Pop Goes the Weasel (18 page)

The incident room was full to bursting when Helen arrived. It was only 6.30 a.m. but she’d demanded an early start and the team hadn’t let her down. As they crowded into the briefing room, Helen was surprised to see Charlie among their number. The two women looked at each other – a swift, silent exchange. Charlie had made her decision. What had it cost her? Helen wondered.

‘So one thing is clear,’ Helen began. ‘This is about exposure. The killer wants to
shame
her victims, wants to hold them up to public ridicule, to express her disgust for them. Cutting out their hearts and sending them to his home, in Alan Matthews’ case, or his workplace, in Christopher Reid’s, was guaranteed to create
noise
. With the headlines in the latest
Evening News
we can assume the killer has got what she wanted. The private lives of her victims will now be picked over in massive detail. They’ve already gone to town on Alan Matthews – he’s an elder of his local Baptist church with a predilection for unpleasant sex – and they are doing the same with Christopher Reid – the hidden secrets of the clean-cut family man and so on. So this is all about exposure. This is
personal
.’

‘Do we think she knew them then?’ DC Fortune interjected.

‘Possibly, although there is no evidence that they’d actually used her services before. That said, DC Grounds and his team have come up with something interesting. Andrew?’

‘We have found a concrete link between the two victims,’ DC Grounds announced. ‘They had both browsed a web forum called Bitchfest.’

He winced slightly as he said it, then carried on briskly.

‘It’s basically a forum in which local men who’ve used prostitutes share their experiences. They talk about where to find particular girls, what their names are, what they charge. They rate breast size, sexual prowess, the tightness of their … vaginas, the list goes on.’

DC Grounds looked relieved to have got through this first bit. He was a married father of three and not entirely comfortable relaying these details to younger, female colleagues.

‘Matthews contributed using the alias “BigMan”. Reid hadn’t contributed but had had conversations with other men in the forum, using the name “BadBoy”. The forum has a long history and we’re still wading through it, but it appears that other men in the forum had recently reviewed a new girl who would let you do “anything” to her.’

Grounds looked around at the sea of dispirited faces. It was a good lead, but a sad indictment of humanity. Sensing a dip in morale, Helen stepped in.

‘We’ve also had some feedback from Scene of Crime. The blood we extracted from Charlie’s clothes’ – heads turned in Charlie’s direction – ‘was that of the third victim. ID in his wallet suggests his name is Gareth Hill. We’re triple-checking that before contacting his family and I’ll confirm as soon as I can. So the blood was no help, but they did recover samples of what we think is the killer’s DNA from the scene. Forensics lifted it late last night.’

A buzz went round the room.

‘It doesn’t match any of our records, but it’s the first concrete evidence we have and could be crucial in securing a conviction. Just as important, it tells us something about our girl. The DNA was found in saliva on the victim’s face. It had settled in a series of thin layers spread one on top of each other. So this wasn’t her spitting on him deliberately or an occasional excretion of saliva as she worked on the body. The patterns suggest that this was her talking to him or more likely shouting at him, given the amount of saliva and the pattern of its spread. Was she denigrating him as she killed him? Letting him know exactly what she felt about him? Possibly. No saliva was found on the first two victims, suggesting what?’

‘That the other killings were more rushed? That she had less time to enjoy herself?’ Charlie interjected.

‘Yes. Or that she cleaned the other victims up. There is some evidence of an alcohol-based cleanser on their
faces – we’re not sure yet whether this was something they used as part of their daily routine or something she used to destroy evidence. If it’s the latter it suggests our killer possesses a degree of cunning as well as a deep, real anger against her victims.’

A sense of determination seemed to be growing within the team – finally they looked to be getting somewhere. Helen seized on this energy.

‘We will follow up on all those lines of enquiry, but I also want us to think laterally. If she hates these men and wants to expose them, then she will presumably want to enjoy her triumph. I’ve asked for extra manpower so we can watch the families of the victims in case she shows up. I want surveillance at the funerals, at their homes, places of work – I’ve asked DC Fortune to run this for now. Also, you will no doubt have noted the absence of DS Bridges. He is doing some undercover work for us on this case which I am coordinating and for now this is on a need-to-know basis. If it becomes relevant to your enquiries, you will be informed. But for now assume he doesn’t exist – DC Brooks will be temporarily filling his shoes.’

Once more all eyes swung to Charlie, who Helen had suddenly promoted, albeit on a temporary basis. Would people support this decision or resent it? Charlie kept her eyes straight ahead.

‘Last thing – we’re going to shake our killer’s cage a little. She’s probably already rattled following her near miss, so I want to turn up the heat. I’m going to let the
press know that we have her DNA and that it’s only a matter of time before we ID her. I want to make her angry, I want to make her careless.’

Helen paused a moment before concluding:

‘It’s time to take the fight to the enemy.’

Caffè Nero was packed to bursting, which is why Helen had chosen it. It was on the high street in the smart suburb of Shirley. A million miles away from the grubby brothels and ill-lit streets patrolled by Southampton’s sex workers.

Helen was pleased to see that Tony had arrived and was waiting for her, tucked away in a booth at the back as agreed.

‘How are you doing, Tony?’

He looked drawn, but oddly cheerful.

‘I’m ok. I’m actually … ok.’

‘Good. So this will be our regular spot to debrief. We’ll arrange our meets by text and meet here only. I should say up front that if at any time you feel it’s not working or that pursuing this avenue of investigation is putting your life at risk, then you call me and walk away immediately. Your safety is my number one priority.’

‘I know the drill, boss, and there’s no need to look so serious. It really is ok. I was shitting myself last night, but it turned out fine. In fact I think I might have something.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Well, I didn’t have much luck to start with, I trawled
Bevois, Portswood, Merry Oak without any joy, so I headed south to the docks and picked up a girl there. Samantha. Early twenties but an old hand on the street.’

He had Helen’s full attention now.

‘We went to a hotel she knows. I told her I liked to watch, so I let her do her thing and then afterwards I chatted to her as I drove her home. She was cagey at first but she had obviously heard rumours about a girl killing punters. She doesn’t know anything useful, but there’s another girl who occasionally works the docks who’s been talking. Saying she’s seen the girl. Apparently there’s a warrant out on her for a couple of things, so she’s not going to be coming forward, but if I can get to her, then …’

Helen’s heart was beating faster, but she reined in her excitement.

‘Ok, follow it up. Be careful though, Tony. It could be a set-up – we’ve got no way of knowing how people will exploit this situation. But … it sounds promising.’

Helen couldn’t suppress a small smile, which was reciprocated by Tony.

‘Anyway, go home and get some sleep. You’ve earned it.’

‘Thanks, boss.’

‘How is Nicola, by the way?’

‘She’s all right. We take it one day at a time.’

Helen nodded. She respected and liked Tony for his careful, patient care of his wife. It must be hard to live a life that you never wanted, when the life you’d planned for
had been so brutally snatched away from you. He was a good man and she hoped they would be ok.

Walking away from the café, Helen had a spring in her step. The course they were pursuing was fraught with danger, but Helen sensed that finally they were getting closer to their killer.

Picking up an unmarked pool car, Charlie sped out of the back entrance, anxious to get this over with. Jennifer Lees, the Family Liaison officer assigned to accompany her, would take the lead but it would be Charlie who’d have to ask the awkward questions. Normally Helen would interview the victim’s family in the first instance, but she had disappeared on undisclosed business, leaving Charlie to carry the can.

They pulled up outside a run-down terraced house in Swaythling. This was the home Gareth Hill shared with his mother – shared in the past tense as his mutilated body was currently lying on a slab in Jim Grieves’s mortuary. They couldn’t formally identify him as the third victim until his next of kin had done so, but they knew they had the right man. He had minor convictions for shoplifting, drunkenness and even one pathetic attempt at indecent exposure, so they already had his picture on file. Once the formalities were done, that file would be marked ‘Deceased’ and sent upstairs to the incident room for evaluation.

An enormous woman of seventy-plus opened the door. Her blotched ankles were swollen, her stomach jutted out generously and her jowls hung deep from her
plump face. But hidden amidst all that flesh were two incongruous, rat-like eyes that stared fiercely at Charlie now.

‘If you’re selling something, you can piss –’

Charlie held up her warrant card.

‘It’s about Gareth. May we come in?’

The whole house stank of cats. They seemed to be everywhere and as if scenting danger they clamoured round their owner now, demanding her attention. She stroked the largest one – a ginger tom called Harvey – as Charlie and Jennifer broke the news to her.

‘Dirty little boy.’

Jennifer turned to Charlie, this unexpected response rendering her temporarily speechless.

‘Did you understand what we said, Mrs Hill?’ Charlie asked.

‘Miss Hill. I’ve never been a Mrs.’

Charlie nodded sympathetically.

‘Gareth has been murdered and I –’

‘So you keep saying. What did he do – try and run off without paying?’

Her tone was hard to read. She sounded angry, but was that distress punching through too? This woman’s armour was hard, toughened by years of disappointments, and she was hard to read.

‘We’re still investigating the circumstances but we suspect this was an unprovoked attack.’

‘Hardly unprovoked. If you wallow in the gutter …’

‘Where did Gareth say he was going last night?’ Charlie interrupted.

‘He said he was going to the pictures. He’d just got his benefits so … I thought he must have come in after I was asleep. I thought the lazy oaf was still in bed …’

Finally, her voice wavered, as the reality of her son’s death struck home. When her defences finally collapsed, they would collapse
big
, so Charlie carried on the conversation a bit longer, then excused herself to head upstairs. She had learned as much as she could and she wanted to be away from this woman’s sharp grief. Charlie knew she was weak to let another’s distress spike so sharply with her own sense of loss, but she couldn’t help it.

Pushing into Gareth’s bedroom, she tried to gather her thoughts. It was truly a sight to behold. Empty fast food wrappers littered the floor, lying in company with used tissues, old magazines and discarded clothes. The whole place looked and smelled dirty, as if someone had existed rather than lived here. It was stale. Stale and empty.

Gareth wasn’t an attractive man and he could hardly have brought girls back here anyway. The mess was bad enough, but would he have had the balls to parade another female in front of his mother, presuming he could have persuaded one to return home with him in the first place? Charlie thought not. His probation reports suggested he had learning difficulties and cripplingly low self-esteem. The evidence of his home life seemed to affirm that. This was a house that trapped people rather than protected them.

Looking around the detritus, the only item of value was the computer. Perched in glorious isolation on the cheap desk, it stood proud. Its aluminium casing and familiar logo looked fresh as if this totemic item had been kept clean and safe whilst all else had been allowed to go to seed. No doubt this treasured item was Gareth’s passport to life and Charlie felt sure that the key to his death lay within it.