Pop Goes the Weasel (2 page)

His eyes blinked open, but he couldn’t see.

Liquid oozed down his cheeks, as his eyeballs swivelled uselessly in their sockets. Sound was horribly muted, as if his ears were stuffed with cotton wool. Scrambling back to consciousness, the man felt a savage pain ripping through his throat and nostrils. An intense burning sensation, like a flame held steady to his larynx. He wanted to sneeze, to retch, to spit out whatever it was that was tormenting him. But he was gagged, his mouth bound tight with duct tape, so he had to swallow down his agony.

Eventually the stream of tears abated and his protesting eyes began to take in their surroundings. He was still in the derelict house, only now he was in the front bedroom, lying prostrate on the filthy bed. His nerves were jangling and he struggled wildly – he had to get away – but his arms and legs were bound tight to the iron bedstead. He yanked, pulled and twisted, but the nylon cords held firm.

Only now did he realize he was naked. A terrible thought pulsed through him – were they going to leave him here like this? To freeze to death? His skin had already raised its defences – goose bumps erect with cold and terror – and he realized how perishingly cold it was.

He
bellowed for all he was worth – but all he produced was a dull, buzzing moan. If he could just talk to them, reason with them … he could get them more money, and they would let him go. They couldn’t leave him here like
this
. Humiliation seeped into his fear now, as he looked down at his bloated, middle-aged body stretched out on the stained eiderdown.

He strained to hear, hoping against hope that he was not alone. But there was nothing. They had abandoned him. How long would they leave him here? Until they had emptied all his accounts? Until they had got away? The man shuddered, already dreading the prospect of bargaining for his liberty with some junkie or whore. What would he do when he was liberated? What would he say to his family? To the police? He cursed himself bitterly for being so bloody stup—

A creaking floorboard. So he
wasn’t
alone. Hope flared through him – perhaps now he could find out what they wanted. He craned round to try and engage his attacker, but they were approaching from behind and remained out of view. It suddenly struck him that the bed he was tied to had been pushed out into the middle of the room, as if centre stage at a show. No one could possibly want to sleep with it like that, so why …?

A falling shadow. Before he could react something was passing over his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Some sort of hood. He could feel the soft fabric on his face, the drawstring being pulled taut. Already the man was struggling
to breathe, the thick velvet resting over his protesting nostrils. He shook his head furiously this way and that, fighting to create some tiny pocket of breathing space. Any moment he expected the string to be pulled still tighter, but to his surprise nothing happened.

What now? All was silent again, apart from the man’s laboured breathing. It was getting hot inside the hood. Could oxygen get in here? He forced himself to breathe slowly. If he panicked now, he would hyperventilate and then …

Suddenly he flinched, his nerves pulsing wildly. Something cold had come to rest on his thigh. Something hard. Something metal? A knife? Now it was drifting up his leg, towards … The man bucked furiously, tearing his muscles as he wrenched at the cords that held him. He knew now that this was a fight to the death.

He shrieked for all he was worth. But the tape held firm. His bonds wouldn’t yield. And there was no one to hear his screams.

‘Business or pleasure?’

Helen spun round, her heart thumping. Climbing the darkened stairwell to her flat, she had assumed she was alone. Irritation at being surprised mingled with a brief burst of anxiety … but it was only James, framed in the doorway of his flat. He had moved into the flat below her three months ago and being a senior nurse at South Hants Hospital kept unsociable hours.

‘Business,’ Helen lied. ‘You?’

‘Business that I thought was going to become pleasure. But … she just left in a cab.’

‘Pity.’

James shrugged and smiled his crooked smile. He was late thirties, handsome in his scruffy way with a lazy charm that usually worked on junior nurses.

‘No accounting for taste,’ he continued. ‘I thought she liked me but I’ve always been crap at reading signals.’

‘Is that right?’ Helen responded, not believing a word.

‘Anyway, do you fancy company? I’ve got a bottle of wine that’s … tea, I’ve got tea …’ he said, correcting himself.

Up until that point Helen could have been tempted. But the correction irritated her. James was like all the
others – he knew she didn’t drink, knew she preferred tea to coffee, knew that she was a killer. Another voyeur staring at the wreckage of her life.

‘Love to,’ she lied again, ‘but I’ve got an armful of files to go through before my next shift.’

James smiled and bowed his submission, but he knew what was going on. And he knew not to push it. He watched with undisguised curiosity as Helen skipped up the steps to her flat. Her front door shut behind her with an air of finality.

The clock read 5 a.m. Nestling on her sofa, Helen took a big swig of tea and fired up her laptop. The first twinges of fatigue were making themselves felt, but before she could sleep, she had work to do. The security on her laptop was elaborate – an impregnable wall surrounding what remained of her private life – and Helen took her time, enjoying the complex process of entering passwords and unlocking digital padlocks.

She opened her file on Robert Stonehill. The young man she’d been shadowing earlier knew nothing of her existence, but she knew all about his. Helen began typing, fleshing out her growing portrait of him, adding the small details of his character and personality that she’d picked up on her latest bout of surveillance. The boy was smart – you could tell that right away. He had a good sense of humour and, though he swore every second word, had a ready wit and a winning smile. He was very good at getting people to
do what he wanted them to do. He never queued for a drink at the bar – always managing to get some sidekick to do that for him, whilst he larked about with Davey – the thick-set one who was obviously the leader of the gang.

Robert always seemed to have money, which was odd given that he worked as a shelf stacker in a supermarket. Where did he get his cash? Theft? Something worse? Or was he just spoilt by his parents? He was Monica and Adam’s only child – the centre of their world – and Helen knew that he could wrap them around his little finger. Is that where he got his seemingly limitless funds?

There were always girls buzzing round him – he was fit and handsome – but he didn’t have a girlfriend as such. This was the area Helen was most interested in. Was he straight or gay? Trusting or suspicious? Who would he allow to get close to him? It was a question Helen didn’t know the answer to, but she was confident that she would figure it out. She was slowly, methodically creeping inside every quarter of Robert’s life.

Helen yawned. She had to be back at the station shortly but there was still time for a few hours’ sleep if she packed it in now. With practised ease, she ran her computer’s encryption programs, locked down her files, then changed the master password. She changed it every time she used her computer now. She knew it was over the top, that she was being paranoid, but she refused to leave anything to chance. Robert was hers and hers alone. And that was the way she wanted it to stay.

Dawn was breaking, so he had to move fast. In an hour or two, the sun would have burned off the thick fog, exposing those who hid within it. His hands were shaking, his joints ached, but he willed himself forward.

He’d stolen the crowbar from a hardware store on Elm Street. The Indian guy who ran it was too busy watching cricket on his tablet to notice him slipping it into his long coat. The rigid, cold metal felt good in his hands and he worked it hard now, back and forth, attacking the rusty bars that protected the windows. The first bar fell away easily, the second required more work, but soon there was enough room for a body to fit through. It would have been easier to go around the front and force his way in there, but he daren’t be seen on the streets round here. He owed money to too many people – people who’d gladly take him apart for the hell of it. So he moved in the shadows, like all creatures of the night.

He checked again that the coast was clear, then swung the crowbar at the window. It splintered with a satisfying crash. Wrapping his hand in an old towel, he quickly punched out the rest of the glass, before levering himself up onto the sill and inside.

Landing
softly, he hesitated. You could never be sure what you might find in these places. There were no signs of life, but it pays to be careful and he held his crowbar tightly as he ventured forward. There was nothing of use in the kitchen so he quickly scurried into the front room.

This was more promising. Abandoned mattresses, discarded condoms and near them their natural bedfellows, used syringes. He felt his hope and anxiety rising in equal measure. Please God, let there be enough residue inside to harvest a proper fix. Suddenly he was on his hands and knees, pulling out the plungers, thrusting his little finger inside, desperately grubbing around for a little bit of brown to ease his suffering. Nothing in the first, nothing in the second – goddammit – and a fingerful in the third. All this bloody effort for a fingerful. He greedily rubbed it round his gums – it would have to do for now.

He sank back on the soiled mattress and waited for the numbness to kick in. His nerves had been jangling for hours now, his head pounding, he wanted – needed – some peace. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, willing his body to relax.

But something wasn’t right. Something wouldn’t let him relax. Something was …

Drip. There it was. A sound. A slow but steady sound, disturbing the quiet, drumming out an insistent warning.

Drip. Where was it coming from? His eyes flicked nervously this way and that.

Something
was dripping in the far corner of the room. Was it a leak? Shrugging off his irritation, he dragged himself to his feet. It was worth checking out – might be some copper piping in it for him.

He hurried over, then stopped in his tracks. It wasn’t a leak. It wasn’t water. It was blood. Drip, drip, dripping through the ceiling. Spinning, he hurried away – none of my fucking business – but as he reached the kitchen, he slowed. Perhaps he was being too hasty. He was armed after all and there was no sign of movement upstairs. Anything could have happened. Someone could have topped themselves, could have been mugged, killed, whatever. But there might be spoils in it for a scavenger and that was something that couldn’t be ignored.

A moment’s hesitation, then the thief turned and crossed the room, edging past the thick pool of congealing blood into the hallway. He darted his head out, crowbar raised to strike at the first sign of danger.

But there was no one there. Cautiously, he stepped out and began to climb the stairs.

Creak. Creak. Creak.

Every step announced his presence and he swore quietly under his breath. If there
was
anyone up there, they would know he was coming. He gripped the crowbar a little tighter as he crested the staircase. Better to be safe than sorry so he darted his head into the bathroom and the back bedroom – only an amateur gets attacked from behind.

Satisfied
he was safe from ambush, he turned to face the front bedroom. Whatever had happened, whatever
it
was, it was in there. The thief took a deep breath, then stepped inside the darkened room.