Pop Goes the Weasel - [12]
‘Who would do such a thing?’ For the first time, Eileen looked Helen in the eye. Her face was a picture of bewilderment.
‘Who would do such a thing?’ she repeated. ‘Who could…’
Her words petered out as she gestured towards the kitchen, where a couple of forensics officers were photographing the heart prior to bagging it.
‘We don’t know,’ Helen replied, ‘But we’re going to find out. Can you tell me where your husband was last night?’
‘He was where he always is on Tuesday nights. Helping out at the soup kitchen on Southbrook Road.’
Tony scribbled a note in his notebook.
‘So this is a regular commitment?’
‘Yes, Alan is very active in the church – we both are – and our faith puts great emphasis on helping those less fortunate than ourselves.’
Eileen caught herself referring to her husband in the present tense. Once again the sudden awfulness of it all overwhelmed her. He couldn’t be dead, could he? A sound from upstairs made her jump. But it wasn’t Alan padding around his study, it was those other officers leafing through his things, removing his computer, robbing the house of his presence.
‘Is there any reason why he would have been in the Bevois Valley area last night? Empress Road in particular.’
‘No. He would have been at Southbrook Road from 8 p.m. until… well, until they ran out of soup. There are always too many people for their limited resources, but they do their best. Why?’
Eileen didn’t want to know the answer but felt compelled to ask.
‘Alan was found in a derelict house on the Empress Road industrial estate.’
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
Helen said nothing.
‘If he was attacked by one of the people at the soup kitchen, surely they wouldn’t have dragged him halfway across Southampton…’
‘His car was found a stone’s throw from the house. It was neatly parked and had been locked with the key fob. Is there any reason why he might have gone there of his own free will?’
Eileen eyed her – what was she getting at?
‘Asking hard questions is part of my job, Eileen. I need to ask them if we’re to get to the truth of what happened. Empress Road is often used by prostitutes to pick up clients and occasionally by drug dealers to peddle drugs. To your knowledge has Alan ever used prostitutes or taken drugs?’
Eileen was too stunned to answer for a second, then without warning she exploded:
‘Have you not been listening to a word I’ve been saying? We are a religious family. Alan is a church elder.’
She said each word slowly, enunciating every syllable as if talking to someone simple.
‘He was a good man who cared about others. He had a sense of his mission in life. If he came into contact with prostitutes or drug dealers it was purely to help them. He would never use prostitutes in that way.’
Helen was about to interject, but Eileen wasn’t finished.
‘Something awful happened last night. A kind, honourable man offered to help someone and they robbed and killed him in return. So instead of insinuating these… disgusting things, why don’t you get out of my house and find the man who did this to him?’
And now the tears did come. Eileen pulled herself up off the sofa abruptly and ran from the room – she wouldn’t cry in front of these people, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Heading into the bedroom, she threw herself on the bed she’d shared with her husband for thirty years and cried her heart out.
13
The man crept up the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky board on the fifth step.
Crossing the landing, he avoided Sally’s room and headed straight to his wife’s bedroom. Strange how he always thought of it as her room. A moment’s hesitation, then he placed his fingers on the wooden door and pushed it open. It protested loudly, the hinges groaning as the door swung round.
The man held his breath.
But there was no sound, no sense that he’d disturbed her. So quietly he stepped inside.
She was fast asleep. For a moment a pulse of love shot through him, swiftly followed by a spasm of shame. She looked so innocent and peaceful lying there. So happy. How had it come to this?
He walked out quickly, heading for the stairs. Dwelling on it would only weaken his resolve. Now was the time, so there was no point hesitating. Opening the front door soundlessly, he shot one more cautious glance upstairs, then slipped out into the night.
14
The sign was discreet – if you didn’t know it was there, you’d miss it.
Brookmire Health and Wellbeing. Strange that a commercial enterprise should be so bashful about announcing its presence. Charlie pressed the buzzer – it was swiftly answered.
‘Police,’ Charlie shouted, struggling to be heard above the traffic. There was a pause, longer perhaps than was necessary, then she was buzzed in. Already Charlie had the feeling she wasn’t welcome.
Charlie climbed the stairs to the top floor. The smile that greeted her was wide, but fake. A neat, attractive young woman in a crisp white uniform, hair tied neatly back in a ponytail, asked how she could be of assistance – clearly intending to be no help at all. Charlie said nothing, casing the place – it looked like an upmarket Champneys and had that perfumed smell that all spas have. Eventually Charlie’s eyes returned to the receptionist, whose name badge revealed she was called Edina. Her accent was Polish.
