Pop Goes the Weasel (8 page)

‘You’re looking at a DIY thoracotomy.’

Jim Grieves savoured the last word, aware that it would mean little to Helen. It was 7 a.m. and they were alone in the police mortuary. Alan Matthews lay naked on the slab before them. They had already established that he had bled to death and they had now moved on to the removal of his heart.

‘This particular operation is not exactly textbook, but then again he or she was operating in less than optimum conditions. Their adrenalin would have been pumping, they would have been fearful of discovery and we shouldn’t forget that the victim was still alive when they started. Not exactly standard practice so, given that, it’s not a bad job.’

There was almost a note of admiration in his voice. Many would have chided him for this, but Helen let it go. Too much time in a mortuary does strange things to you and Jim was saner than most. He was also fiercely bright so Helen always paid attention to what he had to say.

‘First incision was made just below the sternum. A big blade, perhaps twenty centimetres in length. Then they cut through the ribs and breastbone. After that you’d
usually use muscle retractors – rib-spreaders – to peel open the chest. But our killer used something more interesting. See those two puncture holes there?’

Helen craned over the body to look inside the chest cavity. There were two holes about fifty centimetres apart in the right flap of what had once been his chest.

‘They were made by some sort of hook. A butcher’s hook maybe? Two hooks embedded to the side of the main incision, then you just use brute force. They ripped open the right half first, then did the same again with the left side. Once the chest is open and the heart revealed, it’s simply a matter of cutting around the surrounding tissue and lifting it out. Bit of a hatchet job, but effective.’

Helen digested these macabre details.

‘So what are we talking? A butcher’s knife and a meat hook?’

‘Could be,’ Grieves replied, shrugging.

‘How long would it take?’

‘Ten to fifteen minutes depending on how experienced you are and how much care you take.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Your victim was immobilized with chloroform – found it in his nostrils and his mouth. Forensics are doing their work on it now, but I’d hazard that it was home-made. Any fool can make it with bleach, acetone and internet access.’

‘Any traces of our killer?’

Jim shook his head.

‘Looks
like there was minimal contact between them. That said, your man has had a good deal of contact with others over the years.’

Jim paused as he always did when he had something good up his sleeve. Helen tensed slightly, eager to be put out of her misery.

‘There is plenty of evidence of STDs. Mr Matthews certainly suffered from gonorrhoea – recently, I would suggest. There’s also evidence of Mycoplasma genitalium, which sounds weird but actually is very common, and possibly pubic lice too. I wish I’d been a member of his church – sounds like a riot.’

He walked off to clean up. Helen let this latest development settle – the first little steer in an otherwise bewildering murder.

Back at Southampton Central, Helen continued her dissection of Alan Matthews. The team had assembled in the incident room and were pooling what they’d learned.

‘Forensics have pretty much come up with a complete blank,’ Tony Bridges announced bleakly. ‘They’ve been all over the car, but it hadn’t been moved or touched – only DNA there was of the Matthews family. As to the house, there are so many DNA traces at the murder scene, it’s easier to pinpoint who
hasn’t
been there. Semen, saliva, blood, skin cells, we’ve got the lot. This house was used regularly by sex workers and their clients, as well as by drug users. We’ll check them all out, see if there’s any
interesting matches, but there’s nothing there that would be useful in court.’

‘Why use a house with such heavy footfall? Wouldn’t they have been scared of being discovered?’ interjected DC Sanderson.

‘It’s possible they weren’t aware of how frequently it was used,’ countered Tony, ‘though given the level of care and planning that went into this murder, that seems unlikely. In many ways it was a perfect location to choose – the back door was solid and bolted from the inside and the windows were barred, meaning the front door was the only easy means of access. The latch broke long ago, but there was still a solid bolt on the inside. Easy enough for the killer to secure the place once the victim was incapacitated.’

‘It still seems risky to me …’ Sanderson responded, not keen to let her point go.

‘It was,’ said Helen, taking the baton. ‘Which suggests what? That he or she expected the body to be found quickly perhaps? Or maybe the location was chosen simply to put the victim at his ease. There are no signs that Alan Matthews was dragged into that house against his will. Meaning this was an ambush. He had to be
lured
there. He suffered from STDs of a type indicating widespread sexual activity, so perhaps he spotted a hooker he liked or a pimp he knew, then followed them inside and bam! Maybe the house was chosen because they knew he’d feel at ease –’

‘We’ve
had a good look at his computer,’ DC McAndrew broke in, ‘and there is plenty of evidence that Matthews had an unhealthy interest in pornography and prostitutes. He hasn’t been particularly careful at concealing his internet history, so we can see that he regularly visited porn sites – a lot of the free ones, but also some more extreme pay-per-view set-ups. He was also active in chat rooms and on message boards. We’re still looking into this but it’s basically a lot of sad bastards exchanging anecdotes about their experiences with various prostitutes, marking them out of ten for size of their boobs, what they’d do and so forth –’

‘They’re reviewing their hookers?’ Helen queried, mildly incredulous.

‘Basically. It’s a bit like TripAdvisor but for prostitutes. He also visited a lot of escort sites,’ McAndrew continued. ‘Though there’s no evidence yet that he actually used their services. Which might suggest that his tastes were a little more … earthy –’

‘Let’s focus,’ Helen interrupted. ‘We’re not here to judge Alan Matthews, we just want to find his killer. Whatever else we may think about him, he is a husband and a father and we need to find the person responsible.’

Before they kill again. She had almost said it, but choked it down at the last minute.

‘Let’s look into where he got the money to pay for his hobby. The more exotic his practices the more money he’d need. The Matthews family don’t own their own
house, there are four kids to support and Alan is the only breadwinner. He clearly used prostitutes and pay-per-view porn
a lot
, so how’s he doing it? Did he owe money to a pimp? Is this what this is about?’

For once, there was no comeback from the team – they were all staring over her head to the doorway of the incident room. Helen turned quickly to see a very nervous-looking uniform hovering. From the look on his face, she knew what was coming. Still it sent a shiver through her when he finally said:

‘They’ve found another body, Ma’am.’

She was back home, safe and sound. Donning latex gloves, she began to investigate her haul. £200 in cash – she put that straight into her purse, then moved on to the credit cards. Snip, snip, snip, her scissors cut through them deftly, but to make doubly sure she gave them ten minutes on a tray under the grill. It was hard to take your eyes off them as they bubbled into a plasticky pulp – someone’s life literally melting away.

Then to the driving licence. She hesitated to look at the name, focusing on the photo instead. Was she scared to see whose life she’d destroyed or was she deliberately holding off the discovery, teasing out every last moment of suspense?

She took a peek. Christopher Reid. Beneath his name, his home address. Her eyes rested on this, calculating. Then she flicked through the rest of the contents of his wallet – his business cards, loyalty cards and dry-cleaning receipts. A thoroughly mundane life.

Satisfied, she rose. Time was of the essence, she would have to move quickly. She opened up the old stove that was burning nicely now, stoked by a fresh log. She tossed his wallet in and watched it burn. Stripping quickly she
shoved her blood-stained clothes in on top of it. The fire roared and she had to step back to avoid getting burnt.

She suddenly felt foolish, standing naked in the room, flecks of blood still on her face and hair. Hurrying to the shower, she cleansed herself, then dressed again. There would be time to scrub the bath and floors properly later, she must keep on going.

Opening the fridge, she grabbed the half-bottle of Lucozade from the shelf and drank it down in one gulp. A half-eaten pie, a couple of chicken nuggets, a Müller Light; she wolfed them down now, feeling suddenly ravenous and light-headed. Sated, she paused. There on the top shelf was her prize. A human heart sitting snug in a Tupperware box.

She took it out and put it down on the kitchen table. Picking up the box, tape and scissors, she set to work.

She had a delivery to make.

The doorbell made her jump. Jessica Reid rose quickly, abandoning the task of feeding her eighteen-month-old daughter and hurrying to the front door. When she’d woken late to find Chris’s half of the bed empty, she’d been confused. When she’d found that both he and the car were missing, with no note by way of explanation, she’d become seriously concerned. Where was he?

She’d held off calling the police, hoping that there was a simple explanation for his absence. And now she hurried to the door, imagining her apologetic husband on the other side. But it was only the postman with a letter that had to be signed for.

Flinging it on the table, she returned to Sally, who was demanding more apple purée. She spooned the mush in dutifully but her mind was elsewhere. Things had been a bit strained between them recently – ever since her discovery – but he was not a callous man. He wouldn’t just leave her in the dark like this. Could he have left her? Walked out on them? She shook the thought away. It was impossible – all his stuff was here and, besides, he adored Sally and would never abandon her.

He had been at home when she went to sleep last night.
He had always stayed up later than her, watching action movies that he knew she wouldn’t care for and had become adept at slipping into bed without waking her. Had he even been to bed last night? His pyjamas were neatly folded under his pillow, where she’d put them yesterday afternoon, so she presumed not.

He must have gone out. To work? No, he hated work and had been coasting for months – a sudden burst of enthusiasm seemed unlikely. Would he have gone to his mother’s or a friend’s on some emergency? No, this didn’t wash either. He’d have drafted her in to help at the first sign of trouble.

So where was he? She was probably over-reacting, the tension that had characterized their marriage recently no doubt prompting her to imagine dire scenarios that were patently ridiculous. He was fine. Of course he was.

Despite the fear and uncertainty that gripped her, despite all the problems that they’d had recently, Jessica was suddenly sure of one thing. She really wanted their marriage to work, she really wanted Christopher. She knew in that moment that she loved her husband with all her heart.