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

by M. J. Arlidge

  Suddenly it all made sense. The reason Charlie had blood on her shirt was that she had collided with the killer as she fled the scene of her latest attack. Stunned, Charlie turned to run after her, then paused. The man was still alive.

  Charlie had a split second to decide. She hurried over to the man, pulling her coat off and clamping it to his chest in an effort to stem the blood loss. Cradling his head, she urged him to keep his eyes open, to talk to her. Charlie knew that the killer had such a good lead that she had probably got away and her best chance of IDing her was to prise some information out of her victim before he died.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ she barked at the screaming girl, before returning her attention to the man. He coughed up a hunk of blood. The mist of it settled on Charlie’s face.

  ‘Can you tell me your name, love?’

  The man gurgled but managed nothing.

  ‘The ambulance is on its way now, you’re going to be ok.’

  His eyes were beginning to close.

  ‘Can you tell me who did this to you?’

  The man opened his mouth. Charlie craned forward, putting her ear to his mouth to hear what he had to say.

  ‘Who attacked you? Can you give me her name?’

  The man was struggling to breathe, but he was determined to say something.

  ‘Her name? Please tell me her name.’

  But the man said nothing. All Charlie heard was the last breath escaping his body. The killer had got away and Charlie was left holding her latest victim.

  41

  Helen stalked the street outside the Liberty Hotel, her eyes raking the walls of the dilapidated terrace for CCTV cameras. They had had a lucky break – Charlie literally bumping into their killer – and as a result of her testimony and the crumbs gleaned from the Polish sex worker who’d disturbed the attack, they had their best description of the suspect so far. She was Caucasian, in her twenties probably and tall, taller than your average girl, with long, powerful legs. She wore dark clothes, probably leather, had a pale face and long black hair cut in a fringe. But no one had seen her face well enough to give more than generic descriptions. The guy who took the money from the girls clearly never dragged his attention away from the TV long enough to actually look at who went in and out of the building. The other working girls said she wasn’t a regular – a couple of them had crossed her path as she took her client upstairs, but she had kept her head down, didn’t meet their eyes and, besides, they had their own clients to attend to. It was infuriating to be so close and yet have so little. A grab from a CCTV camera could change everything, however, so Helen scoured the walls. It was an area where crime was rife so people often employed extra security here, but her investigation revealed only one camera, poised above the entrance to a down-at-heel off licence. It hung limply, pointing at the wall, clearly the victim of vandalism. Was this work of children or had their killer disabled it? It would be of little use either way.

  Heading back to the hotel entrance Helen spotted Charlie, who was now wearing a paper suit and a blanket. Her clothes had been taken away for forensic analysis and she was being looked after by a young WPC.

  ‘Would you like me to call Steve?’

  Charlie looked up to see Helen standing over her.

  ‘Lloyd … DC Fortune’s already done it.’

  ‘Good. Go home, Charlie. You’ve had a big shock and you’ve done all you can. We’ll speak later.’

  Charlie nodded, still taciturn with shock. Helen placed a comforting hand on her shoulder then moved on, impatient to see what the crime scene might offer them. Climbing the stairwell to the top floor, Helen paused to interrogate a group of forensic officers crowded round a partial footprint. The outline of a heel and toe was printed on the wooden board in blood.

  ‘Is it hers?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Well, it’s not Charlie’s, so …’

  ‘Can you get a size off it?’

  The SOC officer nodded, so Helen moved on. These small details could be surprisingly significant. She was momentarily cheered but her good humour evaporated as soon as she took in the crime scene. It was drenched in blood. The victim lay on the bed, his hands and legs still tied to the bedstead, his chest opened up like a tin can. His heart, which only thirty minutes ago had been pumping fit to burst, now lay still. Helen leaned over the body, taking care not to touch it. Focusing on the wound, she could see that the tissue around the heart was untouched. Clearly the killer had been disturbed before she could take her prize. Helen looked at the victim’s face – didn’t recognize him – then quickly looked away. It was contorted in agony.

  She retreated to watch the forensic officers at work. In addition to the evidence garnered from the victim’s body, they would also be analysing a medium-sized Tupperware box that lay discarded on the floor. Was this what their killer put the hearts in? A Tupperware box. It was so common-or-garden, so domestic, it was almost funny. It could have been bought in a hundred stores in Southampton so they would have to hope that their killer had left some residue of her identity on it. Helen knew she couldn’t bank on it though – their killer had hardly put a foot wrong so far.

  Taking in the crime scene, Helen’s mind was full of questions. Why this sudden change in MO? The killer had been so cautious thus far – why bring her latest victim to a place where she could be disturbed or, worse, identified? Was she getting careless? Or were the punters harder to isolate now? Had word got out about the danger? Were clients seeking safety in more public places? She had brought him here during the day, when she knew there would be others around. Was he special in some way? Could she only get him at this time of day? It was a strange turn of events.

  One thing that Helen was sure of was that the killer would now be rattled. She had been disturbed during the act and had fled empty-handed. Worse, she had run straight into a cop waving a warrant card and had only escaped through sheer good fortune. She must fear now that the police would have a good description of her and possibly forensic evidence too. Experience taught Helen that such a scare would make the killer react in one of two ways. Either she would vanish for good or she would step up her killing spree. Which option would she take?

  Only time would tell.

  42

  It was time to say goodbye. Tony had been putting it off but it was getting late now. He hesitated on the threshold of Nicola’s bedroom, then stepped inside.

  ‘Could you give us a moment, Anna?’

  Anna stopped reading aloud and looked up from her book, momentarily double-taking at Tony’s appearance before recovering her poise.

  ‘Of course.’

  She disappeared discreetly. Tony paused, looking down at his wife. Her right eyelid flickered – which was Nicola’s way of greeting her husband.

  ‘I’ve got to go now, love. Anna’s going to be with you for the rest of the day and through the night. I’ll come and see you in the morning, ok? We can read a bit of Dickens if you like. Anna says you’ve nearly finished it.’

  No response from Nicola. Had she understood what he was saying? Or was she upset and refusing to communicate? Once more Tony was swamped by guilt.

  ‘I’ll tell Anna she can read late tonight if you like. You can always sleep in tomorrow, I’ll put the cot bed next to you and we can snuggle. Be like old times.’

  Tony’s voice caught. Why was he stringing this out when he knew it was better just to go?

  Leaning down he kissed his wife’s brow. He paused, then kissed her again, this time on her lips. They seemed dry, even a bit chapped, so he plucked the lip balm from the bedside table and gently applied it.

  ‘Love you.’

  Tony turned and left and thirty seconds later the front door closed gently behind him.

  Tony walked round the corner to where he’d parked his unmarked car. It was a dented Vauxhall saloon, the car of choice for travelling salesmen up and down the land. He bleeped it open with the fob. Stooping to open the driver’s door, he caught sight of himself and paused. He was wearing
a crumpled business suit, had painted flecks of grey in his hair and was wearing a pair of executive-type glasses. It was him, but not him. A vision of a man who was lonely, tired and bereft. There was more than a hint of truth in the image, but Tony refused to dwell on that. He had work to do.

  Climbing inside the car, he fired it up and moved off. It was time to dance with the devil.

  43

  ‘A Tart with Your Heart’

  Emilia Garanita surveyed the headline with undisguised pleasure. She was particularly pleased with her word play, as was her editor, who had splashed it on the front page. Would this be the best-selling edition of the Evening News ever? She sincerely hoped so. With a bit of luck, it might even be her passport out of regional journalism.

  The papers had gone out a couple of hours ago. Clearly word was spreading – her mobile phone hadn’t stopped ringing and her Twitter feed was going ballistic. Nothing sells papers like a serial killer and Emilia intended to make the most of it. The pieces she’d written last year on Marianne’s killing spree had gained her a reputation locally, but because of Grace’s obstruction on that case she had got to the story too late. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

  Emilia swallowed her guilty hope that the killer would not be caught too quickly. She knew it was wrong to think like that, but truth be told she enjoyed the fact that Grace was being given the runaround, that the killer appeared to strike at will without leaving a trace, and, besides, who honestly felt sympathy for the victims? They were typical men – deceitful, mendacious, driven by base desires. There were already signs in the messages posted on the paper’s forum and on Twitter that the wider public felt that these men had got what was coming to them. For centuries prostitutes had been the unheralded victims of male violence, was it such a bad thing that the boot was now on the other foot? ‘Go, girl,’ Emilia said to herself, suppressing a smile.

  There was only one blot on the landscape and that was Emilia’s failure to interview Christopher Reid’s widow, Jessica. She had rung and visited often, but the Family Liaison officer knew Emilia’s tactics well and had seen her off. She had subsequently returned, slipping a financial offer through the door, with a note explaining how the money could be put to good use in the difficult months ahead and offering sympathetic coverage in the paper, but as yet there had been no response and Emilia doubted there would be. Grace would keep her away from public view whilst the killer was at large. Still, Emilia had overcome bigger challenges than this before and she would just have to be inventive. There was more than one way to skin a cat.

  The office was thinning out now. There was little point in Emilia hanging about – the praise and adulation she’d received earlier had died down as her colleagues departed for home. Grabbing her bag and coat, Emilia headed to the lifts. There was a new bar on the waterfront that she’d been meaning to check out for a while and now seemed the perfect time to do just that.

  She had just left the office when her mobile rang. It was one of her tame PCs – he’d been a source of valuable intel for several months now. As she listened to his breathless report, a broad smile spread across Emilia’s face. Another murder and this time it involved a familiar face: DC Charlie Brooks. Turning on her heel, Emilia marched straight back into the office.

  This story just kept getting better and better.

  44

  ‘She’s asleep. You can’t see her.’

  Steve was a bad liar, but Helen didn’t contradict him. There was real fury in his eyes and Helen was careful not to provoke him.

  ‘It’s important I talk to her, so can you ask her to call me the minute she wakes up?’

  ‘You don’t let up, do you?’ Steve replied, half laughing in his bitterness.

  ‘I have a job to do, Steve. I’m not trying to rile you or disturb Charlie, but I have a job to do and I won’t let personal friendships get in the way.’

  ‘Friendships? That’s a fucking joke. I don’t think you’re capable of friendships.’

  ‘I didn’t come here to argue with you …’

  ‘You don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you? As long as you get what you wa—’

  ‘ENOUGH.’

  They both turned to see Charlie approaching. She hadn’t been in bed, merely eavesdropping from the living room, as Helen had suspected all along. Anger flashed across Steve’s face momentarily, embarrassed to be revealed as a liar, then he recovered himself, hurrying to Charlie. But she was staring past her boyfriend to Helen.

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  ‘Think, Charlie. Is there anything else you remember? Her face? Her smell? Her expression?’

  ‘No, I’ve told you.’

  ‘Did she say anything when she bumped into you? Did you hear an accent of any kind?’

  Charlie closed her eyes, unwillingly casting her mind back to that moment.

  ‘No. She just kind of grunted.’

  ‘Grunted?’

  ‘Yup, I’d winded her so …’

  Charlie petered out, feeling Helen’s irritation and disappointment. The Polish prostitute who’d got the wrong room and disturbed the attack spoke broken English and was deeply suspicious of the police. Her description of the killer was basic, hence the pressure Helen was now piling on Charlie to conjure a rabbit from the hat. Some half-remembered detail could give them the break they so desperately needed.

  ‘Ok, let’s leave it for now. You’re obviously tired,’ Helen said, rising. ‘Perhaps things will be clearer tomorrow after you’ve had some sleep.’

  She was halfway to the door when Charlie said:

  ‘Here.’

  Helen turned to see Charlie holding out her warrant card.

  ‘You were right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t do this. I thought I could but I can’t.’

  ‘Charlie, there’s no need to rush into this –’

  ‘Someone died in my arms today,’ Charlie shouted, her voice shaking even as she said it. ‘He died right in front of me, I had to wash his blood off my face, out of my hair. I had to wash his blood out of …’

  She collapsed into sobs, huge breath-robbing sobs. Refusing to look at Helen, she planted her face in her hands. Her warrant card lay on the coffee table where she’d dropped it.

  So this was it. All Helen had to do was pick it up. Charlie would be paid off and that would be that. Helen had got what she wanted.

  But Helen knew immediately that she wouldn’t pick it up. She had wanted rid of Charlie, but now, on the cusp of victory, Helen felt ashamed of her selfishness and cowardice. What right did she have to drive Charlie out, to consign her to a wilderness of bitterness and regret? She was supposed to help people. To save them, not damn them.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charlie.’

  Charlie’s sobbing paused momentarily, before continuing in a lower key. Helen seated herself next to Charlie.

  ‘I’ve been a bitch. And I’m sorry. It’s … it’s my weakness, not yours … I still have Marianne on my skin, in my blood. I can’t shake her. Or Mark. Or you. Or that day. I’ve been screaming and shouting, running away, hoping that I can rub out the memories if I push everything and everyone away. I wanted to push you away. Which was cruel and selfish. I’m really sorry, Charlie.’

  Charlie looked up, her eyelashes wet with tears.

  ‘I knew what you were feeling, but I didn’t help you. I kicked you when you were down and that’s unforgivable. But I’d like you to forgive me if you can. It was never about you.’

  Helen paused a moment before continuing:

  ‘If you want to walk away, start a family, do normal things, then I won’t stand in your way. I’ll make sure you get whatever you need to start over. But if you change your mind, I want you back … I need you back.’

  Charlie’s crying had ceased now, but she still refused to look up.

  ‘We’re hunting a serial killer, Charlie. I haven’t said that out loud yet, because I didn’t want it to be true. Didn’t believe it could
happen again. But it is and now I … I can’t stop her.’

  Helen’s voice wavered momentarily, before she recovered her composure. When she next spoke her voice was firm, but quiet.

  ‘I can’t stop her.’

  Helen left shortly afterwards, having said too much, yet still not enough. She had failed to be a good leader, copper or friend. Was it too late to pull something from the wreckage? She had lost Mark, she would be a fool to lose Charlie too. But maybe it was too little, too late. Perhaps it was now her destiny to face this killer alone. It wasn’t a fight she thought she could win, but she would fight it nevertheless.

  45

  Why hadn’t she hidden it from her? Surely it was her job to suck up all the shit that the world threw at her and keep her safe from the storm. Instead, because Alison had been busy playing with Sally, she hadn’t heard the letterbox rattle, hadn’t heard the paper hitting the mat. So it had fallen to Jessica to pick it up.

  ‘A Tart with Your Heart’. Jessica dropped the paper as if it were on fire and fled upstairs. She felt light-headed as she reached the landing, the sudden awfulness of it all ramming its way down her throat again. She started to retch, then choke. Stumbling to the bathroom, she could feel the vomit rising. Crashing through the door, she threw up in the bath, her stomach heaving again and again. Finally, it was over, but all her strength had leeched from her and she curled up in a ball on the bath mat and put her head in her hands.

  She wanted to die. It was just too awful. She had already given up hating Christopher for his betrayal and his stupidity and now she just missed him, wanting him back fiercely. That was the easy bit – it was the other stuff that she couldn’t shake. The violence of his death, the fact that they couldn’t bury him yet, the fact that his heart … his poor heart … was in an evidence bag somewhere …