Helen’s heart was beating faster, but she reined in her excitement.
‘Ok, follow it up. Be careful though, Tony. It could be a set-up – we’ve got no way of knowing how people will exploit this situation. But … it sounds promising.’
Helen couldn’t suppress a small smile, which was reciprocated by Tony.
‘Anyway, go home and get some sleep. You’ve earned it.’
‘Thanks, boss.’
‘How is Nicola, by the way?’
‘She’s all right. We take it one day at a time.’
Helen nodded. She respected and liked Tony for his careful, patient care of his wife. It must be hard to live a life that you never wanted, when the life you’d planned for had been so brutally snatched away from you. He was a good man and she hoped they would be ok.
Walking away from the café, Helen had a spring in her step. The course they were pursuing was fraught with danger, but Helen sensed that finally they were getting closer to their killer.
50
Picking up an unmarked pool car, Charlie sped out of the back entrance, anxious to get this over with. Jennifer Lees, the Family Liaison officer assigned to accompany her, would take the lead but it would be Charlie who’d have to ask the awkward questions. Normally Helen would interview the victim’s family in the first instance, but she had disappeared on undisclosed business, leaving Charlie to carry the can.
They pulled up outside a run-down terraced house in Swaythling. This was the home Gareth Hill shared with his mother – shared in the past tense as his mutilated body was currently lying on a slab in Jim Grieves’s mortuary. They couldn’t formally identify him as the third victim until his next of kin had done so, but they knew they had the right man. He had minor convictions for shoplifting, drunkenness and even one pathetic attempt at indecent exposure, so they already had his picture on file. Once the formalities were done, that file would be marked ‘Deceased’ and sent upstairs to the incident room for evaluation.
An enormous woman of seventy-plus opened the door. Her blotched ankles were swollen, her stomach jutted out generously and her jowls hung deep from her plump face. But hidden amidst all that flesh were two incongruous, rat-like eyes that stared fiercely at Charlie now.
‘If you’re selling something, you can piss –’
Charlie held up her warrant card.
‘It’s about Gareth. May we come in?’
The whole house stank of cats. They seemed to be everywhere and as if scenting danger they clamoured round their owner now, demanding her attention. She stroked the largest one – a ginger tom called Harvey – as Charlie and Jennifer broke the news to her.
‘Dirty little boy.’
Jennifer turned to Charlie, this unexpected response rendering her temporarily speechless.
‘Did you understand what we said, Mrs Hill?’ Charlie asked.
‘Miss Hill. I’ve never been a Mrs.’
Charlie nodded sympathetically.
‘Gareth has been murdered and I –’
‘So you keep saying. What did he do – try and run off without paying?’
Her tone was hard to read. She sounded angry, but was that distress punching through too? This woman’s armour was hard, toughened by years of disappointments, and she was hard to read.
‘We’re still investigating the circumstances but we suspect this was an unprovoked attack.’
‘Hardly unprovoked. If you wallow in the gutter …’
‘Where did Gareth say he was going last night?’ Charlie interrupted.
‘He said he was going to the pictures. He’d just got his benefits so … I thought he must have come in after I was asleep. I thought the lazy oaf was still in bed …’
Finally, her voice wavered, as the reality of her son’s death struck home. When her defences finally collapsed, they would collapse big, so Charlie carried on the conversation a bit longer, then excused herself to head upstairs. She had learned as much as she could and she wanted to be away from this woman’s sharp grief. Charlie knew she was weak to let another’s distress spike so sharply with her own sense of loss, but she couldn’t help it.
Pushing into Gareth’s bedroom, she tried to gather her thoughts. It was truly a sight to behold. Empty fast food wrappers littered the floor, lying in company with used tissues, old magazines and discarded clothes. The whole place looked and smelled dirty, as if someone had existed rather than lived here. It was stale. Stale and empty.
Gareth wasn’t an attractive man and he could hardly have brought girls back here anyway. The mess was bad enough, but would he have had the balls to parade another female in front of his mother, presuming he could have persuaded one to return home with him in the first place? Charlie thought not. His probation reports suggested he had learning difficulties and cripplingly low self-esteem. The evidence of his home life seemed to affirm that. This was a house that trapped people rather than protected them.
Looking around the detritus, the only item of value was the computer. Perched in glorious isolation on the cheap desk, it stood proud. Its aluminium casing and familiar logo looked fresh as if this totemic item had been kept clean and safe whilst all else had been allowed to go to seed. No doubt this treasured item was Gareth’s passport to life and Charlie felt sure that the key to his death lay within it.
51
The Bull and Last did the best steak sandwich in Southampton. It was also off the radar of most coppers, a middle-class hangout favoured by yummy mummies and businessmen, so was one of Helen’s favourite haunts when she needed a bit of time to herself. After she’d left Tony, she suddenly realized how incredibly hungry she was. She’d hardly eaten for days, surviving on coffee and cigarettes, and now she desperately needed some fuel. Sinking her teeth into the thick sandwich, Helen immediately felt better – the protein and carb fix hitting the spot.
She had to get her head out of the case for a few minutes. When you are deep in an investigation of this magnitude, you become utterly obsessed. It haunts your thoughts, day and night. The longer it goes on, the easier it is to become snow-blind, to lose your sense of perspective and your clarity of vision. It was healthy to come here and people-watch for a little while, speculating on the emotional lives of the wealthy women who enjoyed flirting with the handsome waiters.
A local freesheet lay discarded on the table. She’d avoided picking it up and even as she did so now, curiosity finally getting the better of her, she flicked quickly through the first few pages. They were full of news on the recent murders, trumpeting the fact that police now had the killer’s DNA, but Helen didn’t linger on these. She liked to get deeper inside the local rags to the small adverts, the petty crimes reported in the court circulars, the horoscopes – and all the other nonsense that was used to fill up these papers.
Flick, flick, flick, then suddenly Helen froze. She looked away, then looked back, hoping she had imagined it. But there it was. A photo of a house. The same house Helen had seen Robert and his mate Davey breaking into two days ago.
And above it the damning headline: ‘Pensioner fights for life after surprising burglars.’
She made it to Aldershot in record time, driven there by instinct and anxiety. The details of the newspaper report had made for grim reading – a 79-year-old former teacher who had surprised intruders and been savagely beaten. His skull fractured, he was now in an induced coma in Southampton General. It was touch and go whether he would survive.
She had risked a direct approach to his house, a cover story about an attack on one of Robert’s colleagues at the supermarket up her sleeve, but there was no one at home. So she’d visited the Red Lion, the Railway Tavern and a clutch of other Aldershot drinking holes. Striking out, she’d visited their preferred off licences before finally getting lucky at the arcade. They were playing the slots – no doubt spending the proceeds of their recent crime.
After a while they lost interest and left, heading their separate ways after an excess of fist bumping. Helen followed Robert cautiously, wait
ing for the right moment to approach him. The streets were busy with shoppers, but when Robert diverted into the park, Helen seized her chance.
‘Robert Stonehill?’
He spun round, suspicion writ large on his face.
‘I’m a police officer,’ she continued, flashing her warrant card. ‘Can I have a word?’
But he’d already turned to go.
‘It’s about Peter Thomas. The man you and Davey beat half to death.’
Now he paused.
‘And don’t even think about running. I’ve caught faster guys than you, believe me.’
‘I’m not here to arrest you, but I want you to tell me the truth.’
They were seated on a park bench.
‘I want you to tell me what happened.’
A long pause as Robert debated what to say, then:
‘It was Davey’s idea. It’s always bloody Davey’s idea.’
He sounded bitter and depressed.
‘The old boy was a teacher of his. S’posed to be minted.’
‘And Davey thought it would be easy pickings?’
Robert shrugged.
‘Davey said he’d be out. He’s always out on Thursday nights. Plays cards at the Green Man. He said we’d be in and out in twenty minutes.’
‘But …’
‘But the old boy walked in. Had a bloody great poker in his hand.’
‘And?’
Robert hesitated.
‘And we ran. Legged it back to the window, but the old boy came after us. Gave me a bloody great whack on the leg.’
Robert peeled down the top of his trousers to reveal a huge, purple bruise on his hip.
‘After that Davey just went for him. Kicking, punching, whatever.’
‘And you just stood by?’ Helen replied, incredulous.
‘I gave him a kick and that, but it was Davey who … He stamped on his head, for fuck’s sake. I bloody pulled him off. He would’ve killed him.’
‘He might have already killed him. He’s in a coma, Robert.’
‘I know, I can read, all right?’
His retort was full of defiance, but Helen could see the boy was scared and upset.
‘Have the police spoken to you? Or Davey?’
‘No,’ he said, turning to her, confused. ‘You going to arrest me?’
The million-dollar question. Of course she had to arrest him and Davey.
‘I don’t know, Robert. I’m considering it but … let’s see what happens with Mr Thomas. It’s possible he will make a full recovery …’
It sounded weak and Helen knew it.
‘And I know that there are mitigating circumstances in your case, so … so I’m going to give you a second chance.’
Robert looked stunned, which only made Helen feel more pathetic and wrongheaded.
‘You’re a decent guy, Robert. You’re smart and if you committed yourself to something worthwhile you could have a good life. But you’re on the wrong path now, hanging out with the wrong guys, and you will end up in jail if you carry on like this. So here’s the deal. You will stop seeing Davey and his mates. You will work hard and look for opportunities to better yourself. You will try to live a decent life. If you do that, then I will let this go. If you fuck up though, I will throw you in jail, right?’
Robert nodded, relieved but confused.
‘I’m going to take an interest in you. And I want you to repay my faith. If you feel you’re struggling or that you are going to get into trouble, I want you to call me.’
She scribbled her mobile number down on the back of one of her official business cards.
‘This is a big chance for you. Don’t fuck it up, Robert.’
He took the card, looked at it. When he looked up again, Helen saw gratitude and relief on his face.
‘Why? Why are you doing this for me?’
Helen hesitated, before eventually replying:
‘Because everyone needs someone to watch over them.’
Helen walked quickly away from the park. Now that she had done the deed she just wanted to be away. She had taken a big risk coming here, and in making contact with Robert had done something she’d vowed she wouldn’t do. She had crossed the line. Yet despite this, despite all the dangers that lay ahead, she didn’t regret it. Whilst there was still a chance of saving Robert, it was worth it.
52
Jessica Reid marched up the street, tears stinging her eyes. She swallowed hard to stop the sobs escaping – she wouldn’t give those women the satisfaction of breaking down in front of them.
She had debated whether or not to keep Sally in nursery. Her first instinct had been not to return there, to hide away from the world, but Sally liked it there, so Jessica had nailed her courage to the mast and taken her down. Sally needed some stability – best to keep to the familiar routine.
As soon as she’d got there she’d realized that she’d made a mistake. Sally trotted off to play, but no one was paying any attention to her. All eyes were glued to Jessica. There were a few sheepish smiles of support, but nobody approached her. Clearly no one knew what to say to the stupid, duped wife.
As she walked away, she could hear hushed conversations strike up. She could only imagine what they were saying. The prurience, the speculation. Did she know? Did she allow it? Did he bring diseases home with him?
It was all so unfair. She had done nothing wrong. Sally had done nothing wrong. But it was they who had been branded, as accessories to his behaviour. How could she have been so bloody stupid? She had given Christopher her heart and trusted him with it, even after their first bust-up over his use of pornography. She thought he’d turned over a new leaf, but he hadn’t. Instead he’d lied and lied and lied. Why hadn’t he talked to her? Why had he been so selfish?
She was back in the house now, though how she’d got there she couldn’t really say. Without hesitating, she charged upstairs. Flinging open the chest of drawers, she grabbed an armful of Christopher’s things and threw them out of the window down on to the drive below. Again and again and again. Cleansing the house of his presence.
Grabbing some lighter fluid and matches from under the kitchen sink, she marched out through the still open front door. Dousing the messy pile generously, she threw a match on to it, then watched the clothes – clothes she’d bought for him – burn.
Snap, snap, snap. From their vantage point in a van across the road, the plain-clothes police officers recorded every second of her despair, before calling it in.
DC Fortune took in their report, then rang off. The show was about to start and he didn’t want to miss a minute of it. He had given his fellow officers the dull gig – no one really expected their surveillance of Jessica Reid to throw up anything. The plum job was the Matthews funeral that was about to get under way.
Lloyd Fortune stretched, yawned, then settled himself down into position. Watching and waiting. That was the drill on these sorts of operation. Looking across the road, Lloyd saw the Matthews family leave the house. There were plenty of people on hand to support them – extended family, friends from the church – so many that four funeral cars had been hired. Lloyd scanned the heads to pick out the Matthews family amongst the well-wishers. He caught a glimpse of the eldest daughter shepherding a grandmother into the first car. Like the others, she looked blank with shock, even after three days had passed.
Lloyd surveyed the street. Was their killer out there? Watching? Enjoying her success? Snap, snap, snap went the camera, taking in every passer-by, every parked car. Lloyd was exhilarated by the prospect of seeing the killer in the flesh and felt his pulse quicken.
The first car was on the move now. And the second. Lloyd nodded to Jack to start the engine. It hummed quietly. They waited patiently – Eileen and the twins slipping into the final car – then it was their turn. Pulling away from the kerb, they followed the flotilla of grief towards its final destination – St Stephen’s Baptist church.
53
He hesitated before typing. How did on
e begin these things?
Hello Melissa. A mutual friend …
No, that wasn’t right.
Hello Melissa. My name is Paul and I would like to meet you.
That was better. Tony leaned back in his chair, amused by how much effort that had taken. And how nervous he’d been. Satisfied that the thing was now in train, he went to shut his computer down. But as he did so, a response pinged up.
Hello Paul. When would you like to meet?
Tony hesitated, then typed.
Tonight?
What time?
Tony hadn’t expected to be making arrangements so quickly. Still needs must.
Ten?
Pick up me up on the corner of Drayton St and Fenner Lane. I’ll be wearing a green coat. What car you drive?
Vauxhall.
Colour?
Silver.
Looking for company? Or something special?
Company.
How long?
Couple of hours?
£150 for two hours.
Ok.
Cash.
Sure.
See you later, Paul.
See you later, Melissa.
XXX.
End of conversation. Tony caught himself smiling. He was in his own bloody kitchen. Instant-messaging prostitutes. Still it wasn’t the kind of thing you could do in a café, so …
Tony switched off the computer. Nicola’s mum would be here soon and she didn’t need any more ammunition. Best go and get some rest.
Tony had a big night ahead of him.
54
Charlie was in full flow when Helen entered the incident room. The team had broken from their tasks to hear the latest developments.
Pop Goes the Weasel: DI Helen Grace 2 (Dci Helen Grace 2) Page 13