‘Itchen Bridge – there’s a spot under that where we used to go. Sometimes to Pear Tree Garden. Mayfield Park. The pitch and putt by Weston Hard. Chamberlayne leisure centre. Millers Pond. He’ll be at one of those tonight.’

The fight had gone out of Naomie now and for a brief moment Helen felt relief. She was sure she had been the junior player in their deadly enterprise.

‘Thank you, Naomie. You’ve done the right thing.’

‘Well, it’s all you’re going to get from me. I’ve done more than enough already,’ she said, rising suddenly. ‘I want to go back to my cell now.’

‘Sure.’

‘I want some hot food and another blanket, it’s bloody freezing in there.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Naomie was staring at Helen with real hostility now – it was amazing how quickly her mood could change. Was she angry with Helen for making her give up her boyfriend? Or did her attitude mask her fear of what might happen next? Either way, Helen was glad she had pushed her. They had the information they needed and, at long last, the end was in sight.

138

‘Let the others go, we need you here.’

Gardam said it gently, but firmly, leaving Helen no choice but to comply. Her first instinct as always had been to lead the search, but Gardam had argued that someone senior needed to stay at base to coordinate proceedings. The locations Naomie had listed covered a wide area of the city in Itchen, Woolston and Weston. They would throw all the resources they could at it and it was easy in these situations for the search to become diffuse and unfocused. They would need to do it square mile by square mile, guiding those on the ground from Southampton Central, ensuring no stone was left unturned.

Privately, Helen wondered why Gardam didn’t take point on this one – he seemed to be spending enough time in the incident room to do her job for her. He had a peculiar gift for becoming your shadow, monitoring your every move without ever actually intervening. Helen still couldn’t work him out. Perhaps he didn’t trust her instinct after all, despite all his words to the contrary? Perhaps he was just a voyeur, uncomfortable at being excluded from the heart of the action? Or perhaps he was just the wrong guy in the wrong job? Helen feared the last option the most. She had never needed or wanted a chaperone.

The hours flicked by – 6 p.m., 7 p.m., 8 p.m. The team on the ground had covered half of their allotted grid and still there was no sign of Ethan Harris. With each passing minute, Helen’s fears grew. Had Naomie told them the truth? Was she really prepared to collude in the capture of the guy who was her ‘family’ now? How strong a stranglehold did he have on her?

Gardam was a calming influence, moving around the incident room with coffee and words of encouragement.

‘Do you think he’ll come quietly?’ he said to Helen, seizing a lull in operations to pick her brains.

‘That depends on how much he loves Naomie,’ Helen replied. ‘If he really cares for her, then he won’t leave her to face this alone. But if he’s been using her for his own ends, if he only truly believes in himself and his own destiny, then he could become violent. He might want to make one last stand – he’s got a lot of prison time ahead of him. But the guys on the team know how to handle it – they’ll allow him to think he’s surrendering on his terms.’

Even as she said it, Helen wished she was on the ground with them. She knew Sanderson and Charlie could handle it, but there was something in her that was never comfortable taking a back seat. That’s why she had never taken the promotions that had been regularly offered her. She was a front-line soldier, never the general on the hill. Even now she itched to get out there with the team, but she did her best to disguise it, answering Gardam’s probing questions patiently, before returning to direct operations.

Still nothing. Not a sniff of their fugitive. It was getting late now – 9 p.m. had come and gone – and in the darkness it would be easier for Harris to hide. Helen’s anxiety rose a notch further – where the hell was he? What was he planning?

Should they send the chopper up? Would that help to panic Harris and flush him out? It seemed a ham-fisted option and Helen wondered if Ethan could be rattled in that way. She was still pondering this when DC Lucas hurried up to her.

‘Possible sighting, ma’am,’ she said quickly.

‘From the team?’

‘No, from a member of the public. A young woman saw a man walking through Palmerston Park wearing overalls like those we mentioned in the press release. She went to challenge him, but he brushed her off and continued to walk towards the Esplanade.’

Helen’s mind reeled. That was completely the opposite side of town to where her team were now searching.

‘She lied to us,’ Helen said, as much to herself as to Lucas. ‘Naomie deliberately sent us in the wrong direction to aid his escape.’

‘Escape?’

‘If he’s heading towards the Esplanade, then there’s only one place he’s going,’ Helen replied. ‘He’s making for the train station.’

139

Helen was on the street in under a minute. Central Station was close to their base and Helen knew that she could cut off Harris’s escape if she was quick. Gardam was calling ahead to the British Transport Police, alerting them to his movements, but something in Helen told her that wasn’t enough. Harris had been a wily adversary, capable of hiding in plain sight, and she wasn’t prepared to leave anything to chance. Trains left regularly from Central Station and there would be many possible avenues of escape if he made it that far.

Sprinting up Southern Road, she paused momentarily before throwing herself across the six lanes of Mountbatten Way. Despite the late hour it was still very busy and the trucks and cars roared past, buffeting Helen with their tail winds. Horns blared and drivers shouted, but Helen kept on going. She was making good progress and was nearly at the other side now, but as she made her final lunge towards the pavement, Helen realized she’d misjudged the speed of an oncoming van. The driver saw her and slammed on his brakes, but it was too late. A horrible screeching sound filled the air as the van skidded towards her.

At the last minute, the driver wrenched the wheel round and the van lurched violently to the left. It clipped Helen hard, sending her flying towards the pavement, before toppling over itself and sliding along the road on its side. Helen hit the concrete hard, bouncing beyond it and into the safety barrier at speed.

An odd moment of silence, of blank shock, then Helen was scrambling to her feet. Her head was swimming, a piercing noise filled her brain, but she struggled upright nevertheless. Her first instinct was to run to the van, but pausing, she turned to look at Central Station Bridge. If Harris was coming from Nicholstown, he would have to cross it to get to the station.

And there he was, turning on to the bridge and moving swiftly across it. He was only fifty feet from Helen now and she didn’t hesitate, limping into a run and heading fast away from the bemused motorists. Moving was pure agony – she had caught her knee badly and she could feel blood running down the side of her face – but she kept on going. Harris was making good progress, he was nearly halfway across, but as yet he hadn’t seen her. It was now or never.

Suddenly a gap opened up in the traffic and Helen ran across both lanes, vaulting the pedestrian fence on the other side. She landed with a bump and at that moment, Ethan Harris turned. He recognized her immediately and turned back to run across the remainder of the bridge, in the direction of the train station. But as he did so, two British Transport Police officers moved into view, cutting off his escape route.