M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

Eileen had only just returned home from the TV studio when Helen arrived. She was visibly drained by the experience of talking publicly about her husband’s death and wanted to shut the door on Helen, but Helen was too enraged to allow that. It didn’t take long for hostilities to start.

‘You should have consulted us first, Eileen, something like this could really set our investigation back.’

‘I didn’t consult you because I knew what you’d say.’

Eileen was utterly unrepentant. Helen had to work hard to control her temper.

‘I know you’ve had to deal with so much in the past few days that you feel overwhelmed with pain and grief, that you’re desperate for some answers, but this isn’t the way to go about it. If you want justice for yourself, for your children, you must let us take the lead.’

‘And let you blacken Alan’s name? Drag this family through the gutter?’

‘I can’t hide the truth from you Eileen, however painful it might be. Your husband used prostitutes and I’m convinced that that was why he died. His killer was a woman – we’re ninety-nine per cent certain of that – and anything that directs the public’s attention elsewhere risks allowing her to strike again. People need to be vigilant and we have to give them the right information in order to be so. Do you see?’

‘Strike again?’

For once Eileen’s tone was less strident. Helen paused, uncertain how much to share.

‘A young man was murdered last night. We believe the same person is responsible for both murders.’

Eileen stared at her.

‘He was found in an area used by prostitutes…’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry…’

‘I won’t have you continue with this… this campaign of slander. Alan was a good man. A devout man. I know he wasn’t always healthy… he had certain infections but many of those can be contracted at the swimming baths. Alan was a keen swimmer -’

‘For God’s sake, Eileen, he had gonorrhoea. You can’t get that from swimming.’

‘NO! It’s his bloody funeral tomorrow and you come here with these lies… NO! NO! NO!’

Eileen shouted at the top of her voice, silencing Helen. Then the tears came. Helen felt a riot of emotions – sympathy, fury, disbelief. In the heavy silence that followed, she cast her eyes around the room, taking in the family photos that seemed to confirm Eileen’s vision of Alan. He was the very image of the upstanding paterfamilias, playing football with his boys, standing proudly next to daughter Carrie at her graduation, leading the church choir, toasting his bride at their wedding all those years ago. But it was all propaganda.

‘Eileen, you have to work with us on this. You need to understand the bigger picture. Otherwise innocent people will die. Do you understand?’

Eileen didn’t look up but her sobbing subsided a little.

‘I don’t mean to cause you pain but you have to face the truth. Alan’s internet history showed he had an active interest in both pornography and prostitutes. Unless someone else – you or the boys – used that computer, then it can only be Alan who was accessing those sites.’

Eileen had previously told them that Alan didn’t let anybody else into his study, let alone use his desktop, so Helen knew this one would land.

‘These sites weren’t accessed by accident. They were in his bookmarks… We have also done some investigation into his financial affairs.’

Eileen was quiet now.

‘There was an account he administered that contained money to pay for church repairs. Two years ago, it had a balance of several thousand pounds. Most of it’s gone now, taken out in £200 chunks over the last eighteen months. But no work has been carried out at your church. I sent one of my officers down there, he spoke to the minister. We know Alan wasn’t a big earner and it looks very much like he was using church money to fund his activities.’

Helen continued, softening her tone.

‘I know you feel utterly lost right now, but the only way for you and your family to find your way through this… nightmare is to look the reality of it dead in the eye. You won’t believe this, but I know what you’re going through. I have experienced awful things, endured terrible pain, and burying your head in the sand is the worst thing you can do. For your girls, for your boys, for yourself, you need to take on board what I’m saying. See Alan for what he was – good and bad – and deal with it. Your church may well want to instigate financial investigations of their own and I’m sure we will have more questions for you. Fighting us is not the way to get through this. You need to help us and we will help you in return.’

Eileen finally looked up.

‘I want to catch Alan’s killer,’ Helen continued. ‘More than anything else I want to catch Alan’s killer and give you the answers you need. But I can’t do that if you’re fighting me, Eileen. So please work with me.’

Helen’s entreaty was sincere and heartfelt. There was a long pause, then finally Eileen looked up.

‘I pity you, Inspector.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I pity you because you have no faith .’

She hurried from the room without looking back. Helen watched her go. Her anger had dissipated and now she just felt pity. Eileen had believed absolutely in Alan and would never truly come to terms with the fact that her mentor, her rock, was in fact a man of straw.

DC Rebecca McAndrew had only been on the hunt for a few hours, but already she felt tarnished and dispirited. She and her team had hit the high-end brothels first. They were far busier than she remembered. The recession had driven more and more women into the sex industry and the sudden influx of prostitutes from Poland and Bulgaria had further flooded the market. Competition was up, which meant that prices had come down. It was an increasingly cut-throat business.

Next they’d moved on to the student campuses and the picture was depressingly similar here. Every girl they talked to knew of at least one fellow student who’d turned to prostitution to fund her studies. It was more and more a feature of everyday life as grants were cut and students struggled to pay their way through the many years of study. But the anecdotal tales of alcohol dependency and self-harming suggested this new phenomenon was not without its cost.

Now Sanderson and her team were in the Claymore drop-in centre, a free healthcare service run by a combination of NHS workers and generous-hearted volunteers. Anyone could turn up here and receive free treatment but it was in a grotty part of town, the queues were long and you always had to keep one eye on your possessions, so it generally attracted the drunk and the desperate. Many of the centre’s clients were young prostitutes – girls with infections, girls who’d been beaten up and needed stitches, girls who had young babies and simply couldn’t cope. It was hard not to be moved by the awful situations they found themselves in.

Rebecca McAndrew often cursed the long hours that came with her job – she had been single for over two years now, partly because of the night work – but she realized the sacrifices she’d made were nothing compared to those made by the women who worked at Claymore. Despite being exhausted, despite being painfully short of resources, they worked tirelessly to help keep these girls together, without ever judging them or losing their tempers. They were modern saints – not that they were ever acknowledged as such.

As the team interviewed and questioned, a paradox struck Rebecca forcefully. In a world where it seemed harder and harder to find meaningful connections with other people – love, marriage, family – it had never been easier to find paid companionship. The world was in the doldrums, the country still in the grip of recession, but one thing was clear.