Pop Goes the Weasel (5 page)

‘I want an absolute information lockdown on this until we know more. Nothing leaves these four walls without my say-so, ok?’

The team nodded obediently, as Helen spoke. DS Bridges, DCs Sanderson, McAndrew and Grounds, junior officers, data processors and media liaison were all crammed into the hastily requisitioned incident room. The investigation was coming to life and there was a suppressed hum of excitement in the room.

‘We are obviously looking for a highly dangerous individual, or individuals, and it is imperative that we move swiftly to bring them in. First priority is to ID our victim. Sanderson, I want you to liaise with forensics but also uniform – they are out canvassing witnesses in the area and checking for vehicles that might have belonged to the victim. I doubt there’ll be cameras on that street, but ask the supermarkets and businesses nearby. They may have something that can help us.’

‘On it,’ DC Sanderson replied. It was dull work, but often it was the obvious things that opened up a case. There was always the possibility of glory in the drudgery.

‘McAndrew, I want you to talk to the street girls. There
must have been a dozen or more out in the area last night. They might have seen or heard something. They won’t want to talk to us, but things like this are bad for business so impress upon them that it’s in their interest to help us. They may be happier talking to a plain-clothes officer, so use the beat coppers to guide you, but do as many of the one-on-ones as you can yourself.’

DC McAndrew nodded, knowing her evening plans had just gone up in smoke. No wonder she was still single.

Helen paused for a second, then slowly and deliberately pinned the crime scene photos – one by one – to the board behind her. As she did so, she heard a faint but audible intake of breath behind her. Few of the officers present had seen a man turned inside out before.

‘First question – why?’ Helen said, as she turned back to face the team. ‘What did our victim do to provoke an attack like this?’

She let the question hang in the air, taking in the reaction to the photos, before continuing:

‘The derelict houses on this street are used by prostitutes and junkies on a daily basis, so why was this man there? Was he a punter who refused to pay? Was he a pimp who tried to rip off a client? Or a supplier who’d short-changed his dealers? The level of savagery in this attack denotes real anger or the desire to make a very public statement. This is
not
a crime of passion. Our killer was well prepared – with nylon cords, duct tape, a
weapon – and they took their time. Forensics will confirm this later, but it looks like the victim bled to death, given the level of blood saturation on the body and floor. The killer didn’t panic, didn’t run. They had no fear of detection, calmly going about their business, cutting the victim open before …’

Helen paused momentarily, before completing her sentence:

‘… before removing his heart.’

One of the data processors was beginning to look a little green, so Helen pressed on.

‘It looks to me like an ambush. Like punishment. But what for? Is this part of a turf war? A warning to a rival gang? Did the victim owe someone money? Was it robbery? Hookers and pimps have tortured their punters for PIN numbers and got carried away before. Or is it something else?’

It was the something else that Helen was afraid of. Was the heart some sort of trophy? Helen batted the thought away and returned to the briefing. There was no point getting ahead of herself, imagining crazy things that might have a violently mundane explanation.

‘We need to cast our net as wide as possible. Prostitution, gang crime, drugs, criminal grudges. It’s highly likely the killer or killers will give themselves away in the next twenty-four hours. They may be shitting themselves or they may be exhilarated – it’s hard to behave calmly after doing something like this. So eyes and ears open – any
sources, any leads. From now on this case is your top priority. Everything else can be handled by others.’

Which everyone knew meant Charlie. Helen hadn’t seen her yet, but their reunion wouldn’t be long in coming. Helen had resolved to be polite and formal, as was her way when nervous, but would she be able to carry it off? In the past her mask had been impenetrable, but not now. Too much had happened, too much of her past had been exposed for people to buy that persona any more.

The room had emptied, as officers rushed off to cancel plans, assuage loved ones and grab some food in expectation of a long night ahead. So Helen was standing alone, wrapped up in her own thoughts, when Tony Bridges hurried back in.

‘Looks like we’ve found our man.’

Helen snapped out of her reverie.

‘Front desk took a call from a highly distressed woman who’d just had a human heart left on her doorstep. Her husband didn’t come home last night.’

‘Name?’

‘Alan Matthews. Married, father of four, lives in Banister Park. He’s a businessman, charity fundraiser and an active member of the local Baptist church.’

Tony had tried to say the last bit without wincing, but he’d failed. Helen closed her eyes, aware that the next few hours would be deeply unpleasant for everyone concerned. A family man had died a grim death in a known
prostitutes’ haunt – there was no nice way to say that. But experience had taught her that prevaricating never helped, so picking up her bag she nodded at Tony to follow her.

‘Let’s get this over with.’

Eileen Matthews was holding it together, but only just. She sat erect on the plump sofa, her eyes fixed on the policewoman as she described the awful events of the last few hours. The Detective Inspector was flanked by a male officer, Tony, and a Family Liaison officer whose name she’d already forgotten – but Eileen had eyes only for the Inspector.

The twins were now safely installed with friends. This was the right thing to do, but Eileen was already regretting it. What must they be thinking and feeling? She had to be here, answering questions, but every instinct told her to run from this room, find her boys, hug them tight and never let them go. Nevertheless she stayed where she was, pinned down by the policewoman’s questions, paralysed by her experiences.

‘Is this your husband?’

Helen handed Eileen a close-up of the victim’s face. She took one look at it, then dropped her eyes to the floor.

‘Yes.’

Her answer was muted, lifeless. Shock still gripped her, keeping tears at bay. Her brain was struggling to process these strange events.

‘Is
he … ?’ she managed.

‘Yes, I’m afraid he is. And I’m very sorry for your loss.’

Eileen nodded as if Helen had confirmed something obvious, something mundane, but she was only half listening. She wanted to push this whole thing away, pretend none of it was happening. Her gaze was fixed on the many family photos that plastered the sitting room wall – scenes of happy family life.

‘Is there someone we can call to be with you?’

‘How did he die?’ Eileen replied, ignoring Helen’s question.

‘We’re not sure yet. But you should know straightaway that this wasn’t an accident. Or suicide. This is a murder enquiry, Eileen.’

Another hammer blow.

‘Who would do such a thing?’ For the first time, Eileen looked Helen in the eye. Her face was a picture of bewilderment.

‘Who would do such a thing?’ she repeated. ‘Who could …’

Her words petered out as she gestured towards the kitchen, where a couple of forensics officers were photographing the heart prior to bagging it.

‘We don’t know,’ Helen replied, ‘But we’re going to find out. Can you tell me where your husband was last night?’

‘He was where he always is on Tuesday nights. Helping out at the soup kitchen on Southbrook Road.’

Tony scribbled a note in his notebook.

‘So
this is a regular commitment?’

‘Yes, Alan is very active in the church – we both are – and our faith puts great emphasis on helping those less fortunate than ourselves.’

Eileen caught herself referring to her husband in the present tense. Once again the sudden awfulness of it all overwhelmed her. He couldn’t be dead, could he? A sound from upstairs made her jump. But it wasn’t Alan padding around his study, it was those other officers leafing through his things, removing his computer, robbing the house of his presence.

‘Is there any reason why he would have been in the Bevois Valley area last night? Empress Road in particular.’

‘No. He would have been at Southbrook Road from 8 p.m. until … well, until they ran out of soup. There are always too many people for their limited resources, but they do their best. Why?’

Eileen didn’t want to know the answer but felt compelled to ask.

‘Alan was found in a derelict house on the Empress Road industrial estate.’

‘That doesn’t make sense.’

Helen said nothing.

‘If he was attacked by one of the people at the soup kitchen, surely they wouldn’t have dragged him halfway across Southampton …’

‘His car was found a stone’s throw from the house. It was neatly parked and had been locked with the key fob.
Is there any reason why he might have gone there of his own free will?’

Eileen eyed her – what was she getting at?

‘Asking hard questions is part of my job, Eileen. I need to ask them if we’re to get to the truth of what happened. Empress Road is often used by prostitutes to pick up clients and occasionally by drug dealers to peddle drugs. To your knowledge has Alan ever used prostitutes or taken drugs?’

Eileen was too stunned to answer for a second, then without warning she exploded:

‘Have you not been listening to a word I’ve been saying? We are a religious family. Alan is a church elder.’

She said each word slowly, enunciating every syllable as if talking to someone simple.

‘He was a good man who cared about others. He had a sense of his mission in life. If he came into contact with prostitutes or drug dealers it was purely to help them. He would never use prostitutes in
that
way.’

Helen was about to interject, but Eileen wasn’t finished.

‘Something
awful
happened last night. A kind, honourable man offered to help someone and they robbed and killed him in return. So instead of insinuating these … disgusting things, why don’t you get out of my house and find the
man
who did this to him?’

And now the tears did come. Eileen pulled herself up off the sofa abruptly and ran from the room – she wouldn’t
cry in front of these people, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Heading into the bedroom, she threw herself on the bed she’d shared with her husband for thirty years and cried her heart out.

The man crept up the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky board on the fifth step.

Crossing the landing, he avoided Sally’s room and headed straight to his wife’s bedroom. Strange how he always thought of it as her room. A moment’s hesitation, then he placed his fingers on the wooden door and pushed it open. It protested loudly, the hinges groaning as the door swung round.

The man held his breath.

But there was no sound, no sense that he’d disturbed her. So quietly he stepped inside.

She was fast asleep. For a moment a pulse of love shot through him, swiftly followed by a spasm of shame. She looked so innocent and peaceful lying there. So happy. How had it come to this?

He walked out quickly, heading for the stairs. Dwelling on it would only weaken his resolve. Now was the time, so there was no point hesitating. Opening the front door soundlessly, he shot one more cautious glance upstairs, then slipped out into the night.