Pop Goes the Weasel: DI Helen Grace 2 (Dci Helen Grace 2)

by M. J. Arlidge

  Another deep breath.

  ‘I opened up Internet Explorer to use Ocado and … I found all these sites bookmarked. The stupid bastard hadn’t even tried to hide them.’

  ‘Pornography?’ Helen asked. Jessica nodded.

  ‘I opened one up. I wanted to know. It was … disgusting. A young girl – seventeen at the most – and lots of guys … they were bloody queuing up to …’

  ‘Did you challenge him about it?’

  ‘Yes. I rang him at work. He came straight home.’

  Her tone softened a little as she continued:

  ‘He was mortified. Ashamed. He hated himself for hurting me. I hated him for looking at that … stuff, but he vowed he’d never watch it again. And he meant it. He really meant it.’

  She looked up imploringly, silently begging Helen not to damn her husband.

  ‘I’m sure he did. I’m sure he was a good husband, a good father …’

  ‘He is. He was. He loved Sally, he loved me …’

  At this point Jessica collapsed, the weight of events finally bearing down on her. She had been robbed of her husband and her memory of him would be forever tarnished. His reckless actions had cost him dear, but those left behind had the bitterest legacy. They were staring down a long dark tunnel.

  Suddenly Helen was filled with anger. Whoever was responsible knew what they were doing. They were intent on visiting as much pain on these innocent families as they could. They wanted to take them beyond the limits of human endurance, to destroy them. But Helen wouldn’t let them. She would see them destroyed before she let that happen.

  Leaving Alison to rally family support, Helen departed. The messenger is never welcome in a house of death and, besides, she had work to do.

  31

  Helen strode away from the house, confident that Alison would shepherd Jessica slowly, inexorably, towards a semblance of stability. Alison was brilliant at her job – patient, kind and wise. When the time was right she would sit Jessica down and tell her the full details of her husband’s murder. Jessica would need to know, would need to understand how her husband would now become public property, the subject of gossip and speculation. But it was too early, the shock too great, and she would leave it to Alison to judge the moment.

  ‘Are you chasing another serial killer, Helen?’

  Helen spun round, but she knew that voice.

  ‘You really don’t have much luck, do you?’

  Emilia Garanita shut the door of her Fiat and walked over. How the hell had she got here so quickly?

  ‘Before you tell me to jump in a lake, I think you should know that I had some face time with your boss today. Ceri Harwood is a breath of fresh air after Whittaker, don’t you think? She’s promised to be open and honest with us – you scratch my back and all that – and said that you were on board. So let’s start off on a new footing, shall we? What can you tell me about this killer and how can the Evening News assist the investigation?’

  Her pad and pen were poised in anticipation, her face the picture of innocence and enthusiasm. God, Helen wanted to punch her – she had never met anyone who seemed to take such active enjoyment in the unhappiness of ordinary people. She was a ghoul – without a ghoul’s redeeming features.

  ‘If Detective Superintendent Harwood has offered to give you the relevant information, then I’m sure she’ll do so. She’s a woman of her word.’

  ‘Don’t be cute, Helen. I want details. I want an exclusive.’

  Helen eyed her up. She could tell Emilia wasn’t bullshitting. Somehow she had managed to get Harwood onside – at whose instigation? Helen wondered. More than that, she’d got to the Reid residence almost as quickly as Helen had. She was no longer an adversary who could be crushed. Helen would have to be smarter than that.

  ‘I’ll have a name and photo for you by tonight. In time for you to publish. The Empress Road murder was brutal and sustained and involved elements of torture. We’re investigating possible links to organized crime, with particular emphasis on drugs and prostitution. We’ll be appealing for potential witnesses to contact an anonymous helpline with any relevant information. That’ll have to do for now.’

  ‘That’ll do just fine. See, it doesn’t hurt, does it?’

  Helen returned Emilia’s smile. She was surprised that she hadn’t asked her about Christopher Reid. Surprised and relieved. But she wasn’t going to stick around to be subjected to further interrogation. Climbing on her Kawasaki, she roared off, Emilia growing smaller and smaller in her rear-view mirrors.

  She only started to relax when she hit the motorway. Southampton, which for so long had been Helen’s happy home, was becoming a hostile and bloody place. Helen had the distinct feeling that the storm was about to break and she was suddenly unsure of her footing. What was Harwood doing talking to Emilia behind her back? What deal had been struck? Who could she rely on in the dark days ahead? Previously she’d had Mark and Charlie by her side in the thick of battle; who did she have now?

  Without meaning to she found herself driving towards Aldershot. Strange how the pull was so strong, even though Robert Stonehill had no concept of her existence. A voice inside her urged her to think twice, to turn around, but she shouted it down, cranking up her speed.

  She snuck into town under the cover of darkness. She knew Robert wouldn’t be at home today, so she drove straight to the Tesco Metro where he worked. Parking her bike nearby, she took up a vantage point in the internet café opposite. Here she had a good view of him as he re-stacked the fridge with booze in expectation of the evening rush. He wasn’t the most diligent worker, getting away with doing the minimum and always finding time to chat to his colleagues. There was one – Alice? Anna? – a pretty nineteen-year-old brunette, who seemed to pass by quite often. Helen made a note to keep an eye on that.

  The hours ticked by. 8 p.m., 9 p.m., 10 p.m. Helen’s attention started to wander, as her tiredness and hunger grew. Was she wasting her time here? What was she hoping to achieve? Was she going to be a voyeur for the rest of her life, furtively exploiting a connection that didn’t really exist?

  Robert hurried out of the shop and down the street. As usual Helen counted to fifteen then left her hiding place, casually and quietly keeping pace with him. A couple of times Robert shot glances to his left and right, as if expecting or fearing to meet someone, but he never looked directly behind him so Helen continued her progress undetected.

  They had reached the city centre now. Without warning, Robert dived into the Red Lion, a cavernous drinking hole that he had visited on previous excursions. Helen waited a moment and then entered, her smartphone clamped to her ear as if she were in conversation. There was no immediate sign of him, so Helen gave up the pretence. She searched the whole of the ground floor, then headed up to the mezzanine level. Still nothing. Had he noticed her and used the pub to shake her off? She hurried down to the basement snug and predictably he was in the very last place she looked, a booth hidden away in the bowels of the pub. He was packed into it with his mates and the mood was sombre. Helen was intrigued but couldn’t get close enough to hear what they were talking about, so bought a drink and settled down to wait. It was well past eleven o’clock, but the boys showed no signs of moving. The pub had a late licence and could serve until two, but the group were oddly restrained in their drinking tonight. They looked tense. Helen wondered what had spooked them.

  ‘Been stood up?’

  Helen’s daydreaming was abruptly ended by the intrusion of an overweight businessman who had obviously been quenching his thirst since leaving work.

  ‘I’m just waiting for my husband,’ Helen lied.

  ‘He always this late, is he? I wouldn’t be if you were my wife.’

  ‘He was competing tonight. The traffic coming out of London is always terrible.’

  ‘Competing?’

  ‘Cagefighting. There’s a big show on at the Docklands. Stick around and have a chat with him if you like. He always likes to talk to punters and he should be
here any second.’

  ‘That’s very kind …’

  But he was already retreating. Helen suppressed a smile and returned her attention to Robert. Only to find him staring right at her. Immediately she dropped her gaze, busying herself with her phone. Had he caught her? Better to be safe than sorry, so after a decent pause Helen feigned a phone call and went on her way, decamping to a discreet vantage point on the ground floor.

  Twenty minutes later, Robert and his friends brushed past and left the pub, seemingly unaware of her existence. It was pushing midnight now and the streets were empty. As she followed them, Helen was suddenly aware of the stupidity and vulnerability of her position, alone in the darkened streets so late at night. She could handle herself in most situations, but not against a gang of men. What if they spotted her following them and took issue with it?

  She hung back now and contemplated giving up altogether, but suddenly the gang came to a stop. They paused, darting looks here and there, then dragged a wheelie bin out from a nearby alleyway. Then Davey, the leader, clambered onto it. It brought him level with a small window at shoulder height. He pulled a crowbar out of his backpack and immediately started working on the window, whilst the others kept watch.

  Helen flattened herself against the wall. She was furious – why had she put herself in this position? Now the window was open and Davey was levering himself inside. Robert was next. Skipping up onto the bin, he swung himself through the window with the practised grace of a gymnast. The others stayed outside, looking around anxiously for any passers-by.

  A noise made them look up, but it was just a woman walking away – clearly she hadn’t seen them. Helen picked up her pace. Now that it had all gone so wrong, she just wanted to be away from here. With each step, she berated herself. An innocent person was being robbed right now and it was her duty to call it in and stop this thing now.

  But of course she wouldn’t and she hated herself for it. She hurried away, swallowed up by the darkness of the night.

  It had been a mistake to come here.

  32

  The house was an empty shell. A bare, functional space that like most rented properties never received much love. Jason Robins, sitting alone at the IKEA dinner table, felt much the same way. His ex, Samantha, had taken their daughter, Emily, to Disneyland for two weeks – with new man Sean in tow. And though he tried to block it out – by focusing on work, watching football, looking up old mates – in reality he thought about it all the time. The three of them having fun – eating candyfloss, screaming on the rollercoasters, snuggling up at bedtime after a busy day’s fun – fun from which he was utterly excluded. He had never called the shots in his marriage and now that it was over he was still on the back foot. He had put all his energies into bringing up Emily and providing Samantha with everything she needed, so much so that he had neglected his mates and family. When Samantha admitted her affair and ended the marriage, he had no one to fall back on, no one genuine at least. People looked sympathetic and asked a few questions, but their hearts weren’t in it. He could tell no one blamed Samantha for her choice. Jason wasn’t much to look at and was hardly scintillating conversation, but even so he had worked bloody hard to make Samantha happy. And what was his reward? A lonely flat and a custody battle.

  Jason scraped the remains of his ready meal into the bin and walked into what the letting agent called the study, but he called a cupboard. There was barely room to swing a cat in here, but it was his favourite room in the house – the only room that didn’t seem empty. He liked its warm embrace and he settled down into his chair, firing up his computer.

  He looked at the BBC News site, then the sport, then checked Facebook. A quick glance, then he shut it down – he didn’t want to see pictures of other people’s happy lives. He checked his email – spam, spam and another lawyer’s bill. He exhaled, bored. He should go to bed really. He debated whether he could face an early night when he knew he wouldn’t sleep, but it was a false debate. He had no intention of going to bed. Opening Safari, he clicked on his bookmarks. Dozens of online porn sites presented themselves. Once they had been exciting, now they were just familiar.

  He sat at his desk, bored and disconsolate. Time ticked by slowly, taunting him. God, it was only 11 p.m. Another nine hours at least before he could turn up at work. The night stretched out in front of him, a long blank vista.

  He paused, then typed ‘Escorts’ into the search engine. Immediately lots of flash ads popped up in the margins, asking him if he wanted to meet girls in Southampton. He hesitated, weirded out that they knew where he lived, then started to flick through them. They were all thinly disguised invitations to prostitution – girls pretending to be in search of company, but actually touting for business. Should he? He had never done anything like this and if he was honest he was scared to get involved. What if someone found out?

  He flicked through more, his arousal growing. He had the money. So why not? If he got a disease he could get it fixed – it wasn’t like there was anyone else to pass it on to now. Why shouldn’t he do something exciting for a change?

  His heart was beating faster now, scenarios playing out in his mind. He scanned escort sites, forums, video clips – there was a whole world out there, waiting to be explored. Why not take control? Use his money to get people to do what he wanted for a change. Where would be the harm?

  Picking up his wallet, Jason left the room, turning off the light as he went. The night was calling to him and this time he wouldn’t resist.

  33

  He gripped the bullwhip firmly and let fly. It bit into her back with a satisfying snap. Her shoulders arched then slumped, but she didn’t make a sound. Whatever pain she was feeling she swallowed it down. Raising her shoulders again, she braced herself for more, throwing down a challenge to her dominator. Jake obliged, cracking the whip again. Still she made no sound.

  It was now a couple of months since they’d renewed their relationship. Unquestionably it was different this time – he knew so much more about her and, though he never pried, he tacitly encouraged her to confide further in him by telling her his life story. He had shared as much as he was comfortable with – no one else knew that his parents were still alive but refused to talk to him – and yet he received so little in return. He understood that this was her safe space and he would never compromise that, but he wanted to move their relationship on. He had feelings for her – there was no point denying it. This should have prompted him to call time on their arrangement – any professional dominator worth his salt would do so – but he’d tried that before and it hadn’t worked.

  It wasn’t love. At least he didn’t think it was. But it was more than he had felt for anyone in a long time. When you’ve been so unloved, such a cast-off in life, you keep your feelings firmly locked down. Since hitting puberty Jake had had many relationships – they had been with men and women, young and old, but one thing had remained constant. His desire to be free. Now, however, he found himself less and less interested in playing the field. Monogamy had never been his thing, but now he could see the attraction. It was crazy really, given that he and Helen had never even come close to having sex, but then that wasn’t what it was really about. There was something about her that he wanted to protect, to save. If she would only let him.

  She had been virtually monosyllabic tonight. It felt like a depressing step back to the early days of their acquaintanceship. Something had happened to upset her – Jake was debating whether or not to say something when, out of the blue, she suddenly said:

  ‘Do you ever feel cursed?’

  It was such an unexpected question that Jake was at first speechless. Then, going too far the other way, he blathered ineffectually, trying to reassure her and at the same time probe without being intrusive. She didn’t respond.

  He crossed the room and took her hand in his. He was talking all the while, but Helen stared straight ahead, hardly registering his presence. Eventually, she looked down, seemingly noticing for the first
time that he had taken her hand in his. She looked at him, not unkindly, then withdrew it.

  She crossed the room, dressed, then headed for the door. Pausing, she whispered:

  ‘Thank you.’

  And then she was gone. Jake was offended, bemused and worried. What the hell was going on with her? And why did she feel cursed?

  There was so much left unsaid, so much bottled up inside her, and Jake was desperate to help her if he could. He was certain she didn’t have anyone else to talk to. But in spite of his desperation, he knew he couldn’t push it. He was powerless in this relationship and could make none of the running. He would have to wait for Helen to come to him.

  34

  Lady Macbeth lived in a huge detached house on the outskirts of Upper Shirley, much to her neighbours’ chagrin. They were all accountants and lawyers, Sandra McEwan was not. She made thousands of pounds a year selling drugs and sex. Southampton was the nerve centre of her business and she directed operations from her ritzy residence. Sandra was from Fife originally, but had run away from her foster home aged only fourteen. She was walking the streets before the year was out, working her way down the country before ending up on the south coast, where she was pimped by a fellow Scot – Malcolm Childs. She became his lover, later his wife, and then according to underworld legend suffocated him during an S&M session. His body was never found and she seamlessly took up the reins of his empire, killing or maiming anyone who tried to take it from her. She had walked free from court a dozen times, had survived three attempts on her life and now lived the high life on the south coast. It was a far cry from Fife.

  Her maid protested vigorously – it was only 7 a.m. – but Charlie had a warrant for Sandra’s arrest and wasn’t inclined to hang around, in case the lady in question did a bunk. Security cameras covered every inch of her property and it was likely Sandra would see them coming. Fortunately on this occasion she was fast asleep, as Charlie discovered when she opened the doors to Sandra’s opulent bedroom.