punctured. It’s not a big hole, but because of its position on the underside of the tank would empty it completely over time. Judging by the deposits on the wheel arch, I’d say the tank was pretty full when your pair left Bournemouth. It would have emptied swiftly and steadily – by my estimation at a rate of about 1.5 litres per minute – which means your driver would have run out of fuel roughly halfway through the New Forest. Though why he was going that way beats me.’
Helen said nothing. Her brain was already whirring, trying to process this development.
‘Your next question is was it made accidentally? Anything’s possible, but I’d say no. The puncture hole is too clean, too round – like someone’s hammered a small nail through the bottom of the tank. If it was sabotage, it was simple and effective.’
And with that, she moved on. Hers was not to reason why – she was just there to provide the facts. Helen and Charlie looked at each other – it was clear they were thinking the same thing. Having just filled the tank, Ben wouldn’t have been watching the fuel gauge and probably wouldn’t have realized until too late that he was almost out of fuel. Even when the fuel warning light did come on, Ben would only have had a minute or two left before the tank was completely empty.
‘She must have known,’ Helen thought out loud. ‘She must have known that Ben and Peter did that journey every week. That Ben always filled up at the Esso station. She must have done her research – the size of the tank, rate of fuel consumption, size of the required hole …’
‘So they would grind to a halt exactly where she wanted them to.’ Charlie finished Helen’s thought for her.
‘She was stalking them. That’s our starting point. Get on to Amy’s family – any signs of unwanted attention, suspicious break-ins, anything. Same goes for the Hollands and Brightstons too.’
It was their opening move. Helen hoped it would pay dividends but had the feeling that this game would be long, hard-fought and deadly. It was clear that they were dealing with someone who was organized, intelligent and precise. The motive for these crimes remained a mystery, but the calibre of this killer was no longer in doubt. The biggest question now was where were Ben and Peter? And would either of them be seen alive again?
22
Hours after the event and the adrenalin was still pumping. Anger hadn’t yet given way to guilt, so Peter Brightston paced up and down abusing his victim. The guy was going to shoot him, shoot him in the back of the head – what did he fucking expect?
He laughed bitterly as he remembered giving Ben his job at the firm – over and above better-qualified candidates – because he liked his balls, his drive. And this was how he repaid him? They guy hadn’t thought twice, he was just going to blow his head off. Prick. Still he’d got his comeuppance – howling in agony as Peter had driven the splint home.
Peter’s fist gripped the weapon on which Ben’s blood was slowly congealing. Even though the worst was now done, Peter wouldn’t – couldn’t – relinquish it.
It was self-defence. Of course it was. He must keep telling himself that. And yet, he’d fashioned his weapon so carefully, so quietly, surely he was kidding himself that he hadn’t planned it? He knew Ben didn’t like him. Disrespected him. Made jokes about him behind his back. Was there ever any doubt that Ben would put himself first? Peter had known that and planned accordingly. It was the only sensible thing to do. He had a wife and kids. What did Ben have? A fiancée whom the world acknowledged to be brainless and grasping. Their wedding promised to rival Katie Price’s for naffness – a pink carriage, meringue dresses, ponies and pageboys, a sub Hello! affair that would be talked ab—
Ben is dead. Blood is seeping from the hole in his face. There will be no wedding.
Silence. The most horrible, lonely silence Peter had
Helen said nothing. Her brain was already whirring, trying to process this development.
‘Your next question is was it made accidentally? Anything’s possible, but I’d say no. The puncture hole is too clean, too round – like someone’s hammered a small nail through the bottom of the tank. If it was sabotage, it was simple and effective.’
And with that, she moved on. Hers was not to reason why – she was just there to provide the facts. Helen and Charlie looked at each other – it was clear they were thinking the same thing. Having just filled the tank, Ben wouldn’t have been watching the fuel gauge and probably wouldn’t have realized until too late that he was almost out of fuel. Even when the fuel warning light did come on, Ben would only have had a minute or two left before the tank was completely empty.
‘She must have known,’ Helen thought out loud. ‘She must have known that Ben and Peter did that journey every week. That Ben always filled up at the Esso station. She must have done her research – the size of the tank, rate of fuel consumption, size of the required hole …’
‘So they would grind to a halt exactly where she wanted them to.’ Charlie finished Helen’s thought for her.
‘She was stalking them. That’s our starting point. Get on to Amy’s family – any signs of unwanted attention, suspicious break-ins, anything. Same goes for the Hollands and Brightstons too.’
It was their opening move. Helen hoped it would pay dividends but had the feeling that this game would be long, hard-fought and deadly. It was clear that they were dealing with someone who was organized, intelligent and precise. The motive for these crimes remained a mystery, but the calibre of this killer was no longer in doubt. The biggest question now was where were Ben and Peter? And would either of them be seen alive again?
22
Hours after the event and the adrenalin was still pumping. Anger hadn’t yet given way to guilt, so Peter Brightston paced up and down abusing his victim. The guy was going to shoot him, shoot him in the back of the head – what did he fucking expect?
He laughed bitterly as he remembered giving Ben his job at the firm – over and above better-qualified candidates – because he liked his balls, his drive. And this was how he repaid him? They guy hadn’t thought twice, he was just going to blow his head off. Prick. Still he’d got his comeuppance – howling in agony as Peter had driven the splint home.
Peter’s fist gripped the weapon on which Ben’s blood was slowly congealing. Even though the worst was now done, Peter wouldn’t – couldn’t – relinquish it.
It was self-defence. Of course it was. He must keep telling himself that. And yet, he’d fashioned his weapon so carefully, so quietly, surely he was kidding himself that he hadn’t planned it? He knew Ben didn’t like him. Disrespected him. Made jokes about him behind his back. Was there ever any doubt that Ben would put himself first? Peter had known that and planned accordingly. It was the only sensible thing to do. He had a wife and kids. What did Ben have? A fiancée whom the world acknowledged to be brainless and grasping. Their wedding promised to rival Katie Price’s for naffness – a pink carriage, meringue dresses, ponies and pageboys, a sub Hello! affair that would be talked ab—
Ben is dead. Blood is seeping from the hole in his face. There will be no wedding.
Silence. The most horrible, lonely silence Peter had
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