Pop Goes the Weasel - [7]
Helen knew there was no point fighting this one any more. In her artfully worded way, Harwood had reminded Helen just how close she had come to dismissal. During the public enquiry that followed the IPCC’s initial investigation into Marianne’s shooting, there had been many who’d called for her to be stripped of her badge. For acting alone in her pursuit of Marianne, for deliberately misleading fellow officers, for shooting a suspect without issuing a formal warning – the list went on and on. They could have killed her career if they’d wanted to – and she was surprised and grateful that they hadn’t – but she knew she was only back on probation. Her ‘charges’ were still on file. From now on, she would have to choose her battles carefully.
Helen relented as gracefully as she could and left Harwood’s office. She knew she was being unfair to Charlie, that she should be more supportive, but the truth was that she didn’t want to see Charlie again. It would be like standing in front of Mark. Or Marianne. And for all her strength over the last few months Helen couldn’t face that.
Heading back to the Major Incident Team, Helen immediately picked up on the buzz of excitement. It was early morning but already the place was busier than usual. The team had been waiting for her, and DC Fortune hurried over to bring her up to speed.
‘You’re needed down at Empress Road, Ma’am.’
Helen was already picking up her coat.
‘What is it?’
‘A murder – called in by one of the local junkies about an hour ago. Uniform have been in, but I think you’d better take a look at it.’
Already Helen’s nerves were jangling. There was something in the DC’s voice that she hadn’t heard since Marianne.
Fear.
8
Eschewing her bike, Helen drove to the scene with DS Tony Bridges. She liked him – he was a diligent, committed copper whom she had come to trust. Whoever replaced Mark as the new DS was always going to have to work hard to win the team round, but Tony had managed it. He’d played it very straight, never ducking the awkwardness of appearing to profit from Mark’s death. His humility and sensitivity had raised him in everyone’s estimation and he now inhabited the role pretty comfortably.
His relationship with Helen was more complex. Not just because of her feelings for Mark, but because Bridges had been there when Helen had pulled the trigger on her sister. He had seen it all – Marianne collapsing to the floor, Helen’s futile attempts to revive her. Tony had seen his boss at her most naked and vulnerable – and that would always be a source of discomfort between them. On the other hand, Tony’s testimony to the IPCC, during which he had insisted that Helen had no option but to shoot Marianne – had gone a long way to saving her from demotion or dismissal. Helen had thanked him at the time, but the debt she owed him would never be mentioned again. You had to forget it and move on, otherwise the chain of command would be compromised. To all intents and purposes they now operated as any normal DI and DS would, but in truth they would always have a bond forged in battle.
They sped past the hospital, blue lights flashing, before cutting down a narrow side street and onto the Empress Road industrial estate. It wasn’t hard to see where they were headed. The entrance to the derelict house was taped off and already a gaggle of curious onlookers were idling by it. Helen hustled her way through, warrant card raised, Tony following behind her. A quick word with uniform, whilst they suited up, and then they were in.
Helen took the stairs two at a time. Whatever you’ve been through, you never get inured to violence. Helen didn’t like the look on the faces of the attending uniforms – as if their eyes had been brutally opened – and she wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.
The poky front bedroom was busy with the SOC team and Helen immediately asked them to take a break so she and Tony could get a clear view of the victim. You steel yourself on these occasions, swallowing down your disgust in advance, otherwise you’d never be able to take it in, to form valuable first impressions. The victim was male, white, probably in his late forties or early fifties. He was naked and there was no sign of any clothes or possessions. His arms and legs were tied tight to the iron bedstead with what looked like nylon climbing cord and he had some sort of hood over his head. It hadn’t been designed for the purpose – it looked like the kind of felt bag you get with expensive shoes or luxury gifts – but it was there for a reason. Was it to suffocate him? Or conceal his identity? Either way, it was devastatingly clear that this wasn’t what had killed him.
