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

by M. J. Arlidge

  She let her words hang in the air, then carried on:

  ‘So I appreciate you trying, but it’s too late.’

  Tony looked at Melissa. He knew she was telling the truth but it seemed such a horrible waste. She was still young and attractive – she clearly had a good brain and a big heart. Was it fair to consign her to a lifetime of brutality?

  ‘It’s never too late. Take this chance. I can help you –’

  ‘For God’s sake, Tony. Have you listened to a word I’ve said?’ she spat back. ‘I’m broken. There’s no way back for me – Anton saw to that.’

  ‘Anton’s gone.’

  ‘Not in here, he isn’t,’ she said, rapping the side of her head viciously. ‘Do you know what he did to me? What he did to us?’

  Tony shook his head, wanting to know and not wanting to know.

  ‘Normally he’d just use his lighter or a cigarette. Burn us on the arms, the back of the neck, the soles of our feet. Somewhere that’d hurt like fuck but wouldn’t put the punters off. That was for small things. But if we’d done something really bad, he’d take us on a little trip.’

  Tony said nothing, watching Melissa intently. It was as if she were no longer talking to him, instead inhabiting some dark memory elsewhere.

  ‘He’d drive you out to the old cinema on Upton Street. Belonged to a mate of his – it was a dirty great hole full of rats. All the way we’d be begging him to forgive us, let us go, but that’d only make him more angry. Once we got there, he’d …’

  She hesitated before continuing.

  ‘… he had this bicycle chain, big chunky thing with a padlock on the end, and he’d hit you with it. Over and over again until you couldn’t get up and run even if you wanted to. He’d be shouting and hollering as he beat you, calling you every name under the sun, until he’d run out of steam. And when you were lying there … like a rag doll in the dirt and the blood and the filth wishing you were dead … he’d piss on you.’

  Her voice was shaking now.

  ‘Then he’d bugger off and leave you there for the night. People said some girls froze to death there, but if you didn’t … then the next day you’d clean yourself up and go back to work. Praying that you’d never make him angry again.’

  Tony looked at her. Her whole body was shaking.

  ‘That’s the kind of people we are, Tony. He did that to us and now that’s all we’re good for. That’s all I am now. That’s all I can be. Do you understand?’

  Tony nodded, though he wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she could be saved.

  ‘The best that I can hope for is that it won’t kill me. That just for a little bit I can be safe.’

  ‘You’re safe now. I’ll make sure of it.’

  ‘My hero,’ she replied, smiling through her tears.

  She allowed herself to be held. He was supposed to carry on questioning her, but suddenly he didn’t want to ask her about the darkness and the filth and the violence. He wanted to take her away from that, take her to a better place. He wanted to save her.

  And he knew he would risk everything to do it.

  68

  ‘Lyra Campbell is now our number one suspect in this investigation. She is a highly dangerous individual and we would urge members of the public not to approach her. If they see her, or have any information on her whereabouts, they should call the police immediately.’

  Detective Superintendent Ceri Harwood was holding court to the assembled members of the press. Charlie had never seen the media suite so busy – there were journalists from over twenty countries, some of them reduced to standing in the corridor outside. They were scribbling furiously as Harwood brought them up to speed, but their eyes never left the enlarged e-fit that dominated the screen behind them. Magnified, that face, those eyes, were even more beguiling and hypnotic. Who was this woman? What was her special power over people?

  Charlie handled the operational questions. Inevitably Emilia Garanita asked why DI Grace wasn’t at the press conference – she seemed particularly disappointed that her sparring partner wasn’t present – and Charlie was happy to bat that back, underlining the many and enduring virtues of her boss. At that point Harwood cut in, leading the Q&A in another direction, and twenty minutes later the whole thing wrapped up.

  When the final journalist had left, Harwood turned to Charlie.

  ‘How did we do?’

  ‘Good. The message will be out there in a couple of hours and … well, you can’t hide for ever. Normally once the e-fit’s out we pick them up within forty-eight hours. Along with a few unfortunates who look a bit like them.’

  Harwood smiled.

  ‘Good. I must remember to call Tony Bridges. It’s thanks to him that we are where we are.’

  Charlie nodded, swallowing her instinct to remind the station chief that it had been Helen’s idea to put someone undercover.

  ‘How do you feel the investigation has gone so far, Charlie? You’ve been away for a while and have probably come back with fresh eyes …’

  ‘It’s gone as well as it could have in the circumstances.’

  ‘Have the different parts of the operation pulled their weight? Have we got anything from the surveillance yet?’

  ‘No, not yet, but –’

  ‘Do you think we should persist with it? It’s cripplingly expensive and now that we have a concrete lead …’

  ‘That’s DI Grace’s call. And yours of course.’

  It was a coward’s answer but Charlie felt deeply uncomfortable discussing the running of the investigation behind Helen’s back. Harwood nodded, as if Charlie had actually said something quite profound, then sat down on a table edge.

  ‘And how are you getting on with Helen?’

  ‘Fine now. We’ve had a good talk and things are … fine.’

  ‘I’m glad because, strictly between me and you, I was worried. Helen had some very robust opinions about your return to Southampton Central. Opinions that I felt were unfair. I’m pleased that you’ve proved her wrong and that the old team is back together again.’

  Charlie nodded, unsure what the appropriate response was.

  ‘And I hear you’ve been made temporary DS, whilst Tony is busy. How are you finding that?’

  ‘I’m enjoying it, of course.’

  ‘Would you be interested in making it a permanent promotion?’

  The question took Charlie by surprise. Immediately memories of her conversation with Steve reared up. In truth, they had been plaguing her all morning.

  ‘I’m taking it one step at a time. I have a husband and maybe one day …’

  ‘Children?’

  Charlie nodded.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be a choice, you know, Charlie. You can do both – take it from me. You just need to be clear with everyone and then … well, for a talented female officer like you the sky is the limit.’

  ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’

  ‘Come and talk to me whenever you need to. I like you, Charlie, and I want you to make the right decisions. I see great things for you.’

  Shortly afterwards, Harwood departed. She had a lunch date with the police commissioner and it didn’t do to be late. Charlie watched her go, deeply unnerved. What game was Harwood playing? What was her role in it?

  And what did it mean for Helen?

  69

  The team spread over Southampton, searching for Lyra. North, south, east and west, leaving no stone unturned. Extra uniform and community support officers had been drafted in and, led by CID detectives, they visited brothels, mother-and-baby drop-ins, health clinics, social security offices, Accident and Emergency departments – clutching their e-fits and appealing for information. If Lyra was hiding in Southampton, they would surely find her now.

  Helen led the hunt in the northern reaches of the city, firmly believing that the killer would operate from somewhere familiar and safe. She kept her radio volume turned up high, hoping that at any moment it would squawk into life with news of a breakthrough. She didn’t car
e who got Lyra, didn’t care who brought her in – she just wanted this to be over.

  But still she proved elusive. Some claimed to have seen Lyra, some thought they might have known her under a different name, but so far no one had confirmed that they had spoken to her. Who was this woman who could exist in such a bubble, so devoid of human contact? They had been at it for hours, spoken to scores of people, but still they had nothing concrete. Lyra was a phantom who refused to be found.

  Then just after lunchtime Helen finally got the break she’d been craving. As the hours had ticked by, as each working girl had claimed ignorance of Lyra’s existence, she had started to wonder if Melissa had made it all up to get some attention and a bit of cash, but then suddenly and unexpectedly they got a positive ID.

  Helen picked her way through the litter-strewn tenement building on Spire Street, utterly depressed by what she saw. Working girls and junkies lived cheek by jowl in the leaky, derelict flats that were due for gutting and redevelopment next year. Many of the squatters had kids, who ran round Helen’s legs as she stalked the building, running from the policewoman in mock horror, hiding from her in dirty and dangerous corners of this ruined building, squealing all the while. If she could have, Helen would have scooped them all up and taken them somewhere decent. She made a mental note to contact social services the moment she had a spare second. It can’t be right for kids to be living like this in the twenty-first century, she thought.

  A group of women sat round a two-bar fire, breast-feeding, gossiping, recovering from last night’s work. They were hostile at first, then sullen. Helen had the distinct impression that they were holding out on her but she persisted nevertheless. These girls may be far gone but they all have families of some sort or other and are not immune to emotional blackmail. Helen played on this now, painting a grim picture of the bereaved families burying their defiled fathers, husbands and sons. Still the women offered nothing – whether this was fear of Anton or fear of the police, Helen couldn’t tell. But then finally the quietest one of the group offered something up. She wasn’t much to look at – a shaven-headed junkie with a mewling baby in her arms – but she told Helen that she’d known Lyra briefly. They’d worked for Anton together, before Lyra disappeared.

  ‘Where did she live?’ Helen demanded.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She never told me,’ the girl protested.

  ‘Then where did you see her?’

  ‘We worked the same places. Empress Road, Portswood, St Mary’s. But her favourite was by the old cinema in Upton Street. You could usually find her there.’

  Helen carried on quizzing her for a few moments longer, but already she had what she needed. All the places the girl had mentioned were in the north of the city, which fitted her theory. But more than that it was the mention of the old cinema that had set Helen’s heart beating. Tony had filled her in on his latest debrief with Melissa, which had also pinpointed the cinema as one of Anton’s haunts. It seemed too much of a coincidence to be ignored. Was this where Anton and Lyra had come to blows? Had he been killed there? Would she still be haunting this lonely and desolate spot?

  Helen called it in immediately, ordering a plain-clothes CID officer to secure the old cinema swiftly and quietly, so that a SOC team could slip in and do their work. Simultaneously a surveillance team would set up camp on the street. Already Helen was impatient for results. Something in her waters told Helen that the old cinema would prove crucial in cracking this case. Maybe they were finally getting close to Lyra. Maybe their phantom was about to become flesh.

  70

  The car slipped quietly along the street, shadowing her. Charlie had been so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she hadn’t noticed it at first. But there was no doubt that she was being followed. The car was keeping its distance but also keeping pace – did they want to know where she was going or were they just waiting for the right moment to pounce?

  Suddenly the car sped up, roaring past her before mounting the pavement and coming to an abrupt halt. Now the door swung open. Charlie’s hand immediately reached for her baton.

  ‘Have you missed me?’

  Sandra McEwan, aka Lady Macbeth. An unwelcome reminder of past mistakes.

  ‘I’ll take that as a “yes”. Sometimes it’s so hard to put your feelings into words, isn’t it? Oh, excuse the amateur dramatics,’ McEwan continued, nodding to the car slewed across the pavement. ‘Sometimes the boy gets overexcited.’

  ‘Get it off the pavement now and be on your way.’

  ‘By all means,’ McEwan replied, nodding at her lover to move the car. ‘Though I was rather hoping you’d come with us.’

  ‘Dogging’s not really my thing, Sandra. We’ll have to take a rain check.’

  ‘Very funny, Constable. Or is it Sergeant these days?’

  Charlie said nothing, refusing to give her the satisfaction.

  ‘Either way, I would have thought you’d be interested in meeting the lowlife who killed Alexia Louszko.’

  As she spoke, she opened the back door of the car and gestured to the empty interior.

  ‘I’ll happily give you a ride, if you can spare the time?’

  Charlie acquiesced and before long they were speeding out of the city. Charlie had no fears for her own safety – Sandra McEwan was too smart to target coppers and she certainly wouldn’t abduct them on a busy street full of witnesses – but nevertheless Charlie wondered what game they were playing. She questioned Sandra en route, but her enquiries were met with stony silence. Clearly they were going to have to play it Sandra’s way today.

  The car rattle-bumped to a stop on a desolate patch of wasteland overlooking Southampton Water. It had been bought by a foreign property company, but they had run into planning trouble and two years on the ground remained unbroken. It had since become a mecca for fly-tippers and was now liberally decorated with building waste, burnt-out cars and chemical drums.

  Sandra opened the door and gestured Charlie out. Irritated, Charlie acquiesced.

  ‘Where is he then?’

  ‘Over there.’

  Sandra pointed to a burnt-out Vauxhall not fifty yards away.

  ‘Shall we?’

  Charlie hurried towards the vehicle. She now knew exactly what she would find and wanted to get it over with. Sure enough, nestled in the boot of the car was the brutalized body of a young man – one of the Campbells’ thugs no doubt.

  ‘Terrible, isn’t it?’ Sandra said, without an ounce of pity in her voice. ‘Some kids found him like this and told me. My first thought was to call the police.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  The man was lying in exactly the same position as Alexia had been when she was found. His face had been caved in and his hands and feet removed in identical fashion too. This was tit-for-tat killing, a message to the Campbells that their aggression would be met head on. An eye for an eye.

  ‘Your SOC team will find a hammer in his inside coat pocket. Word on the street is that it’s the hammer that killed Alexia. I’m sure your forensics will confirm that for you. Sad to see a man like that, but then perhaps there’s a natural justice in it, eh?’

  Charlie snorted and shook her head in disbelief. She had no doubt that McEwan would have been present when the man was tortured and killed, conducting operations with gleeful malice.

  ‘I’d say that was case closed, wouldn’t you?’

  Smiling, she headed back to her car, leaving Charlie alone with a faceless corpse for company and a very bitter taste in her mouth.

  71

  Helen was on her way back to Southampton Central when she got the call. She could feel her phone buzzing and swerved her bike into a bus lane in order to answer it. She had expected it to be Charlie with an update. For a moment she even thought it might be news of a positive sighting of Lyra. But it was Robert.

  She had been summoned back to Southampton Central by Harwood, but she didn’t hesitate now, speeding round the ring road, th
en north towards Aldershot. Harwood could wait. In less than hour, she was walking through the atrium of Wellington Avenue police station. She had met a good handful of the CID officers based here at various Hampshire Police conferences and one of them – DI Amanda Hopkins – greeted her now.

  ‘He’s holed up in interview room one. We offered him a brief or to call his mum but … well, he won’t speak to anyone but you.’

  It was said in a friendly manner but was an appeal for information.

  ‘I’m a friend of the family.’

  ‘The Stonehills?’

  ‘Yup,’ Helen lied. ‘What sort of state is he in?’

  ‘Shaken up. A few superficial injuries but he’s basically ok. I’ve got the other two in cells. We’ve already interviewed them – they are all blaming each other, so …’

  ‘I’ll see what I can get out of him. Thanks, Amanda.’

  Robert was slumped on a plastic chair. He looked in a bad way – as if he had slightly imploded – with numerous scratches on his face. His right arm was in a sling. He stirred on seeing Helen, sitting up straight.

  ‘I got this for you,’ Helen said, placing a can of Pepsi on the table. ‘Shall I open it?’

  He nodded, so Helen obliged. Grabbing it with his good hand, Robert drank it down in one go. His hand shook as he did so.

  ‘So are you going to tell me what happened?’

  He nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘I can try and help you,’ Helen continued, ‘but I need to know –’

  ‘They jumped me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Davey. And Mark.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wouldn’t run with them any more.’

  ‘You told them you weren’t interested.’

  ‘They said I was yellow. They thought I was going to grass on them.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘No. I just wanted out.’