M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

He knew where. Of course he did. He’d tried for so long to tell himself that his life with Nicola was the norm. That it was ok. He often told enquiring friends that he had married for life and that if these were the cards that they’d been dealt, then that was fine by him. But it wasn’t and never had been. Not because he wanted more, but because Nicola had been so much more.

She had opened up everything for him. Whereas he came from a family of nomadic low achievers, she came from a family that was successful, cultured and driven. Whatever she did – whether in work or play – she did with utter determination, a will to succeed and a real sense of fun. And he missed her. He really, really missed her. Romantically she was impulsive and surprising, sexually she had been imaginative and mischievous, and emotionally she was always so giving. She could give him nothing of that now, and though he berated himself for thinking she was turning into his friend, that was the bitter truth of it. She would never be a burden, but she might be something less than his wife.

This, he had always thought, was the real betrayal. But what about Melissa then? This was something new, something dangerous. It was crazy but he already had feelings for her. It couldn’t be love because he’d only just met her, but it felt like something similar. Having been starved of love and affection for so long, he was now overdosing on it.

And he didn’t want to stop.

Helen stood stock still, barely able to breathe.

The first signs of trouble had come with repeated calls to Helen’s mobile from Southampton Central’s media liaison unit, flagging repeated attempts by the Mail to get access to Helen. Then the same again from Hampshire Police HQ and this time it was the editor of the Mail who had called. There was confusion all round – media liaison had assumed it was to do with their current investigation into the killings in Southampton, but actually they wanted to talk to Helen about someone called Robert Stonehill.

At the first mention of his name, Helen had switched off her phone and raced back to the nick. Once there she had demanded sight of tomorrow’s front pages. Most led on the ongoing hostage crisis in Algeria, but the Mail had gone for something different. ‘Son of a Monster’ splashed across the front page and beneath it a grainy, sinister-looking picture of Robert, shot from a distance on a long lens. Marianne’s police mugshot leered out underneath – the details of her crimes rehashed with relish.

Dropping the paper, Helen sprinted from the media suite, racing down the stairs and out to her bike. As she raced to the outskirts of the city, one question kept swirling round and round her head. How? How had they found out? Emilia must be involved somehow but Helen hadn’t told anyone about Robert, so unless he had… No, it didn’t make any sense. When had Emilia suddenly become omniscient, able to penetrate the most secret chambers of Helen’s life?

All she wanted to do was find Robert and comfort him. Protect him. But as she approached Cole Avenue, she could already see the press pack assembling. A TV crew had just pulled up and there was a growing crowd of hacks ringing the doorbell, demanding an interview. Helen’s first instinct was to barrel through them to find Robert, but wisdom prevailed and she stayed where she was. Her presence would only inflame the story and the Stonehill family had enough to deal with already.

How could she help him? How could she stop the shit storm that she had brought crashing down on this innocent young man? This was her fault and she cursed herself bitterly for her weakness in ever contacting Robert. He had been happy. He had been ignorant. And now this.

In trying to save him, she had damned him.

She was splayed out on the ground, lifeless and pliable, her arms snaking out across the ground in capitulation. She was his now and he took his fill. He didn’t bother to wear a condom. In a few hours he would be on his way to Angola aboard the PZR Slazak . By the time they found her, he would be long gone. He always made good use of his shore leave and this time had been no exception.

It had taken him a while to gather himself after he’d strangled her. It always did. The adrenalin raged through him – his heart beating as if it were going to burst – and stars danced in front of his eyes. He was breathless and exhausted even in his triumph. The cuts on his face stung sharply and his senses were supercharged – every drip of water sounded like an approaching footstep, every blast of wind like a shrieking woman. But there was no one else here. It was just him and his prey.

She was just like all the others. Sinful, dirty and cheap. How many had he killed now? Seven? Eight? And how many had fought back – really fought back? None. This one had been tougher than most but like all the others she knew . She knew that she was fallen – that she had given away any chance of salvation thanks to her own depravity – and that’s why they were happy when he relieved them of their suffering. Did they know or care that they were going straight to Hell?

He shuddered to a finish. Closing his eyes, he savoured the moment. The tension that had been building up within him week upon week was already starting to dissipate. Soon he would feel that all-pervading calm that was so rare but so precious to him.

He opened his eyes, hoping to indulge himself with one last look at her bloodless face. But as soon as he did so, he froze.

Her eyes were open. And she was looking straight at him.

Next to her was her bag. And in her right hand was a very large knife.

‘Gówno!’

The knife punctured his face with a sickening crunch. He blacked out and within less than a minute Wojciech Adamik was dead.

She was on to him in a flash. As she put her key in the lock, she felt him coming up fast behind her. Spinning, she grabbed the outstretched arm, swinging her attacker hard into the wall, whilst raising the key in her hand to eye level. She could blind her assailant in a second if she had to.

It was Jake. Breathless, panting, Helen dropped her arm to her side.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Jake could hardly speak, winded by his collision with the hard brick wall, but eventually he said:

‘Waiting for you.’

‘Why couldn’t you ring like any normal person? Or wait downstairs?’

‘I’ve tried ringing you, Helen. You know I have – I’ve left… what… five, six messages? You’ve not responded to any of them.’

His raised voice echoed round the stairwell of the building. Downstairs, Jason had just crashed through the front door, with another young nurse in tow, so Helen quickly slipped the key in the lock and pushed Jake inside her flat.

‘I was worried. I thought something might have happened to you. Then I thought I must have done something wrong. What’s going on?’

Jake was now in her front room, surrounded by her books and journals. It felt profoundly odd to have him in her space, the context somehow all wrong.

‘Emilia Garanita knows about us. She knows what I come to you for and she is threatening to expose me in the press.’

Jake looked stunned, but Helen had to ask the question anyway.

‘Did you tell her?’

‘No, of course not. A hundred times, no.’