‘We’ve had a trawl through Gareth Hill’s hard drive. His computer seems to have been his one and only window on the world – he used it a lot. And one of his favourite sites was the Bitchfest web forum.’
She had everyone’s attention now.
‘This prostitute rating site was also visited by Alan Matthews and Christopher Reid – they used the pseudonyms “BadBoy” and “BigMan”. Gareth Hill’s moniker was “Blade”. They entered into extremely graphic conversations with other men about the girls in Southampton. They were particularly interested in girls up for denigration and rough sex and received various pointers from other users, specifically from “Dangerman”, “HappyGoLucky”, “Hammer”, “PussyKing”, “fillyerboots” and “BlackArrow”. Several girls were discussed but the one who came up time and again was a prostitute who calls herself “Angel”.’
Helen felt a shiver inside. Could this be their killer?
‘Interestingly,’ Charlie continued, ‘Angel doesn’t advertise, doesn’t have a website, she’s totally offline. She gets her punters by word of mouth alone, current clients tipping off other men about where to find her. She’s elusive and it should be said expensive, but she’s clearly willing to do anything if the money is right.’
‘So she’s hard to find and a closely guarded secret?’ Helen interjected.
‘Exactly.’
‘Good work, Charlie. So top priority is to find these other forum users. Lets focus on those who’ve used Angel’s services and who might have chatted with Matthews, Reid and Hill. These men can lead us to Angel, so let’s find them fast. I’m going down to the surveillance points, but want to be kept up to speed with developments. DS Brooks will run things in my absence.’
As Helen departed, Charlie set about organizing the team. It had cost her a lot to come back to work, but perhaps it had been the right choice after all. ‘DS Brooks’, she liked the way that sounded, and knew there and then that she wanted back in.
55
Helen stopped in her tracks the moment she saw her. Anger flared inside her as she saw Emilia Garanita leaning casually against her Kawasaki in the bike park outside the station.
‘You’re in a restricted area and currently obstructing police business, Emilia, so if you wouldn’t mind?’
It was said politely, but without warmth. Emilia smiled – always that same Cheshire Cat smile – and slowly peeled herself off the bike.
‘I’ve tried calling you, Helen, but you won’t answer. I’ve talked to a number of my uniform friends, I even had a quick heart-to-heart with your boss, but nobody seems to know what’s going on. Are you clamming up on me again?’
‘I don’t know what you mean. I gave you the tipoff about the DNA and much more besides.’
‘But that’s not the whole story, is it, Helen? Harwood feels it too. Something’s going on in that team of yours and I want to know what it is.’
‘You want to know what it is?’ Helen replied slowly and with maximum sarcasm.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our little deal already? I said I wanted exclusive access on this story and I meant it.’
‘You’re getting paranoid, Emilia. As soon as there are any new developments, I’ll let you know, ok?’
She moved to get on her bike, but Emilia grabbed her arm.
‘No, not ok.’
Helen looked at her as if she were mad – did she really want to be charged with assaulting a police officer?
‘I don’t like being lied to. I don’t like being looked down on. Especially by a degenerate like you.’
Helen shrugged her off angrily, but was unnerved. There was real venom and a new-found confidence in Emilia’s tone.
‘I want to know, Helen. I want to know everything. And you’re going to tell me.’
‘Or?’
‘Or I tell the world your little secret.’
‘I think the world knows everything about me already. I don’t think you’ll shift any papers rehashing that old stuff again.’
‘But they don’t know about Jake, do they?’
Helen froze.
‘I see you don’t deny knowing him. Well, I’ve had a long chat with him and – after a little gentle persuasion – he told me everything. How he beats you up for money. What is it with some women that they just have to give men the upper hand?’
Helen said nothing – how the hell did she know all this? Had Jake really spoken to her?
‘So here’s the deal, Helen. You will tell me everything, you will give me exclusive access. I want to be ahead of the nationals every step of the way on this and if I’m not … then the whole world will know that heroic Helen Grace is actually a dirty little pervert. How do you think Harwood would like that?’
Her words hung in the air, as Emilia walked off. Helen knew instinctively that she wasn’t bluffing and that for the first time she was in her thrall. Emilia had dangled the sword of Damocles over Helen’s head and would take great pleasure in dropping it.
56
St Stephen’s Baptist church reared up above her, grey and austere in the spitting rain. Churches were supposed to be places of refuge, warm and welcoming, but Helen found them cold and dispiriting places. She had always felt she was somehow being judged by them and found wanting.
Her mind was still reeling from her discussion with Emilia, but she wrenched it back to the task in hand. She had stewed on their conversation for too long and was nearly late as a result – she had had barely five minutes with DC Fortune before haring up the path – and she could hear the organ music swelling up inside. Slipping quietly into the building, she seated herself in a pew at the back. From here she would have a good view of everyone who attended. It was surprisingly common for murderers to attend the funerals of their victims – serial killers in particular seemed to relish the feeling of power as they watched the body being buried, the vicar intoning, the black-clad mourners clinging to each other. Helen scanned the female faces – was their killer sitting somewhere in this church?
The service ground on, but Helen barely took in the words. She had always quite enjoyed the high style of the Bible, she liked to let its ornate phraseology wash over her, but in terms of their content the words might as well have been in the original Greek. The lessons seemed to conjure up a world that was totally alien to her – an ordered, divine cosmos in which everything happened for a reason and in which Good would prevail. There was a level of reassurance in it that Helen could never swallow – the random madness and violence of her world seemed at odds with the cosy catch-alls of religion.
Still, she couldn’t deny that for many the church and its teachings were a comfort. That was very much in evidence now. At the front of the church, Eileen Matthews was surrounded by fellow worshippers, literally being held up by family and friends. The laying on of hands is meant to create a religious rapture in the receiver but also has the very practical purpose of keeping the weak and the vulnerable upright – and so it was proving now. As the chanting increased and the fervour grew, Eileen started to babble. Quietly at first, then louder, strange non-words flying out, her accent changing from south coast to something foreign. She sounded Middle Eastern, a touch Jewish perhaps and distinctly medieval – a torrent of guttural nonsense phrases flew from her mouth as the divine spirit entered her. Helen had seen speaking-in-tongues before on TV, but never in the flesh. It was odd to witness – it looked more like possession to her than rapture.
Eventually the frenzy subsided and the male members of the congregation guided her back to her seat, allowing Helen a chance to examine the female faces front on as they returned to their seats. She realized with a jolt that she was the only single woman there. Every other female present had a husband and every one of them seemed to be very much in his thrall. As the service came to an end, the congregation rose, dividing along gender lines. The men chatted confidently together as the women listened. Alan Matthews, in addition to being an elder of the church, was a member of Christian Domestic Order, a group whi
ch promoted the patriarchy of the Bible, upholding the husband as leader in all things and condemning wives to the role of helpmeet. Women were subservient in every way and spanking was advised if they failed to live up to their duties. Eileen Matthews had probably suffered chastisement at the hands of her husband, who clearly loved to dominate women, and Helen suspected the other women in this congregation had too. The fact that many of them probably did so willingly didn’t help in Helen’s eyes. Looking around the church now Helen saw passive, inert women who lacked the confidence or bravery to do anything for themselves. Unless one amongst their number was a phenomenal actress, there was no one here who would have the gumption, determination and balls to perpetrate this terrible string of murders. Was the killer elsewhere then, watching from the shadows? Slipping out of her seat, Helen walked quickly round the perimeter, eyes scanning this way and that for possible concealed vantage points, but she found nothing.
DC Fortune had scarcely fared better. He had snapped everyone in and out of the church and had been assiduous in photographing every member of the public who passed by. Junior officers dressed as gardeners covered the back of the church, but had seen nothing apart from a man and his dog.
‘Keep an eye out as people leave the church and make sure you get a picture of the chauffeurs too. Go with the cortège back to the family home, but tell one of your boys to remain behind. I want that grave watched night and day. Chances are if our killer comes she’ll come in the dead of night.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Good. File what you’ve snapped so far and keep on it, Lloyd. You never know when she might turn up.’
Did Helen really believe that? As she walked back to her bike, she felt the killer once more slipping away from them. Surveillance was a good move, but had yielded nothing so far. Would she have suspected this move? Did she know what they were thinking?
Helen felt once more on the back foot, ineptly dancing to a tune played by their killer, and now Emilia Garanita too. Had Jake really spilled the beans? It seemed unlikely, no, actually it seemed impossible, but how else had Emilia found out about them?
She was due to see him this evening, but pulling her phone from her pocket, Helen texted to cancel. She wasn’t ready to speak to him yet. A small part of her wondered if she would ever speak to him again.
57
There is a fantasy that sustains you when you’re on active service. It’s the dream that sustains every soldier when he's stuck in some godforsaken dustbowl being shot at and shouted at. It’s the fantasy that there’s something better waiting for you at home. In this fantasy, your girl is keeping the home fires burning, hankering for your return. She will welcome you back with open arms, fill you with good food, take you to bed and be the doting, angelic wife. This is the very least you deserve for the months of fear, loneliness and anger. But it seldom works out that way.
Simon Booker was an ordinary citizen now. His best mate had been blown up two days before they were due to ship out. On the plane home, Simon had told his superior officer he was quitting. He used to love the army, but he wanted out now. It had brought him nothing but disillusionment and despair.
He was convinced that Ellie had been seeing other men whilst he was away. He didn’t have any evidence, it was just a feeling. Still, it gnawed away at him and he wondered which of his so-called mates were laughing behind their hands now, exchanging stories of what his Mrs was like in the sack. He avoided them, just like he now avoided Ellie. He couldn’t talk to her about what life had been like over there, about what it felt like to see Andy split in fifty pieces, and he certainly didn’t want to talk about what she got up to whilst he was away. So he went to the Doncaster and the White Hart. And when he came home, struggling to fit the key into the lock as his hand shook and his brain swam in cheap lager, he would trudge up to the box room where the computer was, walking past the open bedroom door.
He always locked the door. Despite his anger towards Ellie, he still didn’t want her to catch him at it. Was that out of shame or from some buried desire not to hurt her? He wasn’t sure, but he locked the door nevertheless.
The porn had been good to start with but recently he’d grown tired of it. Now his site of choice was Bitchfest. It was a whole new world for him. This was the new frontier of sex and he found in the forum a camaraderie he thought he’d lost for ever. Here men could talk frankly about what they wanted. And advise each other on how to go about getting it.
For a long time he’d held off acting on his impulses, but HappyGoLucky had given ‘Angel’ such rave reviews that he’d decided he couldn’t resist. A lot of men had cried off prostitutes in the wake of stuff in the newspapers and in other forums. Stories of blokes getting killed whilst on the job. And he wasn’t stupid, he knew you had to watch your back. The world was full of killers, liars and thieves. So he was taking precautions. He’d told Ellie he was seeing old army pals, but the contents of his holdall suggested otherwise. Inside was a pack of condoms and a change of clothes. And nestling underneath, unseen, was an iron bar.
58
‘So what do we know about him?’
Helen and Charlie were in a pool car heading for Woolston.
‘Real name – Jason Robins,’ Charlie replied, flicking through her notes. ‘But his alias in the Bitchfest forum was “Hammer”. He wasn’t the most regular contributor – I think that prize goes to “PussyKing” – but he posted every couple of days and when he did he went to town. A lot of bragging about what Angel had done to him, how he’d actually made her come, the usual crap.’
‘How did you find him?’
‘Most of the users are pretty discreet – they obviously use aliases and post on work computers or internet cafés. They are hard to track down even if you have the IP address. Jason’s not so bright. He uses the “Hammer” alias on other sites, one of which was a pay-per-view porn site. He used his credit card to pay for some material –’
‘And you got his home address from that.’
‘Exactly.’
Right on cue they pulled up outside a block of flats on Critchard Street. It was a bit shabby, a bit unloved, the small flats rented by people who were making do until something better came along. Helen and Charlie climbed out of the car, looking up and down the street. Night was falling and apart from the odd worker hurrying home everything was quiet. A light burned in the living room window of the house in front of them – ‘Hammer’ was at home.
They sat at the IKEA table – a stilted threesome with untouched cups of tea sitting in front of them. Jason Robins had assumed the worst when he’d opened the door to two police officers, asking stutteringly if Samantha and Emily had been involved in some kind of accident. When Helen had assured him that this was nothing to do with his family, he’d calmed down, suspicion slowly replacing his fear.
‘You may have read about a series of murders in Southampton recently,’ Helen began. ‘Murders linked to the sex trade.’
Jason nodded but said nothing.
‘A couple of the victims used an online prostitute rating forum.’
Helen let her words hang in the air, pretending to consult her notebook before continuing:
‘It’s called Bitchfest.’
She looked up as she said it, keen to see how Jason would react. He didn’t react at all – not a nod, not a smile, nothing. In Helen’s eyes this was as damning as an admission. Jason was sitting stock still, clearly worried that the slightest reaction might give him away. Helen eyed him.
‘Are you aware of that forum, Jason?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever visited it?’
‘Not my kind of thing.’
Helen nodded and feigned writing something in her notebook.
‘Do you ever use the alias “Hammer” whilst online?’ Charlie asked.
‘ “Hammer”?’
‘Yes, “Hammer” – have you ever used that alias whilst visiting other web forums or sites offering adult material?’
Jason see
med to mull over the question, keen to be seen to be taking it seriously.
‘No. No, I haven’t.’
‘I ask because someone using that alias has a credit card registered to this address in the name of Jason Robins.’
‘Must be fraud.’
‘Have you reported any fraudulent activity on your card?’
‘No, I wasn’t aware of it, but now that you’ve told me I’ll ring them straight away. Get it cancelled.’
Silence descended briefly. Jason was wound tight as a drum, a sheen of sweat sticking to his brow.
‘Are you separated from your wife?’
Jason seemed to relax as the questioning took a new turn.
‘Yes, I am. Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘But you’re not divorced?’
‘Not yet. But we will be.’
‘So presumably you’re currently involved in negotiations about custody of your daughter, Emily?’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘How would you put it?’
Jason shrugged and took a sip of his tea.
‘I can understand why you’re being cagey, Jason. You’re in a tricky place and the last thing you need is the police outing you as a guy who visits adult websites and uses the services of sex workers. It wouldn’t play well in court – I get that. But listen to me carefully. People are dying out there and unless men like you have the courage to step up to the plate, more people will die. I could charge you with wasting police time, obstructing an investigation and more, but I know that you’re a decent guy, Jason. So I’m asking you to help us.
‘We need to know about Angel,’ Charlie continued. ‘Where you meet her, what she looks like, who else might know her. If you can give us everything you know, then we will protect you. We’ll keep your name out of the papers and minimize the disruption to your life. We’ve no interest in making your life any harder, we just want to catch this killer. You can help us do that.’
Pop Goes the Weasel: DI Helen Grace 2 (Dci Helen Grace 2) Page 14
