Pop Goes the Weasel (3 page)

She dived further and further down, the brackish water filling her ears and nostrils. She was far below the surface now and already running out of breath, but she didn’t waver. Strange lights illuminated the lake bed, rendering it diaphanous and beautiful, tempting her deeper still.

Now she was clawing her way through the thick weeds that clung to the bottom. Visibility was poor, the going hard, her lungs were bursting. They said he was here, so where was he? There was a rusting pram, an old shopping trolley, even an oil drum, but no sign of …

Suddenly she knew she’d been tricked. He wasn’t here. She turned to make for the surface. But she didn’t move. She craned her head round to see that her left leg was stuck in the weeds. She kicked with all her might, but the weeds wouldn’t yield. She was beginning to feel faint now, couldn’t hold out much longer, but she forced herself to relax, letting her body drift to the bottom. Better to try and disentangle herself calmly than kick herself into an even bigger mess. Forcing her head down, she dug through the offending weeds, tugging hard. Then she stopped. And screamed – her last ounce of breath escaping from
her mouth. It wasn’t weeds holding her under. It was a human hand.

Gasping, Charlie sat bolt upright in bed. She cast around her wildly, trying to process the weird disjunction between the weeds she’d been swallowed by and the homely bedroom she now found herself in. She ran her hands over her body, convinced her pyjamas should be wringing wet, but she was bone dry, except for a sheen of sweat on her brow. As her breathing began to slow she realized it was just a nightmare, just a stupid bloody nightmare.

Forcing herself to keep calm, she turned to look at Steve. He’d always been a heavy sleeper and she was pleased to see him snoring softly beside her. Slipping quietly out of her side of the bed, she picked up her dressing gown and tiptoed out of the room.

Crossing the landing, she headed for the stairs. She hurried past the door to the second bedroom, then scolded herself for doing so. When they’d first learned they were expecting, Steve and Charlie had discussed the changes they’d make to that room – replacing the double bed with a cot and nursing chair, covering the white walls with cheery yellow wallpaper, putting thick rugs on the hardwood floor – but of course all that excitement had come to nothing.

Their baby had died inside Charlie during her incarceration with Mark. By the time they got her to the hospital, she already knew, but had still hoped that the
doctors would confound her worst fears. They hadn’t. Steve had cried when she’d told him. The first time Charlie had ever seen him cry, though not the last. There were times in the intervening months when Charlie thought she was on top of things, that she could somehow process the awfulness of it all, but then she would find herself hesitating to go into the second bedroom, scared to see the imprint of the nursery they had imagined together, and then she knew that the wounds were still raw.

She headed downstairs to the kitchen and flipped the kettle on. Recently she’d been dreaming a lot. As her return to work had drawn closer, her anxiety had found its release in nightmares. She had kept these to herself, keen not to give Steve further ammunition.

‘Couldn’t sleep?’

Steve had snuck into the kitchen and was looking at her. Charlie shook her head.

‘Nervous?’

‘What do you think?’ Charlie replied, trying to keep her tone light.

‘Come here.’

He opened his arms and she gratefully snuggled inside.

‘We’ll take it a day at a time,’ he continued, ‘I know you’re going to be great, that you’re going to get there … but if you ever feel it’s too much, or it’s not the right thing, then we can think again. No one will think any the less of you. Right?’

Charlie nodded. She was so grateful for his support, for
his ability to
forgive
her, but his determination to get her to leave her job riled her. She understood why he hated the police force now, hated her job, hated the awful people out there in the world, and many times she’d thought about heeding his advice and just walking away. But then what? A lifetime spent knowing she’d been beaten. Forced out. Broken. The fact that Helen Grace had returned to work a month after Marianne’s death only poured fuel on the fire.

So Charlie had dug in, insisting she would return to work when her sick leave was up. Hampshire Police had been generous to her, had given her every ounce of support they could, and now it was her turn to give something back.

Breaking away, she made them both coffees – there was no point going back to bed now. The boiling water fell into the mugs erratically, splashing over the sides. Irritated, Charlie stared at the kettle accusingly, but it was her right hand that was to blame. She was shocked to see how much it was shaking. She swiftly put the kettle back on the mount, praying Steve hadn’t seen.

‘I’m going to skip coffee. Just shower and run today, I think.’

She turned to leave, but Steve stopped her, once more folding her into his big arms.

‘Are you
sure
about this, Charlie?’ he asked, his eyes boring into her.

A brief pause, then Charlie said:

‘Yes,
absolutely.’

And with that she was gone. As she tripped up the staircase to the shower, however, she was well aware that her brave optimism was fooling no one, least of all herself.

‘I don’t want her.’

‘We’ve had this discussion, Helen. The decision’s been made.’

‘Then un-make it. I can’t say it any more clearly, I don’t want her back.’

Helen’s tone was flinty and unyielding. She wouldn’t normally be so aggressive to her superior but she felt too passionately on this point to back down.

‘There are lots of good DCs out there, choose one of them. I’ll have a full team and Charlie can go to Portsmouth, Bournemouth, wherever. A change of scene might do her good.’

‘I know it’s hard for you and I do understand, but Charlie’s got just as much right to be here as you. Work with her – she’s a good policewoman.’

Helen swallowed down her kneejerk response – getting abducted by Marianne hadn’t been Charlie’s finest hour – and considered her next move. Detective Superintendent Ceri Harwood had replaced the disgraced Whittaker and was already making her presence felt. She was a different sort of station chief to Whittaker – where he had been irascible, aggressive but often good-humoured, she was
smooth, a born communicator and largely humourless. Tall, elegant and handsome, she was known to be a safe pair of hands and had excelled wherever she’d been stationed. She seemed to be popular, but Helen found it hard to get any purchase on her, not just because they had so little in common – Harwood was married with kids – but because they had no history. Whittaker had been at Southampton a long time and had always regarded Helen as his protégée, helping her to rise through the ranks. There was no such indulgence from Harwood. She generally didn’t stay anywhere too long and was not the kind to have favourites anyway. Her forte was keeping things nice and steady. Helen knew this was why she’d been drafted in here. A disgraced Detective Superintendent, a DI who’d shot and killed the prime suspect, a DS who’d killed himself to save his colleague from starvation – it was a sorry mess and predictably the press had gone to town on it. Emilia Garanita at the
Southampton Evening News
had fed off it for weeks, as had the national press. It was never likely in these circumstances that Helen was going to be promoted into Whittaker’s vacant shoes. She had been allowed to keep her job, which the police commissioner had apparently felt was more than generous. Helen knew all this and she understood it, but it still made her blood boil. These people
knew
what she’d had to do. They knew she’d killed her own sister to stop the killings and yet they still treated her like a naughty schoolgirl.

‘Let
me talk to her at least,’ Helen resumed. ‘If I feel we can work together, then maybe we can fi—’

‘Helen, I really do want us to be friends,’ Harwood interrupted deftly, ‘and it’s a little early in our relationship for me to be issuing you with an order, so I am going to ask you nicely to step back from this one. I know there are issues that you and Charlie have to resolve – I know that you were close to DS Fuller – but you have to see the bigger picture. The man on the street thinks you and Charlie are
heroes
for stopping Marianne. Rightly so, in my view, and I don’t want to do anything to undermine that perception. We could have suspended, transferred or dismissed either of you in the aftermath of the shooting, but that wouldn’t have been right. Nor would it be right now to split up this successful team just when Charlie’s ready to return to work – it would send out completely the wrong message. No, the best thing to do is to welcome Charlie back, applaud you both for what you did together and let you get on with your jobs.’

Helen knew there was no point fighting this one any more. In her artfully worded way, Harwood had reminded Helen just how close she
had
come to dismissal. During the public enquiry that followed the IPCC’s initial investigation into Marianne’s shooting, there had been many who’d called for her to be stripped of her badge. For acting alone in her pursuit of Marianne, for deliberately misleading fellow officers, for shooting a suspect without issuing a formal warning – the list went on and on. They
could have killed her career if they’d wanted to – and she was surprised and grateful that they hadn’t – but she knew she was only back on probation. Her ‘charges’ were still on file. From now on, she would have to choose her battles carefully.

Helen relented as gracefully as she could and left Harwood’s office. She knew she was being unfair to Charlie, that she should be more supportive, but the truth was that she didn’t want to see Charlie again. It would be like standing in front of Mark. Or Marianne. And for all her strength over the last few months Helen couldn’t face that.

Heading back to the Major Incident Team, Helen immediately picked up on the buzz of excitement. It was early morning but already the place was busier than usual. The team had been waiting for her, and DC Fortune hurried over to bring her up to speed.

‘You’re needed down at Empress Road, Ma’am.’

Helen was already picking up her coat.

‘What is it?’

‘A murder – called in by one of the local junkies about an hour ago. Uniform have been in, but I think you’d better take a look at it.’

Already Helen’s nerves were jangling. There was something in the DC’s voice that she hadn’t heard since Marianne.

Fear.

Eschewing her bike, Helen drove to the scene with DS Tony Bridges. She liked him – he was a diligent, committed copper whom she had come to trust. Whoever replaced Mark as the new DS was always going to have to work hard to win the team round, but Tony had managed it. He’d played it very straight, never ducking the awkwardness of appearing to profit from Mark’s death. His humility and sensitivity had raised him in everyone’s estimation and he now inhabited the role pretty comfortably.

His relationship with Helen was more complex. Not just because of her feelings for Mark, but because Bridges had been there when Helen had pulled the trigger on her sister. He had seen it all – Marianne collapsing to the floor, Helen’s futile attempts to revive her. Tony had seen his boss at her most naked and vulnerable – and that would always be a source of discomfort between them. On the other hand, Tony’s testimony to the IPCC, during which he had insisted that Helen had no option but to shoot Marianne – had gone a long way to saving her from demotion or dismissal. Helen had thanked him at the time, but the debt she owed him would never be mentioned again.
You had to forget it and move on, otherwise the chain of command would be compromised. To all intents and purposes they now operated as any normal DI and DS would, but in truth they would always have a bond forged in battle.

They sped past the hospital, blue lights flashing, before cutting down a narrow side street and onto the Empress Road industrial estate. It wasn’t hard to see where they were headed. The entrance to the derelict house was taped off and already a gaggle of curious onlookers were idling by it. Helen hustled her way through, warrant card raised, Tony following behind her. A quick word with uniform, whilst they suited up, and then they were in.

Helen took the stairs two at a time. Whatever you’ve been through, you never get inured to violence. Helen didn’t like the look on the faces of the attending uniforms – as if their eyes had been brutally opened – and she wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

The poky front bedroom was busy with the SOC team and Helen immediately asked them to take a break so she and Tony could get a clear view of the victim. You steel yourself on these occasions, swallowing down your disgust in advance, otherwise you’d never be able to take it in, to form valuable first impressions. The victim was male, white, probably in his late forties or early fifties. He was naked and there was no sign of any clothes or possessions. His arms and legs were tied tight to the iron bedstead with what looked like nylon climbing cord and he had
some sort of hood over his head. It hadn’t been designed for the purpose – it looked like the kind of felt bag you get with expensive shoes or luxury gifts – but it was there for a reason. Was it to suffocate him? Or conceal his identity? Either way, it was devastatingly clear that this wasn’t what had killed him.

His upper torso had been split up the middle from his belly button to his throat, then forcibly peeled back to reveal his internal organs. Or what remained of them. Helen swallowed hard, as she realized that at least one of his organs had been removed. She turned to Tony – he was ashen and staring at the bloody pit that had once been this man’s chest. The victim had not just been killed, he had been destroyed. Helen fought to suppress a spike of panic. Taking a pen from her pocket, she crouched over the victim, gently lifting the rim of the hood to get a better look at the man’s face.

Mercifully it was untouched and looked oddly peaceful, despite the blank eyes that stared hopelessly at the interior of the bag. Helen didn’t recognize him, so removed her pen, letting the fabric fall back into position. Returning her attention to the body, her eyes took in the stained eiderdown, the congealing pool of blood on the floor, the path to the door. The man’s injuries looked recent – less than a day old – so if there were traces of the killer to be found here, they would be fresh. But there was nothing – nothing obvious at least.

Padding round the bed, she stepped over a dead pigeon
and walked to the far side of the room. There was one window, which was boarded up. It had been for some time by the look of the rusty nails. An abandoned house in a forgotten part of Southampton, with no accessible windows – it was the perfect spot to kill someone. Was he tortured first? That was what was concerning Helen. The victim’s injuries were so unusual, so extensive, that someone was making a point here. Or worse, simply enjoying themselves. What had driven them to do this? What had
possessed
them?

That would have to wait. The most important thing now was to give the victim a name, to let him recover a modicum of his dignity. Helen called forensics back in. It was time to take the photos and set the investigation in motion.

It was time to find out who this poor man was.