M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

‘Can I show you something special?’

Alfie looked up. Helen slipped her warrant card onto the table.

‘This is my police badge. Do you know what a police officer is?’

‘You catch burglarers.’

‘That’s right,’ Helen said, suppressing a smile, ‘And do you know what this is?’

She slid her police radio onto the table.

‘Cool,’ he said, immediately picking it up.

‘Press that button there,’ Helen suggested. Alfie did so and got a good blast of static for his trouble. He seemed pleased. As he toyed with it, Helen continued:

‘Would you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

The boy nodded without looking up.

‘I want you to know that you are not in trouble at all. It’s just that the lady with the box – the lady you saw -well, she might have taken something that didn’t belong to her. So I need to find out who she is. Did she talk to you?’

Alfie shook his head.

‘Did she say anything at all?’

Another shake.

‘Did you see her face?’

A nod this time. Helen hesitated, then pulled a photocopy of the e-fit from her bag.

‘Was this the lady you saw?’

She showed him the picture.

He looked up from the radio, took in the picture, then shrugged and returned his attention to the radio. Helen put a hand on his, gently stopping him. He looked up.

‘It’s really important, Alfie. Could you take another look at the picture for me, please?’

Alfie obliged with good grace, as if he were getting another go in a game. This time he looked at it more carefully. There was a long pause then he half nodded.

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

‘She was wearing a hat, it covered her face a bit.’

‘Like a baseball cap?’

Alfie nodded. Helen sat back on her haunches. They could ask him some more questions – about her height and build – but it would be hard to get a positive ID off him. He was only six, after all.

‘What did she do?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘What did she take?’

Helen shot a look at Alfie’s mum, then lowered her voice.

‘Something very special.’

Helen looked at his face so full of curiosity. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that he would never see his daddy again.

Helen was so engrossed in her chat with Charlie that she didn’t hear Harwood coming. An increasingly frustrated Charlie had spent days trying to run PussyKing’s true identity to ground – he was Bitchfest’s principal contributor and should have been easy to find. But because he never used a home or office computer and was adept at creating fake addresses via encrypted IPs, PussyKing remained forever just out of reach. Helen and Charlie were debating their next move, when:

‘Could I have a word, Helen?’

It was said with a smile, but without warmth. This was a public summons in front of the team and was designed to send out a message. What that message was Helen wasn’t yet clear about.

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day,’ Harwood continued once they were in her office. ‘I know events are moving fast but I will not tolerate this breakdown in communication. Is that clear?’

‘Yes. Ma’am.’

‘This only works if every link in the chain is connected, right?’

Helen nodded but privately wanted to tell her to blow it out her arse.

‘So what’s been going on?’ Harwood continued.

Helen brought her up to speed with the developments in the hunt for Lyra Campbell, the work being done at the old cinema and the latest killing.

‘No body yet but we believe the victim is Simon Booker, former paratrooper and veteran of Afghanistan.’

‘A war hero. Bloody hell.’

Helen sensed it was the possible headlines that were upsetting Harwood, not the man’s fate. She concluded her briefing, then moved to excuse herself, but Harwood stopped her in her tracks.

‘I had lunch with the police commissioner today.’

Helen said nothing. Was this another front opening up?

‘He’s very worried. The investigation is already massively over budget. The cost of surveillance alone is huge and has yielded nothing. Then there’s the extra uniforms, the overtime, the auxiliary SOC team and the dogs, and to what end? What concrete progress have we made?’

‘It’s a tough investigation, Ma’am. She’s a clever and a resourceful kill-’

‘All we’ve had for our money is a slew of negative headlines, which is why the commissioner has asked for an internal review of the investigation.’

So this was a new front. Had he asked or had Harwood led him to it? Helen’s blood boiled, but she said nothing.

‘I know you have experience in this area and that the team are – by and large – loyal to you, but your methods are irregular and costly -’

‘With the greatest of respect, four people are dead -’

‘Three.’

‘That’s fucking semantics. We all know Booker’s dead.’

‘It may be semantics, Inspector, but it says so much about you. You rush to judgement. Right from the off you’ve wanted this to be about Helen Grace chasing another serial killer. That’s the only narrative you know, isn’t it? Well, I think it’s misguided, unprofessional and dangerous. We have budgets, protocols and targets that cannot be ridden over roughshod.’

‘And what’s your target, Ceri? Chief Super? Chief Constable? Police Commissioner?’

‘Watch your tongue, Inspector.’

‘I’ve met people like you before. Never do the work, but always on hand to take the glory.’

Harwood leaned back in her chair. She was clearly livid but refused to show it.

‘Tread very carefully, DI Grace. And consider this an official warning. You’re a gnat’s breath away from getting taken off this investigation. Bring her in or step aside. Is that clear?’

Helen left soon after. One thing was crystal clear. As long as Harwood was around, she was on borrowed time.

It was getting dark now, but that would only add atmosphere to the composition. The low light, the grainy image would help capture the feel Emilia was going for. By rights she should have asked for one of their regular snappers to come with her, but she knew how to operate a digital SLR as well as the next man and there was no way she was letting anybody else in on this story until she had the whole package.

Adrian Fielding had been remarkably helpful, once he’d realized Emilia would happily destroy his career if she didn’t get what she wanted. The file on Robert Stonehill began in undramatic fashion, a pitiful list of his recent minor misdemeanours, but got much more interesting once Emilia discovered he’d been adopted. There were scant details of his biological mother in the main file, but it was obvious enough that he’d been born in a prison hospital. As soon as she’d discovered this Emilia knew who he was – Helen Grace had only truly cared for one person – but being a good journalist she’d cross-referenced Robert’s age with the date of Marianne’s arrest. After that it was a short step to Marianne’s arrest sheet and the jigsaw was complete.

Emilia could barely keep her hand still as she raised the camera. The boy had been sent out to buy milk and was waiting impatiently in the queue. Snap, snap, snap. The detail wasn’t brilliant, but they looked snatched and dangerous. Emilia waited some more, watching as Robert paid. Now he was leaving the shop. Emilia raised the camera again. As if choreographed, he paused as he exited, casting his eyes up to the heavens as rain began to spit. The sodium glare from the street lamp caught his face, rendering him ghostly and unnatural. Snap, snap, snap. Then he pulled his hoody up and looked almost straight at her. He couldn’t see her hidden in the gloom but she could see him. Snap, snap, snap. The young man born of violence caught on the darkened streets wearing a hoody – the uniform of violent and disillusioned thugs the country over. Perfect.