M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

Slowly her emotions had calmed and sense prevailed. There was one useful thing she could do. Though she had been taken off the case, she still had most of the case files with her and, besides, it was important that she set down her discoveries about Ella for Sanderson, Harwood and the others. If it ever came to court, every ‘i’ would have to be dotted, every ‘t’ crossed. She couldn’t afford a mistake that would rob the victims’ families of the justice they deserved. So summoning up her last vestige of resolve, Helen had headed to Southampton Central to do her duty.

The desk sergeant had thought she was on leave and was surprised to see her.

‘No rest for the wicked?’ he offered jauntily.

‘Paperwork’ was Helen’s deliberately jaded response.

He buzzed her through. She took the lift up to the seventh floor. A journey she’d done many times – but never as an outcast.

Once inside the room, she wrote up her report and left it and the case files on Harwood’s desk. She was about to leave, when a noise startled her. She was momentarily confused – Harwood and the team were out chasing leads – then surprised. It was Tony Bridges, another victim of the wreckage. They stared at each other for a second, then Helen said:

‘You’ve heard?’

‘Yes, and I’m sorry, Helen. If it had anything to do with me, I can ta-’

‘It’s nothing to do with you, Tony. It’s personal. She wants me out.’

‘She’s an idiot.’

Helen smiled.

‘Be that as it may, she’s in charge so…’

‘Sure, I just wanted to give you… her… this. It’s my report.’

‘Great minds,’ Helen said, smiling once more. ‘Leave it on her desk.’

Tony raised a rueful eyebrow and headed for Harwood’s office. As she watched him go, Helen could only think what a waste it all was. He was a talented and dedicated officer brought low by a moment of weakness. He had been stupid, but surely he deserved better than this? Melissa was a raw but artful character who’d seized an opportunity and mercilessly exploited Tony’s feelings for her own ends. It was the commonly held view now that ‘Lyra’ was a fiction. Helen was furious with herself at having been duped. How easily Melissa had pulled the wool over their eyes. On the say-so of one person, they had gone down a massive blind alley and compromised the invest-

Helen’s internal tirade ground to a halt, frozen by the thought. Because of course Melissa hadn’t been the only person who ‘knew’ Lyra. There was another person who claimed to have met this fictitious phantom. A young woman. A young woman with a baby.

Helen’s mind flew back to that interview – she pictured the young prostitute opposite her, awkwardly cradling her wriggling baby as she told them how she ‘knew’ Lyra. The girl had been monosyllabic and seemed ill-educated but now Helen saw something else in her. The shaved head and the multiple piercings had disguised her identity, but there was something in the shape of her face. Looking up at the most recent picture of Ella, which Sanderson had stuck to the board, Helen knew in an instant that the young girl – with her high cheekbones and wide, full mouth – was Ella.

She snapped out of it to find Tony staring at her. He looked concerned.

‘You ok, boss?’

Helen gazed at him for a moment, hardly daring to believe it. Then she said:

‘We’ve got her, Tony. We’ve got her.’

Helen sped through the city centre towards the north of the city. She was flagrantly breaking the speed limit, but she didn’t care. She knew how to handle the bike, could outrun any cop car and was possessed by the idea of facing their killer.

Tony had tried to stop her, but she had stopped him in his tracks:

‘You never saw me, Tony.’

What she was about to do was dangerous and broke every rule in the book. If Tony was associated with her actions in any way, he would lose his pension, service payments, everything. She couldn’t do that to him. Besides, the more people knew, the greater chance that they would get to Ella before her. And she was determined she wouldn’t let that happen.

She had no idea what she was going to do. She was just gripped by a terrible urgency, a sense of things building to a horrible climax, and she knew she had to do everything in her power to prevent further bloodshed. A baby’s life was at stake. Ella’s too. In spite of everything she’d done, in spite of the appalling horror of her crimes, Helen felt sympathy for Ella and wanted to bring her in safely.

Soon she was in Spire Street. Pulling up outside the dilapidated tenement building, she killed the engine and hopped off her bike in one fluid movement. She looked around – there were no signs of life on this forgotten street. Sliding her baton into her belt, she stepped inside the building. The stairwell was cold and lonely, decorated with the detritus left by last night’s crack smokers. The tired building was scheduled for redevelopment next year and in the interim had become home to a motley crew of squatters and junkies. They seemed to operate an open-door policy, people coming and going day and night, so it wasn’t hard to gain access to the third-floor flat. Helen had last seen Ella here four days ago, snuggled up on the dirty sofa with other prostitutes and junkies. The shared company of the afflicted.

But Ella wasn’t there now. Faced by a warrant card, the odorous swampy who ‘owned’ the flat directed her upstairs. According to him, Ella lived at the top of the house in splendid isolation – just her and her baby tucked away from the prying eyes of social services. It was not the sort of house where people asked questions – the perfect hideaway for their invisible killer.

Helen paused outside flat 9, then gently turned the handle. It was locked. Helen placed her ear against the door, straining to hear if there was movement within. Nothing. Then a faint cry. She strained to hear more. But now it was quiet once more. Pulling a credit card from her pocket, she slipped it through the crack between the door and the architrave. The latch was old and weak and within twenty seconds it slid open. Helen was in.

She closed the door silently behind her and stood stock still. Nothing. She moved slowly forward. The old floorboards protested, so she changed her route, hugging the wall.

She paused at the doorway to the kitchen. She darted her head round quickly, but it was empty. Just a dirty sink and a large cannibalized fridge, humming happily to itself.

On Helen crept towards the living room – or what passed for it. Somehow she sensed Ella would be here, but as she stepped inside, she found it was also empty. Then she heard it – that cry again.

Now fear overrode her caution and extending her baton Helen marched across the room, pushing the bedroom door roughly open. She expected an attack at any moment, but the room was bare – except for a crumpled old bed and a travel cot, in which a baby girl was stirring. Helen shot a look over her shoulder, expecting ambush, but all was still, so she hurried inside.

So this was her. The child that Ella had never asked for. But whom she had cared for nevertheless. Helen had been right to come. Placing her baton on the bed, Helen bent down and picked up the baby, who rubbed her sleepy eyes with her tiny bunched fist, as she awoke from her slumbers. The sight made Helen smile. Seeing this, the baby smiled back. Who knew what this baby had seen, what she had experienced, but she could still smile. Some innocence remained.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Helen turned to find Ella standing not ten feet away from her in the living room. Ella’s face was annoyed, rather than angry, but as soon as Helen turned, her expression changed. As she recognized Helen’s face, she dropped her shopping bag and fled. Helen waited for the front door to slam, but instead she heard a drawer opening and shutting noisily. Seconds later, Ella returned, a large butcher’s knife in her hand.