Pop Goes the Weasel (32 page)

She pulled the freezer door open and let her forehead rest on the cool interior. Her head throbbed, the livid bruises on her face pulsed and she felt that she might be sick at any moment. The freezer compartment had frosted up through neglect and it felt like a cool, round hand cupping her face. For a moment, she felt at peace, almost calm. But then the cries started up again and reality bit.

Opening the fridge door, she pulled a Coke from the shelf. She drank it down in one go. Then, turning, she walked out, leaving the fridge door ajar, its weak light giving the dirty lino a sickly yellow hue.

Amelia was lying on the bed, screaming with hunger. She stared down at her baby for a minute, hating its dependence on her. Why her? Why couldn’t this girl have been born to someone proper? Someone decent? She was the offspring of a whore and a killer. Damned before she’d even started.

Her head screamed worse than ever as the baby’s cries rose in volume, so she quickly scooped her up and in one easy motion lifted up her top and guided Amelia’s puckering mouth to her nipple. As her baby began to feed, she felt lightheaded and dizzy. She hadn’t slept at all last night,
consumed with rage and despair, and now she felt weak and unsteady. Settling Amelia in the crook of her arm, she wriggled her way up the bed, so she could rest her head for a few moments. Amelia’s tight grip on her nipple never weakened, the child blissfully unaware of her mother’s anguish.

When she awoke moments later, Amelia was lying in her arms, sated and asleep, the milky residue of her feed coating her lips.

During the course of the night, she had thought of many ways to deal with her problem. At first she thought about leaving Amelia on the steps of South Hants Hospital or even giving her to someone in the street, but she knew she didn’t want to hand her over to strangers now. She had lost faith in the milk of human kindness. Who knew what they might do to her? What torments she might endure? She couldn’t go back to her family obviously, so that meant it was down to her.

After that, it was just a question of how she would do it. She couldn’t strike her. Couldn’t face the prospect of using a pillow either. Despite everything, she knew her nerve would fail her. Better to do it during a feed. Amelia liked the bottle well enough and if she crushed up the pills small … The chemist’s would be open soon and she could get what she needed. Then it would all be over.

As simple as that. And yet she knew it would be the hardest thing she’d ever have to do. She knew she was bringing peace, so why did it twist her guts to think about
it? She had killed without qualm, had enjoyed exterminating those filthy little weasels who called themselves fathers and husbands. Pop, pop, pop. But now she hesitated. It was not just that the baby was her flesh and blood – it was what she felt. She had fought it for months now, had tried to make herself
hate
the little thing, but she couldn’t deny it any more. She felt pity for it.

And that was an emotion she hadn’t felt for a long, long time.

‘I’m going to make this easy for you. Here.’

Tony Bridges slipped an envelope across the pub table. Helen didn’t break eye contact, trying to see inside the man she had always trusted.

‘It’s my resignation letter,’ Tony continued.

Helen hesitated, then finally dropped her gaze. Opening the envelope, she scanned the letter.

‘Tony, this is premature. You’ve messed up big time, but maybe there’s a way we can deal with this, take you off operational duty, get you a desk job –’

‘No. I need to go. It’s best for me. And you. I … I need time to be with Nicola. I need to tell her what’s happened. And see if I can earn her forgiveness. It’s time for me to put her first for a change.’

Helen could see he was resolute. She was gutted to lose one of her best officers – one of her best friends at the station – but he had made his mind up and there was no point fighting him.

‘I thought you’d try and talk me round, so I also dropped a copy into Harwood’s office on the way here.’

Helen couldn’t help but smile. This was typical Tony – diligent to the end.

‘What happened, Tony?’

Tony looked her straight in the eye as he responded, refusing to duck his responsibility:

‘I was weak. I wanted her and … It’s not an excuse, but my life has been so … barren. So empty. And she offered me something I didn’t have. Truth is, I’d probably still be with her if she hadn’t … I needed to do it. Needed to remind myself what’s important. What I love. I know now that I want Nicola. I want her to be happy, us to be happy. I’ve got some money put away, so … so I’m going to spend some time with my wife.’

Helen was struck by his sense of purpose. For a man who’d been so lost, who’d fucked up so badly, Tony was suddenly completely clear in his mind what needed to be done. His strength of feeling was admirable, but it was still a terrible waste.

‘I know I could try and wheedle my way out of it, but I’ve betrayed my wife and I’ve betrayed the Force. When I first sat down with Melissa I told her about Angel – what we knew, what we didn’t know – and she created Lyra to fill in the gaps. Told me what I wanted to hear. She would never have been able to lead us down a blind alley if I hadn’t revealed things, confidential things, about the investigation. I was suckered by the oldest trick in the book. To protect you, to protect the team, it’s best I go.’

Helen was about to interject, but Tony wasn’t finished.

‘If it’s ok with you, I won’t go back to the station again. I’d prefer that they remember me in a good light. As I was.’

‘Of course. I’ll square it with HR and I guess your rep will be in touch. I’ll try and get the best deal for you, Tony.’

‘You’ve done enough already. I’m just sorry that ultimately I did so little.’

With that he stood up, emotion suddenly ambushing him. He clearly wanted to be gone and Helen didn’t stop him.

‘Take care of yourself, Tony.’

He raised his hand as he left, but didn’t turn round. He had been one of her most promising officers, her sounding board, and now he was gone. Angel was still out there and Helen was more alone than ever.

‘What I’m about to tell you stays in this room. We can’t afford any unnecessary distractions – this
cannot
leak out. So don’t discuss it, don’t tell your friends or partners. I want a total lockdown.’

The team had assembled in the incident room at short notice, all except DC Fortune, who couldn’t be found. Helen was loath to do this without everybody present, but she had no choice. She had to nip this in the bud.

‘You’ve no doubt heard the rumours and I’m sorry to say that they are true. Tony Bridges had a sexual relationship with Melissa Owen and compromised the investigation.’

The team clearly
had
heard the rumours but it was still a hammer blow to have it confirmed.

‘Lyra Campbell is a dead end, an attempt by Melissa to shift the blame for Anton Gardiner’s murder onto someone else. She thought she could use Tony to get her off the hook. The only good thing to come out of this sorry mess is that she will do time for what she’s done. Tony … Tony won’t be coming back. He resigned this afternoon. Charlie will take over his duties.’

Helen shot a look at Charlie, who for once wouldn’t meet her eye. Helen hesitated, unnerved, then carried on.

‘So we start over.’

A couple of heads sank, so Helen carried on briskly.

‘We have some new information that might be helpful. Forensics have done their analysis on the blood found at the cargo yard. There was plenty of blood on the crates and the ground that belongs to a female, blood type O, who is a heavy user of alcohol, sedatives and cocaine. More interestingly, there are raised levels of prolactin in her blood. Which strongly suggests that she’s breastfeeding.’

An audible gasp from the team. A surprising development and one which significantly raised the stakes.

‘So maybe Angel has a baby, or recently gave one away, but either way someone somewhere will have come into contact with her. Could be a GP, an ante-natal clinic, a drop-in centre, social services, an A&E department or just the local branch of Boots. Thanks to Jason Robins, we now have a new e-fit of Angel which is strong on facial detail – DC McAndrew will distribute them – so I want everyone, and I mean everyone, out there asking the right questions in the right places.’

The team was about to disperse, but was brought to a halt by DC Fortune’s sudden appearance.

‘The call was for the whole team, DC Fortune,’ Helen chided him.

‘I know and I’m sorry, Ma’am,’ replied the young officer, blushing. ‘But I was working on the techno angle with the boys … and I think I might have found something.’

The team settled back down, expectant.

‘We were trying to see if we could wriggle a way to the IP addresses of the other contributors on Bitchfest. See if we could locate any of the other men who’d had contact with Angel. We weren’t having much joy but, looking over the posts, I noticed something. Certain recurring phrases and spellings.’

He had Helen’s interest now. She had an inkling where this was going and if she was right it changed everything.

‘There were several men who used the forum a lot – anonymous contributors like “PussyKing”, “fillyerboots”, “Blade”, “BlackArrow” who blogged their sexual encounters and encouraged other posters like Simon Booker, Alan Matthews and Christopher Reid to seek out Angel. They told them where they could find her and what she would do for them. I was re-reading their posts whilst the techie boys were doing their thing and I noticed that on more than one occasion “PussyKing” had used the phrase “splitting that bitch”. And I remembered that “Blade” had used that phrase too. I noticed also that they both hyphenated “blow-job”, as did “fillyerboots”. Also all three of them constantly misspelt the world “Ecstasy” as “Ecstacy”. So I pulled up all their posts and … the spellings, the punctuation, the typos are identical.’

‘So all this time we’ve been hunting down these three guys when actually –’

‘They are all the same person,’ DC Fortune interjected.

‘They are all Angel.’

Even as she said it, Helen’s head spun.

‘She’s been guiding her victims to her.’

The team looked stunned. It was clear now why they had been unable to trace Angel’s punters – because they didn’t exist. How could they have got it so badly wrong?

‘Right. We need to change tack immediately,’ Helen continued, rallying her shell-shocked troops. ‘We can assume the misspellings on the courier boxes were a deliberate attempt to make the killer appear ill-educated, even dyslexic. In fact she is educated and sophisticated. Her vocabulary is extensive, she is adept at using and manipulating IT and she has a phenomenally ordered brain, capable of planning and executing these murders with minimal risk to herself. She is not stupid. She is cunning, intelligent and bold.’

The team were hanging on her every word as their first detailed image of their killer took shape before them.

‘She is a heavy drinker and drug user and brought a baby to term recently. She probably has a history of prostitution, yet has never been arrested – her DNA is not on the national database. So she may be relatively new to the scene. She is presumably heavily bruised and perhaps injured following her latest attack. We have a lot to work with, we have the e-fit but we have to be smart.
Let’s target the upper end of the market first – escorts, students – and think about the geography of these attacks. I’ll bet she’s hiding out somewhere in the central or northern parts of the city, so let’s go find her.’

The team hurried over to grab their e-fits, suddenly fired with a determination to bring this investigation to a close. The only one who didn’t race over straight away was Charlie. And Helen wanted to know why.