Absent Light (33 page)

Raising her left hand, she put it firmly over his, immediately reducing the pressure to her head. Pivoting on one foot, she half-turned so that they were facing in the same direction, his arm fully extended along her left side. Then, with chilling clarity, she smashed her left forearm down hard against his elbow, breaking his hold. Using her height, she straightened up and followed through with a second blow into his body with her elbow. Ryan doubled over, lost his balance and fell dangerously close to the river's edge and the torrent of white water. Helen lifted her leg to kick him but Ryan was one move ahead. With lightning speed, he rolled over, kicked out, tripping her up and sending her flying onto her back. She tried to relax, to roll with it, but the next she knew he was astride her, his solid weight heavy on her abdomen. For one sickening moment, she thought he might rape her. Then his strong hands flew to her throat. She could feel the balls of his thumbs pressing down, choking her, his spatulate fingers squeezing either side of her neck. This time she could do nothing to relieve the pressure. Her knees were pinned and her fists were useless. She knew, from experience, that it didn't take long to render someone unconscious, to strangle them. She clawed at his fingers but he just dug deeper. Her throat was rattling. She was seeing black shapes before her eyes. In desperation, she reached up with her left, uninjured, hand, extending her fingertips, driving as hard as she could into his throat. The effect was immediate. He let go with a guttural cry, his body crumpling as he fell sideways onto his hands and knees. Scrambling away from him, she clambered back onto her feet. The gun was somewhere behind her and she knew that, to grab it, she'd have to turn away, and she'd been taught always to keep facing the attacker, always anticipate the next move.

He was still on his knees, one hand clutched to his throat. He was making strange, animal noises, but his eyes were darting, alert, focused. He dragged himself to his feet. With each sound, he moved closer. Then she saw the knife, its blade glinting in a shaft of brief and unexpected sunshine. She made a grab for it, held the haft in her wounded hand, brandishing it, sweeping in wide arcs in front of him. She should have felt pain but adrenaline-fuelled fury was stronger. As he pitched forward, she lunged with the blade, slicing across his face. He let out an unholy cry and counter-attacked with a knee into her stomach, felling her, the knife spiralling away again. The pain was as intense as a kick to the kidneys. Suddenly it was over, she thought, curled in agony. Somehow, Ryan had got hold of the gun again. There were hundreds of exit-routes, hundreds of different ways to die. This was hers.

One hand gripped the clothing on her shoulder, the other hand flailing wildly with the gun.

“You fuckin' slag,” he screamed at her, blood pouring down his face from the open wound which had narrowly missed his right eye. He was dragging her forwards on her knees, bending her to his will, forcing her towards the swirling water's edge. She felt helpless and, in a fleeting moment, she thought of Adam. She wondered crazily if Adam had been this terrified, if a bullet in the head hurt. Would it be better to throw her body full-tilt into the torrent? Might it be a cleaner way to die? Then she thought of the icy cold, the half-submerged boulders and broken branches, the useless, violent, pointless struggle.

Ryan was yelling obscenities. “I'm gonna fuckin' kill you, this time, girl. I'm gonna kill you bit by bit. I'm gonna make you scream.” He was completely out of control. The veins on his face were engorged with blood, his bulging eyes possessed by rage.

She let out a scream, trying to resist, failing.

“Shut your big fuckin' mouth.”

Was this how it was with the old woman, she thought miserably? Somehow she doubted it. Ryan preferred his victims young and vital. The pleasure was in the pain, of seeing a young life corrupted.

They were right at the edge. It had started to sleet. Both of them were sliding in the marshy earth. The mud was over his boots and coating her clothes. Ryan was trying to gain purchase, to force her head and shoulders down. He still held the gun in his right hand and was attempting to swing it round. But he needed to be steady, she thought, and the ground was as threatening to him as to her. He was cursing now, at the top of his voice, calling her a bitch, a whore, a cunt. He was losing the battle mentally, she thought, and that meant she could still win. Even with the sound of the eddying water clamouring in her ears, she shook off all feeling of a life not lived, of lost hopes, guilt, crushed dreams and despair. She played resistant, twisting against his grasp, then, as he pushed back, she suddenly went with the movement, bowing to his command, taking him off-guard. Ryan stumbled just as she knew he would. At once, she shot out an elbow, smashing it into his nose, hearing the satisfying crack. Blood cascaded over the flint-edged ground. His feet seemed to slide out from underneath him, almost pitching her forward with him, the gun flying out of his hand and into the river where it was consumed by the current and carried away.

Scrambling back from the water's edge, she saw that Ryan had managed to grab onto the platform that was the bridge. Hanging on, he kicked and flailed. For a moment, she thought he might lose his grip and fall. But his hands were strong, she remembered.

He was climbing along, monkey-like, swinging towards her, death in his eyes. That's when she realised what had to be done. And that's when she knew that she had nothing to lose.

Picking up a short piece of discarded scaffolding pole in both hands, she waited until he was near then smashed it once across his shoulders. He let out a scream but still he hung on, his body twisting, racked with pain. Grunting with exertion, she lifted the iron for a second time. There was shock in his eyes as she connected. How could a woman do this? he seemed to say as he plunged into the rolling water, feet first. For a moment he disappeared, bobbing to the surface seconds later, limbs flailing, driven mercilessly by the swirling current.

Helen followed the river's relentless flow with her eyes. She saw the bend, where the undertow was at its strongest, the chevron shape in the water denoting a partially submerged rock, and the way the river twisted and turned in a dizzying eddy further downstream. And she felt nothing.

Ryan was being bumped along, buffeted at formidable speed, head still above the water, just. She wondered if he'd seen the rock, the jagged edge, impending and certain death. She wondered if he remembered those he loved, whether life flashed before his eyes. Probably not, she thought without emotion, as his head snapped against the boulder and his body, finally drained of life, was borne away.

She stood, eyes fixed on the water, watching for bubbles, for movement, for life, checking that he was really gone. Still she felt nothing. Her thoughts, when they came, were cold and practical. If the body went out to sea, it might never be found. If it lodged down river, Scenes of Crime would take over. She thought of the retrieval of the bloated, bloodless corpse, the lacerations, the smashed skull, the river's triumph.

Something cawed over her head. She barely gave it a glance. She was urgently scanning the still and joyless landscape. She was not concerned with the layers of artefacts embedded in the ground. She did not see the heather-covered banks dark as freshly dug graves. She did not see the snowy peaks. All she saw was the lifeless pile of clothes, the girl. For the first time in her life, her professional expertise deserted her. She could not bear to look, let alone approach.

Her throat closed over. She put her wounded hand to her face. With no sense of elation, no joy at her release, she buckled, falling to the frozen ground.

It was over.

She'd failed. Another life lost, she wept bitterly. Everything would be as before. Only a thousand times worse. Nothing to sustain her. Nothing to keep the flicker of hope alive. Nothing to die for. Back into the dark. The future was as desolate as the past, a stark and forbidding place where only a fool would walk. A fool like her.

She vaguely heard the lazy
wop wop
sound of a helicopter circling overhead. She didn't look up. She pressed her face further into the dirt, imagining the girl with the green eyes and wheaten-coloured hair. She didn't think back to the anger in her voice, the fury in her eyes. She only thought of her trusting expression, a trust that was betrayed.

“Helen,” she seemed to hear her call.

Delirious, Helen thought. Must have lost a lot of blood. Strange how the mind plays tricks. The voice was so real, so…

“Helen, get up.”

She felt death upon her shoulder. Perhaps it was Ryan come back from the dead, she thought feverishly, to finish the job off. What did she care?

“Are you hurt?”

A rescuer, she thought, stirring. “You're too late,” she murmured.

“It's never too late.”

She staggered onto her knees, looked round, opened her eyes wide. The girl's face was smiling. Helen wondered if it was one of her visions. “Ayshea?”

“You told me to hit the ground if there was gunfire.”

“You're all right,” Helen said, muddled, raising her hand, touching the girl like some doubting Thomas, unable to take it in.

Ayshea stooped down, putting her arms around her. “And so are you.”

The helicopter landed nearby. It should have felt exhilarating, Helen thought, as they lifted her onto a stretcher and carried her to the waiting vehicle, but after so much drama she was just relieved to be rescued from the moors.

They were both taken to Derriford Hospital in Plymouth and given the full treatment by waiting nurses, and doctors with white coats flapping. It felt strange to be whisked inside, and whizzed along sterile-smelling corridors again for the second time in a month. She almost laughed out loud as porters were forced to take circuitous routes to avoid the press. She had to admit she preferred the feeling of heroine to pariah.

She was minutely examined. Her hand was stitched. She was treated for mild hypothermia and dehydration. She bathed until she squeaked with cleanliness. She scrubbed her teeth until her gums bled. She was ordered to rest. People came and went, including Stratton, and she slept and slept and slept.

“How did you know where to find me?” she asked dozily. Stratton was sitting on her bed, his fingers laced through hers.

“We'll talk later,” he said, brushing her lips with his.

“You need to check out a car registration.”

“Helen, go back to sleep.”

“It's important. Dark Porsche Boxster. I saw it at Robyn Roscoe's house.” She gave him the number on the licence plate.

“All right,” he said, making a note. “Now try and get some rest.”

“Someone was firing at us,” she said, mind grasshopping, “mortars and stuff.”

Stratton's eyes widened. “Jesus, Helen. Didn't you know the military train on Dartmoor?”

“Like to live dangerously,” she murmured with a smile, lapsing into sleep again.

Every time, she dozed off and woke up there seemed to be someone else in the room. She was told that there was evidence to suggest she'd been overpowered by chloroform during her ordeal, a nasty, volatile poison that causes a relaxation of the heart muscles, sometimes with fatal consequences. Narrow escape, she thought muzzily. A female psychiatrist called Dr Pellman offered to talk to her about her abduction and subsequent captivity. Helen declined.

“Think about it,” Dr Pellman insisted, standing over her. “You may feel quite differently when you're stronger.”

No, I won't, Helen thought, wondering if she were displaying an unhealthy family trait. Her mother, for obvious reasons, had wanted to kick over the painful traces of her past. Wasn't she doing the same? “How's the girl, Ayshea?”

“I understand she's making a good recovery.” Helen wondered what that meant. The next time she woke, she found her father holding her hand. “Dad,” she said, squeezing it, “how long have you been here?”

“About three hours,” he beamed, kissing her cheek.

“Did they get the money back?”

“The money's not important, Helen.”

“But did they?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

They didn't talk much, too much to say, too much to explain. It would all come later, she thought, not as a rush, but in bits and pieces. Like rock formation, it would gradually build up in layers until a solid story eventually emerged. As for her mother's part in it, she wasn't sure how much to say, how much to tell, if anything at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

T
HE NEXT FEW DAYS
were a blur. Every time she got out of bed, she was unsteady on her feet. She was interviewed by every policeman on the planet, or so it felt, and made a long and detailed statement. Jen and Ed arrived with flowers and champagne and chocolates. There were hugs and kisses and wide-eyed looks, and a lot of tiptoeing around what had happened to her. It was as if there had been a death in the family instead of her being very much alive. She was the subject of strange fascination, she realised. Not many people have friends who've been abducted, let alone abducted and survived to tell the tale. Jen, for all her gawping, seemed especially fearful of asking too many probing questions. Helen was glad for the reprieve.

Ayshea was never far from Helen's side. They were both fiercely protective of the other. Nobody but they knew what really happened, or how an unlikely friendship had blossomed from degradation and fear. They didn't talk of Ryan or speak of their ordeal. Helen thought it possible they never would. It suited her, but she was worried for the girl, anxious about the possible consequences, the difficulties she would surely encounter, how she'd make her way in a world that was clearly crazy. Helen wondered if she should tip off Dr Pellman, then decided that to do so would betray the fragile bond they shared and discounted it.

As for herself, she felt a vast sense of relief, as if a great slab of stone had been lifted off her back. Every time she looked at the girl, she felt as if something in her world had shifted. She felt hopeful. At peace. Inspired. It had been a long time since she'd felt such things.

“I still don't understand how you tracked us down?” Helen said to Stratton. He'd virtually camped in her room since her admittance.

“By chucking everything into the mix, looking at the whole situation again. Your car was found at Albion Place. There were signs of a struggle, smashed mobile phone, keys in the road, so we knew that was where you were abducted. Door-to-door enquiries yielded little apart from several sightings of a white van.”

“As common as blue jeans and plain T-shirts,” she said.

“Exactly. It's why we questioned the girls again.”

“You mean Shirley and Co?” Helen said, attentive.

“Shirley Brownlow, Stacey Warren and Jade Jenkins.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

She could believe it. Ryan was a terrifying character. One breathed syllable could get Shirley, or a member of her family, killed. And, whatever the police maintained, they were not especially good at protecting witnesses.

“So what then?”

“We looked at all the players, including Lee Painter.”

“But Lee's dead. You ruled him out.”

“Him, yes. But not his contacts.”

“And that included the Park Lane Boys.”

“And his prison-chums. From what you told me, Lee had clearly expressed an interest in your family, a very wealthy family, before he got sent down.”

“Oh my God,” she gulped. “Does my father know about Lee, about Mum?”

“Yes.”

“What was his reaction?”

“Shock, as you'd expect, but, to be honest, he was more concerned with getting you back in one piece.”

She wondered how her father would feel once the sense of crisis had passed. “I'm still not quite following how you narrowed it down.”

“What do guys do in prison?” Stratton asked her.

Ryan's words reverberated through her brain: e
ating shit, watching me back twenty-four seven, wanking off.
“I don't know,” she said.

“They talk. What else is there to do? And, by all accounts, Painter liked the sound of his own voice. He'd gab on to all and sundry, including his cell-mate who we discovered was Ryan Crees.”

“But if Lee talked to everyone, how did you know Ryan was the blackmailer?”

Stratton tapped the side of his nose.

Helen raised an eyebrow. “You mean an informer?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Game to you, I think.”

Stratton smiled. “Crees was a loner, a skilled thief but he had a weakness – young women. Basically, the guy was a rapist, not in the sense that he went out deliberately selecting victims, but if presented with an opportunity, he felt compelled to act on it, a bit like our friend Warren Jacks. Crees was eventually sent down because a shrewd Scenes of Crime officer gathered the right evidence.”

“You mean the ear-print?”

“And DNA found at the scene, but Crees seemed particularly affronted by the print and often banged on about it inside, swearing vengeance.”

“It's a bit flaky to deduce he'd come after me, isn't it?”

“There was nothing terribly concrete in our reasoning,” Stratton admitted.

“And there's me thinking imaginative ideas wasn't your thing,” she said with a jubilant smile.

Stratton smiled back. “Frankly, when you've got thirty-six hours and someone's life in the balance, you're up for anything. The fact you were Painter's half-sister and a former scenes of crime officer gave Crees the perfect opportunity to make a lot of money and satisfy his taste for revenge. Following that possible line of investigation, we did some homework on Crees and discovered that he was born in Plymouth and came from a violent background. As a lad, he escaped his abusive family and spent a lot of time on the moors, specifically the most barren area on the northern edge – an ideal place to hold someone captive.”

It was, she thought.

“The problem was the time-factor.”

“At least you got there to pick us up. Not sure I could have walked another step,” she smiled briefly. “Joe,” she said, suddenly reaching out and touching his hand, a serious expression on her face. “I'm sorry.”

“For what?” he frowned.

“For being wrong about Adam.”

He sighed, shook his head, bent over and kissed her. “Doesn't matter. It's in the past. Except for one tiny factor,” he said with a wide grin. “The owner of the Porsche Boxster is none other than Damien Crawley.”

“Christ,” she said, sitting up, “the guy Adam mentioned in his contact sheets, the bloke he was trying to get Jacks to cosy up with?”

“Yup. Adam was obviously using Jacks to recruit him for his wife's criminal activities. From what we've managed to gather, Mrs Roscoe recently made the professional relationship with Crawley rather more personal.”

Another reason for Crees to be enraged, Helen thought. With Crawley on the scene, he stood no chance of picking up where he left off. “What will happen to them?”

“They're both being interviewed by specialist art and antiques officers from the Met. Apparently, they've been after Crawley for some time. They think he's connected to the theft of a number of rare books – apparently there's quite a market for them in the UK. He's also under suspicion for stealing to order for certain crime syndicates who use stolen art as a bargaining chip.”

That should knock some of the varnish off Robyn, Helen thought.

“So what happens now?” he asked, squeezing her hand.

“You mean futures?”

“Yes.”

“I've got one or two ideas floating around,” she smiled elusively. “But, first, I want to get my brain unscrambled.”

He laughed.

“I know,” she laughed too. “Could take some time.”

* * *

“What do you want to do?”

It was almost four days later.

Ayshea shrugged. She looked odd dressed in more contemporary clothing, Helen thought. The girl's hair, once matted in dreadlocks, was washed and shiny and styled. It took some getting used to. She guessed Ayshea seemed more grown-up, less innocent. That much was true, she thought, stomach clenching.

“Do you want to come home with me?” Helen wasn't sure about the ethics of it. She didn't know the opinion of Social Services, or whether the fact she was not of traveller stock ruled her out of any caring role, but one thing she was absolutely certain of – Ayshea should not be put in care, not even for a short period of time.

The girl's gaze was steady. “I'd like that.” Then her face clouded.

“What is it?” Helen asked.

“I don't think I'm made for city living, do you?”

Helen smiled sadly. The girl was a free spirit used to a simpler way of life, an existence harnessed to the natural rhythms of the world, one that was entirely alien to a hard-edged city-dweller like herself. She could no more imagine life without slick department stores, theatres and cinemas, restaurants and bars, than Ayshea could live without the wind in her hair, the grass under her feet, the sound of birdsong.

“That's all right,” Helen suddenly beamed. “I've got a better idea.”

* * *

Birmingham Children's Hospital was in Steelhouse Lane, not far from the police station. Helen went inside and walked straight up to reception. She was holding a large, fluffy teddy bear. It had brown friendly eyes and wore a jaunty hat and jacket. It was impossible not to fall in love with it.

“I'm looking for Kelly Brownlow,” she told a stoutly built female receptionist.

“Patient?”

“Yes.”

The receptionist scanned her computer. “You won't be able to visit, I'm afraid.”

“Why not?”

“She's in isolation.”

“Oh,” Helen said, crestfallen.

“Her mother's here,” the receptionist smiled helpfully. “Think I saw her taking a breather in the cafe. It's that way,” she pointed, craning her neck.

Shirley was unmistakable. Same smart coat, same black boots, same worn-down expression. She was hunched over a cup of coffee. Her fingers trembled. She looked as if she were torn between tears and screaming. Helen knew the feeling. She went straight over to her table and sat down. Shirley looked up. Her sallow, pitted complexion turned grey and her mouth tightened into a short, sharp line. She looked shocked.

“It's all right,” Helen said, propping the teddy up on the table. “I'm not a ghost.”

Shirley's hands were darting now as if badly in need of a cigarette to steady them.

“About our meeting,” Helen began slowly.

“You never showed up,” Shirley bluffed, recovering her composure with remarkable speed.

“Thought that was my line.”

“Don't know what you mean.” The cup rattled against the saucer.

“Does the name Ryan Crees jog your memory?”

“I have to go,” Shirley said, abruptly pushing the chair back.

“But you haven't finished your coffee.”

The woman cursed under her breath and stood up.

“Sit down, Shirley. I didn't tell the police you made the call.”

Shirley chewed her bottom lip, swept the coat around her, and gathered up her bag. “Sorry, my daughter needs me.”

“That's why you did it, isn't it? Because of Kelly?”

Shirley's mouth quivered. She stepped away.

“Crees is dead,” Helen called after her loudly. A number of people stopped talking and stared at her.

Shirley stopped, turned and walked straight up to Helen. “No shitting me?”

“No.”

Shirley slumped back down.

“Here,” Helen said more softly, pushing the coffee towards her. “Drink it, you look as if you need it.”

“Large vodka would be better.” There was no accompanying smile.

Helen studied her briefly, wondering how prostitution had chosen her, and if she was as hard as she appeared. “It's why I'm here, Shirley. You're a mum, and you were doing what comes naturally. You were protecting your child. Am I right?”

Shirley cast her a careworn look and ran her fingers through her lank hair. “Crees threatened to take her if I didn't do what he said. He threatened to…” she tailed off. “Anyway,” she said, giving Helen a straight look. “He's not the sort of man to fuck with.”

“And you knew about Karen and Crees?”

“Yes.”

Helen nodded, thought how much she could have been spared if only Shirley had talked. Maybe there was something in this Karma stuff, after all, she thought. “What's wrong with Kelly?”

“She has leukaemia.”

“They can cure it?”

The woman grimaced. There was certain hopelessness in her eyes. “It's possible.”

It's a slim chance was what she meant, Helen thought. “Tough on you.”

“Tough on her,” Shirley snapped, defensive.

Helen nodded, stood up, went to leave.

“You've forgotten something,” the woman called after her, holding up the teddy bear.

“Give him to Kelly when she's feeling better,” Helen smiled. “Give him to her with my love.”

They had coffee in the drawing room, just her and her dad. Spring sunshine shone through the windows, bathing the room in a bright warm glow. He'd baked a coffee and walnut cake from a recipe Aunt Lily sent him. It tasted surprisingly good. He looked well, Helen thought, taking another bite. He seemed more rested in appearance and manner. He'd lost some of the stunned look of the newly bereaved.

“I prefer you with your hair longer,” he said.

She smiled. Me, too, she thought.

“About Mum,” he said cautiously. “Must have been as much of a shock to you as to me.”

Wary of breaking the moment, she said nothing, just agreed with her eyes and thought of Gran. Without her, Helen would never have found out about Lee. Neither senility nor death, it seemed, could extinguish the truth or conceal the perverse bond between mother and daughter.

“I guess it rather explains things,” he said, “helps us understand how she felt. Why she liked a drink,” he added stiffly. “I don't think badly of her for what happened. It was a big thing then, of course, not like nowadays, and I wish she could have shared it with us.”

Helen nodded. Didn't say a word.

“Makes me sad to think of her carrying it alone because I think it really blighted her life. But now it's all out in the open, everything seems to have found its place, do you understand?”