ever experienced. A killer alone with his victim. Oh God.
Then, a blinding light. The hatch yanked open, the midday sunshine streaming in, burning his eyes. Something heavy falling on to his head.
A rope ladder.
His lungs flooded with fresh air, with oxygen, and his whole body convulsed with a sense of euphoria. He was free, he was alive. He had survived .
He limped along the quiet country road. Nobody came down here any more so what chance did he have of finding a rescuer? Even though he had gained his freedom, he still suspected that it was all a trick. That she was laughing at him as he dragged his protesting body along the road. That he would be hunted down. Peter had reconciled himself to dying in that dark hole – could it be that she was actually going to honour the bargain they’d made? Ahead Peter spotted signs of life and picked up his pace.
He laughed when he saw it. ‘Welcome’ in a jaunty typeface above the convenience shop door. It was so friendly it made him cry. He crashed through the doors to be greeted by a sea of alarmed faces – pensioners and school kids shocked by this hideous vision. Face splattered with blood and stinking of piss, Peter careered towards the till. He fainted before he got there, crashing into a promotional display of Doritos. Nobody moved to help him. He looked just like a corpse.
23
Dunston Power Station stood proud on the western edge of Southampton Water. In its heyday the coal-fired plant had once provided electricity for the south coast and much beyond. But it had been mothballed in 2012, a victim of the government’s determination to reboot Britain’s energy supply. Dunston was old, inefficient, and couldn’t compete with the low-carbon alternatives that were being built elsewhere in the UK. Staff had been re-employed and the site sealed off. It wasn’t due to be decommissioned for another two years, so for now it was just an empty memorial to a glorious past. The huge central chimney cast a long shadow over the crime scene and made Helen shiver as she walked towards the police cordon that flapped violently in the sea breeze.
Mark’s steps fell in time with Helen’s as they hurried across the site. He had made a point of driving her here from the station. He hadn’t been drinking and seemed a bit more rested. Perhaps Helen’s words had made a difference after all. As they walked side by side, Helen’s eyes darted now this way, now that, processing the possibilities.
The site had been alarmed, but after copper thieves had trashed the alarm system for the umpteenth time, the decision was taken not to bother with it any more. Everything that was worth nicking had been taken already. Which meant all ‘she’ had to do was remove the chain on the main gate and drive in. Would there be tyre tracks? Footprints? The hatch at the top of the underground coal silo was easily accessible once you were on the site and whilst too heavy for an individual to lift could easily have been yanked open by a van with a chain. Deep tyre grooves near the silo suggested that that was exactly what had happened. That left the transportation of the victims.
‘How did she get them from the van into the pit?’ said Mark, reading her mind.
‘Ben’s pushing six foot, but lean. What do you think? Twelve stone?’
‘Sure. It’s possible a woman could drag that dead weight on her own, but Peter …’
‘Got to be fourteen stone. Maybe more.’
Helen bent down to get a better look. The ground near the hatch opening was certainly very disturbed, but was that the result of both victims being dragged in or a terrified Peter scrambling out?
This was obviously bad practice. An experienced copper knows never to make snap, instinctive judgements about the nature of the crime or the identity of the perpetrator. But Helen knew that this was the second murder. Even if one ignored the evidence of sabotage on Ben’s car, Peter Brightston’s story was so close to Amy’s that the link
Then, a blinding light. The hatch yanked open, the midday sunshine streaming in, burning his eyes. Something heavy falling on to his head.
A rope ladder.
His lungs flooded with fresh air, with oxygen, and his whole body convulsed with a sense of euphoria. He was free, he was alive. He had survived .
He limped along the quiet country road. Nobody came down here any more so what chance did he have of finding a rescuer? Even though he had gained his freedom, he still suspected that it was all a trick. That she was laughing at him as he dragged his protesting body along the road. That he would be hunted down. Peter had reconciled himself to dying in that dark hole – could it be that she was actually going to honour the bargain they’d made? Ahead Peter spotted signs of life and picked up his pace.
He laughed when he saw it. ‘Welcome’ in a jaunty typeface above the convenience shop door. It was so friendly it made him cry. He crashed through the doors to be greeted by a sea of alarmed faces – pensioners and school kids shocked by this hideous vision. Face splattered with blood and stinking of piss, Peter careered towards the till. He fainted before he got there, crashing into a promotional display of Doritos. Nobody moved to help him. He looked just like a corpse.
23
Dunston Power Station stood proud on the western edge of Southampton Water. In its heyday the coal-fired plant had once provided electricity for the south coast and much beyond. But it had been mothballed in 2012, a victim of the government’s determination to reboot Britain’s energy supply. Dunston was old, inefficient, and couldn’t compete with the low-carbon alternatives that were being built elsewhere in the UK. Staff had been re-employed and the site sealed off. It wasn’t due to be decommissioned for another two years, so for now it was just an empty memorial to a glorious past. The huge central chimney cast a long shadow over the crime scene and made Helen shiver as she walked towards the police cordon that flapped violently in the sea breeze.
Mark’s steps fell in time with Helen’s as they hurried across the site. He had made a point of driving her here from the station. He hadn’t been drinking and seemed a bit more rested. Perhaps Helen’s words had made a difference after all. As they walked side by side, Helen’s eyes darted now this way, now that, processing the possibilities.
The site had been alarmed, but after copper thieves had trashed the alarm system for the umpteenth time, the decision was taken not to bother with it any more. Everything that was worth nicking had been taken already. Which meant all ‘she’ had to do was remove the chain on the main gate and drive in. Would there be tyre tracks? Footprints? The hatch at the top of the underground coal silo was easily accessible once you were on the site and whilst too heavy for an individual to lift could easily have been yanked open by a van with a chain. Deep tyre grooves near the silo suggested that that was exactly what had happened. That left the transportation of the victims.
‘How did she get them from the van into the pit?’ said Mark, reading her mind.
‘Ben’s pushing six foot, but lean. What do you think? Twelve stone?’
‘Sure. It’s possible a woman could drag that dead weight on her own, but Peter …’
‘Got to be fourteen stone. Maybe more.’
Helen bent down to get a better look. The ground near the hatch opening was certainly very disturbed, but was that the result of both victims being dragged in or a terrified Peter scrambling out?
This was obviously bad practice. An experienced copper knows never to make snap, instinctive judgements about the nature of the crime or the identity of the perpetrator. But Helen knew that this was the second murder. Even if one ignored the evidence of sabotage on Ben’s car, Peter Brightston’s story was so close to Amy’s that the link
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