Pop Goes the Weasel

76

Helen was so engrossed in her chat with Charlie that she didn’t hear Harwood coming. An increasingly frustrated Charlie had spent days trying to run PussyKing’s true identity to ground – he was Bitchfest’s principal contributor and should have been easy to find. But because he never used a home or office computer and was adept at creating fake addresses via encrypted IPs, PussyKing remained forever just out of reach. Helen and Charlie were debating their next move, when:

‘Could I have a word, Helen?’

It was said with a smile, but without warmth. This was a public summons in front of the team and was designed to send out a message. What that message was Helen wasn’t yet clear about.

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day,’ Harwood continued once they were in her office. ‘I know events are moving fast but I will not tolerate this breakdown in communication. Is that clear?’

‘Yes. Ma’am.’

‘This only works if every link in the chain is connected, right?’

Helen nodded but privately wanted to tell her to blow it out her arse.

‘So what’s been going on?’ Harwood continued.

Helen brought her up to speed with the developments in the hunt for Lyra Campbell, the work being done at the old cinema and the latest killing.

‘No body yet but we believe the victim is Simon Booker, former paratrooper and veteran of Afghanistan.’

‘A war hero. Bloody hell.’

Helen sensed it was the possible headlines that were upsetting Harwood, not the man’s fate. She concluded her briefing, then moved to excuse herself, but Harwood stopped her in her tracks.

‘I had lunch with the police commissioner today.’

Helen said nothing. Was this another front opening up?

‘He’s very worried. The investigation is already massively over budget. The cost of surveillance alone is huge and has yielded nothing. Then there’s the extra uniforms, the overtime, the auxiliary SOC team and the dogs, and to what end? What concrete progress have we made?’

‘It’s a tough investigation, Ma’am. She’s a clever and a resourceful kill-’

‘All we’ve had for our money is a slew of negative headlines, which is why the commissioner has asked for an internal review of the investigation.’

So this was a new front. Had he asked or had Harwood led him to it? Helen’s blood boiled, but she said nothing.

‘I know you have experience in this area and that the team are – by and large – loyal to you, but your methods are irregular and costly -’

‘With the greatest of respect, four people are dead -’

‘Three.’

‘That’s fucking semantics. We all know Booker’s dead.’

‘It may be semantics, Inspector, but it says so much about you. You rush to judgement. Right from the off you’ve wanted this to be about Helen Grace chasing another serial killer. That’s the only narrative you know, isn’t it? Well, I think it’s misguided, unprofessional and dangerous. We have budgets, protocols and targets that cannot be ridden over roughshod.’

‘And what’s your target, Ceri? Chief Super? Chief Constable? Police Commissioner?’

‘Watch your tongue, Inspector.’

‘I’ve met people like you before. Never do the work, but always on hand to take the glory.’

Harwood leaned back in her chair. She was clearly livid but refused to show it.

‘Tread very carefully, DI Grace. And consider this an official warning. You’re a gnat’s breath away from getting taken off this investigation. Bring her in or step aside. Is that clear?’

Helen left soon after. One thing was crystal clear. As long as Harwood was around, she was on borrowed time.