Absent Light (2 page)

The eyes hardened. The smile froze. “What did you say?” His voice sounded strange, strangled.

She repeated it more slowly.

He let go of her, sat bolt upright. He looked as though he'd been punched in the head.

“What's the matter?” she said, aghast.

That's when the questions started and the compassion abated.

“Where was the flat?”

“Lozells Road, number…”

“Who was the Senior Investigating Officer?”

She told him. He quizzed her about the medical examiner, the pathologist, what
exactly
had been said, what evidence found. His tone became more and more urgent.

“For God's sake, Adam,” she cut across him. “What's this all about?”

He didn't answer, just tore out of bed, grabbed his clothes.

“Adam, would you please tell me what's going on?” She was cross. She couldn't help it.

He looked back at her with the same kind of hostility she'd encountered at the flat. “I know who did it.”

“You know who the killer is?” Now she was worried.

He carried on getting dressed.

“I don't see how,” she said slowly.

“So do you.” His eyes were boring into her.

“You're not making much sense,” she gave a shaky laugh.

“You have to promise me something.”

“Promise what?” She didn't like the sound of this.

“To say nothing.” There was anger and frustration in his voice and, although she'd glimpsed it before, she saw full-on the ruthlessness of his ambition.

“About what?” she said, confused.

“Everything.” It sounded like a warning. “Fuck, where are my shoes?” he snarled, rummaging under the bed.

“Over by the door,” she said dully, getting up, reaching for a robe, following him. She rested a hand on his arm.

He looked straight into her eyes. “It was Warren Jacks, Helen.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. She couldn't speak. She felt as if someone had sucked all the air out of her.

“Got to go,” Adam said. “Try and sort this Godawful mess out before I'm completely fucked.”

She stared at him in frozen disbelief, knowing that her world had suddenly changed. Then he was gone.

She didn't foresee that the images captured on film that day would be committed to memory forever. She neither expected the event to become imprisoned in her brain, nor the outcome to finish her prospering career.

That would come later.

CHAPTER ONE

PART ONE
FOUR YEARS LATER

T
HERE WAS NO WARNING
. No indication of what was about to happen. One minute she was looking across water that gleamed and glistened like snakeskin, the next she was falling. No time even to scream.

The icy cold took her breath away as expertly as any punch to the stomach. Foul, slimy, diesel-infused water rushed up her nose, stinging her eyes, filling her ears, pouring into every part of her.

She thought herself a good swimmer, but warm water and a calm swimming pool environment had clearly deluded her. This was different. This was deadly. As she spluttered and choked, her limbs flailing blindly, each movement drew a fresh surge of filth into her mouth. She felt as if her lungs were exploding, and the more she tried to push to the surface, the more her sturdy winter clothes and boots dragged her down.

Try to shout, she thought, but the connection to her brain felt uncoupled. Instinct kicked in. Her body curled up. Her muscles went into spasm. In short, the cold was killing her. Even if she could force her limbs to unbend and move, the steep sides of the canal guaranteed no exit.

Kicking frantically, she surfaced to grab some precious air before the canal came back to claim her. As she sank for a second time, she had a strange vision of afterwards, the swarm of police activity, the grim task of retrieving her swollen corpse,
bloated floater,
as known in the trade. The tell-tale froth discharging from her nose and mouth would be noted and observed, as would her skin, which would peel easily if she were left too long in the water, especially from her hands and feet. Then there'd be photographs of her cadaver and the surrounding area. Because she was fully clothed, suicide would be ruled out, murderous intent ruled in. But was it, she wondered weakly?

The strength was fast draining from her as surely as if she were bleeding to death. She could literally feel the fight going out of her. Gulping for more air, she inhaled water, further disturbing the natural osmotic balance of her body. This time she had no energy to struggle. Was it really as quick as this, she thought feebly? Did it really take only a few minutes to die? Water to water, not ashes to ashes, dust to dust?

Life is supposed to flash before your eyes when you're drowning, she thought muzzily, freeze-frames of family and loved ones, of happy and memorable times. She ought to make out her mum and dad, close friends and past lovers, but all she could see, as her body finally capsized, were bright lights and people laughing. The sadness was that, while she was dying, they were only yards away.

“Can you hear me?”

She was lying on her side. Faces stared at her. From far away she heard the insistent wail of police sirens. Someone had taken off her coat and wrapped her in a blanket. She was wet and stinking and chattering with cold. Her mouth felt parched and tasted of sewers. Her stomach ached from retching. She felt hollowed out, like a fish gasping its last floundering breath. A small light was shone into her face, dazzling her eyes, making her see double.

“What's your name, love?”

“Helen,” she rasped, retching again, “Helen Powers.”

“Good girl, you're going to be all right, Helen. I'm Paddy, by the way. I'm your paramedic. We're just going to wrap you in a special blanket, warm you up a bit.”

They could do anything they liked, she thought drowsily. She couldn't care less.

“Give us some room,” she heard a woman's shrill voice pierce the darkness. Then there was the sound of people scattering, muttering among themselves as they receded into the night.

She let herself be rolled over and tucked up into a blanket that had a shiny, metallic surface. Her carers were gently efficient. She felt pathetically grateful. After they loaded her onto a stretcher, she was carried briskly up some steps, the paramedics' feet clattering as they crossed over the bridge and along the other side of the canal, up another flight of steps and into a waiting ambulance. As the doors slammed shut, she feebly asked Paddy how she'd been saved.

“A passer-by, my love, a young man.”

“But he must have been half-drowned.”

“Grabbed hold of your collar and fished you out from the side. Obviously a strong fella.”

Yes, she thought, trying and failing to strain her head to make out her hero and thank him.

“Don't you fret now,” Paddy said. “Once he knew you were all right, he didn't hang around.”

* * *

They took her to Accident and Emergency at Selly Oak. She didn't remember much of the journey, and only had vague impressions of the hospital, mostly the surgical smell and clamour. She felt confused and wanted to sleep, something that seemed to bother the doctors. It was some hours later before she was able to piece events together. By that time she'd been peeled out of her wet clothes and every piece of her anatomy studied and checked. She dimly overheard a spirited discussion about whether she would need a cocktail of drugs to guard against hepatitis, tetanus, and Weil's disease, an infection picked up from swimming in stagnant water polluted by rats. In the end, it was decided that, as she was young and in generally good health, and had miraculously suffered no abrasions or injuries to her body, tetanus would be sufficient.

“You're lucky not to have died from shock. Bodies aren't good at tolerating sudden and drastic changes in temperature,” a female house doctor soberly informed her as Helen lay in a hospital bed, warm at last, cosily curtained off from the rest of the ward.

I know, Helen thought. She had no energy to speak. She felt heavy with exhaustion as if her body were still waterlogged.

“Do you know how it happened?” the house doctor asked.

“I was mugged,” she managed to reply.

It was three days after Christmas. She'd gone to meet Freya Stephens for a drink at the Pitcher and Piano, a fashionable bar and restaurant in Brindleyplace, an area of redevelopment based around the city's network of canals, but Freya, who was new to Birmingham, hadn't shown up. Helen was particularly annoyed because she didn't normally do drinks with clients. She'd taken a bit of a flyer. Season of goodwill and all that. To be perfectly honest, she was never comfortable with Christmas. It was the ultimate intrusion. Having spent weeks leading up to it in a froth of activity and optimism, she found the great day never measured up. It couldn't. Worse, it encapsulated all life's disappointments. When she'd been little, it boiled down to not getting the particular toy she'd lusted for. As a grown-up, she was painfully reminded of her single state, of an overwhelming sense of loneliness, of always looking back and wanting things to be different. The forced jollity, the material excess, the way all normal life ground to a halt seriously unnerved her. It was as if the whole world seemed to take leave of its senses during the month of December.

The bar was a lot busier than she expected and, as she ordered a glass of red wine, her eyes methodically scanned the sea of bucolic-looking faces, but there was no sign of Freya Stephens. Instead, the light wood interior was mainly populated by groups of young men and women in their late twenties, early thirties, only half a dozen tables were taken by older people.

A couple of solitary men were hanging out at the bar. One glanced over in her direction. He was blonde, not particularly good-looking. He smiled at her. She returned the smile and turned away, gazing out of the window.

Outside, lights from the nearby restaurants lit up the darkness. A vast Christmas tree swayed and tinkled in the gathering wind. Jazzed-up versions of Christmas carols were belting out of public speakers. There were hardly any people outside. It was too cold.

Twenty minutes later she asked one of the staff collecting glasses if he'd seen a woman with long dark hair, in her twenties, on her own. He shrugged, shook his head. “Maybe, maybe not. It's a busy night.”

Helen gave it another ten minutes, sipped her drink, and studied her surroundings. There were plenty of people on the pull. Men with seductive eyes. Women with
have me
smiles. Two interesting-looking guys came into the bar and struck up an animated conversation. She thought they might be brothers. Similar in appearance, they also had a naturally easy way of joshing with each other. The taller of the two was waving his arms about. He caught her eye but didn't smile. Pity.

Freya wasn't going to show, she thought with tired irritation. Pulling on her coat, she went outside into the night. That's when it happened.

The punch came from behind. One movement. Expertly carried out. Smash and grab. This is what she told the two CID officers: a black female detective, Detective Sergeant Christine Harmon and a Detective Constable with slicked-back hair and the kind of tight expression that made Helen consider whether word about her identity had mysteriously leaked out. Apparently, they'd been waiting to speak to her since her admission. In contrast to
Slick
, Harmon was small, with a stocky build, and sympathetic.

“So just to recap,”
Slick
said, “this friend of yours didn't turn up.”

“No, not friend exactly, client.”

Slick
frowned and made an alteration in his notebook.

“You say you went outside,” Harmon said, “walked along by the canal, intending to go home.”

“Yes.”

“You stop at all?”

Helen screwed up her eyes, trying to remember. She hated canals but she'd paused for a moment and looked up at the bridge to see if Freya was coming. She told Harmon this.

“And that's when your attacker struck?”

“I think so.”

Slick
gave Helen a penetrating look. He had beady blue eyes that lacked warmth. “Do portrait photographers normally meet clients socially?”

Portrait photographer, Helen thought. It still sounded strange even after four years. She didn't think she'd ever really get used to it. “Depends whether they like them,” she smiled.

“Would you agree to meet a man?”

“Wouldn't rule it out.”

He cast her a look that was entirely unreadable. “So what happened to your client?”

“Not a clue,” Helen replied. “I've had rather more pressing things to think about. Like staying alive,” she said, with a stab of humour that was lost on the policeman.

Harmon gave her an encouraging smile that seemed to imply she didn't like
Slick
any more than Helen did.
Slick
looked away and scribbled some more.

“You say you've no idea about your assailant,” Harmon spoke softly.

“I presume he was male.”

Slick
scratched behind his ear with his pen. “You had absolutely no knowledge of someone creeping up on you? You didn't hear anything?” There was a disbelieving note in his voice.

“I was taken by surprise.” Giving him a distinct advantage, Helen thought.

“Did he grab your bag or give you a shove first?” Harmon said, a thoughtful light in her eyes.

“Like I said, it was more of a push and grab.” Which meant, Helen mused, that he was taking a risk. She could easily have gone into the water, taking the bag with her. And then another more chilling idea took root.

“What I'm trying to establish,” Harmon said, as if reading Helen's mind, “was whether you fell as a result of him grabbing your bag, or whether he intended you to go into the water.”

“You mean whether he meant to kill me?”

“That what
you
think?”

I don't know, Helen thought. “Whether it was accidental or not, the fact is I could easily have drowned. It wasn't as if he asked whether I could swim,” she added gamely, eliciting another smile from Harmon.

“Attempted murder?” The D.C. muttered to Harmon.

“Difficult to prove,” Harmon said cautiously. She turned back to Helen. “Were there any witnesses?”

“Potentially dozens, though I wasn't aware of anyone in particular. What about the guy who pulled me out?”

“He didn't hang about but we'll put out an appeal,” Harmon assured her.

Don't leave it too long, Helen thought. Time is the enemy of the witness. “Are there cameras in the area?”

“Yeah, we'll be checking CCTV,” Harmon confirmed.

“It's pretty well-lit,” Helen continued. “The bar was packed. There must be a chance someone saw him.”

“Not exactly ideal for a mugging,” the D.C. said.

“On the contrary,” Helen interjected, “it was a perfect foil.”

The policeman's brow furrowed. “How do you work that out?”

“There were lots of people. Everyone was having a good time. They felt secure. It's the last place you'd expect something like that to happen.”

“She's right, Wylie,” Harmon said, a hint of admiration in her voice. “Dead easy for someone to appear and then fade away. Naturally, we'll be following up enquiries,” she told Helen.

“Are Scenes of Crime checking the area?” Helen said, “Only you might strike lucky, a foot impression, maybe, or some other evidence.”

Harmon opened her mouth to speak but Wylie beat her to it. “You a copper or something?” His eyes were hard with suspicion.

Helen flashed a nervous smile. “No, erm…read a lot of books.”

Harmon nodded thoughtfully. Wylie looked relieved.

“Any news on my handbag?” Helen asked.

“We found
a
bag near the scene of crime,” Wylie replied, cagey.

“Brown leather, fairly large, tear-drop shape?”

“Yes,” Harmon said, her voice ringing clear.

“Let me guess,” Helen sighed, “empty?”

“'Fraid so.”

“No wallet or credit cards?”

Harmon shook her head.

“Keys, mobile phone?”

“Sorry,” Wylie said, flicking his notebook shut. “He took the lot.”