Pop Goes the Weasel - [14]

‘Hello, Charlie,’ Helen said. Not exactly inspired, but it would have to do.

‘Boss.’

‘How’s your first day been?’

‘Good. It’s been good.’

‘Good.’

Silence. Mercifully Tony leapt to Helen’s aid:

‘Nicked anyone yet?’

Charlie laughed and shook her head.

‘You’re losing your touch, girl,’ Tony continued. ‘Sanderson, you owe me a fiver.’

The team laughed and slowly they crowded round, patting Charlie on the back, buying her drinks, peppering her with questions. Helen did her best to join in – asking after Steve, her parents – but her heart wasn’t in it. Seizing a suitable moment, she nipped off to the toilets. She needed solitude.

She entered the cubicle and sat down. She felt light-headed and rested her head in her hands. Her temples throbbed, her throat was dry. Charlie had looked surprisingly well – nothing like the broken woman who’d stumbled free from her terrible captivity – but seeing her had been harder than Helen had anticipated. Without her around as a reminder, Helen had settled back into life at the station. With Tony promoted to DS and new blood introduced it had almost been like engaging with a new team. Charlie’s return took her straight back to that time, reminding her of all that she’d lost.

Helen exited the cubicle and gave her hands a long, thorough clean. In the background a toilet flushed and a cubicle door opened. Helen flicked a glance into the mirror and her face fell.

Walking towards her was Emilia Garanita, Chief Crime Reporter for the Southampton Evening News.

‘Fancy meeting you here,’ said Emilia, smiling the broadest of grins.

‘I would have thought this was your natural habitat, Emilia.’

It was cheap, but Helen couldn’t resist. She disliked this woman both professionally and personally. The fact that she had suffered – one side of Emilia’s face was still heavily disfigured following a historic acid attack – cut no ice with Helen. Everyone suffered – it didn’t have to make you a merciless shit.

Emilia’s smile didn’t waver; she liked duelling, as Helen knew to her cost.

‘I was rather hoping we’d run into each other, Inspector,’ she continued. Helen wondered if the stress on the last word was Emilia’s way of emphasizing how Helen’s career had stalled. ‘I hear you had yourself a nasty little murder on the Empress Road.’

Helen had given up asking how she came by her information. There was always some newbie in uniform who would cough up information when caught in Emilia’s tractor beam. Whether intimidated by her or just keen to be rid of her, they gave her what she wanted in the end.

Helen looked at her, then walked off, pushing through the door back into the pub. Emilia fell into stride next to her.

‘Any working theories? I heard it was pretty savage.’

No mention of the heart. Was she ignorant of this little detail or teasing Helen with its omission?

‘Any idea who the victim is yet?’

‘Nothing confirmed, but as soon as it is you’ll be the first to know.’

Emilia grinned, but didn’t get a chance to respond.

‘Emilia, how nice to see you. Come to buy me a drink?’ Ceri Harwood was now hurrying over. Where had she sprung from?

‘On a journalist’s wage?’ Emilia countered good-humouredly.

‘Then allow me,’ Harwood replied, steering her towards the bar.

Helen watched them go, unsure whether Harwood had rescued her from Emilia or stepped in to prevent Helen irritating the fourth estate. Either way she was glad of the intervention. She shot a glance at her team. Happy, relaxed and already a few drinks to the good, they chatted animatedly, clearly pleased to have Charlie back.

Helen felt like the bad fairy at the christening. The one person unable to welcome Charlie back with an open heart. The team were oblivious to her, which provided Helen with the perfect opportunity.

There was somewhere she needed to be.

Helen climbed onto her bike and pulled her helmet on, rendering her temporarily anonymous. Turning the ignition, she tested the throttle, then kicked off the brake and roared down the darkened street. She was glad to see the back of Emilia and Charlie. She had had enough for one day – more than enough.

Rush hour was long gone and Helen cut easily through the empty streets. At times like this she really did feel at home in Southampton. It was as if the streets had been cleared for her, as if it were her city, a place where she could exist unmolested and undisturbed. Slowly her mood lifted. Not simply because of where she was, but because of where she was going.

Having parked up, she rang the bell three times and waited. The buzzer sounded – like a warm welcome – and she stepped inside.

Jake was waiting for her, the door wide open. Helen knew he didn’t do this for other clients – the dangers inherent in his business meant he always verified a client’s identity through the spyhole before opening the reinforced door. But he knew it was her – the three rings being their code – and, besides, he knew now what she did for a profession.

It hadn’t always been that way of course. For the first year of their association, she had told him nothing, despite his numerous attempts to open up a conversation. But recent events had changed all that – dominators read the papers too. Thankfully, he was too professional to mention it. He was tempted to, she sensed that, but he knew how much she had suffered, how much she loathed the exposure. So he kept his counsel.