M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

‘No accounting for taste,’ he continued. ‘I thought she liked me but I’ve always been crap at reading signals.’

‘Is that right?’ Helen responded, not believing a word.

‘Anyway, do you fancy company? I’ve got a bottle of wine that’s… tea, I’ve got tea…’ he said, correcting himself.

Up until that point Helen could have been tempted. But the correction irritated her. James was like all the others – he knew she didn’t drink, knew she preferred tea to coffee, knew that she was a killer. Another voyeur staring at the wreckage of her life.

‘Love to,’ she lied again, ‘but I’ve got an armful of files to go through before my next shift.’

James smiled and bowed his submission, but he knew what was going on. And he knew not to push it. He watched with undisguised curiosity as Helen skipped up the steps to her flat. Her front door shut behind her with an air of finality.

The clock read 5 a.m. Nestling on her sofa, Helen took a big swig of tea and fired up her laptop. The first twinges of fatigue were making themselves felt, but before she could sleep, she had work to do. The security on her laptop was elaborate – an impregnable wall surrounding what remained of her private life – and Helen took her time, enjoying the complex process of entering passwords and unlocking digital padlocks.

She opened her file on Robert Stonehill. The young man she’d been shadowing earlier knew nothing of her existence, but she knew all about his. Helen began typing, fleshing out her growing portrait of him, adding the small details of his character and personality that she’d picked up on her latest bout of surveillance. The boy was smart – you could tell that right away. He had a good sense of humour and, though he swore every second word, had a ready wit and a winning smile. He was very good at getting people to do what he wanted them to do. He never queued for a drink at the bar – always managing to get some sidekick to do that for him, whilst he larked about with Davey – the thick-set one who was obviously the leader of the gang.

Robert always seemed to have money, which was odd given that he worked as a shelf stacker in a supermarket. Where did he get his cash? Theft? Something worse? Or was he just spoilt by his parents? He was Monica and Adam’s only child – the centre of their world – and Helen knew that he could wrap them around his little finger. Is that where he got his seemingly limitless funds?

There were always girls buzzing round him – he was fit and handsome – but he didn’t have a girlfriend as such. This was the area Helen was most interested in. Was he straight or gay? Trusting or suspicious? Who would he allow to get close to him? It was a question Helen didn’t know the answer to, but she was confident that she would figure it out. She was slowly, methodically creeping inside every quarter of Robert’s life.

Helen yawned. She had to be back at the station shortly but there was still time for a few hours’ sleep if she packed it in now. With practised ease, she ran her computer’s encryption programs, locked down her files, then changed the master password. She changed it every time she used her computer now. She knew it was over the top, that she was being paranoid, but she refused to leave anything to chance. Robert was hers and hers alone. And that was the way she wanted it to stay.

Dawn was breaking, so he had to move fast. In an hour or two, the sun would have burned off the thick fog, exposing those who hid within it. His hands were shaking, his joints ached, but he willed himself forward.

He’d stolen the crowbar from a hardware store on Elm Street. The Indian guy who ran it was too busy watching cricket on his tablet to notice him slipping it into his long coat. The rigid, cold metal felt good in his hands and he worked it hard now, back and forth, attacking the rusty bars that protected the windows. The first bar fell away easily, the second required more work, but soon there was enough room for a body to fit through. It would have been easier to go around the front and force his way in there, but he daren’t be seen on the streets round here. He owed money to too many people – people who’d gladly take him apart for the hell of it. So he moved in the shadows, like all creatures of the night.

He checked again that the coast was clear, then swung the crowbar at the window. It splintered with a satisfying crash. Wrapping his hand in an old towel, he quickly punched out the rest of the glass, before levering himself up onto the sill and inside.

Landing softly, he hesitated. You could never be sure what you might find in these places. There were no signs of life, but it pays to be careful and he held his crowbar tightly as he ventured forward. There was nothing of use in the kitchen so he quickly scurried into the front room.

This was more promising. Abandoned mattresses, discarded condoms and near them their natural bedfellows, used syringes. He felt his hope and anxiety rising in equal measure. Please God, let there be enough residue inside to harvest a proper fix. Suddenly he was on his hands and knees, pulling out the plungers, thrusting his little finger inside, desperately grubbing around for a little bit of brown to ease his suffering. Nothing in the first, nothing in the second – goddammit – and a fingerful in the third. All this bloody effort for a fingerful. He greedily rubbed it round his gums – it would have to do for now.

He sank back on the soiled mattress and waited for the numbness to kick in. His nerves had been jangling for hours now, his head pounding, he wanted – needed – some peace. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, willing his body to relax.

But something wasn’t right. Something wouldn’t let him relax. Something was…

Drip. There it was. A sound. A slow but steady sound, disturbing the quiet, drumming out an insistent warning.

Drip. Where was it coming from? His eyes flicked nervously this way and that.

Something was dripping in the far corner of the room. Was it a leak? Shrugging off his irritation, he dragged himself to his feet. It was worth checking out – might be some copper piping in it for him.

He hurried over, then stopped in his tracks. It wasn’t a leak. It wasn’t water. It was blood. Drip, drip, dripping through the ceiling. Spinning, he hurried away – none of my fucking business – but as he reached the kitchen, he slowed. Perhaps he was being too hasty. He was armed after all and there was no sign of movement upstairs. Anything could have happened. Someone could have topped themselves, could have been mugged, killed, whatever. But there might be spoils in it for a scavenger and that was something that couldn’t be ignored.

A moment’s hesitation, then the thief turned and crossed the room, edging past the thick pool of congealing blood into the hallway. He darted his head out, crowbar raised to strike at the first sign of danger.

But there was no one there. Cautiously, he stepped out and began to climb the stairs.

Creak. Creak. Creak.

Every step announced his presence and he swore quietly under his breath. If there was anyone up there, they would know he was coming. He gripped the crowbar a little tighter as he crested the staircase. Better to be safe than sorry so he darted his head into the bathroom and the back bedroom – only an amateur gets attacked from behind.

Satisfied he was safe from ambush, he turned to face the front bedroom. Whatever had happened, whatever it was, it was in there. The thief took a deep breath, then stepped inside the darkened room.