Pop Goes the Weasel (34 page)

The Student Counselling Centre was situated at the scruffy end of Highfield Road in Portswood. It was close to the Southampton University campus, but also served students from Solent University and the National Oceanography Centre – if they could be bothered to trek that far north. DC Sanderson stood outside it now, rolling back and forth on the balls of her tired feet, as she waited for Jackie Greene to turn up. Students are night owls and counsellors are often kept up late as a result but still it irritated Sanderson that Greene was late. She was a grown woman – the centre’s Head of Service and its most experienced counsellor – surely she could be on time for a meeting with the police?

When the overweight Ms Greene eventually turned up, the reason for her tardiness quickly became clear. She didn’t really like the police. Was this because of her left-wing politics (there were NUS and Greenpeace stickers all over her desktop computer) or her solidarity with the students, who she believed had been roughed up by the police during recent demonstrations against cutbacks at the university? Either way she was not keen to help. But Sanderson didn’t mind. She was in a bad mood and up for a challenge.

‘We are focusing on female students who are, or have been, sex workers. She probably uses drugs and alcohol, may be prone to violence, and we believe recently had a baby.’

‘That’s a lot of “may” and “probably”,’ Greene replied unhelpfully. ‘Have you spoken to the local maternity units?’

‘Of course, but your organization caters for the whole student population and as such you’re best placed to help us,’ Sanderson replied, dismissing Greene’s attempt to deflect her questions.

‘What makes you think she’s a student?’

‘We don’t know that she is. But she’s young, articulate and very computer literate. This is not some brainless kid who dropped out of school. This is someone who had – has – a lot to offer but has gone very badly off the rails. If she does or did have a baby it’s essential we find her as soon as possible. We have an e-fit here that I’d like you to look at, to see if it jogs any memories.’

Jackie Greene took the e-fit.

‘She’s probably heavily bruised or injured following a recent fight. If anyone like this has called or visited you –’

‘I don’t recognize her.’

‘Look again.’

‘Why? I’ve told you once I don’t recognize her. So unless you’re doubting my word –’

‘I’m not sure you realize how serious this is. There are five people dead already and there will be more unless she
is apprehended, so I want you to think. Has your organization been contacted by a student working in the sex industry who fits this description?’

‘God, you really have no idea, do you?’ Greene replied, shaking her head.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘We have dozens … scores of girls matching that description phoning us every week. Do you know how expensive it is doing a degree these days? I’m guessing not.’

Sanderson let the insult ride over.

‘Go on.’

‘I’m not going to give you names. The sessions are completely confidential, you should know that.’

‘And you should know that in extraordinary circumstances – which these most definitely are – I can apply for an order of court forcing you to open up your files. Which means that we will pore over every detail of every student who’s ever got in touch with you.’

‘You can threaten me all you like. I’m not giving you names.’

‘I’ll ask you again. Has anyone matching the description been in touch?’

‘Are you deaf, dear? There are
lots
of girls who match the description. They run out of money, turn to prostitution, can’t handle it, but by that point it’s too late. So they drink or take drugs to deal with it and many suffer violence, rape and pregnancy scares along the way. Some of
these girls have courses that are six, seven years long, and Mum and Dad can’t pay for them and the government’s sure as hell not going to help them so what can they do?’

Sanderson felt a little tingle down her spine, as a thought took hold.

‘Back up a minute. Would you say that girls with longer courses are more likely to fall into prostitution?’

‘Of course. Makes sense, doesn’t it? It costs them tens of thousands of pounds to finish a course like that and prostitution pays better than bar work, so …’

‘And what sort of courses last that long?’

‘Vets, some engineering degrees, but mostly it’s the doctors. Medicine.’

‘And have you recently had a medical student get in touch who might match our description?’

‘More than one. But as I said I’m not giving you any names.’

Jackie Greene sat back in her seat, arms folded, daring Sanderson to go and get a warrant. She would if she had to, but Sanderson had another thought on how she could get what she needed. She left the Counselling Centre and headed for the university’s main administration building. An image was forming in her head and she wanted to run it to ground as quickly as possible. After all, who better to carry out a DIY thoracotomy than a former medical student?

She should have gone hours ago, but still Helen couldn’t leave. It was nearly 9 a.m. – the team would be assembling now – and Harwood would no doubt wait until they were all there before sweeping in and taking control. She was good at timing these things to maximum effect. She would get one of the startled team to bring her up to speed, before issuing tasks. All of which meant Helen had an hour, two tops, before she was out for good.

She had removed the case files from the incident room and holed herself up in a damp interview room that was generally avoided. All through the night she had been going over the vast cache of documents in the numerous files, trying to see through the mass of details to the important connections. Working backwards from the most recent, messiest murder, she had been searching for correlations and parallels, hunting for pointers to why Angel had been driven to kill and what she’d do next. Did these men have any connection to the student world? Had they used an escort service that recruited a ‘better’ sort of woman? What had set her off? Who was she angry with? Questions, questions, questions.

As sunrise came and went without progress, Helen had
gone back to first principles. Who was Angel and what had precipitated this killing spree? What was the spark that lit the fire?

Opening the Alan Matthews case file, she re-read the details for the umpteenth time. She was so tired now that the words swam in front of her. Throwing down another slug of cold coffee, she turned to the pictures from the crime scene instead. She had seen them numerous times, but they still made her feel nauseous – the bloated torso opened up for all to see.

For all to see. The phrase buzzed round her mind, as she took in Alan Matthews’ corpse. Suddenly her eyes zeroed in on the hood, which had been placed carefully over his head before death. Helen had always dismissed this as Angel’s security – an attempt by a nascent killer to hide her identity in case it all went wrong and the victim escaped. But what if it signified something else? She had taken her time on the others – she had abused them, then split them open with a steady hand, enjoying herself. The DIY thoracotomy, as Jim Grieves had put it, carried out on Alan Matthews was more ragged, more brutal. Was this because she was an amateur or was something else at play? Was she nervous?

Helen shot a look at the clock. It was past half nine now, surely her time was almost up. Yet Helen felt she was onto something, as if the jigsaw puzzle were trying to assemble itself in front of her. She had to keep going and hope against hope that she would not be found. Her
phone started buzzing, but she ignored it. No time for distractions now.

The hood. Focus on the hood. The one distinguishing feature of the first murder. Angel might have wanted to conceal her identity in case the victim escaped
or
she might have done it because … she didn’t want to look her victim in the eye, when she carried out the mutilation. Was she scared of him? Scared her nerve would fail her?
Did she know him?

The hood wasn’t used to suffocate him and wasn’t employed in the later murders, so what made her first victim unique? Did he have some kind of power over her? Why was Alan Matthews special? He was a hypocritical, corrupt sexual deviant with an interest in evangelical religion and a passion for beating his family …

An echo of a memory. Something calling to Helen. Suddenly she was tossing the files aside, looking for the surveillance file that DC Fortune and his team had assembled on the Matthews family. There was a mass of mundane details, time logs, all of which might help, but Helen discarded them for the photos from the funeral. Helen had been there, for God’s sake – had the answer been under her nose all along?

Photos of the cortège leaving the house, of the mourners arriving, of the family departing the church. All of them inviting the same question. There was Eileen, being supported by her elder daughter, Carrie. And there were the twins, smart in the dark suits. But where was Ella?
When he was alive, Alan Matthews had made great play of being a father of four, the fertile paterfamilias of a close-knit, disciplined and devout family, so where was his younger daughter? Why hadn’t she turned up at the funeral? And, more importantly, why had the family never mentioned her – during police interviews, during the funeral orations. Why had Ella been airbrushed out of the family?

As that thought landed, another punched through. The heart. All the other hearts had been delivered to places of work, but not Alan Matthews’ heart. That was delivered to the family home. Surely that had to be significant?

Helen’s phone started buzzing again. She was about to reject it – expecting it to be an irate Harwood – but she recognized the number and answered it instead.

‘DI Grace.’

‘Hi, boss, it’s me,’ DC Sanderson replied. ‘I’m at the university’s admissions office and I think I may have something for you. I was going through the list of students who dropped out of their studies this year, looking particularly at female medical students. One name came up.’

‘Ella Matthews?’

‘Ella Matthews,’ Sanderson confirmed, surprised by her boss’s prescience. ‘She was a good student for the first year, then went badly off the rails. Late work, turning up to classes drunk or stoned, aggressive behaviour to other students. Her welfare officer suspected she may have
resorted to prostitution because she had no money coming in from family. She was a mess. Six months ago she vanished.’

‘Good work, stay on it. Find her friends, tutors, anybody who can give us more information on where she liked to go, where she felt safe, where she bought her drugs, anything. She’s our number one suspect – leave no stone unturned.’

Sanderson rang off. Helen knew she had no right to issue orders but now they were finally onto something, she was damned if she was going to let Harwood mess it up. This case still felt like hers and Helen wasn’t prepared to give it up yet. Bagging up the files, Helen hurried from the room.

Her time was limited, but Helen knew there was one person who could reveal the truth. And she was on her way to see her now.