Pop Goes the Weasel (19 page)

The Bull and Last did the best steak sandwich in Southampton. It was also off the radar of most coppers, a middle-class hangout favoured by yummy mummies and businessmen, so was one of Helen’s favourite haunts when she needed a bit of time to herself. After she’d left Tony, she suddenly realized how incredibly hungry she was. She’d hardly eaten for days, surviving on coffee and cigarettes, and now she desperately needed some fuel. Sinking her teeth into the thick sandwich, Helen immediately felt better – the protein and carb fix hitting the spot.

She had to get her head out of the case for a few minutes. When you are deep in an investigation of this magnitude, you become utterly obsessed. It haunts your thoughts, day and night. The longer it goes on, the easier it is to become snow-blind, to lose your sense of perspective and your clarity of vision. It was healthy to come here and people-watch for a little while, speculating on the emotional lives of the wealthy women who enjoyed flirting with the handsome waiters.

A local freesheet lay discarded on the table. She’d avoided picking it up and even as she did so now, curiosity finally getting the better of her, she flicked quickly through
the first few pages. They were full of news on the recent murders, trumpeting the fact that police now had the killer’s DNA, but Helen didn’t linger on these. She liked to get deeper inside the local rags to the small adverts, the petty crimes reported in the court circulars, the horoscopes – and all the other nonsense that was used to fill up these papers.

Flick, flick, flick, then suddenly Helen froze. She looked away, then looked back, hoping she had imagined it. But there it was. A photo of a house. The same house Helen had seen Robert and his mate Davey breaking into two days ago.

And above it the damning headline: ‘Pensioner fights for life after surprising burglars.’

She made it to Aldershot in record time, driven there by instinct and anxiety. The details of the newspaper report had made for grim reading – a 79-year-old former teacher who had surprised intruders and been savagely beaten. His skull fractured, he was now in an induced coma in Southampton General. It was touch and go whether he would survive.

She had risked a direct approach to his house, a cover story about an attack on one of Robert’s colleagues at the supermarket up her sleeve, but there was no one at home. So she’d visited the Red Lion, the Railway Tavern and a clutch of other Aldershot drinking holes. Striking out, she’d visited their preferred off licences before finally
getting lucky at the arcade. They were playing the slots – no doubt spending the proceeds of their recent crime.

After a while they lost interest and left, heading their separate ways after an excess of fist bumping. Helen followed Robert cautiously, waiting for the right moment to approach him. The streets were busy with shoppers, but when Robert diverted into the park, Helen seized her chance.

‘Robert Stonehill?’

He spun round, suspicion writ large on his face.

‘I’m a police officer,’ she continued, flashing her warrant card. ‘Can I have a word?’

But he’d already turned to go.

‘It’s about Peter Thomas. The man you and Davey beat half to death.’

Now he paused.

‘And don’t even think about running. I’ve caught faster guys than you, believe me.’

‘I’m not here to arrest you, but I want you to tell me the truth.’

They were seated on a park bench.

‘I want you to tell me what happened.’

A long pause as Robert debated what to say, then:

‘It was Davey’s idea. It’s always bloody Davey’s idea.’

He sounded bitter and depressed.

‘The old boy was a teacher of his. S’posed to be minted.’

‘And Davey thought it would be easy pickings?’

Robert shrugged.

‘Davey said he’d be out. He’s always out on Thursday nights. Plays cards at the Green Man. He said we’d be in and out in twenty minutes.’

‘But …’

‘But the old boy walked in. Had a bloody great poker in his hand.’

‘And?’

Robert hesitated.

‘And we ran. Legged it back to the window, but the old boy came after us. Gave me a bloody great whack on the leg.’

Robert peeled down the top of his trousers to reveal a huge, purple bruise on his hip.

‘After that Davey just went for him. Kicking, punching, whatever.’

‘And you just stood by?’ Helen replied, incredulous.

‘I gave him a kick and that, but it was Davey who … He stamped on his head, for fuck’s sake. I bloody pulled him off. He would’ve killed him.’

‘He might have already killed him. He’s in a coma, Robert.’

‘I know, I can read, all right?’

His retort was full of defiance, but Helen could see the boy was scared and upset.

‘Have the police spoken to you? Or Davey?’

‘No,’ he said, turning to her, confused. ‘You going to arrest me?’

The million-dollar question. Of course she had to arrest him and Davey.

‘I don’t know, Robert. I’m considering it but … let’s see what happens with Mr Thomas. It’s possible he will make a full recovery …’

It sounded weak and Helen knew it.

‘And I know that there are mitigating circumstances in your case, so … so I’m going to give you a second chance.’

Robert looked stunned, which only made Helen feel more pathetic and wrongheaded.

‘You’re a decent guy, Robert. You’re smart and if you committed yourself to something worthwhile you could have a good life. But you’re on the wrong path now, hanging out with the wrong guys, and you
will
end up in jail if you carry on like this. So here’s the deal. You will stop seeing Davey and his mates. You will work hard and look for opportunities to better yourself. You will try to live a decent life. If you do that, then I will let this go. If you fuck up though, I will throw you in jail, right?’

Robert nodded, relieved but confused.

‘I’m going to take an interest in you. And I want you to repay my faith. If you feel you’re struggling or that you are going to get into trouble, I want you to call me.’

She scribbled her mobile number down on the back of one of her official business cards.

‘This is a big chance for you. Don’t fuck it up, Robert.’

He took the card, looked at it. When he looked up again, Helen saw gratitude and relief on his face.

‘Why? Why are you doing this for me?’

Helen hesitated, before eventually replying:

‘Because everyone needs someone to watch over them.’

Helen walked quickly away from the park. Now that she had done the deed she just wanted to be away. She had taken a big risk coming here, and in making contact with Robert had done something she’d vowed she wouldn’t do. She had crossed the line. Yet despite this, despite all the dangers that lay ahead, she didn’t regret it. Whilst there was still a chance of saving Robert, it was worth it.

Jessica Reid marched up the street, tears stinging her eyes. She swallowed hard to stop the sobs escaping – she wouldn’t give those women the satisfaction of breaking down in front of them.

She had debated whether or not to keep Sally in nursery. Her first instinct had been not to return there, to hide away from the world, but Sally liked it there, so Jessica had nailed her courage to the mast and taken her down. Sally needed some stability – best to keep to the familiar routine.

As soon as she’d got there she’d realized that she’d made a mistake. Sally trotted off to play, but no one was paying any attention to her. All eyes were glued to Jessica. There were a few sheepish smiles of support, but nobody approached her. Clearly no one knew what to say to the stupid, duped wife.

As she walked away, she could hear hushed conversations strike up. She could only imagine what they were saying. The prurience, the speculation. Did she know? Did she allow it? Did he bring diseases home with him?

It was all so unfair. She had done
nothing
wrong. Sally had done
nothing
wrong. But it was they who had been
branded, as accessories to his behaviour. How could she have been so bloody stupid? She had given Christopher her heart and trusted him with it, even after their first bust-up over his use of pornography. She thought he’d turned over a new leaf, but he hadn’t. Instead he’d lied and lied and lied. Why hadn’t he talked to her? Why had he been so selfish?

She was back in the house now, though how she’d got there she couldn’t really say. Without hesitating, she charged upstairs. Flinging open the chest of drawers, she grabbed an armful of Christopher’s things and threw them out of the window down on to the drive below. Again and again and again. Cleansing the house of his presence.

Grabbing some lighter fluid and matches from under the kitchen sink, she marched out through the still open front door. Dousing the messy pile generously, she threw a match on to it, then watched the clothes – clothes she’d bought for him – burn.

Snap, snap, snap. From their vantage point in a van across the road, the plain-clothes police officers recorded every second of her despair, before calling it in.

DC Fortune took in their report, then rang off. The show was about to start and he didn’t want to miss a minute of it. He had given his fellow officers the dull gig – no one really expected their surveillance of Jessica Reid to throw up anything. The plum job was the Matthews funeral that was about to get under way.

Lloyd Fortune stretched, yawned, then settled himself down into position. Watching and waiting. That was the drill on these sorts of operation. Looking across the road, Lloyd saw the Matthews family leave the house. There were plenty of people on hand to support them – extended family, friends from the church – so many that four funeral cars had been hired. Lloyd scanned the heads to pick out the Matthews family amongst the well-wishers. He caught a glimpse of the eldest daughter shepherding a grandmother into the first car. Like the others, she looked blank with shock, even after three days had passed.

Lloyd surveyed the street. Was their killer out there? Watching? Enjoying her success? Snap, snap, snap went the camera, taking in every passer-by, every parked car. Lloyd was exhilarated by the prospect of seeing the killer in the flesh and felt his pulse quicken.

The first car was on the move now. And the second. Lloyd nodded to Jack to start the engine. It hummed quietly. They waited patiently – Eileen and the twins slipping into the final car – then it was their turn. Pulling away from the kerb, they followed the flotilla of grief towards its final destination – St Stephen’s Baptist church.

He hesitated before typing. How did one begin these things?

• Hello Melissa. A mutual friend
  …
  

No, that wasn’t right.

• Hello Melissa. My name is Paul and I would like to meet you
  .
  

That was better. Tony leaned back in his chair, amused by how much effort that had taken. And how nervous he’d been. Satisfied that the thing was now in train, he went to shut his computer down. But as he did so, a response pinged up.

• Hello Paul. When would you like to meet?
  

Tony hesitated, then typed.

• Tonight?
  
• What time?
  

Tony hadn’t expected to be making arrangements so quickly. Still needs must.

• Ten?
  
• Pick up me up on the corner of Drayton St and Fenner Lane. I’ll be wearing a green coat. What car you drive?
  
• Vauxhall.
  
• Colour?
  
• Silver
  .
  
• Looking for company? Or something special?
  
• Company
  .
  
• How long?
  
• Couple of hours?
  
• £150 for two hours
  .
  
• Ok
  .
  
• Cash
  .
  
• Sure
  .
  
• See you later, Paul
  .
  
• See you later, Melissa
  .
  
• XXX
  .
  

End of conversation. Tony caught himself smiling. He was in his own bloody kitchen. Instant-messaging prostitutes. Still it wasn’t the kind of thing you could do in a café, so …

Tony switched off the computer. Nicola’s mum would be here soon and she didn’t need any more ammunition. Best go and get some rest.

Tony had a big night ahead of him.