Pop Goes the Weasel - страница 2

They were watching her every move. Hanging on her every word.

‘The body is that of a white female, aged between twenty and twenty-five. She was found by a Community Support officer yesterday morning in the boot of an abandoned car on the Greenwood estate.’

Detective Inspector Helen Grace’s voice was clear and strong, despite the tension that knotted her stomach. She was briefing the Major Incident Team on the seventh floor of Southampton Central Police Station.

‘As you can see from the pictures, her teeth were caved in, probably with a hammer, and both her hands have been cut off. She is heavily tattooed, which might help with IDing, and you should concentrate your efforts on drugs and prostitution to begin with. This looks like a gang-related killing, rather than common-or-garden murder. DS Bridges is going to lead on this one and he’ll fill you in on particular persons of interest. Tony?’

‘Thank you, Ma’am. First things first, I want to check precedents…’

As DS Bridges got into his stride, Helen slipped away. Even after all this time, she couldn’t bear being the centre of everyone’s attention, gossip and intrigue. It was nearly a year since she’d brought Marianne’s terrible killing spree to an end, but the interest in Helen was as strong as ever. Bringing in a serial killer was impressive enough, shooting your own sister to do so was something else. In the immediate aftermath, friends, colleagues, journalists and strangers had rushed to offer sympathy and support. But it was all largely fake – what they wanted were details. They wanted to open Helen up and pick over her insides – what was it like to shoot your sister? Were you abused by your father? Do you feel guilty for all those deaths? Do you feel responsible?

Helen had spent her entire adult life building a high wall around herself – even the name Helen Grace was a fiction – but thanks to Marianne that wall had been destroyed for ever. Initially Helen had been tempted to run – she’d been offered leave, a transfer, even a retirement package – but somehow she had caught hold of herself, returning to work at Southampton Central as soon as they would allow her to do so. She knew that wherever she went the eyes of the world would be on her. Better to face the examination on home turf, where for many years life had been good to her.

That was the theory, but it had proved far from easy. There were so many memories here – of Mark, of Charlie – and so many people who were willing to probe, speculate or even joke about her ordeal. Even now, months after she’d returned to work, there were times when she just had to get away.

‘Goodnight, Ma’am.’

Helen snapped to, oblivious to the desk sergeant she was walking straight past.

‘Goodnight, Harry. Hope the Saints remember how to win for you tonight.’

Her tone was bright, but the words sounded strange, as if the effort of being perky was too much for her. Hurrying outside, she picked up her Kawasaki and, opening the throttle, sped away down the West Quay Road. The sea fog that had rolled in earlier clung to the city and Helen vanished inside it.

Keeping her speed strong but steady, she glided past the traffic crawling its way to St Mary’s Stadium. Reaching the outskirts of town, she diverted onto the motorway. Force of habit made her check her mirrors, but there was no one following her. As the traffic eased, she raised her speed. Hitting 80 mph she paused for a second before pushing it to 90 mph. She never felt so at ease as when she was travelling at speed.

The towns flicked by. Winchester, then Farnborough, before eventually Aldershot loomed into view. Another quick check of the mirrors, then into the city centre. Parking her bike at the Parkway NCP, Helen sidestepped a group of drunken squaddies and hurried off, hugging the shadows as she went. Nobody knew her here, but even so she couldn’t take any chances.

She walked past the train station and before long she was in Cole Avenue, in the heart of Aldershot’s suburbia. She wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing, yet she’d felt compelled to return. Settling herself down amidst the undergrowth that flanked one side of the street, she took up her usual vantage point.