Pop Goes the Weasel (10 page)

‘What I’m asking you to do is potentially very dangerous and if you say no, I will respect that decision.’

Tony had suspected something was up the minute Helen had asked to meet him in the Old White Bear. It was a grotty pub round the corner from the station – it was where you went if you didn’t want to be overheard.

‘I know you’ve done undercover work before and know the drill,’ Helen continued, ‘but your circumstances are different now. That said, you’re the best male officer I’ve got, so …’

‘What exactly do you want?’ replied Tony, blushing slightly at the compliment.

‘It looks like our killer is targeting men cruising for sex,’ Helen went on. ‘We could put an ad in the
Evening News
asking for punters to come forward and help, but I can’t see that working. The girls on the street aren’t telling McAndrew a single thing …’

‘So we have to put someone in the line of fire.’

‘Exactly.’

Tony said nothing. His expression was neutral, but he was excited by the prospect. His life had been so
regimented for so long that a chance to be on the front line again was tempting.

‘We can only do so much working with motive and MO – this killer is scrupulously careful about forensics and uses out-of-the-way locations. So we need someone on the ground, posing as a punter, sniffing around. I know you’ll need time to process this. And I’m sure there’ll be loads of questions you want to ask, but I need an answer fast. This could be …’

Helen paused, choosing her words carefully.

‘… This could be something big. And I want to nip it in the bud.’

Tony promised to think about it overnight, but he knew already that he was going to say yes. It was dangerous for sure, but if it wasn’t him it would be someone else. Someone less experienced. He was a DS now and it was right for him to step up. Mark Fuller wouldn’t have ducked something like this and he had had a kid, for God’s sake.

Helen headed back to the incident room, leaving Tony to his thoughts. He allowed himself a pint, as he mentally scrolled through the challenges that lay ahead. How to frame it for Nicola? How could he quell her anxiety and reassure her that the risks were minimal?

He sat alone, supping his pint, lost in thought. A last drink for the condemned man.

She had snuck up behind her without making a sound. Charlie had been so involved in her work, so excited by her discoveries, that she hadn’t noticed Harwood’s approach.

‘How are you getting on, Charlie?’

Charlie jumped, startled by this sudden intrusion. She turned and blustered a response – it was unnerving to find the station chief looming over you.

‘Settling back in ok?’ Harwood continued.

‘Yes, Ma’am. Making good progress and everyone’s been very welcoming. Those who are here at least.’

‘Yes, you’ve caught us at a busy time. But I’m delighted you’re back, Charlie – it would have been a shame to lose such a talented officer.’

Charlie said nothing. What was the correct response to this unwarranted compliment? Charlie had been off sick for a year after nearly getting herself killed – it wasn’t the greatest recommendation to the new station chief. In the aftermath of her abduction, Charlie had prepared herself for the call suggesting she might be happier elsewhere, but it had never come. Instead she’d been encouraged to return to work and was now being praised by a woman she hardly knew.

‘Go
at your own pace,’ Harwood continued. ‘Do what you’re good at. And come to me if you have any problems, ok? My door is always open.’

‘Yes, Ma’am. And thank you. For everything.’

Harwood smiled her wide, attractive smile. Charlie was aware she hadn’t really said enough, so continued:

‘I know you don’t know me from Adam and that you would have been completely justified in washing your hands of me, but I want you to know that I am really, really grateful for this chance you’ve given me’ – Charlie was babbling now but couldn’t stop – ‘and I want to say that I won’t let you down. You won’t regret giving me a second chance.’

Harwood regarded her, clearly unused to such outpourings, then patted her on the arm.

‘I don’t doubt it for a second.’

She turned to go, but Charlie stopped her:

‘There was one other thing. A development in the Alexia Louszko case.’

Harwood turned, intrigued.

‘DC Fortune established that the upmarket brothel Alexia worked for was owned by Sandra McEwan.’

Charlie paused, unsure if the name would mean anything to Harwood.

‘I know her. Go on.’

‘Well, I was a bit surprised that she owned the freehold to the Brookmire building. Didn’t realize she had that kind of money. So I did a bit more digging to see if Sandra owned any other properties in Southampton.’

‘And?’

Charlie paused for a moment. Should she say anything to Harwood without telling Helen first? Too late to be coy now – Harwood was clearly expecting something.

‘She owns property on the Empress Road industrial estate.’

Now she had Harwood’s full attention. Charlie picked up a copy of the street map she’d downloaded from the Land Registry and handed it to her.

‘Specifically she owns this row of derelict houses. Alan Matthews’ body was found in the fourth one along.’

Harwood processed this. Charlie went on:

‘Alexia was killed and mutilated, probably by the Campbells – Alexia used to walk the streets for them before defecting to Brookmire. A day later, a street punter is found murdered and mutilated in a property owned by Sandra McEwan.’

‘You think that Sandra is sending them a message. That it’ll be tit for tat?’

‘Could be. History tells us that if you declare war on Sandra McEwan you’d better be ready for the consequences.’

Harwood’s brow furrowed. Nobody needed a prostitution war – they tended to be long and bloody and always made it into the papers.

‘Bring her in.’

Harwood was already heading for the door.

‘Should I let DI Grace know before I …’

‘Bring her in, DC Brooks.’

They were huddled together like cattle at an abattoir. It was astonishing how quickly professional poise could disappear. The staff of Zenith Solutions had taken refuge in the atrium, too unnerved to go back into the office, too curious to go home. Helen walked past them and hurried up to the third floor.

Stephen McPhail, the Chief Executive of Zenith, was trying his best to look composed, but he was clearly perturbed by the morning’s events. He was holed up in his office, flanked by his long-serving secretary, Angie. The box remained on Angie’s desk where she’d dropped it. It had toppled over on impact, the bloody heart spilling out onto her desk. It lay there still, guarded closely by a pair of uniforms who refused to look at it. The lid flapped down lazily – the single word
SCUM
, daubed in blood, screaming out its simple message.

‘I appreciate that you must be extremely distressed by what’s happened, but it’s imperative I ask you some questions whilst events are still fresh in your memory. Is that ok?’

Helen was addressing Angie, who managed a nod between sniffles.

‘What
firm was the courier from?’

‘She didn’t say. She didn’t have a logo on.’

‘It was definitely a woman?’

‘Yes. She didn’t say much … but yes.’

‘Did you see her face?’

‘Not really. She had her helmet on. To be honest I didn’t really take much notice of her.’

Helen cursed internally.

‘Height?’

‘Not sure really. Five eight?’

‘Hair colour?’

‘Couldn’t say for sure.’

Helen nodded, her fixed smile disguising her exasperation with the unobservant Angie. Had the courier known she could slip in and out without arousing attention or had it just been a lucky break?

‘I’m going to ask a police artist to come and sit with you. If you can give her a full description of the courier’s clothes, helmet, features, then we can get an accurate picture of who we’re looking for. Is that ok?’

Angie nodded heroically, so Helen turned her attention to Stephen McPhail.

‘I’m going to need a list of the names and addresses of all your staff – those who were present today, as well as those who were absent.’

‘Of course,’ McPhail replied. He tapped some keys and the printer began to whirr into life. ‘We’ve got twenty permanent staffers – only a couple of them were away today.
Helen Baxter is on holiday and Chris Reid – well, I’m not sure where he is.’

Helen kept her expression neutral.

‘Do you have CCTV in the office?’ she continued.

‘I’m afraid not, but downstairs reception is covered. I’m sure the management company would let you have whatever you need.’

He was so desperate to help, so keen to clear up this mess. Helen wanted to put him out of his misery, but couldn’t.

‘We have no reason to believe this is specifically aimed at you, but is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to target you in this way? Someone you’ve let go recently? A disgruntled client? A family member?’

‘We do IT,’ McPhail replied, as if this explained everything. ‘It’s not the kind of business where you make enemies. All our guys – and girls – have been with us for months, if not years. So, no, I … I don’t know of anyone who’d do something like this …’

He petered out.

‘Try not to be too concerned by it. I’m sure it’s a prank. We’ll have officers here for the next couple of days, talking to staff, but you should try and go about your everyday business. No reason why a sick joke should cost you money.’

McPhail nodded, looking a touch more reassured, so Helen hurried down to reception. Charles Holland, the management company rep, had arrived and was waiting
for her. He hurriedly sought out the morning’s CCTV tapes, desperate to hand over responsibility for this unpleasantness to somebody else. The forensics team had arrived now and were making their way upstairs to recover the heart, exciting the interest of Zenith’s exiled staff. It was an interesting development – delivering the victim’s heart to his workplace rather than his home. It was riskier for sure, but was guaranteed to make much more of a splash. Was that the point? What sort of game was this?

And where would it end?