for something. Maybe that something is a complete version of the DVD, one that reveals the perpetrators’ identities.’
‘That was my initial thought too, but then it occurred to me that Grace doesn’t care about finding evidence to get those men arrested. She’s looking for something that’ll lead her to them. A list of names, or something like that.’
‘If so, surely it’s more important than ever that we catch her and get our hands on that list.’
‘At which point we’re faced with the same problem I mentioned a moment ago. Without physical evidence or other more credible victims or witnesses, we’re screwed.’
‘Maybe you’re right, maybe not.’ There was a sharp note in Amy’s voice. ‘Either way it’s irrelevant. We’ve got a job to do, and if you want to keep doing it, I suggest you don’t repeat any of this to anyone.’
Jim heaved a sigh, wondering why he’d bothered venting his mind. He hadn’t really expected Amy to understand where he was coming from. She was still in love with the job, and the job dealt in black and white, innocence and guilt. As she’d said, murder was murder. Regardless of Grace’s past, if she was guilty, the law would show no mercy. That was the way it was. The way it had to be. Jim understood that. But the older he got, the less he agreed with it. He’d seen too many victims jailed for taking revenge on those who’d hurt them. And he’d seen too many perpetrators slip through the cracks in the law – people like Bryan Reynolds, Stephen Baxley and the Winstanleys; people who operated in a world where right and wrong were defined by those who had the power to do so. For them, murder wasn’t murder unless you were convicted of it. He found himself wondering, as he had many times in the past few years, whether perhaps the only way to beat their kind was to attack them with their own weapons. He gave a little shiver – it was a thought that never failed to send a chill up his spine.
‘Don’t worry, Detective Sheridan, as long as I’m doing the job, I’ll do it properly.’ As if trying to convince himself that his words were true, Jim repeated with slow emphasis, ‘Do it properly.’
As they drove on in tense silence, news filtered through the radio that Xavier Winstanley had been taken into custody and the Firearms Unit were securing the house and surrounding area. They heard the burglar alarm’s shrill wail before they saw the building that housed Winstanley Accountants and Business Advisors. Jim pulled in behind a motorbike. A light was on in one of the downstairs windows. He caught a shadow of movement behind the blinds. ‘There’s someone in there.’
Amy reached for the radio. ‘That’s it, I’m calling for back-up.’
Jim got out of the car and approached the motorbike. The keys were in the ignition. He removed them and turned towards the building, his moustache twitching with uncertainty. Grace was a killer. She had to be stopped. Didn’t she? He pushed the thought aside. It wasn’t his place to ask such questions. It was his place to do his duty as a policeman. Amy wound down her window. ‘Keep the building under surveillance and wait for armed back-up. Those are our orders.’
As she spoke, a figure with a hood pulled tight around their face emerged from the building and advanced rapidly towards them. ‘She’s got a gun!’ Jim shouted, recognising the woman from the CCTV footage.
‘You get your hands up!’ ordered Angel, her voice trembling. As Jim obeyed, she aimed the Glock at Amy. ‘And you get out of the car!’
Amy rose to her feet, hands spread.
‘Grace Kirby?’ Jim’s voice was uncertain. It was the woman from the CCTV, he didn’t doubt that, but curiously her eyes were brown, not blue.
‘Shut your mouth!’
‘You’re Grace Kirby, aren’t you?’
Angel jerked the gun back towards Jim. ‘I said fucking shut it.’
‘Put the gun down,’ said Amy, her voice calm and forceful. ‘We’re police officers.’
‘I’m warning you. One more word!’ Angel pointed at the car. ‘Get the keys and the radio receiver.’ Once Amy had done so, she continued, ‘Put them on the bonnet, along with your mobile phones.’
Again, Jim and Amy complied. With the gun, Angel motioned them to a spot where she could get on the motorbike without taking her eyes off them. She put their things in her handbag, unhooked the helmet from the handlebars and tossed it aside, then felt for the ignition keys. Finding that they were missing, she hissed, ‘Which of you has got the keys?’
Jim opened his hand to reveal them. ‘I know what Stephen Baxley and the Winstanleys did to you, Grace. I’ve seen the film they made.’
Angel gave him a narrow-eyed look. ‘You’re the copper who called me yesterday, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I want to help you. Together we can catch the others involved.’
‘If you’ve really seen the film, you know as much about them as me.’
‘Their faces were hidden. That’s why we need you.’
Shaking her head, Angel echoed Jim’s earlier words to Amy. ‘Even if I could tell you their names, it wouldn’t make any difference. They’re beyond your reach. But not mine.’
‘Listen to him, Grace,’ said Amy. ‘You can get these guys, but killing them isn’t the way to do—’
‘No!’ cut in Angel, a dark light kindling in her eyes. ‘There’s no other way. Now throw me the keys. I don’t want to hurt you, but believe me I will if I have to.’
Jim tossed the keys to her.
‘Get on your faces.’
Once Jim and Amy were lying down, Angel swung her leg over the bike. For an instant, she was forced to lower her gaze to insert the key into the ignition. Amy started to move into a pouncing position, but Jim caught hold of her wrist. The bike’s engine roared into life and Angel accelerated away, speeding towards the city’s outskirts.
Amy yanked her wrist out of Jim’s grip. ‘I could’ve taken her down.’
‘Got yourself killed, more like.’
Amy dismissed his words with a snort. ‘And what the hell was all that about you calling her? Have you totally lost your mind?’
‘I was just trying to reach out to her. Let her know there was help available.’
‘Oh you helped her alright. I can’t think of a better way to give someone a heads-up that we’re on their arse. No wonder she was wearing fake fucking contact lenses.’
‘And what if she’d listened to me? The Winstanleys would still be alive.’
‘I bet you’d be jumping for joy if that was the case, wouldn’t you?’ Amy’s tone was laced with sarcasm.
A frown added to the creases carved into Jim’s rugged face. ‘Are you suggesting I helped her murder the Winstanleys?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. But let’s face it, Jim, you won’t exactly be mourning their deaths.’
‘Will you?’ Now it was Jim’s turn to raise his voice. ‘Christ knows how many kids have fallen victim to those perverts. Well, they won’t be hurting anyone now. Am I really supposed to mourn that?’
‘You’re supposed to do your job!’
‘I am doing my fucking job, the same as I’ve been doing it since you were still in nappies.’ Jim took a breath and continued more calmly. ‘You’re right, I was bang out of order phoning Grace. But you seem to be forgetting that at the time I didn’t know what had gone down in Middlesbrough. How could I possibly have any idea what she intended to do?’
Amy stared at Jim, her eyebrows knotted. She heaved a sigh. ‘OK, look, I’m sorry for saying what I did. But you can hardly blame me after what you said earlier.’
‘I don’t blame you. But maybe one day, when you’ve been doing this job for as long as I have, you’ll understand why I said what I did.’
‘I really hope not.’
‘Are you going to tell Garrett?’
‘I have to.’
‘Why? What good would it do?’
Amy pursed her lips in indecision. ‘Our responsibility, our only responsibility, is to arrest Grace Kirby. You’ve got to get your head straight about that.’
Jim released a leaden sigh. ‘I know.’
‘Then I’ll keep it to myself.’ Amy paused, before adding meaningfully, ‘For now.’
The wail of fast-approaching sirens drew their attention. Three police cars and a van sped into view. Amy flagged them down. She gave the occupants of the foremost car a description of Grace and pointed them in the direction she’d gone. Two of the cars raced off in pursuit. The van and remaining car blocked off the road in both directions. As a team of six firearms officers geared up to check there was no one else in the building, Amy radioed district headquarters. ‘This is Detective Inspector Sheridan. I need a GPS triangulation on a mobile phone.’ She gave her phone number and waited for a response.
After a brief pause, she heard, ‘GPS indicates suspect vehicle is moving north-east in the area of the Ecclesall Road.’
Amy relayed the information to the cars in pursuit. Then she turned to Jim. ‘Well, it shouldn’t be long now before we catch up with Grace again.’
‘Nice work, Detective.’
‘At least say it like you mean it.’
‘I do mean it.’ With heavy-lidded eyes, Jim watched the firearms officers move in on the building. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all. Very, very tired.’
As soon as she was out of sight of the detectives, Angel turned onto a street that cut back towards the city centre. Again, she almost skidded off the motorbike. She forced herself to slow down and take a moment to orient herself. The street descended towards a dark patch in the city, which she guessed was the Botanical Gardens. At that point, she could turn left and skirt along the edge of the park towards the Hallamshire Hospital or right towards the Ecclesall Road. Either route would bring her, after a couple of miles, to the city centre. Over the motorbike’s engine and the blood hammering in her ears, she caught a thin whine of sirens away to her left. That made her mind up for her. At the end of the street she turned right.
The pubs, bars and restaurants of the Ecclesall Road were packed with customers, many of them sitting at tables on the pavement. Angel felt too visible. She half expected people to jump to their feet, pointing and shouting,
That’s her!
She turned off the Ecclesall Road and worked her way towards the city centre through a tangle of quiet terraced streets. Houses soon gave way to blocks of flats, shops and office buildings. After negotiating a busy roundabout, she slowed almost to a stop, twisting her head from side to side. Spotting a boarded-up shop, she mounted the pavement and cut the engine. She wheeled the bike round to the back of the shop and stashed it behind two large metal bins. She pulled off her hooded top and threw it in one of the bins, along with the contact lenses. There was every possibility that her description was already being circulated to the city’s hotels, pubs, nightclubs, taxi drivers and the like. She figured the fact that she’d cut and dyed her hair should give her a few hours’ breathing space to get her head together and plan her next move.
Angel headed for the hotel, walking fast but trying not to look suspicious. She smiled at the receptionist as she passed through the lobby. The man cast a disinterested glance at her, before returning his attention to the newspaper he was reading. She silently congratulated herself on her choice of lodgings. In a more intimate or upmarket establishment, her appearance alone might have been enough to land her in trouble – her hair was pasted to her forehead with sweat; one leg of her jeans was ripped at the knee; and there were bloody scabs on her elbows.
She caught the lift up to her room and took a long drink of water at the sink. After cleaning and tying a towel around a deep gash on her knee, she removed the carrier-bag containing the tools of her addiction from the toilet cistern. She lay on the bed, staring at the bag, her tongue flicking hungrily for its contents. The heroin itch was almost unbearable, but she knew she couldn’t afford to scratch it. She needed a clear head in case she had to make a sudden departure from the hotel. Even more than that, she needed to think. But only one thought kept hammering in her brain –
You did it! You killed the bastards. Now you deserve a little reward, a little treat.
With a hard shake of her head, Angel shoved the bag under a pillow. Herbert and Marisa were a start, a biopsy before the main operation, that’s all. She took out the little black book and started reading the names aloud to herself, fixing them in her memory. ‘Thomas Villiers, Sebastian Dawson-Cromer, Rupert Hartwell…’ Her voice dissolved into a sigh. There was page after page of names. The sickness, it seemed, went deeper than she’d ever imagined. She was going to need more bullets – lots more.
The first job was to identify the two men still alive from that night in the Winstanleys’ basement. But how? Her gaze continued to skim over the names, until she came to one with a Sheffield phone number and address below it. ‘Henry Reeve.’
The name meant nothing to Angel. She repeated it softly to herself, summoning up an image of her abusers, wondering how she could find out if it belonged to either of them. She considered phoning the number and seeing if she recognised the voice, but the idea didn’t appeal. It would be like holding up a warning sign that said,
I’m on your arse!
An idea occurred to her. She took the detectives’ phones out of her handbag. One was an old-fashioned phone with a basic camera. The other was an iPhone. She navigated to Google on the iPhone and did a search for Henry Reeve, Sheffield. ‘Dr Henry Reeve, Clinical Psychiatrist’ appeared at the top of the hit list. The link led to a chunk of text that read, ‘Dr Reeve is a Chartered Clinical Psychiatrist with over twenty-five years’ experience working in Child and Family Services. Since setting up in private practice in 2002, Dr Reeve has continued to work with young people. He has particular expertise in treating low self-esteem, depression and bipolar disorders.’