Pop Goes the Weasel: DI Helen Grace 2 (Dci Helen Grace 2)

by M. J. Arlidge

  ‘I would have thought this was your natural habitat, Emilia.’

  It was cheap, but Helen couldn’t resist. She disliked this woman both professionally and personally. The fact that she had suffered – one side of Emilia’s face was still heavily disfigured following a historic acid attack – cut no ice with Helen. Everyone suffered – it didn’t have to make you a merciless shit.

  Emilia’s smile didn’t waver; she liked duelling, as Helen knew to her cost.

  ‘I was rather hoping we’d run into each other, Inspector,’ she continued. Helen wondered if the stress on the last word was Emilia’s way of emphasizing how Helen’s career had stalled. ‘I hear you had yourself a nasty little murder on the Empress Road.’

  Helen had given up asking how she came by her information. There was always some newbie in uniform who would cough up information when caught in Emilia’s tractor beam. Whether intimidated by her or just keen to be rid of her, they gave her what she wanted in the end.

  Helen looked at her, then walked off, pushing through the door back into the pub. Emilia fell into stride next to her.

  ‘Any working theories? I heard it was pretty savage.’

  No mention of the heart. Was she ignorant of this little detail or teasing Helen with its omission?

  ‘Any idea who the victim is yet?’

  ‘Nothing confirmed, but as soon as it is you’ll be the first to know.’

  Emilia grinned, but didn’t get a chance to respond.

  ‘Emilia, how nice to see you. Come to buy me a drink?’ Ceri Harwood was now hurrying over. Where had she sprung from?

  ‘On a journalist’s wage?’ Emilia countered good-humouredly.

  ‘Then allow me,’ Harwood replied, steering her towards the bar.

  Helen watched them go, unsure whether Harwood had rescued her from Emilia or stepped in to prevent Helen irritating the fourth estate. Either way she was glad of the intervention. She shot a glance at her team. Happy, relaxed and already a few drinks to the good, they chatted animatedly, clearly pleased to have Charlie back.

  Helen felt like the bad fairy at the christening. The one person unable to welcome Charlie back with an open heart. The team were oblivious to her, which provided Helen with the perfect opportunity.

  There was somewhere she needed to be.

  Helen climbed onto her bike and pulled her helmet on, rendering her temporarily anonymous. Turning the ignition, she tested the throttle, then kicked off the brake and roared down the darkened street. She was glad to see the back of Emilia and Charlie. She had had enough for one day – more than enough.

  Rush hour was long gone and Helen cut easily through the empty streets. At times like this she really did feel at home in Southampton. It was as if the streets had been cleared for her, as if it were her city, a place where she could exist unmolested and undisturbed. Slowly her mood lifted. Not simply because of where she was, but because of where she was going.

  Having parked up, she rang the bell three times and waited. The buzzer sounded – like a warm welcome – and she stepped inside.

  Jake was waiting for her, the door wide open. Helen knew he didn’t do this for other clients – the dangers inherent in his business meant he always verified a client’s identity through the spyhole before opening the reinforced door. But he knew it was her – the three rings being their code – and, besides, he knew now what she did for a profession.

  It hadn’t always been that way of course. For the first year of their association, she had told him nothing, despite his numerous attempts to open up a conversation. But recent events had changed all that – dominators read the papers too. Thankfully, he was too professional to mention it. He was tempted to, she sensed that, but he knew how much she had suffered, how much she loathed the exposure. So he kept his counsel.

  This was Helen’s space. A place where she could be the closed book she used to be. A throwback to a time when her life was under control. If she hadn’t been happy then, she had nevertheless been at peace. And peace was what she craved now. It was a risk coming here for sure – many other coppers had been driven out of the Force in disgrace because of their ‘unconventional’ lifestyles – but it was a risk Helen was prepared to take.

  She stripped off her biking leathers, then removed her suit and blouse, hanging them up on the expensive hangers in Jake’s wardrobe. Slipping off her shoes, she was now just in her underwear. Already she could feel her body relaxing. Jake had his back to her – his usual, discreet self – but Helen knew he wanted to look at her. She liked that – it made her feel good – she wanted him to look at her. But you can’t have it both ways. Privacy and intimacy are mutually exclusive.

  Closing her eyes, Helen waited for him to strike. Finally on the cusp of release, dark thoughts suddenly reared up unbidden, surprising and unsettling her. Thoughts of Marianne and Charlie, of the people she’d hurt and betrayed, the damage she’d done – the damage she was still doing.

  Jake brought the crop firmly down on her back. Then again, harder. He paused as Helen’s body reacted to the blows, then just as she began to relax, he whipped her again. Helen felt the sharp spasm of pain dissipate into an all-over tingling. Her heart was pumping, her headache receding, the endorphins pulsing round her brain. Her dark thoughts were in full flight now – punishment as always her saviour. As Jake brought the crop down for the fourth time, Helen realized that, for the first time in days, she felt truly relaxed. And more than that, she felt happy.

  16

  He had left his wedding ring on. As he turned the steering wheel, manoeuvring the car over Redbridge Causeway, he caught sight of the gold band nestling on his fourth finger. He cursed himself – he was still bloody green at this. Looking up, he noticed that she had clocked his discomfort.

  ‘Don’t worry, love. Most of my punters are married. Nobody’s judging you here.’

  She smiled at him, then turned to look out of the window. He chanced another, longer look at her. She was just how he’d hoped she’d be. Young, fit, her long legs clad in thigh-high plastic boots. A short skirt, a loose top that revealed her large breasts and elbow-length gloves – were they to arouse or simply to ward off the perishing cold? A pale face with high cheekbones and then that striking hair – long, black and straight.

  He had picked her up on Cemetery Road, just south of the Common. There was no one around at that time of night, which suited them both. They headed west, crossed the river and on her instructions had cut off down a narrow side road. They were approaching Eling Great Marsh, a lonely strip of land that looks back towards the docks. During daylight hours, nature lovers come here searching for wildlife, but at night it was used by a very different clientele.

  They parked up and for a moment sat in silence. She delved in her bag for a condom, placing it on the dashboard.

  ‘You’re going to have to tip your seat back or I’m not going to be able to do anything,’ she said gently.

  Smiling, he shunted his chair back abruptly, then slowly lowered it to allow them more wriggle room. Already her gloved hand was casually brushing over his groin, provoking an erection.

  ‘Mind if I keep these on?’ she asked. ‘It’s more fun that way.’

  He nodded, desire rendering him mute. She began to unzip his trousers.

  ‘Close your eyes, honey, and let me take care of you.’

  He did as he was told. She was in command and he liked it that way. It was nice to be taken care of for once, to be free of responsibility, to please oneself. When did he ever get the chance to do that?

  Unbidden, an image of Jessica popped into his mind. His loving wife of two years, the mother of his child, unsuspecting, betrayed … He pushed the thought away, swallowing this sudden intrusion of real life. It had no place here. This was his fantasy made flesh. This was his moment. And despite the feelings of guilt that now circled him, he was going to enjoy it.

  17

  It was nearly midnight when he returned home. The house was dark and still, as it alway
s seemed to be. Nicola would be sleeping peacefully upstairs, her carer camped by her side, reading a book by torchlight. Usually this was an image that cheered him – a cosy cocoon for his wife – but tonight the thought of it saddened him. A fierce sense of loss ripped through him, sudden and hard.

  Dropping his keys on the table, Tony Bridges hurried upstairs to relieve Anna, who’d been helping look after Nicola for nearly eighteen months now. Tony was suddenly aware that he’d had too much to drink. He’d left the car by the pub and cabbed it home, allowing him the luxury of drinking. Caught up in the emotion of Charlie’s return, he’d ended up having four or five pints and he swayed slightly on the stairs. He was allowed to have a life of course, but still he always felt ashamed when Anna – or, worse, Nicola’s mother – caught him drinking. Would his speech give him away? The smell of alcohol on his breath? He tried his best to look sober and walked into Nicola’s bedroom.

  ‘How’s she been?’

  ‘Very good,’ replied Anna, smiling. She was always smiling, thank goodness. ‘She had her dinner and then I read her a few chapters.’

  She held up Bleak House. Nicola had always loved Dickens – David Copperfield her particular favourite – so they were working through his back catalogue. It was a project, something for Nicola to achieve, and she seemed to enjoy the stories with their plucky heroes and diabolical villains.

  ‘We’re just getting to the exciting bit,’ Anna continued, ‘and she wanted to read on, so I gave her a couple of bonus chapters. But she’d pretty much nodded off by the end of it – you might have to recap a bit tomorrow. Make sure she doesn’t miss anything.’

  Tony suddenly felt very emotional, moved by the tender care Anna lavished on his wife. Fearing his voice would falter, he patted Anna’s arm, thanked her quickly and sent her on her way.

  Nicola was his childhood sweetheart and they had married young. Their life was set fair but two days before her twenty-ninth birthday, Nicola had suffered a massive stroke. She survived it, but the resulting brain damage was extensive and she was now a prisoner of locked-in syndrome. She could see and was aware, but was only able to move her eyes, due to the paralysis that gripped her body. Tony looked after her lovingly, patiently teaching her to communicate with her eyes, dragooning in family or hiring carers when he had to work, but still he often felt he was a bad husband to her. Impatient, frustrated, selfish. In reality, he did everything he could for her, but that didn’t stop him castigating himself. Especially when he’d been out having a good time. Then he felt callous and unworthy.

  He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead and then retreated to his bedroom. Even now, two years after her stroke, the fact that they had separate bedrooms still hurt. Separate bedrooms were for couples who’d fallen out of love, for show marriages, not for him and Nicola. They were better than that.

  He couldn’t be bothered to get undressed, so he settled down on the bed and flicked through Bleak House. In the early days, when they were still dating, Nicola had read passages from Dickens aloud to him. He’d been uncomfortable with it at first – he’d never been much of a reader and it felt pretentious – but in time he’d come to love it. He would close his eyes and listen to her soft Home Counties voice playing with the words. He was never happier and he would have killed now to have a recording – just one – of her reading to him.

  But he never would have, and pipe dreams get you nowhere, so he settled down with the book instead. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do for now.

  18

  The lights of Southampton docks glittered in the distance. The port was used 24/7 and would be a hive of activity even now, giant cranes unloading the containers that arrived from Europe, the Caribbean and beyond. Forklifts would be racing up and down the quay as men shouted insults at each other, enjoying the camaraderie of the night shift.

  On Eling Great Marsh all was still. It was a cold night, an arctic wind blasting up the river channel, buffeting the car that stood alone in the bleak emptiness. The driver’s door hung wide open and the interior lights were on, casting a weak light over the lonely scene.

  Holding his ankles firmly, she began to pull. He was heavier than he looked and she had to use all her strength to manoeuvre him over uneven ground. The going was soft, rendering progress slow, and they left a snail-like trail behind them. His head caught on a rock as she pushed him over the lip of a small ditch. He stirred, but not enough – he was too far gone for that.

  She cast around quickly, checking once again that they were alone. Satisfied, she placed her bag on the ground, unzipping it to reveal its contents. She pulled out a roll of duct tape and broke off a stretch. Pushing it down firmly on his mouth, she smoothed her gloved hand over and over it to make sure there was no breathing room. Her heart was beginning to beat faster now, her adrenalin spiking, so she didn’t delay. Grasping his hair, she pulled his lolling head back to reveal his throat. Retrieving the long blade from the bag, she cut deep into his throat. Instantly his body writhed, as his mind desperately tried to regain some form of consciousness, but it was all too late. Blood spurted up, splattering her chest and face, binding them together. She let his warm blood settle and cloy on her – plenty of time to clean up later.

  Driving the blade deep into his stomach, she set about her business. Within ten minutes, she had what she wanted, bagging the bloody organ in a zippered bag. Straightening up, she surveyed her work. Where her first effort had been imprecise and laboured, this was smooth and efficient.

  She was getting better at this.

  19

  ‘So how did it go?’

  Steve had been waiting up for Charlie and was walking towards her. The TV burbled in the background. Four empty cans of lager on the coffee table revealed that like Charlie he’d felt the need for a few stiff drinks.

  ‘The day or my welcome back?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Ok actually. I made some decent progress on a case and the gang were pleased to see me. Helen was pretty much how I expected, but there’s nothing I can do about that, so …’

  Charlie was relieved to see that Steve looked genuinely pleased for her. He had been so against the idea of returning to work that she was grateful now that he was trying his best to be positive and supportive.

  ‘Well done you. I told you you’d be great,’ he said, slipping his arm round her waist and giving her a congratulatory kiss.

  ‘First day back,’ Charlie replied, shrugging. ‘Long way to go yet.’

  ‘One step at a time, eh?’

  Charlie nodded and they kissed again, a little deeper this time.

  ‘How much have you had?’ Steve continued, a little glint in his eye now.

  ‘Enough,’ replied Charlie, smiling. ‘You?’

  ‘Definitely enough,’ said Steve, suddenly sweeping her off the floor and into his arms. ‘Keep your head up. That banister’s a bastard.’

  Smiling, Charlie let Steve carry her upstairs to the bedroom. They had always been a loving couple, but recently genuine intimacy had been absent from their relationship. Charlie was both exhilarated and relieved that they seemed to be recovering their old spontaneity and desire.

  Perhaps everything was going to be all right after all.

  20

  ‘You’re looking at a DIY thoracotomy.’

  Jim Grieves savoured the last word, aware that it would mean little to Helen. It was 7 a.m. and they were alone in the police mortuary. Alan Matthews lay naked on the slab before them. They had already established that he had bled to death and they had now moved on to the removal of his heart.

  ‘This particular operation is not exactly textbook, but then again he or she was operating in less than optimum conditions. Their adrenalin would have been pumping, they would have been fearful of discovery and we shouldn’t forget that the victim was still alive when they started. Not exactly standard practice so, given that, it’s not a bad job.’

  There was almost a note of admiration in his voice. Many would have chided him f
or this, but Helen let it go. Too much time in a mortuary does strange things to you and Jim was saner than most. He was also fiercely bright so Helen always paid attention to what he had to say.

  ‘First incision was made just below the sternum. A big blade, perhaps twenty centimetres in length. Then they cut through the ribs and breastbone. After that you’d usually use muscle retractors – rib-spreaders – to peel open the chest. But our killer used something more interesting. See those two puncture holes there?’

  Helen craned over the body to look inside the chest cavity. There were two holes about fifty centimetres apart in the right flap of what had once been his chest.

  ‘They were made by some sort of hook. A butcher’s hook maybe? Two hooks embedded to the side of the main incision, then you just use brute force. They ripped open the right half first, then did the same again with the left side. Once the chest is open and the heart revealed, it’s simply a matter of cutting around the surrounding tissue and lifting it out. Bit of a hatchet job, but effective.’

  Helen digested these macabre details.

  ‘So what are we talking? A butcher’s knife and a meat hook?’

  ‘Could be,’ Grieves replied, shrugging.

  ‘How long would it take?’

  ‘Ten to fifteen minutes depending on how experienced you are and how much care you take.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Your victim was immobilized with chloroform – found it in his nostrils and his mouth. Forensics are doing their work on it now, but I’d hazard that it was home-made. Any fool can make it with bleach, acetone and internet access.’

  ‘Any traces of our killer?’

  Jim shook his head.

  ‘Looks like there was minimal contact between them. That said, your man has had a good deal of contact with others over the years.’

  Jim paused as he always did when he had something good up his sleeve. Helen tensed slightly, eager to be put out of her misery.