M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

‘Let’s keep on it. See if you can find out what rock Sandra’s hiding under these days, eh?’

DC Fortune scurried off. Charlie was pleased. It was good to be back in the groove and she sincerely hoped that she could now get justice for Alexia and put one more violent lowlife behind bars. It would be quite a feather in her cap. And one in the eye for Helen Grace.

People never take any notice of couriers. In their uniform of biking helmet and leathers they are viewed as robots, programmed to come, drop and go without personality or impact. Cogs in the wheels of everyday business.

People thought it was ok to be rude to them, as if they were somehow less human than real people. This was certainly the case now. She stood by the front desk ignored, waiting patiently for the two receptionists to finish their private conversation. Typical – underlining their own sense of self-importance, in the process betraying how utterly worthless they were. Still, they would get their comeuppance.

She coughed and was rewarded with an irritated glance from the fat one. Reluctantly she dragged her carcass over.

‘Who?’

Not even the dignity of a whole sentence.

‘Stephen McPhail.’

She kept her voice neutral.

‘Company?’

‘Zenith Solutions.’

‘Third floor.’

She paused, momentarily unnerved at having to go inside the building with her precious cargo, then regaining her composure, she walked to the lifts.

The receptionist at Zenith was no more polite than the others.

‘Need a signature?’

The courier shook her head and handed over the package. A plain, brown cardboard box, bound shut with duct tape. The receptionist turned away without saying thank you and placed it on her desk, before resuming her conversation.

The courier left, slipping away as anonymously as she’d arrived. She wondered how long the receptionist would gossip for before actually doing her job and alerting the Chief Executive to his unexpected package. She hoped they wouldn’t wait too long. These things begin to smell after a while.

‘What I’m asking you to do is potentially very dangerous and if you say no, I will respect that decision.’

Tony had suspected something was up the minute Helen had asked to meet him in the Old White Bear. It was a grotty pub round the corner from the station – it was where you went if you didn’t want to be overheard.

‘I know you’ve done undercover work before and know the drill,’ Helen continued, ‘but your circumstances are different now. That said, you’re the best male officer I’ve got, so…’

‘What exactly do you want?’ replied Tony, blushing slightly at the compliment.

‘It looks like our killer is targeting men cruising for sex,’ Helen went on. ‘We could put an ad in the Evening News asking for punters to come forward and help, but I can’t see that working. The girls on the street aren’t telling McAndrew a single thing…’

‘So we have to put someone in the line of fire.’

‘Exactly.’

Tony said nothing. His expression was neutral, but he was excited by the prospect. His life had been so regimented for so long that a chance to be on the front line again was tempting.

‘We can only do so much working with motive and MO – this killer is scrupulously careful about forensics and uses out-of-the-way locations. So we need someone on the ground, posing as a punter, sniffing around. I know you’ll need time to process this. And I’m sure there’ll be loads of questions you want to ask, but I need an answer fast. This could be…’

Helen paused, choosing her words carefully.

‘… This could be something big. And I want to nip it in the bud.’

Tony promised to think about it overnight, but he knew already that he was going to say yes. It was dangerous for sure, but if it wasn’t him it would be someone else. Someone less experienced. He was a DS now and it was right for him to step up. Mark Fuller wouldn’t have ducked something like this and he had had a kid, for God’s sake.

Helen headed back to the incident room, leaving Tony to his thoughts. He allowed himself a pint, as he mentally scrolled through the challenges that lay ahead. How to frame it for Nicola? How could he quell her anxiety and reassure her that the risks were minimal?

He sat alone, supping his pint, lost in thought. A last drink for the condemned man.

She had snuck up behind her without making a sound. Charlie had been so involved in her work, so excited by her discoveries, that she hadn’t noticed Harwood’s approach.

‘How are you getting on, Charlie?’

Charlie jumped, startled by this sudden intrusion. She turned and blustered a response – it was unnerving to find the station chief looming over you.

‘Settling back in ok?’ Harwood continued.

‘Yes, Ma’am. Making good progress and everyone’s been very welcoming. Those who are here at least.’

‘Yes, you’ve caught us at a busy time. But I’m delighted you’re back, Charlie – it would have been a shame to lose such a talented officer.’

Charlie said nothing. What was the correct response to this unwarranted compliment? Charlie had been off sick for a year after nearly getting herself killed – it wasn’t the greatest recommendation to the new station chief. In the aftermath of her abduction, Charlie had prepared herself for the call suggesting she might be happier elsewhere, but it had never come. Instead she’d been encouraged to return to work and was now being praised by a woman she hardly knew.

‘Go at your own pace,’ Harwood continued. ‘Do what you’re good at. And come to me if you have any problems, ok? My door is always open.’

‘Yes, Ma’am. And thank you. For everything.’

Harwood smiled her wide, attractive smile. Charlie was aware she hadn’t really said enough, so continued:

‘I know you don’t know me from Adam and that you would have been completely justified in washing your hands of me, but I want you to know that I am really, really grateful for this chance you’ve given me’ – Charlie was babbling now but couldn’t stop – ‘and I want to say that I won’t let you down. You won’t regret giving me a second chance.’

Harwood regarded her, clearly unused to such outpourings, then patted her on the arm.

‘I don’t doubt it for a second.’

She turned to go, but Charlie stopped her:

‘There was one other thing. A development in the Alexia Louszko case.’

Harwood turned, intrigued.

‘DC Fortune established that the upmarket brothel Alexia worked for was owned by Sandra McEwan.’

Charlie paused, unsure if the name would mean anything to Harwood.

‘I know her. Go on.’

‘Well, I was a bit surprised that she owned the freehold to the Brookmire building. Didn’t realize she had that kind of money. So I did a bit more digging to see if Sandra owned any other properties in Southampton.’

‘And?’

Charlie paused for a moment. Should she say anything to Harwood without telling Helen first? Too late to be coy now – Harwood was clearly expecting something.

‘She owns property on the Empress Road industrial estate.’

Now she had Harwood’s full attention. Charlie picked up a copy of the street map she’d downloaded from the Land Registry and handed it to her.