Pop Goes the Weasel (16 page)

It was time to say goodbye. Tony had been putting it off but it was getting late now. He hesitated on the threshold of Nicola’s bedroom, then stepped inside.

‘Could you give us a moment, Anna?’

Anna stopped reading aloud and looked up from her book, momentarily double-taking at Tony’s appearance before recovering her poise.

‘Of course.’

She disappeared discreetly. Tony paused, looking down at his wife. Her right eyelid flickered – which was Nicola’s way of greeting her husband.

‘I’ve got to go now, love. Anna’s going to be with you for the rest of the day and through the night. I’ll come and see you in the morning, ok? We can read a bit of Dickens if you like. Anna says you’ve nearly finished it.’

No response from Nicola. Had she understood what he was saying? Or was she upset and refusing to communicate? Once more Tony was swamped by guilt.

‘I’ll tell Anna she can read late tonight if you like. You can always sleep in tomorrow, I’ll put the cot bed next to you and we can snuggle. Be like old times.’

Tony’s voice caught. Why was he stringing this out when he knew it was better just to go?

Leaning down he kissed his wife’s brow. He paused, then kissed her again, this time on her lips. They seemed dry, even a bit chapped, so he plucked the lip balm from the bedside table and gently applied it.

‘Love you.’

Tony turned and left and thirty seconds later the front door closed gently behind him.

Tony walked round the corner to where he’d parked his unmarked car. It was a dented Vauxhall saloon, the car of choice for travelling salesmen up and down the land. He bleeped it open with the fob. Stooping to open the driver’s door, he caught sight of himself and paused. He was wearing a crumpled business suit, had painted flecks of grey in his hair and was wearing a pair of executive-type glasses. It was him, but not him. A vision of a man who was lonely, tired and bereft. There was more than a hint of truth in the image, but Tony refused to dwell on that. He had work to do.

Climbing inside the car, he fired it up and moved off. It was time to dance with the devil.

‘A Tart with
Your
Heart’

Emilia Garanita surveyed the headline with undisguised pleasure. She was particularly pleased with her word play, as was her editor, who had splashed it on the front page. Would this be the best-selling edition of the
Evening News
ever? She sincerely hoped so. With a bit of luck, it might even be her passport out of regional journalism.

The papers had gone out a couple of hours ago. Clearly word was spreading – her mobile phone hadn’t stopped ringing and her Twitter feed was going ballistic. Nothing sells papers like a serial killer and Emilia intended to make the most of it. The pieces she’d written last year on Marianne’s killing spree had gained her a reputation locally, but because of Grace’s obstruction on that case she had got to the story too late. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Emilia swallowed her guilty hope that the killer would not be caught too quickly. She knew it was wrong to think like that, but truth be told she enjoyed the fact that Grace was being given the runaround, that the killer appeared to strike at will without leaving a trace, and, besides, who
honestly felt sympathy for the victims? They were typical men – deceitful, mendacious, driven by base desires. There were already signs in the messages posted on the paper’s forum and on Twitter that the wider public felt that these men had got what was coming to them. For centuries prostitutes had been the unheralded victims of male violence, was it such a bad thing that the boot was now on the other foot? ‘Go, girl,’ Emilia said to herself, suppressing a smile.

There was only one blot on the landscape and that was Emilia’s failure to interview Christopher Reid’s widow, Jessica. She had rung and visited often, but the Family Liaison officer knew Emilia’s tactics well and had seen her off. She had subsequently returned, slipping a financial offer through the door, with a note explaining how the money could be put to good use in the difficult months ahead and offering sympathetic coverage in the paper, but as yet there had been no response and Emilia doubted there would be. Grace would keep her away from public view whilst the killer was at large. Still, Emilia had overcome bigger challenges than this before and she would just have to be inventive. There was more than one way to skin a cat.

The office was thinning out now. There was little point in Emilia hanging about – the praise and adulation she’d received earlier had died down as her colleagues departed for home. Grabbing her bag and coat, Emilia headed to the lifts. There was a new bar on the waterfront that she’d
been meaning to check out for a while and now seemed the perfect time to do just that.

She had just left the office when her mobile rang. It was one of her tame PCs – he’d been a source of valuable intel for several months now. As she listened to his breathless report, a broad smile spread across Emilia’s face. Another murder and this time it involved a familiar face: DC Charlie Brooks. Turning on her heel, Emilia marched straight back into the office.

This story just kept getting better and better.

‘She’s asleep. You can’t see her.’

Steve was a bad liar, but Helen didn’t contradict him. There was real fury in his eyes and Helen was careful not to provoke him.

‘It’s important I talk to her, so can you ask her to call me the minute she wakes up?’

‘You don’t let up, do you?’ Steve replied, half laughing in his bitterness.

‘I have a job to do, Steve. I’m not trying to rile you or disturb Charlie, but I have a job to do and I won’t let personal friendships get in the way.’

‘Friendships? That’s a fucking joke. I don’t think you’re capable of friendships.’

‘I didn’t come here to argue with you …’

‘You don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you? As long as you get what you wa—’

‘ENOUGH.’

They both turned to see Charlie approaching. She hadn’t been in bed, merely eavesdropping from the living room, as Helen had suspected all along. Anger flashed across Steve’s face momentarily, embarrassed to be revealed as a liar, then he recovered himself, hurrying
to Charlie. But she was staring past her boyfriend to Helen.

‘You’d better come in.’

‘Think, Charlie. Is there anything else you remember? Her face? Her smell? Her expression?’

‘No, I’ve told you.’

‘Did she say anything when she bumped into you? Did you hear an accent of any kind?’

Charlie closed her eyes, unwillingly casting her mind back to that moment.

‘No. She just kind of grunted.’

‘Grunted?’

‘Yup, I’d winded her so …’

Charlie petered out, feeling Helen’s irritation and disappointment. The Polish prostitute who’d got the wrong room and disturbed the attack spoke broken English and was deeply suspicious of the police. Her description of the killer was basic, hence the pressure Helen was now piling on Charlie to conjure a rabbit from the hat. Some half-remembered detail could give them the break they so desperately needed.

‘Ok, let’s leave it for now. You’re obviously tired,’ Helen said, rising. ‘Perhaps things will be clearer tomorrow after you’ve had some sleep.’

She was halfway to the door when Charlie said:

‘Here.’

Helen turned to see Charlie holding out her warrant card.

‘You were right.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t do this. I thought I could but I can’t.’

‘Charlie, there’s no need to rush into this –’

‘Someone died in my arms today,’ Charlie shouted, her voice shaking even as she said it. ‘He died right in front of me, I had to wash his blood off my face, out of my hair. I had to wash his blood out of …’

She collapsed into sobs, huge breath-robbing sobs. Refusing to look at Helen, she planted her face in her hands. Her warrant card lay on the coffee table where she’d dropped it.

So this was it. All Helen had to do was pick it up. Charlie would be paid off and that would be that. Helen had got what she wanted.

But Helen knew immediately that she wouldn’t pick it up. She had wanted rid of Charlie, but now, on the cusp of victory, Helen felt ashamed of her selfishness and cowardice. What right did she have to drive Charlie out, to consign her to a wilderness of bitterness and regret? She was supposed to help people. To save them, not damn them.

‘I’m sorry, Charlie.’

Charlie’s sobbing paused momentarily, before continuing in a lower key. Helen seated herself next to Charlie.

‘I’ve been a bitch. And I’m sorry. It’s … it’s my weakness, not yours … I still have Marianne on my skin, in my blood. I can’t shake her. Or Mark. Or you. Or that day.
I’ve been screaming and shouting, running away, hoping that I can rub out the memories if I push everything and everyone away. I wanted to push you away. Which was cruel and selfish. I’m really sorry, Charlie.’

Charlie looked up, her eyelashes wet with tears.

‘I knew what you were feeling, but I didn’t help you. I kicked you when you were down and that’s unforgivable. But I’d like you to forgive me if you can. It was never about you.’

Helen paused a moment before continuing:

‘If you want to walk away, start a family, do normal things, then I won’t stand in your way. I’ll make sure you get whatever you need to start over. But if you change your mind, I want you back … I need you back.’

Charlie’s crying had ceased now, but she still refused to look up.

‘We’re hunting a serial killer, Charlie. I haven’t said that out loud yet, because I didn’t want it to be true. Didn’t believe it could happen again. But it is and now I … I can’t stop her.’

Helen’s voice wavered momentarily, before she recovered her composure. When she next spoke her voice was firm, but quiet.

‘I can’t stop her.’

Helen left shortly afterwards, having said too much, yet still not enough. She had failed to be a good leader, copper or friend. Was it too late to pull something from the
wreckage? She had lost Mark, she would be a fool to lose Charlie too. But maybe it was too little, too late. Perhaps it was now her destiny to face this killer alone. It wasn’t a fight she thought she could win, but she would fight it nevertheless.