Pop Goes the Weasel

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.