M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

‘No, not ok.’

Helen looked at her as if she were mad – did she really want to be charged with assaulting a police officer?

‘I don’t like being lied to. I don’t like being looked down on. Especially by a degenerate like you.’

Helen shrugged her off angrily, but was unnerved. There was real venom and a new-found confidence in Emilia’s tone.

‘I want to know, Helen. I want to know everything. And you’re going to tell me.’

‘Or?’

‘Or I tell the world your little secret.’

‘I think the world knows everything about me already. I don’t think you’ll shift any papers rehashing that old stuff again.’

‘But they don’t know about Jake, do they?’

Helen froze.

‘I see you don’t deny knowing him. Well, I’ve had a long chat with him and – after a little gentle persuasion – he told me everything. How he beats you up for money. What is it with some women that they just have to give men the upper hand?’

Helen said nothing – how the hell did she know all this? Had Jake really spoken to her?

‘So here’s the deal, Helen. You will tell me everything, you will give me exclusive access. I want to be ahead of the nationals every step of the way on this and if I’m not… then the whole world will know that heroic Helen Grace is actually a dirty little pervert. How do you think Harwood would like that?’

Her words hung in the air, as Emilia walked off. Helen knew instinctively that she wasn’t bluffing and that for the first time she was in her thrall. Emilia had dangled the sword of Damocles over Helen’s head and would take great pleasure in dropping it.

St Stephen’s Baptist church reared up above her, grey and austere in the spitting rain. Churches were supposed to be places of refuge, warm and welcoming, but Helen found them cold and dispiriting places. She had always felt she was somehow being judged by them and found wanting.

Her mind was still reeling from her discussion with Emilia, but she wrenched it back to the task in hand. She had stewed on their conversation for too long and was nearly late as a result – she had had barely five minutes with DC Fortune before haring up the path – and she could hear the organ music swelling up inside. Slipping quietly into the building, she seated herself in a pew at the back. From here she would have a good view of everyone who attended. It was surprisingly common for murderers to attend the funerals of their victims – serial killers in particular seemed to relish the feeling of power as they watched the body being buried, the vicar intoning, the black-clad mourners clinging to each other. Helen scanned the female faces – was their killer sitting somewhere in this church?

The service ground on, but Helen barely took in the words. She had always quite enjoyed the high style of the Bible, she liked to let its ornate phraseology wash over her, but in terms of their content the words might as well have been in the original Greek. The lessons seemed to conjure up a world that was totally alien to her – an ordered, divine cosmos in which everything happened for a reason and in which Good would prevail. There was a level of reassurance in it that Helen could never swallow – the random madness and violence of her world seemed at odds with the cosy catch-alls of religion.

Still, she couldn’t deny that for many the church and its teachings were a comfort. That was very much in evidence now. At the front of the church, Eileen Matthews was surrounded by fellow worshippers, literally being held up by family and friends. The laying on of hands is meant to create a religious rapture in the receiver but also has the very practical purpose of keeping the weak and the vulnerable upright – and so it was proving now. As the chanting increased and the fervour grew, Eileen started to babble. Quietly at first, then louder, strange non-words flying out, her accent changing from south coast to something foreign. She sounded Middle Eastern, a touch Jewish perhaps and distinctly medieval – a torrent of guttural nonsense phrases flew from her mouth as the divine spirit entered her. Helen had seen speaking-in-tongues before on TV, but never in the flesh. It was odd to witness – it looked more like possession to her than rapture.

Eventually the frenzy subsided and the male members of the congregation guided her back to her seat, allowing Helen a chance to examine the female faces front on as they returned to their seats. She realized with a jolt that she was the only single woman there. Every other female present had a husband and every one of them seemed to be very much in his thrall. As the service came to an end, the congregation rose, dividing along gender lines. The men chatted confidently together as the women listened. Alan Matthews, in addition to being an elder of the church, was a member of Christian Domestic Order, a group which promoted the patriarchy of the Bible, upholding the husband as leader in all things and condemning wives to the role of helpmeet. Women were subservient in every way and spanking was advised if they failed to live up to their duties. Eileen Matthews had probably suffered chastisement at the hands of her husband, who clearly loved to dominate women, and Helen suspected the other women in this congregation had too. The fact that many of them probably did so willingly didn’t help in Helen’s eyes. Looking around the church now Helen saw passive, inert women who lacked the confidence or bravery to do anything for themselves. Unless one amongst their number was a phenomenal actress, there was no one here who would have the gumption, determination and balls to perpetrate this terrible string of murders. Was the killer elsewhere then, watching from the shadows? Slipping out of her seat, Helen walked quickly round the perimeter, eyes scanning this way and that for possible concealed vantage points, but she found nothing.

DC Fortune had scarcely fared better. He had snapped everyone in and out of the church and had been assiduous in photographing every member of the public who passed by. Junior officers dressed as gardeners covered the back of the church, but had seen nothing apart from a man and his dog.

‘Keep an eye out as people leave the church and make sure you get a picture of the chauffeurs too. Go with the cortège back to the family home, but tell one of your boys to remain behind. I want that grave watched night and day. Chances are if our killer comes she’ll come in the dead of night.’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

‘Good. File what you’ve snapped so far and keep on it, Lloyd. You never know when she might turn up.’

Did Helen really believe that? As she walked back to her bike, she felt the killer once more slipping away from them. Surveillance was a good move, but had yielded nothing so far. Would she have suspected this move? Did she know what they were thinking?

Helen felt once more on the back foot, ineptly dancing to a tune played by their killer, and now Emilia Garanita too. Had Jake really spilled the beans? It seemed unlikely, no, actually it seemed impossible, but how else had Emilia found out about them?

She was due to see him this evening, but pulling her phone from her pocket, Helen texted to cancel. She wasn’t ready to speak to him yet. A small part of her wondered if she would ever speak to him again.

There is a fantasy that sustains you when you’re on active service. It’s the dream that sustains every soldier when he's stuck in some godforsaken dustbowl being shot at and shouted at. It’s the fantasy that there’s something better waiting for you at home. In this fantasy, your girl is keeping the home fires burning, hankering for your return. She will welcome you back with open arms, fill you with good food, take you to bed and be the doting, angelic wife. This is the very least you deserve for the months of fear, loneliness and anger. But it seldom works out that way.