M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

She was back in the house now, though how she’d got there she couldn’t really say. Without hesitating, she charged upstairs. Flinging open the chest of drawers, she grabbed an armful of Christopher’s things and threw them out of the window down on to the drive below. Again and again and again. Cleansing the house of his presence.

Grabbing some lighter fluid and matches from under the kitchen sink, she marched out through the still open front door. Dousing the messy pile generously, she threw a match on to it, then watched the clothes – clothes she’d bought for him – burn.

Snap, snap, snap. From their vantage point in a van across the road, the plain-clothes police officers recorded every second of her despair, before calling it in.

DC Fortune took in their report, then rang off. The show was about to start and he didn’t want to miss a minute of it. He had given his fellow officers the dull gig – no one really expected their surveillance of Jessica Reid to throw up anything. The plum job was the Matthews funeral that was about to get under way.

Lloyd Fortune stretched, yawned, then settled himself down into position. Watching and waiting. That was the drill on these sorts of operation. Looking across the road, Lloyd saw the Matthews family leave the house. There were plenty of people on hand to support them – extended family, friends from the church – so many that four funeral cars had been hired. Lloyd scanned the heads to pick out the Matthews family amongst the well-wishers. He caught a glimpse of the eldest daughter shepherding a grandmother into the first car. Like the others, she looked blank with shock, even after three days had passed.

Lloyd surveyed the street. Was their killer out there? Watching? Enjoying her success? Snap, snap, snap went the camera, taking in every passer-by, every parked car. Lloyd was exhilarated by the prospect of seeing the killer in the flesh and felt his pulse quicken.

The first car was on the move now. And the second. Lloyd nodded to Jack to start the engine. It hummed quietly. They waited patiently – Eileen and the twins slipping into the final car – then it was their turn. Pulling away from the kerb, they followed the flotilla of grief towards its final destination – St Stephen’s Baptist church.

He hesitated before typing. How did one begin these things?

Hello Melissa. A mutual friend …

No, that wasn’t right.

Hello Melissa. My name is Paul and I would like to meet you .

That was better. Tony leaned back in his chair, amused by how much effort that had taken. And how nervous he’d been. Satisfied that the thing was now in train, he went to shut his computer down. But as he did so, a response pinged up.

Hello Paul. When would you like to meet?

Tony hesitated, then typed.

Tonight?

What time?

Tony hadn’t expected to be making arrangements so quickly. Still needs must.

Ten?

Pick up me up on the corner of Drayton St and Fenner Lane. I’ll be wearing a green coat. What car you drive?

Vauxhall.

Colour?

Silver .

Looking for company? Or something special?

Company .

How long?

Couple of hours?

£150 for two hours .

Ok .

Cash .

Sure .

See you later, Paul .

See you later, Melissa .

XXX .

End of conversation. Tony caught himself smiling. He was in his own bloody kitchen. Instant-messaging prostitutes. Still it wasn’t the kind of thing you could do in a café, so…

Tony switched off the computer. Nicola’s mum would be here soon and she didn’t need any more ammunition. Best go and get some rest.

Tony had a big night ahead of him.

Charlie was in full flow when Helen entered the incident room. The team had broken from their tasks to hear the latest developments.

‘We’ve had a trawl through Gareth Hill’s hard drive. His computer seems to have been his one and only window on the world – he used it a lot . And one of his favourite sites was the Bitchfest web forum.’

She had everyone’s attention now.

‘This prostitute rating site was also visited by Alan Matthews and Christopher Reid – they used the pseudonyms “BadBoy” and “BigMan”. Gareth Hill’s moniker was “Blade”. They entered into extremely graphic conversations with other men about the girls in Southampton. They were particularly interested in girls up for denigration and rough sex and received various pointers from other users, specifically from “Dangerman”, “HappyGoLucky”, “Hammer”, “PussyKing”, “fillyerboots” and “BlackArrow”. Several girls were discussed but the one who came up time and again was a prostitute who calls herself “Angel”.’

Helen felt a shiver inside. Could this be their killer?

‘Interestingly,’ Charlie continued, ‘Angel doesn’t advertise, doesn’t have a website, she’s totally offline. She gets her punters by word of mouth alone, current clients tipping off other men about where to find her. She’s elusive and it should be said expensive, but she’s clearly willing to do anything if the money is right.’

‘So she’s hard to find and a closely guarded secret?’ Helen interjected.

‘Exactly.’

‘Good work, Charlie. So top priority is to find these other forum users. Lets focus on those who’ve used Angel’s services and who might have chatted with Matthews, Reid and Hill. These men can lead us to Angel, so let’s find them fast. I’m going down to the surveillance points, but want to be kept up to speed with developments. DS Brooks will run things in my absence.’

As Helen departed, Charlie set about organizing the team. It had cost her a lot to come back to work, but perhaps it had been the right choice after all. ‘DS Brooks’, she liked the way that sounded, and knew there and then that she wanted back in.

Helen stopped in her tracks the moment she saw her. Anger flared inside her as she saw Emilia Garanita leaning casually against her Kawasaki in the bike park outside the station.

‘You’re in a restricted area and currently obstructing police business, Emilia, so if you wouldn’t mind?’

It was said politely, but without warmth. Emilia smiled – always that same Cheshire Cat smile – and slowly peeled herself off the bike.

‘I’ve tried calling you, Helen, but you won’t answer. I’ve talked to a number of my uniform friends, I even had a quick heart-to-heart with your boss, but nobody seems to know what’s going on. Are you clamming up on me again?’

‘I don’t know what you mean. I gave you the tipoff about the DNA and much more besides.’

‘But that’s not the whole story, is it, Helen? Harwood feels it too. Something’s going on in that team of yours and I want to know what it is.’

‘You want to know what it is?’ Helen replied slowly and with maximum sarcasm.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our little deal already? I said I wanted exclusive access on this story and I meant it.’

‘You’re getting paranoid, Emilia. As soon as there are any new developments, I’ll let you know, ok?’

She moved to get on her bike, but Emilia grabbed her arm.