M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

‘Specifically she owns this row of derelict houses. Alan Matthews’ body was found in the fourth one along.’

Harwood processed this. Charlie went on:

‘Alexia was killed and mutilated, probably by the Campbells – Alexia used to walk the streets for them before defecting to Brookmire. A day later, a street punter is found murdered and mutilated in a property owned by Sandra McEwan.’

‘You think that Sandra is sending them a message. That it’ll be tit for tat?’

‘Could be. History tells us that if you declare war on Sandra McEwan you’d better be ready for the consequences.’

Harwood’s brow furrowed. Nobody needed a prostitution war – they tended to be long and bloody and always made it into the papers.

‘Bring her in.’

Harwood was already heading for the door.

‘Should I let DI Grace know before I…’

‘Bring her in, DC Brooks.’

They were huddled together like cattle at an abattoir. It was astonishing how quickly professional poise could disappear. The staff of Zenith Solutions had taken refuge in the atrium, too unnerved to go back into the office, too curious to go home. Helen walked past them and hurried up to the third floor.

Stephen McPhail, the Chief Executive of Zenith, was trying his best to look composed, but he was clearly perturbed by the morning’s events. He was holed up in his office, flanked by his long-serving secretary, Angie. The box remained on Angie’s desk where she’d dropped it. It had toppled over on impact, the bloody heart spilling out onto her desk. It lay there still, guarded closely by a pair of uniforms who refused to look at it. The lid flapped down lazily – the single word SCUM , daubed in blood, screaming out its simple message.

‘I appreciate that you must be extremely distressed by what’s happened, but it’s imperative I ask you some questions whilst events are still fresh in your memory. Is that ok?’

Helen was addressing Angie, who managed a nod between sniffles.

‘What firm was the courier from?’

‘She didn’t say. She didn’t have a logo on.’

‘It was definitely a woman?’

‘Yes. She didn’t say much… but yes.’

‘Did you see her face?’

‘Not really. She had her helmet on. To be honest I didn’t really take much notice of her.’

Helen cursed internally.

‘Height?’

‘Not sure really. Five eight?’

‘Hair colour?’

‘Couldn’t say for sure.’

Helen nodded, her fixed smile disguising her exasperation with the unobservant Angie. Had the courier known she could slip in and out without arousing attention or had it just been a lucky break?

‘I’m going to ask a police artist to come and sit with you. If you can give her a full description of the courier’s clothes, helmet, features, then we can get an accurate picture of who we’re looking for. Is that ok?’

Angie nodded heroically, so Helen turned her attention to Stephen McPhail.

‘I’m going to need a list of the names and addresses of all your staff – those who were present today, as well as those who were absent.’

‘Of course,’ McPhail replied. He tapped some keys and the printer began to whirr into life. ‘We’ve got twenty permanent staffers – only a couple of them were away today. Helen Baxter is on holiday and Chris Reid – well, I’m not sure where he is.’

Helen kept her expression neutral.

‘Do you have CCTV in the office?’ she continued.

‘I’m afraid not, but downstairs reception is covered. I’m sure the management company would let you have whatever you need.’

He was so desperate to help, so keen to clear up this mess. Helen wanted to put him out of his misery, but couldn’t.

‘We have no reason to believe this is specifically aimed at you, but is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to target you in this way? Someone you’ve let go recently? A disgruntled client? A family member?’

‘We do IT,’ McPhail replied, as if this explained everything. ‘It’s not the kind of business where you make enemies. All our guys – and girls – have been with us for months, if not years. So, no, I… I don’t know of anyone who’d do something like this…’

He petered out.

‘Try not to be too concerned by it. I’m sure it’s a prank. We’ll have officers here for the next couple of days, talking to staff, but you should try and go about your everyday business. No reason why a sick joke should cost you money.’

McPhail nodded, looking a touch more reassured, so Helen hurried down to reception. Charles Holland, the management company rep, had arrived and was waiting for her. He hurriedly sought out the morning’s CCTV tapes, desperate to hand over responsibility for this unpleasantness to somebody else. The forensics team had arrived now and were making their way upstairs to recover the heart, exciting the interest of Zenith’s exiled staff. It was an interesting development – delivering the victim’s heart to his workplace rather than his home. It was riskier for sure, but was guaranteed to make much more of a splash. Was that the point? What sort of game was this?

And where would it end?

She didn’t waste any time. Sticking to the back routes, Helen sped across town. She was being overcautious, but it was perfectly possible that one of the startled workers in the Zenith building would alert the press, and Helen was determined not to be followed. She was heading to the Reid household – to destroy happiness and inflict pain – and she wanted to be absolutely sure she was alone.

Jessica Reid’s face changed colour so quickly when she saw Helen’s warrant card that Helen thought she was going to faint. Alison Vaughn, an experienced Family Liaison officer whom Helen had asked to attend, was quick off the mark. A comforting hand on the elbow, then she shepherded the terrified Jessica inside. Helen followed, shutting the front door gently behind her.

Jessica’s eighteen-month-old sat in the middle of the front room, grunting benignly at her unexpected visitors. Sally was full of beans, eager to play, and without needing to be told Alison picked her up and took her off to investigate her activity centre.

‘Is he dead?’

Jessica’s question was brutally blunt. Her body was shaking, her eyes just about containing her tears. Helen’s eyes flashed across the family photos on the mantelpiece – there was no doubt that Jessica’s husband was their latest victim.

‘This morning we found the body of a man. We believe it is Chris, yes.’

Jessica let her head fall. She started to sob. She was trying to suck them in, to hide her distress from her daughter, but the shock was too great.

‘Jessica, the next few days are going to be bewildering, devastating, scary, but I want you to know that we will be supporting you every step of the way. Alison will be here to help with Sally, to provide any assistance you might need and to answer your questions. If you have family who can help, we should call them now. You may even want to think about staying elsewhere for a few days. I can’t discount the possibility that the press will try to contact you here.’

Jessica looked up, bemused.

‘Why would they do that?’

‘We believe Chris was murdered. I know that’s hard to take in… that this all seems like a horrible nightmare, but I can’t hide the facts from you. It’s important that I tell you as much as we know, so you can help us find who did this.’