Pop Goes the Weasel: DI Helen Grace 2 (Dci Helen Grace 2) Page 6

  ‘There is plenty of evidence of STDs. Mr Matthews certainly suffered from gonorrhoea – recently, I would suggest. There’s also evidence of Mycoplasma genitalium, which sounds weird but actually is very common, and possibly pubic lice too. I wish I’d been a member of his church – sounds like a riot.’

  He walked off to clean up. Helen let this latest development settle – the first little steer in an otherwise bewildering murder.

  Back at Southampton Central, Helen continued her dissection of Alan Matthews. The team had assembled in the incident room and were pooling what they’d learned.

  ‘Forensics have pretty much come up with a complete blank,’ Tony Bridges announced bleakly. ‘They’ve been all over the car, but it hadn’t been moved or touched – only DNA there was of the Matthews family. As to the house, there are so many DNA traces at the murder scene, it’s easier to pinpoint who hasn’t been there. Semen, saliva, blood, skin cells, we’ve got the lot. This house was used regularly by sex workers and their clients, as well as by drug users. We’ll check them all out, see if there’s any interesting matches, but there’s nothing there that would be useful in court.’

  ‘Why use a house with such heavy footfall? Wouldn’t they have been scared of being discovered?’ interjected DC Sanderson.

  ‘It’s possible they weren’t aware of how frequently it was used,’ countered Tony, ‘though given the level of care and planning that went into this murder, that seems unlikely. In many ways it was a perfect location to choose – the back door was solid and bolted from the inside and the windows were barred, meaning the front door was the only easy means of access. The latch broke long ago, but there was still a solid bolt on the inside. Easy enough for the killer to secure the place once the victim was incapacitated.’

  ‘It still seems risky to me …’ Sanderson responded, not keen to let her point go.

  ‘It was,’ said Helen, taking the baton. ‘Which suggests what? That he or she expected the body to be found quickly perhaps? Or maybe the location was chosen simply to put the victim at his ease. There are no signs that Alan Matthews was dragged into that house against his will. Meaning this was an ambush. He had to be lured there. He suffered from STDs of a type indicating widespread sexual activity, so perhaps he spotted a hooker he liked or a pimp he knew, then followed them inside and bam! Maybe the house was chosen because they knew he’d feel at ease –’

  ‘We’ve had a good look at his computer,’ DC McAndrew broke in, ‘and there is plenty of evidence that Matthews had an unhealthy interest in pornography and prostitutes. He hasn’t been particularly careful at concealing his internet history, so we can see that he regularly visited porn sites – a lot of the free ones, but also some more extreme pay-per-view set-ups. He was also active in chat rooms and on message boards. We’re still looking into this but it’s basically a lot of sad bastards exchanging anecdotes about their experiences with various prostitutes, marking them out of ten for size of their boobs, what they’d do and so forth –’

  ‘They’re reviewing their hookers?’ Helen queried, mildly incredulous.

  ‘Basically. It’s a bit like TripAdvisor but for prostitutes. He also visited a lot of escort sites,’ McAndrew continued. ‘Though there’s no evidence yet that he actually used their services. Which might suggest that his tastes were a little more … earthy –’

  ‘Let’s focus,’ Helen interrupted. ‘We’re not here to judge Alan Matthews, we just want to find his killer. Whatever else we may think about him, he is a husband and a father and we need to find the person responsible.’

  Before they kill again. She had almost said it, but choked it down at the last minute.

  ‘Let’s look into where he got the money to pay for his hobby. The more exotic his practices the more money he’d need. The Matthews family don’t own their own house, there are four kids to support and Alan is the only breadwinner. He clearly used prostitutes and pay-per-view porn a lot, so how’s he doing it? Did he owe money to a pimp? Is this what this is about?’

  For once, there was no comeback from the team – they were all staring over her head to the doorway of the incident room. Helen turned quickly to see a very nervous-looking uniform hovering. From the look on his face, she knew what was coming. Still it sent a shiver through her when he finally said:

  ‘They’ve found another body, Ma’am.’

  21

  She was back home, safe and sound. Donning latex gloves, she began to investigate her haul. £200 in cash – she put that straight into her purse, then moved on to the credit cards. Snip, snip, snip, her scissors cut through them deftly, but to make doubly sure she gave them ten minutes on a tray under the grill. It was hard to take your eyes off them as they bubbled into a plasticky pulp – someone’s life literally melting away.

  Then to the driving licence. She hesitated to look at the name, focusing on the photo instead. Was she scared to see whose life she’d destroyed or was she deliberately holding off the discovery, teasing out every last moment of suspense?

  She took a peek. Christopher Reid. Beneath his name, his home address. Her eyes rested on this, calculating. Then she flicked through the rest of the contents of his wallet – his business cards, loyalty cards and dry-cleaning receipts. A thoroughly mundane life.

  Satisfied, she rose. Time was of the essence, she would have to move quickly. She opened up the old stove that was burning nicely now, stoked by a fresh log. She tossed his wallet in and watched it burn. Stripping quickly she shoved her blood-stained clothes in on top of it. The fire roared and she had to step back to avoid getting burnt.

  She suddenly felt foolish, standing naked in the room, flecks of blood still on her face and hair. Hurrying to the shower, she cleansed herself, then dressed again. There would be time to scrub the bath and floors properly later, she must keep on going.

  Opening the fridge, she grabbed the half-bottle of Lucozade from the shelf and drank it down in one gulp. A half-eaten pie, a couple of chicken nuggets, a Müller Light; she wolfed them down now, feeling suddenly ravenous and light-headed. Sated, she paused. There on the top shelf was her prize. A human heart sitting snug in a Tupperware box.

  She took it out and put it down on the kitchen table. Picking up the box, tape and scissors, she set to work.

  She had a delivery to make.

  22

  The doorbell made her jump. Jessica Reid rose quickly, abandoning the task of feeding her eighteen-month-old daughter and hurrying to the front door. When she’d woken late to find Chris’s half of the bed empty, she’d been confused. When she’d found that both he and the car were missing, with no note by way of explanation, she’d become seriously concerned. Where was he?

  She’d held off calling the police, hoping that there was a simple explanation for his absence. And now she hurried to the door, imagining her apologetic husband on the other side. But it was only the postman with a letter that had to be signed for.

  Flinging it on the table, she returned to Sally, who was demanding more apple purée. She spooned the mush in dutifully but her mind was elsewhere. Things had been a bit strained between them recently – ever since her discovery – but he was not a callous man. He wouldn’t just leave her in the dark like this. Could he have left her? Walked out on them? She shook the thought away. It was impossible – all his stuff was here and, besides, he adored Sally and would never abandon her.

  He had been at home when she went to sleep last night. He had always stayed up later than her, watching action movies that he knew she wouldn’t care for and had become adept at slipping into bed without waking her. Had he even been to bed last night? His pyjamas were neatly folded under his pillow, where she’d put them yesterday afternoon, so she presumed not.

  He must have gone out. To work? No, he hated work and had been coasting for months – a sudden burst of enthusiasm seemed unlikely. Would he have gone to his mother’s or a friend’s on some emergency? No, this didn’t wash either. He’d have drafted her in to help at the first si
gn of trouble.

  So where was he? She was probably over-reacting, the tension that had characterized their marriage recently no doubt prompting her to imagine dire scenarios that were patently ridiculous. He was fine. Of course he was.

  Despite the fear and uncertainty that gripped her, despite all the problems that they’d had recently, Jessica was suddenly sure of one thing. She really wanted their marriage to work, she really wanted Christopher. She knew in that moment that she loved her husband with all her heart.

  23

  The sun refused to rise. A thick blanket of cloud hung over Eling Great Marsh, framing the figures crawling over it. A dozen forensic officers in crime scene suits were on their hands and knees, scrabbling over the surface of this forgotten outpost, searching each blade of grass for clues.

  As Helen surveyed the scene, her mind went back to Marianne. Different locations, different circumstances, but the same awful feeling. A brutal, senseless murder. A man dead in a ditch, his beating heart ripped from him. A concerned wife out there somewhere, waiting and hoping for his safe return … Helen closed her eyes and tried to picture a world in which this wasn’t happening. The salty tang of the marsh momentarily took her away to happier times, to family holidays on the Isle of Sheppey. Brief interludes of joy amidst the darkness. Helen snapped her eyes open, irritated with herself for indulging in maudlin reverie when there was work to do.

  As soon as she’d heard the news, Helen had pulled everyone off what they were doing. Every CID officer, every forensic specialist, every spare uniform, had been ordered to this godforsaken sod of wet grass. It would alert the press, but that couldn’t be helped. Helen knew they were dealing with something – someone – extraordinary and she was determined to throw everything at it.

  They were still examining the car, but on the ground they’d found their first decent clues. The victim’s body had left an impression on the soft ground as it had been dragged from car to ditch, as had the heels of the person dragging him. The indentations were deep and unless a man was deliberately throwing them off the scent by killing people in six-inch heels, an obvious explanation suggested itself.

  A prostitute was killing her punters. Alan Matthews, a serial user of prostitutes, had been killed and mutilated. Twenty-four hours later, another man was killed on a remote promontory that was notorious for dogging and prostitution. It was all pointing one way and yet already alarm bells were ringing. Prostitutes were the victims not the killers, well before Jack the Ripper and long afterwards. Aileen Wournos bucked the trend, but that was America. Could something like that happen here?

  ‘We’ve got a name, Ma’am.’

  DC Sanderson was hurrying over, exaggeratedly avoiding treading on anything significant.

  ‘The car is owned by a Christopher Reid. He lives in Woolston with a Jessica Reid and daughter, Sally Reid.’

  ‘How old is the daughter?’

  ‘She’s a baby,’ Sanderson replied, wrong-footed by the question. ‘Eighteen months, I think.’

  Helen’s heart sank further. This was her duty now – to inform the living of the dead. If the victim was Christopher Reid, she hoped against hope that he had been brought here against his will. She knew this was unlikely, but still the idea that a guy with a young wife and child would abandon them for a sweaty tussle in a car with a prostitute seemed ridiculous to Helen. Could there have been another reason why he was lured here?

  ‘See if you can get a picture of Christopher Reid that we can compare with our victim. If this is Christopher we need to tell his family before the press do it for us.’

  Sanderson hurried off to do Helen’s bidding. Helen’s gaze flitted beyond her to the police tape fluttering in the breeze. As yet they had avoided detection, the scene undisturbed by press. Helen was surprised, particularly by the absence of Emilia Garanita. She seemed to have half the uniformed officers in her pocket and was always excited by a juicy murder. But not in this case. Helen afforded herself a small smile – Emilia must be losing her touch.

  24

  ‘I had my head ripped off the last time I was in here.’

  Emilia Garanita leaned back in her chair, enjoying the rare luxury of being in the nerve centre of Southampton Central. It wasn’t often you were personally summoned to the Detective Superintendent’s office.

  ‘I don’t think I was Detective Superintendent Whittaker’s favourite person. How is he doing these days?’ she continued, failing to hide the gleeful malice that lay behind her enquiry.

  ‘You’ll find I’m a rather different character,’ Ceri Harwood responded. ‘In fact that’s why I asked you to come here.’

  ‘A girl-to-girl chat?’

  ‘I wanted to put things on a different footing. I know in the past the relationship between the press and some of my officers has been combustible. And that you have often felt cut out of things. That doesn’t help anyone, so I wanted to tell you face to face that things will be different now. We can help each other to help ourselves.’

  Emilia said nothing, trying to work out if she was for real. New bosses always said this when they arrived, then got on with the job of frustrating the local press at every turn.

  ‘How different?’ she demanded.

  ‘I want to keep you informed of major developments and harness your reach to help us further our investigations. Starting with the Empress Road murder.’

  Emilia raised an eyebrow – so this wasn’t going to be flannel after all.

  ‘I’ll have a name for you soon. And you will be given all pertinent details of the crime. Plus we are setting up a dedicated hotline, which I would like you to major on in your next edition. It’s imperative that we get any potential witnesses to come forward as soon as possible.’

  ‘What’s so special about this murder?’

  Harwood paused a moment before answering.

  ‘It was a particularly brutal killing. The person who did this is highly dangerous, possibly with mental health problems. As yet we don’t have a physical description, which is why we need your eyes and ears. It could make all the difference, Emilia.’

  Harwood smiled as she said her name, appearing every inch the confidential friend.

  ‘Have you spoken to DI Grace about this?’ Emilia countered.

  ‘DI Grace is on board. She knows we’re running a different ship now.’

  ‘No more diversions? No more lies?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Harwood replied, her broad smile breaking out once again. ‘I’ve got a feeling you and I can do business together, Emilia. I do hope I won’t be disappointed.’

  The meeting was over. Emilia rose without having to be asked, impressed by what she’d seen. Harwood was a smart operator and seemed to have Grace’s measure. It felt like a sea change and perhaps it was.

  Emilia had the distinct impression that she was going to have fun with this one.

  25

  ‘So what are we looking at?’

  DC Fortune yawned as he spoke, the noise echoing round the MIT office. He and Charlie were an island in the empty room, two lonely figures surrounded by a mass of papers.

  ‘Well, Brookmire Health and Wellbeing Centre is obviously a knocking shop, but it’s a classy one,’ Charlie replied. ‘I’ve never seen one that’s so well run and discreet before. It has a roster of attractive, experienced girls, all of whom are regularly health-checked. You can book an appointment online and they already have some sort of link-up with the cruise companies. They send shuttle buses down there to pick up clients the minute the boats come in. They describe the services they offer as holistic health services, but here’s the real beauty. If you pay with a credit card, it appears on your statement as stationery. So the wife will never find out and even better you can put it through on expenses. You don’t even have to pay for the girls yourself.’

  ‘And you found all this out from one interview?’ replied Fortune, impressed in spite of himself.

  ‘If you know the questions to ask, people can be surprisingly helpful.’


  Charlie couldn’t help a note of smugness – the smugness of superior experience – creeping into her voice.

  ‘Have you got anywhere on the list I gave you?’

  Edina, Charlie’s reluctant snitch at Brookmire, had furnished her with the names of all the girls currently working there.

  ‘Getting there. A lot of them have been bussed straight from Poland via the docks, some are students from the local universities, but several others – including our victim – seem to have been poached off the streets.’

  ‘Tarted up and relaunched at Brookmire?’

  ‘Why not? It’s safer, and by the look of Alexia’s flat well paid too.’

  ‘Edina suggested that Alexia was walking the streets for the Campbell family before joining Brookmire. Any of the other girls?’

  ‘Yup, the Campbells had lost a few to Brookmire. Anderson’s lot too.’

  Charlie had a sinking feeling. Prostitution wars were never pretty and it was always the girls that suffered, not the people who ran them.

  ‘So did the Campbells kill Alexia to make a point?’

  ‘Makes sense. Not that we can prove it.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  DC Fortune had been waiting for this, keeping his trump card up his sleeve until the appropriate moment.

  ‘Well, I chased Brookmire through Companies House and HMRC. Took a bit of doing, lots of shell companies and foreign-based holdings, but in the end I traced it back to Top Line Management, an “events company” owned by a certain Sandra McEwan.’

  Charlie should have known. Sandra McEwan – or Lady Macbeth as she was affectionately known – had been involved in prostitution and racketeering in Southampton for over thirty years – ever since she’d allegedly killed her own husband to take over his crime empire. She was driven and fearless – she’d already survived three stabbings – but she was also smart and imaginative. Had she taken prostitution to the next stage with Brookmire, provoking her rivals into a deadly response?