Pop Goes the Weasel - [11]
‘The derelict houses on this street are used by prostitutes and junkies on a daily basis, so why was this man there? Was he a punter who refused to pay? Was he a pimp who tried to rip off a client? Or a supplier who’d short-changed his dealers? The level of savagery in this attack denotes real anger or the desire to make a very public statement. This is not a crime of passion. Our killer was well prepared – with nylon cords, duct tape, a weapon – and they took their time. Forensics will confirm this later, but it looks like the victim bled to death, given the level of blood saturation on the body and floor. The killer didn’t panic, didn’t run. They had no fear of detection, calmly going about their business, cutting the victim open before…’
Helen paused momentarily, before completing her sentence:
‘… before removing his heart.’
One of the data processors was beginning to look a little green, so Helen pressed on.
‘It looks to me like an ambush. Like punishment. But what for? Is this part of a turf war? A warning to a rival gang? Did the victim owe someone money? Was it robbery? Hookers and pimps have tortured their punters for PIN numbers and got carried away before. Or is it something else?’
It was the something else that Helen was afraid of. Was the heart some sort of trophy? Helen batted the thought away and returned to the briefing. There was no point getting ahead of herself, imagining crazy things that might have a violently mundane explanation.
‘We need to cast our net as wide as possible. Prostitution, gang crime, drugs, criminal grudges. It’s highly likely the killer or killers will give themselves away in the next twenty-four hours. They may be shitting themselves or they may be exhilarated – it’s hard to behave calmly after doing something like this. So eyes and ears open – any sources, any leads. From now on this case is your top priority. Everything else can be handled by others.’
Which everyone knew meant Charlie. Helen hadn’t seen her yet, but their reunion wouldn’t be long in coming. Helen had resolved to be polite and formal, as was her way when nervous, but would she be able to carry it off? In the past her mask had been impenetrable, but not now. Too much had happened, too much of her past had been exposed for people to buy that persona any more.
The room had emptied, as officers rushed off to cancel plans, assuage loved ones and grab some food in expectation of a long night ahead. So Helen was standing alone, wrapped up in her own thoughts, when Tony Bridges hurried back in.
‘Looks like we’ve found our man.’
Helen snapped out of her reverie.
‘Front desk took a call from a highly distressed woman who’d just had a human heart left on her doorstep. Her husband didn’t come home last night.’
‘Name?’
‘Alan Matthews. Married, father of four, lives in Banister Park. He’s a businessman, charity fundraiser and an active member of the local Baptist church.’
Tony had tried to say the last bit without wincing, but he’d failed. Helen closed her eyes, aware that the next few hours would be deeply unpleasant for everyone concerned. A family man had died a grim death in a known prostitutes’ haunt – there was no nice way to say that. But experience had taught her that prevaricating never helped, so picking up her bag she nodded at Tony to follow her.
‘Let’s get this over with.’
12
Eileen Matthews was holding it together, but only just. She sat erect on the plump sofa, her eyes fixed on the policewoman as she described the awful events of the last few hours. The Detective Inspector was flanked by a male officer, Tony, and a Family Liaison officer whose name she’d already forgotten – but Eileen had eyes only for the Inspector.
The twins were now safely installed with friends. This was the right thing to do, but Eileen was already regretting it. What must they be thinking and feeling? She had to be here, answering questions, but every instinct told her to run from this room, find her boys, hug them tight and never let them go. Nevertheless she stayed where she was, pinned down by the policewoman’s questions, paralysed by her experiences.
‘Is this your husband?’
Helen handed Eileen a close-up of the victim’s face. She took one look at it, then dropped her eyes to the floor.
‘Yes.’
Her answer was muted, lifeless. Shock still gripped her, keeping tears at bay. Her brain was struggling to process these strange events.
‘Is he…?’ she managed.
‘Yes, I’m afraid he is. And I’m very sorry for your loss.’
Eileen nodded as if Helen had confirmed something obvious, something mundane, but she was only half listening. She wanted to push this whole thing away, pretend none of it was happening. Her gaze was fixed on the many family photos that plastered the sitting room wall – scenes of happy family life.
‘Is there someone we can call to be with you?’
‘How did he die?’ Eileen replied, ignoring Helen’s question.
‘We’re not sure yet. But you should know straightaway that this wasn’t an accident. Or suicide. This is a murder enquiry, Eileen.’
Another hammer blow.
