M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

And he knew he would risk everything to do it.

‘Lyra Campbell is now our number one suspect in this investigation. She is a highly dangerous individual and we would urge members of the public not to approach her. If they see her, or have any information on her whereabouts, they should call the police immediately.’

Detective Superintendent Ceri Harwood was holding court to the assembled members of the press. Charlie had never seen the media suite so busy – there were journalists from over twenty countries, some of them reduced to standing in the corridor outside. They were scribbling furiously as Harwood brought them up to speed, but their eyes never left the enlarged e-fit that dominated the screen behind them. Magnified, that face, those eyes, were even more beguiling and hypnotic. Who was this woman? What was her special power over people?

Charlie handled the operational questions. Inevitably Emilia Garanita asked why DI Grace wasn’t at the press conference – she seemed particularly disappointed that her sparring partner wasn’t present – and Charlie was happy to bat that back, underlining the many and enduring virtues of her boss. At that point Harwood cut in, leading the Q &A in another direction, and twenty minutes later the whole thing wrapped up.

When the final journalist had left, Harwood turned to Charlie.

‘How did we do?’

‘Good. The message will be out there in a couple of hours and… well, you can’t hide for ever. Normally once the e-fit’s out we pick them up within forty-eight hours. Along with a few unfortunates who look a bit like them.’

Harwood smiled.

‘Good. I must remember to call Tony Bridges. It’s thanks to him that we are where we are.’

Charlie nodded, swallowing her instinct to remind the station chief that it had been Helen’s idea to put someone undercover.

‘How do you feel the investigation has gone so far, Charlie? You’ve been away for a while and have probably come back with fresh eyes…’

‘It’s gone as well as it could have in the circumstances.’

‘Have the different parts of the operation pulled their weight? Have we got anything from the surveillance yet?’

‘No, not yet, but -’

‘Do you think we should persist with it? It’s cripplingly expensive and now that we have a concrete lead…’

‘That’s DI Grace’s call. And yours of course.’

It was a coward’s answer but Charlie felt deeply uncomfortable discussing the running of the investigation behind Helen’s back. Harwood nodded, as if Charlie had actually said something quite profound, then sat down on a table edge.

‘And how are you getting on with Helen?’

‘Fine now. We’ve had a good talk and things are… fine.’

‘I’m glad because, strictly between me and you, I was worried. Helen had some very robust opinions about your return to Southampton Central. Opinions that I felt were unfair. I’m pleased that you’ve proved her wrong and that the old team is back together again.’

Charlie nodded, unsure what the appropriate response was.

‘And I hear you’ve been made temporary DS, whilst Tony is busy. How are you finding that?’

‘I’m enjoying it, of course.’

‘Would you be interested in making it a permanent promotion?’

The question took Charlie by surprise. Immediately memories of her conversation with Steve reared up. In truth, they had been plaguing her all morning.

‘I’m taking it one step at a time. I have a husband and maybe one day…’

‘Children?’

Charlie nodded.

‘It doesn’t have to be a choice, you know, Charlie. You can do both – take it from me. You just need to be clear with everyone and then… well, for a talented female officer like you the sky is the limit.’

‘Thank you, Ma’am.’

‘Come and talk to me whenever you need to. I like you, Charlie, and I want you to make the right decisions. I see great things for you.’

Shortly afterwards, Harwood departed. She had a lunch date with the police commissioner and it didn’t do to be late. Charlie watched her go, deeply unnerved. What game was Harwood playing? What was her role in it?

And what did it mean for Helen?

The team spread over Southampton, searching for Lyra. North, south, east and west, leaving no stone unturned. Extra uniform and community support officers had been drafted in and, led by CID detectives, they visited brothels, mother-and-baby drop-ins, health clinics, social security offices, Accident and Emergency departments – clutching their e-fits and appealing for information. If Lyra was hiding in Southampton, they would surely find her now.

Helen led the hunt in the northern reaches of the city, firmly believing that the killer would operate from somewhere familiar and safe. She kept her radio volume turned up high, hoping that at any moment it would squawk into life with news of a breakthrough. She didn’t care who got Lyra, didn’t care who brought her in – she just wanted this to be over.

But still she proved elusive. Some claimed to have seen Lyra, some thought they might have known her under a different name, but so far no one had confirmed that they had spoken to her. Who was this woman who could exist in such a bubble, so devoid of human contact? They had been at it for hours, spoken to scores of people, but still they had nothing concrete. Lyra was a phantom who refused to be found.

Then just after lunchtime Helen finally got the break she’d been craving. As the hours had ticked by, as each working girl had claimed ignorance of Lyra’s existence, she had started to wonder if Melissa had made it all up to get some attention and a bit of cash, but then suddenly and unexpectedly they got a positive ID.

Helen picked her way through the litter-strewn tenement building on Spire Street, utterly depressed by what she saw. Working girls and junkies lived cheek by jowl in the leaky, derelict flats that were due for gutting and redevelopment next year. Many of the squatters had kids, who ran round Helen’s legs as she stalked the building, running from the policewoman in mock horror, hiding from her in dirty and dangerous corners of this ruined building, squealing all the while. If she could have, Helen would have scooped them all up and taken them somewhere decent. She made a mental note to contact social services the moment she had a spare second. It can’t be right for kids to be living like this in the twenty-first century, she thought.

A group of women sat round a two-bar fire, breast-feeding, gossiping, recovering from last night’s work. They were hostile at first, then sullen. Helen had the distinct impression that they were holding out on her but she persisted nevertheless. These girls may be far gone but they all have families of some sort or other and are not immune to emotional blackmail. Helen played on this now, painting a grim picture of the bereaved families burying their defiled fathers, husbands and sons. Still the women offered nothing – whether this was fear of Anton or fear of the police, Helen couldn’t tell. But then finally the quietest one of the group offered something up. She wasn’t much to look at – a shaven-headed junkie with a mewling baby in her arms – but she told Helen that she’d known Lyra briefly. They’d worked for Anton together, before Lyra disappeared.

‘Where did she live?’ Helen demanded.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why not?’

‘She never told me,’ the girl protested.

‘Then where did you see her?’