Helen paused momentarily, before completing her sentence:
‘… before removing his heart.’
One of the data processors was beginning to look a little green, so Helen pressed on.
‘It looks to me like an ambush. Like punishment. But what for? Is this part of a turf war? A warning to a rival gang? Did the victim owe someone money? Was it robbery? Hookers and pimps have tortured their punters for PIN numbers and got carried away before. Or is it something else?’
It was the something else that Helen was afraid of. Was the heart some sort of trophy? Helen batted the thought away and returned to the briefing. There was no point getting ahead of herself, imagining crazy things that might have a violently mundane explanation.
‘We need to cast our net as wide as possible. Prostitution, gang crime, drugs, criminal grudges. It’s highly likely the killer or killers will give themselves away in the next twenty-four hours. They may be shitting themselves or they may be exhilarated – it’s hard to behave calmly after doing something like this. So eyes and ears open – any sources, any leads. From now on this case is your top priority. Everything else can be handled by others.’
Which everyone knew meant Charlie. Helen hadn’t seen her yet, but their reunion wouldn’t be long in coming. Helen had resolved to be polite and formal, as was her way when nervous, but would she be able to carry it off? In the past her mask had been impenetrable, but not now. Too much had happened, too much of her past had been exposed for people to buy that persona any more.
The room had emptied, as officers rushed off to cancel plans, assuage loved ones and grab some food in expectation of a long night ahead. So Helen was standing alone, wrapped up in her own thoughts, when Tony Bridges hurried back in.
‘Looks like we’ve found our man.’
Helen snapped out of her reverie.
‘Front desk took a call from a highly distressed woman who’d just had a human heart left on her doorstep. Her husband didn’t come home last night.’
‘Name?’
‘Alan Matthews. Married, father of four, lives in Banister Park. He’s a businessman, charity fundraiser and an active member of the local Baptist church.’
Tony had tried to say the last bit without wincing, but he’d failed. Helen closed her eyes, aware that the next few hours would be deeply unpleasant for everyone concerned. A family man had died a grim death in a known prostitutes’ haunt – there was no nice way to say that. But experience had taught her that prevaricating never helped, so picking up her bag she nodded at Tony to follow her.
‘Let’s get this over with.’
12
Eileen Matthews was holding it together, but only just. She sat erect on the plump sofa, her eyes fixed on the policewoman as she described the awful events of the last few hours. The Detective Inspector was flanked by a male officer, Tony, and a Family Liaison officer whose name she’d already forgotten – but Eileen had eyes only for the Inspector.
The twins were now safely installed with friends. This was the right thing to do, but Eileen was already regretting it. What must they be thinking and feeling? She had to be here, answering questions, but every instinct told her to run from this room, find her boys, hug them tight and never let them go. Nevertheless she stayed where she was, pinned down by the policewoman’s questions, paralysed by her experiences.
‘Is this your husband?’
Helen handed Eileen a close-up of the victim’s face. She took one look at it, then dropped her eyes to the floor.
‘Yes.’
Her answer was muted, lifeless. Shock still gripped her, keeping tears at bay. Her brain was struggling to process these strange events.
‘Is he … ?’ she managed.
‘Yes, I’m afraid he is. And I’m very sorry for your loss.’
Eileen nodded as if Helen had confirmed something obvious, something mundane, but she was only half listening. She wanted to push this whole thing away, pretend none of it was happening. Her gaze was fixed on the many family photos that plastered the sitting room wall – scenes of happy family life.
‘Is there someone we can call to be with you?’
‘How did he die?’ Eileen replied, ignoring Helen’s question.
‘We’re not sure yet. But you should know straightaway that this wasn’t an accident. Or suicide. This is a murder enquiry, Eileen.’
Another hammer blow.
‘Who would do such a thing?’ For the first time, Eileen looked Helen in the eye. Her face was a picture of bewilderment.
‘Who would do such a thing?’ she repeated. ‘Who could …’
Her words petered out as she gestured towards the kitchen, where a couple of forensics officers were photographing the heart prior to bagging it.
‘We don’t know,’ Helen replied, ‘But we’re going to find out. Can you tell me where your husband was last night?’
‘He was where he always is on Tuesday nights. Helping out at the soup kitchen on Southbrook Road.’
Tony scribbled a note in his notebook.
‘So this is a regular commitment?’
‘Yes, Alan is very active in the church – we both are – and our faith puts great emphasis on helping those less fortunate than ourselves.’
Eileen caught herself referring to her husband in the present tense. Once again the sudden awfulness of it all overwhelmed her. He couldn’t be dead, could he? A sound from upstairs made her jump. But it wasn’t Alan padding around his study, it was those other officers leafing through his things, removing his computer, robbing the house of his presence.
‘Is there any reason why he would have been in the Bevois Valley area last night? Empress Road in particular.’
‘No. He would have been at Southbrook Road from 8 p.m. until … well, until they ran out of soup. There are always too many people for their limited resources, but they do their best. Why?’
Eileen didn’t want to know the answer but felt compelled to ask.
‘Alan was found in a derelict house on the Empress Road industrial estate.’
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
Helen said nothing.
‘If he was attacked by one of the people at the soup kitchen, surely they wouldn’t have dragged him halfway across Southampton …’
‘His car was found a stone’s throw from the house. It was neatly parked and had been locked with the key fob. Is there any reason why he might have gone there of his own free will?’
Eileen eyed her – what was she getting at?
‘Asking hard questions is part of my job, Eileen. I need to ask them if we’re to get to the truth of what happened. Empress Road is often used by prostitutes to pick up clients and occasionally by drug dealers to peddle drugs. To your knowledge has Alan ever used prostitutes or taken drugs?’
Eileen was too stunned to answer for a second, then without warning she exploded:
‘Have you not been listening to a word I’ve been saying? We are a religious family. Alan is a church elder.’
She said each word slowly, enunciating every syllable as if talking to someone simple.
‘He was a good man who cared about others. He had a sense of his mission in life. If he came into contact with prostitutes or drug dealers it was purely to help them. He would never use prostitutes in that way.’
Helen was about to interject, but Eileen wasn’t finished.
‘Something awful happened last night. A kind, honourable man offered to help someone and they robbed and killed him in return. So instead of insinuating these … disgusting things, why don’t you get out of my house and find the man who did this to him?’
And now the tears did come. Eileen pulled herself up off the sofa abruptly and ran from the room – she wouldn’t cry in front of these people, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Heading into the bedroom, she threw herself on the bed she’d shared with her husband for thirty years and cried her heart out.
13
The man crept up the stairs, careful to avoid th
e creaky board on the fifth step.
Crossing the landing, he avoided Sally’s room and headed straight to his wife’s bedroom. Strange how he always thought of it as her room. A moment’s hesitation, then he placed his fingers on the wooden door and pushed it open. It protested loudly, the hinges groaning as the door swung round.
The man held his breath.
But there was no sound, no sense that he’d disturbed her. So quietly he stepped inside.
She was fast asleep. For a moment a pulse of love shot through him, swiftly followed by a spasm of shame. She looked so innocent and peaceful lying there. So happy. How had it come to this?
He walked out quickly, heading for the stairs. Dwelling on it would only weaken his resolve. Now was the time, so there was no point hesitating. Opening the front door soundlessly, he shot one more cautious glance upstairs, then slipped out into the night.
14
The sign was discreet – if you didn’t know it was there, you’d miss it.
Brookmire Health and Wellbeing. Strange that a commercial enterprise should be so bashful about announcing its presence. Charlie pressed the buzzer – it was swiftly answered.
‘Police,’ Charlie shouted, struggling to be heard above the traffic. There was a pause, longer perhaps than was necessary, then she was buzzed in. Already Charlie had the feeling she wasn’t welcome.
Charlie climbed the stairs to the top floor. The smile that greeted her was wide, but fake. A neat, attractive young woman in a crisp white uniform, hair tied neatly back in a ponytail, asked how she could be of assistance – clearly intending to be no help at all. Charlie said nothing, casing the place – it looked like an upmarket Champneys and had that perfumed smell that all spas have. Eventually Charlie’s eyes returned to the receptionist, whose name badge revealed she was called Edina. Her accent was Polish.
‘I’d like to speak to the manager,’ Charlie said, presenting her warrant card to underline her request.
‘He’s not here. May I be of assistance?’
Still the same forced smile. Irritated, Charlie walked round the desk and down the corridor that led to more rooms at the back.
‘You can’t go down there –’
But Charlie carried on. It was pleasant enough – a series of treatment rooms and off them a communal kitchen. A young mixed-race boy was sitting at the table playing with a train. He looked up, saw Charlie and grinned a huge grin. Charlie couldn’t help smiling back.
‘The manager will be back tomorrow. Perhaps you can come back then?’ Edina had caught up with Charlie.
‘Maybe. In the meantime, I’d like to ask you some questions about an employee. A woman by the name of Agneska Suriav.’
Edina looked blank, so Charlie handed her a photocopy of Agneska’s payslip.
‘Yes, yes. Agneska is one of our therapists. She is on holiday at the moment.’
‘Actually she’s dead. She was murdered two days ago.’
For the first time, Charlie saw a genuine reaction – shock. There was a long pause as Edina processed this, then she muttered:
‘How did she die?’
‘She was strangled, then mutilated.’
Charlie waited for that to land, before continuing:
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Three or four days ago.’
‘Friend of yours?’
Edina shrugged, clearly not wanting to commit either way.
‘What did she do here?’
‘She was a dietitian.’
‘Popular?’
‘Yes,’ Edina replied, though she looked bemused by the question.
‘How much did she charge?’
‘We have a price list here. I can show –’
‘Did she give the full service or did she specialize in certain areas?’
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘I’ve checked out Agneska and I don’t see too many diplomas in dietary science. Her real name was Alexia Louszko and she was a prostitute – a good one by all accounts. She was also Polish. Like you.’
Edina said nothing, clearly not liking where this was going.
‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ Charlie resumed. ‘Why don’t you tell me what Alexia did here?’
There was a long, long silence. Then finally Edina said:
‘Like I said, the manager will be back tomorrow.’
Charlie laughed.
‘You’re good, Edina, I’ll give you that.’
Her eyes flitted to the corridor of treatment rooms.
‘What would happen if I walked into one of those treatment rooms right now? Room 3 is in use. If I were to kick it open right now, what would I find? Shall we go and see?’
‘Be my guest. If you have a warrant.’
Edina was no longer even pretending to be friendly. Charlie paused to reconsider her line of attack – this girl was no amateur.
‘Whose boy is that?’ Charlie said, gesturing towards the kitchen.
‘A client’s.’
‘What’s his name?’
A tiny pause, then:
‘Billy.’
‘His real name, Edina. And if you lie to me again, I’m going to arrest you.’
‘Richie.’
‘Call him.’
‘You don’t have to inv—’
‘Call him.’
She hesitated, then:
‘RICHIE.’
‘Yes, mama,’ came the call from the kitchen.
Edina’s eyes fell to the floor.
‘Who’s his father?’ Charlie continued her attack.
Suddenly there were tears in Edina’s eyes.
‘Please don’t involve him or the boy. This is nothing to do with –’
‘Do they have papers?’
Nothing in response.
‘Are they in this country illegally?’
A long pause. Then finally Edina nodded.
‘Please’ was all she could say by way of entreaty.
‘I’m not here to cause you or your boy trouble, but I need to know what Alexia did here. And what happened to her. So either you start talking or I make a phone call. Your choice, Edina.’
There was no choice of course. And Charlie wasn’t surprised by Edina’s answer.
‘Not here. Meet me in the café round the corner in five minutes.’
She hurried off to her son. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief. It was strange to be doing battle once more and suddenly she felt exhausted. She hadn’t expected her first day back to be so gruelling. But she knew that worse was to come. Tonight was her welcome back drinks. Time to face Helen Grace.
15
For the first time in years, Helen craved a drink. She had seen what it had done to her parents and that had put her off for life, but sometimes she still craved the hit. She was wound tight tonight. The interview with Elaine Matthews had gone badly, as the disgruntled Family Liaison officer had been quick to point out. There was little Helen could have done differently – she had to ask the tough questions – but still she berated herself for upsetting someone who was blameless and distraught. They had had no choice but to leave in the end, having learned nothing of use along the way.
Helen had biked straight from Eileen’s house to the Parrot and Two Chairmen pub, Tony following behind. Situated a couple of blocks from Southampton Central it was the traditional venue for leaving dos and the like. Tonight they were wetting Charlie’s head on her return to work – another stupid tradition. Helen had steeled herself and walked in, Tony trying a bit too hard to be jaunty and relaxed beside her … only to find that Charlie wasn’t there. She was still out on the job and was expected shortly.
The team made small talk but no one knew quite how to play it. Furtive eyes were cast towards the pub entrance, then suddenly there she was. Charlie bounded over towards the group – keen to get this over with? – and as if by magic the crowds seem to part, allowing Charlie a clean run at her superior.
‘Hello, Charlie,’ Helen said. Not exactly in
spired, but it would have to do.
‘Boss.’
‘How’s your first day been?’
‘Good. It’s been good.’
‘Good.’
Silence. Mercifully Tony leapt to Helen’s aid:
‘Nicked anyone yet?’
Charlie laughed and shook her head.
‘You’re losing your touch, girl,’ Tony continued. ‘Sanderson, you owe me a fiver.’
The team laughed and slowly they crowded round, patting Charlie on the back, buying her drinks, peppering her with questions. Helen did her best to join in – asking after Steve, her parents – but her heart wasn’t in it. Seizing a suitable moment, she nipped off to the toilets. She needed solitude.
She entered the cubicle and sat down. She felt light-headed and rested her head in her hands. Her temples throbbed, her throat was dry. Charlie had looked surprisingly well – nothing like the broken woman who’d stumbled free from her terrible captivity – but seeing her had been harder than Helen had anticipated. Without her around as a reminder, Helen had settled back into life at the station. With Tony promoted to DS and new blood introduced it had almost been like engaging with a new team. Charlie’s return took her straight back to that time, reminding her of all that she’d lost.
Helen exited the cubicle and gave her hands a long, thorough clean. In the background a toilet flushed and a cubicle door opened. Helen flicked a glance into the mirror and her face fell.
Walking towards her was Emilia Garanita, Chief Crime Reporter for the Southampton Evening News.
‘Fancy meeting you here,’ said Emilia, smiling the broadest of grins.
Pop Goes the Weasel: DI Helen Grace 2 (Dci Helen Grace 2) Page 4
