M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

‘Is it hers?’ Helen asked.

‘Well, it’s not Charlie’s, so…’

‘Can you get a size off it?’

The SOC officer nodded, so Helen moved on. These small details could be surprisingly significant. She was momentarily cheered but her good humour evaporated as soon as she took in the crime scene. It was drenched in blood. The victim lay on the bed, his hands and legs still tied to the bedstead, his chest opened up like a tin can. His heart, which only thirty minutes ago had been pumping fit to burst, now lay still. Helen leaned over the body, taking care not to touch it. Focusing on the wound, she could see that the tissue around the heart was untouched. Clearly the killer had been disturbed before she could take her prize. Helen looked at the victim’s face – didn’t recognize him – then quickly looked away. It was contorted in agony.

She retreated to watch the forensic officers at work. In addition to the evidence garnered from the victim’s body, they would also be analysing a medium-sized Tupperware box that lay discarded on the floor. Was this what their killer put the hearts in? A Tupperware box. It was so common-or-garden, so domestic, it was almost funny. It could have been bought in a hundred stores in Southampton so they would have to hope that their killer had left some residue of her identity on it. Helen knew she couldn’t bank on it though – their killer had hardly put a foot wrong so far.

Taking in the crime scene, Helen’s mind was full of questions. Why this sudden change in MO? The killer had been so cautious thus far – why bring her latest victim to a place where she could be disturbed or, worse, identified? Was she getting careless? Or were the punters harder to isolate now? Had word got out about the danger? Were clients seeking safety in more public places? She had brought him here during the day, when she knew there would be others around. Was he special in some way? Could she only get him at this time of day? It was a strange turn of events.

One thing that Helen was sure of was that the killer would now be rattled. She had been disturbed during the act and had fled empty-handed. Worse, she had run straight into a cop waving a warrant card and had only escaped through sheer good fortune. She must fear now that the police would have a good description of her and possibly forensic evidence too. Experience taught Helen that such a scare would make the killer react in one of two ways. Either she would vanish for good or she would step up her killing spree. Which option would she take?

Only time would tell.

It was time to say goodbye. Tony had been putting it off but it was getting late now. He hesitated on the threshold of Nicola’s bedroom, then stepped inside.

‘Could you give us a moment, Anna?’

Anna stopped reading aloud and looked up from her book, momentarily double-taking at Tony’s appearance before recovering her poise.

‘Of course.’

She disappeared discreetly. Tony paused, looking down at his wife. Her right eyelid flickered – which was Nicola’s way of greeting her husband.

‘I’ve got to go now, love. Anna’s going to be with you for the rest of the day and through the night. I’ll come and see you in the morning, ok? We can read a bit of Dickens if you like. Anna says you’ve nearly finished it.’

No response from Nicola. Had she understood what he was saying? Or was she upset and refusing to communicate? Once more Tony was swamped by guilt.

‘I’ll tell Anna she can read late tonight if you like. You can always sleep in tomorrow, I’ll put the cot bed next to you and we can snuggle. Be like old times.’

Tony’s voice caught. Why was he stringing this out when he knew it was better just to go?

Leaning down he kissed his wife’s brow. He paused, then kissed her again, this time on her lips. They seemed dry, even a bit chapped, so he plucked the lip balm from the bedside table and gently applied it.

‘Love you.’

Tony turned and left and thirty seconds later the front door closed gently behind him.

Tony walked round the corner to where he’d parked his unmarked car. It was a dented Vauxhall saloon, the car of choice for travelling salesmen up and down the land. He bleeped it open with the fob. Stooping to open the driver’s door, he caught sight of himself and paused. He was wearing a crumpled business suit, had painted flecks of grey in his hair and was wearing a pair of executive-type glasses. It was him, but not him. A vision of a man who was lonely, tired and bereft. There was more than a hint of truth in the image, but Tony refused to dwell on that. He had work to do.

Climbing inside the car, he fired it up and moved off. It was time to dance with the devil.

‘A Tart with Your Heart’

Emilia Garanita surveyed the headline with undisguised pleasure. She was particularly pleased with her word play, as was her editor, who had splashed it on the front page. Would this be the best-selling edition of the Evening News ever? She sincerely hoped so. With a bit of luck, it might even be her passport out of regional journalism.

The papers had gone out a couple of hours ago. Clearly word was spreading – her mobile phone hadn’t stopped ringing and her Twitter feed was going ballistic. Nothing sells papers like a serial killer and Emilia intended to make the most of it. The pieces she’d written last year on Marianne’s killing spree had gained her a reputation locally, but because of Grace’s obstruction on that case she had got to the story too late. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Emilia swallowed her guilty hope that the killer would not be caught too quickly. She knew it was wrong to think like that, but truth be told she enjoyed the fact that Grace was being given the runaround, that the killer appeared to strike at will without leaving a trace, and, besides, who honestly felt sympathy for the victims? They were typical men – deceitful, mendacious, driven by base desires. There were already signs in the messages posted on the paper’s forum and on Twitter that the wider public felt that these men had got what was coming to them. For centuries prostitutes had been the unheralded victims of male violence, was it such a bad thing that the boot was now on the other foot? ‘Go, girl,’ Emilia said to herself, suppressing a smile.

There was only one blot on the landscape and that was Emilia’s failure to interview Christopher Reid’s widow, Jessica. She had rung and visited often, but the Family Liaison officer knew Emilia’s tactics well and had seen her off. She had subsequently returned, slipping a financial offer through the door, with a note explaining how the money could be put to good use in the difficult months ahead and offering sympathetic coverage in the paper, but as yet there had been no response and Emilia doubted there would be. Grace would keep her away from public view whilst the killer was at large. Still, Emilia had overcome bigger challenges than this before and she would just have to be inventive. There was more than one way to skin a cat.

The office was thinning out now. There was little point in Emilia hanging about – the praise and adulation she’d received earlier had died down as her colleagues departed for home. Grabbing her bag and coat, Emilia headed to the lifts. There was a new bar on the waterfront that she’d been meaning to check out for a while and now seemed the perfect time to do just that.

She had just left the office when her mobile rang. It was one of her tame PCs – he’d been a source of valuable intel for several months now. As she listened to his breathless report, a broad smile spread across Emilia’s face. Another murder and this time it involved a familiar face: DC Charlie Brooks. Turning on her heel, Emilia marched straight back into the office.