M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

His dad argued with his mum a lot and was happier when he was working, so that was the best time for Alfie to be with him. He never said much but he seemed happy to have his son by his side. They made a funny pair, but Alfie wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

His dad hadn’t come home last night. His mum said he had, but Alfie knew that wasn’t true. His work boots were where he’d left them yesterday afternoon and he was nowhere on the grounds. Alfie had covered every blade of grass, listening all the while for the tell-tale drone of the sit-on mower. He didn’t know what was going on, but he didn’t like it.

He turned the corner and saw a tall figure walking towards the sports pavilion. It was Sports Day later that day and his first thought was that it was one of the games masters, but he didn’t recognize him. The figure wasn’t broad enough to be his dad, so who was it? They were walking with real purpose towards the pavilion so they obviously had something of importance to do. Instinct drew Alfie towards the figure, his curiosity getting the better of him.

As he got closer, he slowed. It was a woman. And she was placing a box by the pavilion entrance. What was in the box – a trophy? A prize?

He called out as he ran over. The woman spun round, stopping Alfie in his tracks. She wasn’t smiling and had a nasty face. To his surprise, she turned and walked off without saying a word.

Alfie watched her go, confused. Then he turned his attention to the box. There was a word he couldn’t understand written on it. He tried to spell it out. F. I. L. T. H. But it made no sense to him. Why was it written in red ink?

He looked around, wondering what to do. There was no one to tell him he couldn’t open it.

Double-checking the coast was clear, Alfie stepped forward and opened the box.

It was hours after the event but Tony’s mind was still reeling. His heart was beating nineteen to the dozen, fired by a mixture of fear, adrenalin and anxiety.

He tried to gather his thoughts but they spun round and round, eluding him. He hadn’t felt like this in ages, yet a little voice was shouting inside him, abusing him, shaming him. It was all he deserved, yet oddly he didn’t care. He didn’t care at all. Which Tony was thinking these thoughts? He didn’t recognize him.

He had always been a by-the-book copper. Some said he was stolid. Others more charitably said he was professional, exemplary. Helen certainly respected him. The thought suddenly made his head hurt. What would she think if she could see him now? It wasn’t uncommon, but that didn’t make it any better.

Melissa stirred next to him, turning over in her sleep. He took in her naked body. It was marked with tattoos and ancient scarring in places, but was still muscular and alluring. His eyes flicked to the bedroom curtains again, checking for the umpteenth time that they were pulled together. On the street outside, a colleague of his was sitting in an unmarked car. Would he have noticed anything? The light going on and off in the bedroom? Surely he would have assumed it was Melissa going to bed finally. But what if he’d done a perimeter check of the house and noticed that Tony wasn’t downstairs?

When it happened he hadn’t thought of the risk at all. He had held her close, enjoying the warmth of her body against his, then she’d looked up at him and drawn him towards her. They had kissed. Then kissed some more. Despite the fact that she was both a prostitute and their key witness, Tony had not hesitated, his desire driving him on. They were in bed minutes later – Tony was stunned to think of his utter recklessness – he had never once paused to draw breath.

He was like a boy again, full of foolish, hopeless thoughts. He wanted to laugh, shout and cry. But all the while that same little voice kept calling to him. Banging out its questions with deafening power. Where was this leading? And where would it end?

She pushed the bell down hard and didn’t let go. She had already rung it twice, done a perimeter of the house, but it remained resolutely closed to her, despite the fact that it was obviously occupied. The curtains were closed and she could hear the TV playing inside.

Eventually she heard footsteps, accompanied by a volley of cursing. Emilia Garanita smiled to herself and kept her finger on the bell. Only when the door swung open did she take finally her finger off, restoring peace once more.

‘We don’t buy at the door,’ the man said, already shutting the door.

‘Do I look like I’m selling fucking dusters?’ Emilia replied.

The man hesitated, taken aback by her forceful and unrepentant response.

‘I know you,’ he said eventually, ‘you’re what’s-her-name…’

‘Emilia Garanita.’

‘Right. What do you want?’

He was clearly anxious to get back to his viewing. Emilia smiled before continuing.

‘I want a file.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You do work at the probation service, Mr Fielding?’

‘Yes and as such you should know that there is no possible way I could ever give a journalist any information. It is all confidential.’

He said the word ‘journalist’ with real distaste, as if he were somehow operating on a superior plane. Emilia loved these moments.

‘Even if she was going to save your life?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your professional life, I mean.’

Now Fielding was quiet. Could he tell what was coming?

‘Got a few friends in uniform. They told me an interesting story about a middle-aged guy getting caught on the Common engaging in lewd acts in the back of a Ford Focus.’

She let her eye drift to the Ford Focus parked on Fielding’s drive.

‘Story goes he’d picked up the girl at a bar… but she was only fifteen. Whoops! Apparently the guy begged and pleaded and eventually the officers let him off, each with £100 in their pocket. Still, they kept a record of the licence plate and a description of the dirty bastard. I’ve got their police notepad right here.’

She pretended to rummage in her bag. Now Fielding stepped outside the house, pulling the door to behind him.

‘That’s blackmail,’ he said indignantly.

‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ Emilia replied smiling. ‘Now, are you going to give me what I want or shall start writing my story?’

It was a rhetorical question. Emilia could tell from the look on his face that he was going to do exactly what she wanted.

‘Hello, Alfie, my name is Helen and I’m a police officer.’

The boy looked up from his drawing.

‘Is it ok if I sit down with you?’

The boy nodded, so Helen crouched down next to him.

‘What are you drawing?’

‘Dinosaur pirates.’

‘Cool. Is that the T-Rex?’

Alfie nodded, then said matter-of-factly:

‘He’s the biggest.’

‘I can see that. He looks scary.’

Alfie shrugged as if it were no big deal. Helen found herself smiling. The six-year-old was a cute kid who had handled the strange events of the day remarkably well. He seemed more confused than upset. Which is more than could be said for his mother. She hadn’t been told the worst yet – and she wouldn’t be until they had a body – but she was already a wreck. Family Liaison were doing their best, but she was very vocally distressed, which was starting to affect Alfie. Helen knew she needed his undivided attention.