Pop Goes the Weasel - [19]
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 sign 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
