Pop Goes the Weasel (13 page)

‘Why wasn’t I told about this?’

‘Mind your tone, Helen.’

‘Why wasn’t I told about this, Ma’am?’

Helen’s sarcasm was poorly disguised, her anger overcoming any restraint. Harwood rose and gently closed her office door, shutting out her eavesdropping secretary.

‘You weren’t told,’ Harwood continued, ‘because you weren’t here. McEwan is adept at disappearing, so we had to move quickly. I asked DC Brooks to bring her in and told her that I would explain the situation to you. Which I’m doing now.’

Harwood’s reasonable explanation did nothing to improve Helen’s mood. Was she justified in being so furious at being kept out of the loop or was she just pissed off because it was Charlie? If she was honest, she couldn’t really tell.

‘I understand that, Ma’am, but if there is information relating to the Alan Matthews murder, then I should be the first to know.’

‘You’re right, Helen, and it’s my fault. If you want to blame somebody, blame me.’

Which
of course Helen couldn’t do, leaving her not a leg to stand on. But she tried one last time nevertheless:

‘McEwan may be involved in the Louszko killing, but I can’t see her connection to Matthews’ murder.’

‘We have to keep an open mind, Helen. You said yourself that his killing could be part of a turf war. Perhaps he was the collateral damage. Charlie’s turned up something genuinely interesting and I’d like us to investigate it fully.’

‘It doesn’t feel right. This is too elaborate, too personal. It has all the hallmarks of an individual who –’

‘An individual who has intelligence, ambition and imagination. Someone who’s happy to kill without qualm or conscience and who is adept at misleading the police. I’d say that’s Sandra McEwan to a T, wouldn’t you?’

There was no point fighting it any more so Helen conceded the point and departed for the interview room. Charlie was waiting for her and opposite her, flanked by her lawyer, was Lady Macbeth.

‘Lovely to see you, Inspector.’ Sandra McEwan’s grin spread from ear to ear. ‘How’s business?’

‘I might ask you the same question, Sandra.’

‘Never better. Still, you’re looking well. Don’t tell me you’ve got a man on the go?’

Helen ignored the taunt.

‘DC Brooks is investigating the murder of Alexia Louszko. She worked for you at Brookmire, I believe, under the alias of Agneska Suriav.’

Sandra
didn’t deny it, so Helen continued.

‘She was murdered, mutilated and dumped in the open boot of an abandoned car. Her murder was meant to send out a message. Perhaps you could translate it for us?’

‘I’d love to help you, but I barely knew the girl. I’d only seen her a handful of times.’

‘She worked for you, you must have vetted her personally, spoken to her …’

‘I own the freehold of the building which houses Brookmire. I couldn’t say who runs the business.’

Her lawyer didn’t say a word. He was just window dressing really. Sandra knew exactly how she wanted to play things.

‘You plucked her off the street,’ said Charlie, keeping up the pressure. ‘Trained her, polished her. But the Campbells took exception, didn’t they? They abducted her. Killed her. Then put her back on the streets where she belonged.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Your girl. They took her from under your nose and killed her. How did the rest of your girls feel about that? I bet they were shitting themselves.’

Sandra said nothing.

‘You knew you had to do something,’ Charlie continued. ‘So why not kill two birds with one stone? Tell me about your properties on the Empress Road.’

Finally a reaction. It was small but it was there. Sandra hadn’t been expecting that.

‘I
don’t have any …’

‘Let me show you this, Sandra,’ Charlie went on. ‘It’s a list of holding companies that have financial relationships with each other. Let’s cut the chat and acknowledge that they are all owned by you. This one’ – Charlie pointed out a company name – ‘purchased a row of six derelict houses on the Empress Road nearly two years ago. Why did you buy them, Sandra?’

There was a long pause and then the tiniest of nods from her lawyer.

‘To redevelop them.’

‘Why would you want to? They are rotten, derelict, and it’s hardly a neighbourhood that’s ripe for gentrification.’

‘You don’t want to do them up,’ interrupted Helen, suddenly getting it. ‘You want to knock them down.’

The tiniest flicker from Sandra. The closest thing they would get to an acknowledgement that they were on the right lines.

‘Nobody wants the properties in the red-light district – they are used by prostitutes on a nightly basis. But if you bought them, knocked them down and then neglected to rebuild them, what would the girls do? Risk their lives getting into punters’ cars every night or look elsewhere for employment? Somewhere safer. Somewhere like Brookmire. I bet if we do some more searching we’ll find a lot of property has changed hands on the Empress Road recently. Am I right?’

A
hardness was entering Sandra’s eyes now. Charlie pressed home the advantage.

‘But what if you wanted to go a step further? The Campbells had struck at you, tried to unsettle your workforce. What if you decided to raise the stakes? You could have killed one of their girls in return, but far more imaginative to kill a punter or two. The press coverage alone would drive the Campbells’ clients away in droves. I have to hand it to you, Sandra, it’s a smart play.’

Sandra smiled and said nothing.

‘Did you single out Alan Matthews? Or was he selected at random?’

‘My client has no idea what you’re talking about and categorically denies involvement in
any
acts of violence.’

‘Perhaps then she could tell me where she was between the hours of nine p.m. and three a.m. on the twenty-eighth of November,’ Charlie butted in, determined to keep up the pressure.

Sandra looked long and hard at Charlie, then said:

‘I was at an exhibition.’

‘Where?’ barked Charlie.

‘In a converted warehouse just off Sidney Street. Local artist, a living installation where the punters are part of the art and all that stuff. It’s all bollocks of course, but people say the artist’s going to be worth something, so I thought I’d take a look. And here’s the funny bit. I’m no good with technology but the boy knows his stuff and he tells me the whole thing was streamed live on the internet.
You can’t fake that kind of thing – you’re welcome to check it out. And if you still have doubts, you can confirm my alibi with some of the other guests who were present. The CEO of Southampton City Council was there, as was the Arts editor from BBC South – oh, and I nearly forgot … the President of the Association of Chief Police Officers too. What’s his name – Anderson? Buck-toothed guy who insists on wearing that awful wig – you can’t mistake him.’

Sandra sat back in her chair and looked at Charlie, then turned to Helen.

‘Now if we’re all done here, I’d better be off. I’ve an evening engagement that I’m very keen to keep.’

‘What the hell are you playing at, DC Brooks?’

The days when Helen used to call her Charlie seemed a long time ago now.

‘What on earth possessed you to pull her in without checking if she was a remotely credible suspect.’

‘She still is. She has motive, opportunity –’

‘And a cast-iron alibi. She made us look like idiots in there. So stop running errands for Superintendent Harwood and start doing your bloody job. Find out who killed Alexia Louszko.’

Helen marched off. They’d have to check Sandra’s alibi of course, but Helen had no doubt that she was telling the truth. It was too good an alibi to be made up. She could have hired others to kill Matthews and Reid of course, but
was it credible that she would give a lone woman the job when she had an army of men to do her bidding? No, it didn’t stack up.

The day had started badly and was getting worse. For the first time in her career Helen had the distinct impression that her colleagues were working against her, rather than helping her. This case was weird and difficult enough without Charlie and Harwood leading her down blind alleys and constantly moving the ground beneath her feet.

The truth was that they had got nowhere. Two lives had been destroyed, more would follow. And there was not a thing Helen could do to stop it.

Angie had got used to holding court. She had been given a week’s leave from Zenith Solutions and had been making the most of it, receiving friends and relatives at home, rehearsing the whole horrid incident over and over again, embellishing it when the mood took her. But even Angie was growing tired of telling her story now, so she ignored the persistent ringing of the doorbell. The curtains were closed, Jeremy Kyle was on and she had a cup of Mellow Bird’s on the go.

The doorbell rang again. Angie turned the volume up. Who cares if that confirmed her presence in the house, she didn’t have to open the door to anyone she didn’t want to. The bell stopped ringing and Angie smiled.

She concentrated on the show – the DNA results were about to be revealed. She had joined the programme too late to know what the participants’ conflict was about, but there was always a punch-up when DNA results were revealed. She loved this part of the programme.

‘Hello?’

Angie sat bolt upright. Someone was in the house.

‘Are you there, Angie?’

Angie was off the sofa and searching for a weapon. A
heavy glass vase was the best she could do. She raised it above her head as the living room door opened.

‘Angie?’

Angie froze, her fear dissipating into surprise. The woman’s scarred face was instantly recognizable. Emilia Garanita was a minor celebrity in Southampton.

‘I am so sorry to intrude but the back door was unlocked and I am
desperate
to talk to you, Angie. May I call you Angie?’

Angie was too shocked to rebuke her for trespassing and Emilia took that as her cue to advance, placing a comforting hand on her arm.

‘How are you getting on, Angie? I hear you had a terrible shock.’

One of the girls at work had obviously blabbed. Angie was irritated and pleased in equal measure. To be sought out by the local press was an unusual and gratifying experience. Effortlessly Emilia guided Angie back onto the sofa, seating herself beside her.

‘I’m bearing up,’ Angie replied bravely.

‘Of course you are. You’re a strong woman – that’s what everyone says about you.’

Angie very much doubted it, but was pleased by the compliment.

‘And our article will reflect that.’

Angie nodded, excitement mingling with unease.

‘The
Evening News
wants to do a double-page spread on you. Your life, your important work at Zenith Solutions
and your bravery in dealing with such an unpleasant incident. We’d like to pay tribute to you, is that ok?’

Angie nodded.

‘So let’s get a few details straight. We can do your career history in a moment, let’s focus on the day itself for now. You received a package for your boss …’

‘Mr McPhail.’

‘Mr McPhail. You open all his mail presumably?’

‘Of course. I am his personal assistant. This was a couriered package and I always open those straight away.’

Emilia was scribbling keenly now.

‘And inside …’

‘Inside … was a heart. The smell was terrible.’

‘A heart?’ replied Emilia, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. She hadn’t really expected it to be true, but it was.

‘Yes. A heart, a human heart.’

‘And can you think of any reason why someone would send such a thing to Mr McPhail?’

‘No,’ replied Angie firmly. ‘He’s a brilliant boss.’

‘Of course. And the police have been in touch?’

‘I spoke to Inspector Grace.’

‘I know her well. She’s a good copper. Was there anything in particular she wanted to know?’

Angie hesitated.

‘I quite understand if you’re uncomfortable disclosing details of your conversation,’ Emilia continued. ‘All I would say is that if I’m to convince my editor to give this
story the centre spread it deserves, then I am going to need
all
the details.’

A long pause, then Angie spoke.

‘She did seem particularly interested in getting a full list of Zenith’s employees. Particularly those who were absent that day.’

Emilia’s writing hand paused for a second, then carried on scribbling. She didn’t want to give away her excitement at this very interesting development. It was all fitting together nicely and would play well for Emilia.

Once again a major story had fallen into her lap.