Pop Goes the Weasel

23

The sun refused to rise. A thick blanket of cloud hung over Eling Great Marsh, framing the figures crawling over it. A dozen forensic officers in crime scene suits were on their hands and knees, scrabbling over the surface of this forgotten outpost, searching each blade of grass for clues.

As Helen surveyed the scene, her mind went back to Marianne. Different locations, different circumstances, but the same awful feeling. A brutal, senseless murder. A man dead in a ditch, his beating heart ripped from him. A concerned wife out there somewhere, waiting and hoping for his safe return… Helen closed her eyes and tried to picture a world in which this wasn’t happening. The salty tang of the marsh momentarily took her away to happier times, to family holidays on the Isle of Sheppey. Brief interludes of joy amidst the darkness. Helen snapped her eyes open, irritated with herself for indulging in maudlin reverie when there was work to do.

As soon as she’d heard the news, Helen had pulled everyone off what they were doing. Every CID officer, every forensic specialist, every spare uniform, had been ordered to this godforsaken sod of wet grass. It would alert the press, but that couldn’t be helped. Helen knew they were dealing with something – someone – extraordinary and she was determined to throw everything at it.

They were still examining the car, but on the ground they’d found their first decent clues. The victim’s body had left an impression on the soft ground as it had been dragged from car to ditch, as had the heels of the person dragging him. The indentations were deep and unless a man was deliberately throwing them off the scent by killing people in six-inch heels, an obvious explanation suggested itself.

A prostitute was killing her punters. Alan Matthews, a serial user of prostitutes, had been killed and mutilated. Twenty-four hours later, another man was killed on a remote promontory that was notorious for dogging and prostitution. It was all pointing one way and yet already alarm bells were ringing. Prostitutes were the victims not the killers, well before Jack the Ripper and long afterwards. Aileen Wournos bucked the trend, but that was America. Could something like that happen here?

‘We’ve got a name, Ma’am.’

DC Sanderson was hurrying over, exaggeratedly avoiding treading on anything significant.

‘The car is owned by a Christopher Reid. He lives in Woolston with a Jessica Reid and daughter, Sally Reid.’

‘How old is the daughter?’

‘She’s a baby,’ Sanderson replied, wrong-footed by the question. ‘Eighteen months, I think.’

Helen’s heart sank further. This was her duty now – to inform the living of the dead. If the victim was Christopher Reid, she hoped against hope that he had been brought here against his will. She knew this was unlikely, but still the idea that a guy with a young wife and child would abandon them for a sweaty tussle in a car with a prostitute seemed ridiculous to Helen. Could there have been another reason why he was lured here?

‘See if you can get a picture of Christopher Reid that we can compare with our victim. If this is Christopher we need to tell his family before the press do it for us.’

Sanderson hurried off to do Helen’s bidding. Helen’s gaze flitted beyond her to the police tape fluttering in the breeze. As yet they had avoided detection, the scene undisturbed by press. Helen was surprised, particularly by the absence of Emilia Garanita. She seemed to have half the uniformed officers in her pocket and was always excited by a juicy murder. But not in this case. Helen afforded herself a small smile – Emilia must be losing her touch.