Pop Goes the Weasel (27 page)

Helen was so engrossed in her chat with Charlie that she didn’t hear Harwood coming. An increasingly frustrated Charlie had spent days trying to run PussyKing’s true identity to ground – he was Bitchfest’s principal contributor and should have been easy to find. But because he never used a home or office computer and was adept at creating fake addresses via encrypted IPs, PussyKing remained forever just out of reach. Helen and Charlie were debating their next move, when:

‘Could I have a word, Helen?’

It was said with a smile, but without warmth. This was a public summons in front of the team and was designed to send out a message. What that message was Helen wasn’t yet clear about.

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day,’ Harwood continued once they were in her office. ‘I know events are moving fast but I will not tolerate this breakdown in communication. Is that clear?’

‘Yes. Ma’am.’

‘This only works if every link in the chain is connected, right?’

Helen
nodded but privately wanted to tell her to blow it out her arse.

‘So what’s been going on?’ Harwood continued.

Helen brought her up to speed with the developments in the hunt for Lyra Campbell, the work being done at the old cinema and the latest killing.

‘No body yet but we believe the victim is Simon Booker, former paratrooper and veteran of Afghanistan.’

‘A war hero. Bloody hell.’

Helen sensed it was the possible headlines that were upsetting Harwood, not the man’s fate. She concluded her briefing, then moved to excuse herself, but Harwood stopped her in her tracks.

‘I had lunch with the police commissioner today.’

Helen said nothing. Was this another front opening up?

‘He’s very worried. The investigation is already massively over budget. The cost of surveillance alone is huge and has yielded nothing. Then there’s the extra uniforms, the overtime, the auxiliary SOC team and the dogs, and to what end? What concrete progress have we made?’

‘It’s a tough investigation, Ma’am. She’s a clever and a resourceful kill—’

‘All we’ve had for our money is a slew of negative headlines, which is why the commissioner has asked for an internal review of the investigation.’

So this
was
a new front. Had he asked or had Harwood led him to it? Helen’s blood boiled, but she said nothing.

‘I know you have experience in this area and that the
team are – by and large – loyal to you, but your methods are irregular and costly –’

‘With the greatest of respect, four people are dead –’

‘Three.’

‘That’s fucking semantics. We all know Booker’s dead.’

‘It may be semantics, Inspector, but it says so much about you. You rush to judgement. Right from the off you’ve wanted this to be about Helen Grace chasing another serial killer. That’s the only narrative you know, isn’t it? Well, I think it’s misguided, unprofessional and dangerous. We have budgets, protocols and targets that cannot be ridden over roughshod.’

‘And what’s your target, Ceri? Chief Super? Chief Constable? Police Commissioner?’

‘Watch your tongue, Inspector.’

‘I’ve met people like you before. Never do the work, but always on hand to take the glory.’

Harwood leaned back in her chair. She was clearly livid but refused to show it.

‘Tread very carefully, DI Grace. And consider this an official warning. You’re a gnat’s breath away from getting taken off this investigation. Bring her in or step aside. Is that clear?’

Helen left soon after. One thing was crystal clear. As long as Harwood was around, she was on borrowed time.

It was getting dark now, but that would only add atmosphere to the composition. The low light, the grainy image would help capture the feel Emilia was going for. By rights she should have asked for one of their regular snappers to come with her, but she knew how to operate a digital SLR as well as the next man and there was no way she was letting anybody else in on this story until she had the whole package.

Adrian Fielding had been remarkably helpful, once he’d realized Emilia would happily destroy his career if she didn’t get what she wanted. The file on Robert Stonehill began in undramatic fashion, a pitiful list of his recent minor misdemeanours, but got much more interesting once Emilia discovered he’d been adopted. There were scant details of his biological mother in the main file, but it was obvious enough that he’d been born in a prison hospital. As soon as she’d discovered this Emilia knew who he was – Helen Grace had only truly cared for one person – but being a good journalist she’d cross-referenced Robert’s age with the date of Marianne’s arrest. After that it was a short step to Marianne’s arrest sheet and the jigsaw was complete.

Emilia
could barely keep her hand still as she raised the camera. The boy had been sent out to buy milk and was waiting impatiently in the queue. Snap, snap, snap. The detail wasn’t brilliant, but they looked snatched and dangerous. Emilia waited some more, watching as Robert paid. Now he was leaving the shop. Emilia raised the camera again. As if choreographed, he paused as he exited, casting his eyes up to the heavens as rain began to spit. The sodium glare from the street lamp caught his face, rendering him ghostly and unnatural. Snap, snap, snap. Then he pulled his hoody up and looked almost straight at her. He couldn’t see her hidden in the gloom but she could see him. Snap, snap, snap. The young man born of violence caught on the darkened streets wearing a hoody – the uniform of violent and disillusioned thugs the country over. Perfect.

Now that she had what she needed, Emilia was going to act. She should of course ring the editor of the
Evening News
, but there was no way she was going to do that. There was a contact she’d been cultivating at the
Mail
for just such an occasion. She had all she needed – if she was quick she could get it on the front page of tomorrow’s edition.

This was her ticket out. She had the price. She had the package. And she had her headline.

‘Son of a Monster.’

Helen was still chewing on her confrontation with Harwood when she arrived at the old cinema on Upton Street. Hugging the shadows, she slipped inside via the fire exit. The building was supposed to be up for sale soon, though who would want to buy it was beyond Helen. As soon as she stepped inside, she was assaulted by a rich aroma – the smell of years of rotting wood and decaying vermin. It made her gag and she quickly put her mask on. Gathering herself, she held on to the shaky rail and made her way downstairs.

The Crown Cinema had been popular with families in the 1970s. It was a traditional picture palace, right down to the galleried theatre seating and heavy velvet curtains that concealed the screen. At least, it had been in its heyday. Its owners had gone bust during the recession in the 1980s and subsequent attempts to resurrect it had fallen foul of the out-of-town multiplexes and the arthouse cinema down by the waterfront. Now the main auditorium was a travesty of its former glory, a fractured mess of torn-up seats and building rubble.

The SOC team were grouped in a corner near the screen. The levels of activity and excitement meant
progress. Helen hurried over. The phone call she’d received just after her confrontation with Harwood had been the one small piece of good news she’d had all day. She wanted to see it with her own eyes before she got carried away.

The SOC team parted as she approached. There he was. He was still mostly buried in the rubble, but enough had been lifted off to reveal the top of his head and a raised arm. The fingers on the exposed arm pointed upwards in accusing fashion. The skin, though covered in dust, was dark and suggested the victim was mixed race. But that wasn’t what really interested Helen. More important still was the fact that he only had four fingers, the one having been removed some years earlier by the look of the historic wound.

They didn’t know much about Anton Gardiner – his parentage, his early life – but they did know that he had had his ring finger cut off in a tit-for-tat gang punishment ten years earlier. Was he the trigger for Lyra’s killing spree? Was he the cause of all this? Helen shivered as she looked at his mutilated corpse, a pulse of excitement flowing through her. Was Anton’s ravaged hand finally pointing them in the right direction?

It was cold and dark and she was losing patience. It was getting harder and harder to find room to breathe. The police presence was huge all over the city now and she’d had to be exceedingly cautious, walking the streets in tracksuit bottoms and a hoody, as if out for a late-night jog. Once she’d found a secluded patch down by the Western Docks, she’d stripped off to reveal a short skirt and stockings. A tight top exposed her generous frame, with a short fur jacket the icing on the cake. Despite the frustration and stress of the evening, she felt good as she unveiled herself. Now all she had to do was stand and wait for the dirty dogs to come to her.

Twenty minutes later, a lone figure came into view. He was slightly unsteady on his feet and was muttering a song in a foreign tongue. A sailor, probably a Polish one, she thought. Angel’s heart started to beat faster. Sailors were dirty, unhygienic and coarse, but they always had money when on shore leave and they usually came pretty quickly, having been starved of sex for so long.

The man paused when he spotted her. Casting around to check he was alone, he sauntered over. He was surprisingly pretty – twenty-five at the most with a slender face
and female lips. He was drunk to be sure, but not unattractive. Angel was surprised he had to pay for it.

‘How much?’ His accent was thick.

‘What do you want?’

‘Everything,’ he replied.

‘Hundred pounds.’

He nodded.

‘Let’s go.’

And with that he sealed his fate.

Angel walked ahead, leading him through a maze of cargo containers to a small supervisors’ yard. It was here that cargo was supposed to be checked and logged but in truth it was where a fair portion of the imported goods mysteriously disappeared, only to reappear on the black market. It would be deserted tonight – they hadn’t had a delivery all week.

As she led him to his death, Angel fought to suppress a laugh. Her whole body was shaking with adrenalin and excitement. Would she ever kick this habit? Surely not when it felt so good. This was the best bit. The calm before the storm. She loved the pregnant deception of it all.

They were now alone in the darkened yard. Taking a deep breath, she turned.

‘So shall we get started, honey?’

His right fist collided with her jaw, sending her crashing into the container behind her. Stunned, she raised her
hands to defend herself, but the blows kept coming. She pushed him away, but the next blow nearly took her head off and she fell heavily to the floor.

What was happening? She tried to scramble to her feet, but he was already on top of her. Instinctively she lashed out. She had dealt with violent punters before, but always with the help of Mace – she had never engaged in hand-to-hand combat like this.

Now he was pinning her down, his strong hands encircling her throat. Squeezing harder, harder, harder. She rammed her fingers into his left eyeball, but he jerked his head away, out of her reach. She could see the blood pumping through a vein on his neck and she slashed at it with her fractured nails. Surely he would release his grip if he started to bleed out? It wasn’t meant to be like this. She wasn’t meant to die in this miserable place.

She fought for all she was worth. She fought for her life. But it was too little too late and after only a few seconds the lights went out.