Pop Goes the Weasel (4 page)

It was business as usual in the Matthews household. The porridge bowls had been emptied and cleaned, school bags were lined up in the hall and the twins were putting on their school uniform. Their mother, Eileen, chided them as she always did – it was amazing how long these boys could spin out getting dressed. When they were little they’d loved the status that their smart school uniform bestowed upon them and they’d hurried to put it on, desperate to appear as grown up and important as their elder sisters. But now that the girls had left home and the twins were teenagers, they viewed the whole thing as an awful drag, delaying the inevitable for as long as possible. If their father was around, they’d have snapped to it, but when it was just Eileen they took the mickey – it was only by threatening to stop their pocket money that she got them to do anything these days.

‘Five minutes, boys. Five minutes and we
must
be out of the house.’

Time was ticking by. The register would soon be called at Kingswood Secondary, the independent school that the boys attended, and it wouldn’t do to be late. The school was very hot on discipline, sending terse letters to parents
they perceived to be tardy or lax. Eileen lived in fear of these missives, despite the fact that she had never received one. As a result, the morning routine was rigidly mapped out and usually they would have been out of the door by now, but today she was at sixes and sevens. Her chivvying of the boys was more out of habit than conviction this morning.

Alan hadn’t come home last night. Eileen always worried about him being out after dark. She knew it was in a good cause and that he felt a duty to help those less fortunate than himself, but you never know who – or what – you might run into. There were bad people out there – you only had to read the newspapers to see that.

Normally he would return around 4 a.m. Eileen would feign sleep as she knew Alan didn’t like the idea of her waiting up for him, but in reality she never slept a wink until he was home safe and sound. By 6 a.m., she couldn’t hold off any longer, getting up and ringing Alan’s mobile phone – but it went straight to voicemail. She’d thought about leaving a message, then decided against it. He’d be back soon enough and would accuse her of fussing. She made herself breakfast but couldn’t face eating it, so it sat on the breakfast bar untouched. Where
was
he?

The boys were ready now and staring at her. They could tell she was anxious and weren’t sure whether to be amused or worried. At fourteen, they were the classic mixture of man and child, wanting to be independent, grown up, even cynical, yet cleaving to the familiar
routines and discipline that their parents provided. They were waiting to go, but still Eileen hesitated. A strong instinct was telling her to stay put, to wait for her husband to return.

The doorbell rang and Eileen bolted into the hallway. The silly so-and-so had forgotten his key. Perhaps he had been robbed. It would be just like him to help some ne’er-do-well and get his wallet pinched into the bargain. Composing herself, Eileen opened the door calmly, her brightest smile painted on her face.

But there was no one there. She cast around for Alan – for anyone – but the street was quiet. Was it kids playing silly beggars?

‘I’m surprised you haven’t got better things to do,’ she called out, silently cursing the unruly children who lived at the cheaper end of the street. She was about to slam the door shut, when she noticed the box. A courier’s cardboard box left on her doorstep. A white label adorned the top and on it was written ‘The Matthews family’ and then their address – misspelt in spidery, crabbed handwriting. It looked like a present of some sort – but it wasn’t anybody’s birthday. Eileen stuck her head out once more, expecting to see Simon the postman or a courier’s van parked up on the double yellow lines – but there was no one in sight.

The boys were on to her immediately, asking her if they could open it, but Eileen held firm.
She
would open it and if it was appropriate she would share it with them. They
didn’t really have time – it was 8.40 already for goodness’ sake – but better to open it now, put the boys out of their misery and then get on with their morning. Suddenly Eileen felt cross with herself for dawdling and she resolved to get on with things – if they hurried they might just make it to school on time.

Pulling a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer, she sliced a line down the duct tape that bound the box together. As she did so, her nose wrinkled – a strong odour emanated from inside. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was but she didn’t like it. Was it something industrial? Something animal? Her instinct was to re-seal the package and wait for Alan’s return, but the boys were nagging her to get on with it … so gritting her teeth she threw open the box.

And screamed. Suddenly she couldn’t stop screaming, despite the fact that the boys were clearly terrified by the noise. Tearful, they hurried to her, but she pushed them angrily away. When they fought back, begging her to tell them what was going on, she grabbed them by their collars and hauled them roughly out of the room, screaming all the while for someone – anyone – to help.

The offending box was left alone in the room. The top lolled lazily backwards, revealing the legend ‘Evill’ written in dark crimson on the underside. It was the perfect introduction to the box’s awful contents. Lying within, in a nest of dirty newspaper, was a human heart.

‘Where are the others?’

Clutching her case file, Charlie surveyed the Major Incident Team’s office. It felt extremely odd to be back, but the situation was made stranger still by the fact that the office seemed to be completely deserted.

‘Murder on Empress Road. DI Grace has got most of the team down there,’ replied DC Fortune, just about managing to contain his disgruntlement at being left behind. He was a smart, conscientious policeman and one of the few black officers based at Southampton Central. He was tipped for higher things and Charlie knew that he would be deeply pissed off to be stuck here, chaperoning her on her return to action. Charlie had felt shaky as she’d entered the building half an hour earlier and the lack of a welcoming committee was making things worse. Was this a deliberate snub? A way of letting Charlie know she wasn’t wanted?

‘What do we know about this?’ Charlie replied, mustering as much professional poise as she could.

‘Sex worker found in the boot of a car. The killers had gone to town on her, which made the ID a bit
tricky initially, but her DNA did the job. She was on the database – you’ll find her charge sheet on page three.’

Charlie flicked through the file. The dead girl – a Polish woman called Alexia Louszko – had been striking in life, with dark auburn hair, multiple piercings and tattoos and plump, pillow lips. If you liked it gothic, then she was the one. Even in her police photo she looked aggressively sexual. Her tattoos were all of mythological beasts, giving her a primal, animalistic quality.

‘Last known address is a flat near Bedford Place,’ DC Fortune offered helpfully.

‘Let’s get going then,’ replied Charlie, ignoring her colleague’s obvious eagerness to get the whole thing over with.

‘Are you going to drive, or am I?’

Most of Southampton’s sex workers lived in St Mary’s or Portswood, mixing in with the students, junkies and illegal immigrants. So the fact that Alexia lived on Bedford Place, near the smarter clubs and bars, was interesting in itself. She had been arrested for streetwalking a year ago, but must have been pulling in good money to live in this desirable area.

The interior of her flat only served to reinforce this feeling. Faced by a police warrant, the block’s concierge reluctantly let the officers inside and whilst DC Fortune questioned him, Charlie ran a rule over the place. It was a recently decorated, open-plan set-up with affordable but
fashionable furniture. In addition to the wraparound sofa and large plasma TV, there was a glass table, espresso machine, retro juke box. Hell, it was nicer than Charlie’s house. Was this girl earning enough for all these middle-class trappings or was she being kept by someone? A lover? Her pimp? Someone she was blackmailing?

Ignoring the kitchen, Charlie headed straight for the bedroom. It was exceptionally neat and clean. Donning her latex gloves, she began to search. The wardrobes were full of clothes, the drawers of underwear and bondage gear, and the bed was neatly made. A single paperback – by a Polish author Charlie hadn’t heard of – rested on the bedside table. And that was it. Was that all there was to her?

The bathroom yielded little of any interest, so Charlie headed into the box room, which served as a space for drying laundry and a mini-office. A phone and cheap laptop sat on a battered desk. Charlie pressed the On button on the computer. It buzzed aggressively as if coming to life, but the screen remained resolutely blank. Charlie pressed a few keys. Still nothing.

‘You got your penknife?’ she asked DC Fortune. She knew he would have it (even though he wasn’t supposed to), he was that kind of guy. Nothing pleased him more than fixing a broken machine in front of his female colleagues. He was a modern kind of caveman.

Taking it from him, Charlie flipped out the screwdriver extension and undid the panels on the back of the
computer. As she expected, the battery was still in place, but the hard drive had been removed.

So the flat
had
been swept. From the moment she’d stepped into the place Charlie had had a suspicion that it had been tidied up. Nobody’s life was this ordered. Someone who knew that the police would be coming had trawled the flat, divesting it of any trace of Alexia, either physical or digital. What had she been doing to earn all this money? And why was someone so keen to conceal it?

There was no point in looking for anything in the usual places any more. It was now a question of lifting wardrobes and tables, pulling up mattresses and rifling through pockets. Looking under, behind, above. It felt very much like a wild-goose chase and Charlie had to put up with a lot of unsubtle sighing by her colleague – who was probably imagining himself busting heads on the Empress Road – but finally after two and a half hours of diligent searching the pair got a break.

The kitchen had an island in it with a pull-out bin. The bin had been lifted out and emptied but whoever had done so hadn’t spotted a piece of paper on the floor of the pull-out drawer. It must have slipped between the bin edge and the drawer wall when tossed inside and lain there undetected ever since. Charlie pulled it out.

To her surprise it was a payslip. For a woman called Agneska Suriav, who was employed by a health club in Banister Park. It looked official – with National Insurance deductions, a PAYE Employee number – and was for a
healthy monthly wage. But it didn’t make a lot of sense. Who was Agneska? A friend of Alexia’s? An alias of hers? It raised more questions than it answered, but it was a start. For the first time in ages, Charlie felt good about herself. Perhaps there was life after Marianne after all.