Pop Goes the Weasel - [9]
But there was no one there. She cast around for Alan – for anyone – but the street was quiet. Was it kids playing silly beggars?
‘I’m surprised you haven’t got better things to do,’ she called out, silently cursing the unruly children who lived at the cheaper end of the street. She was about to slam the door shut, when she noticed the box. A courier’s cardboard box left on her doorstep. A white label adorned the top and on it was written ‘The Matthews family’ and then their address – misspelt in spidery, crabbed handwriting. It looked like a present of some sort – but it wasn’t anybody’s birthday. Eileen stuck her head out once more, expecting to see Simon the postman or a courier’s van parked up on the double yellow lines – but there was no one in sight.
The boys were on to her immediately, asking her if they could open it, but Eileen held firm. She would open it and if it was appropriate she would share it with them. They didn’t really have time – it was 8.40 already for goodness’ sake – but better to open it now, put the boys out of their misery and then get on with their morning. Suddenly Eileen felt cross with herself for dawdling and she resolved to get on with things – if they hurried they might just make it to school on time.
Pulling a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer, she sliced a line down the duct tape that bound the box together. As she did so, her nose wrinkled – a strong odour emanated from inside. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was but she didn’t like it. Was it something industrial? Something animal? Her instinct was to re-seal the package and wait for Alan’s return, but the boys were nagging her to get on with it… so gritting her teeth she threw open the box.
And screamed. Suddenly she couldn’t stop screaming, despite the fact that the boys were clearly terrified by the noise. Tearful, they hurried to her, but she pushed them angrily away. When they fought back, begging her to tell them what was going on, she grabbed them by their collars and hauled them roughly out of the room, screaming all the while for someone – anyone – to help.
The offending box was left alone in the room. The top lolled lazily backwards, revealing the legend ‘Evill’ written in dark crimson on the underside. It was the perfect introduction to the box’s awful contents. Lying within, in a nest of dirty newspaper, was a human heart.
10
‘Where are the others?’
Clutching her case file, Charlie surveyed the Major Incident Team’s office. It felt extremely odd to be back, but the situation was made stranger still by the fact that the office seemed to be completely deserted.
‘Murder on Empress Road. DI Grace has got most of the team down there,’ replied DC Fortune, just about managing to contain his disgruntlement at being left behind. He was a smart, conscientious policeman and one of the few black officers based at Southampton Central. He was tipped for higher things and Charlie knew that he would be deeply pissed off to be stuck here, chaperoning her on her return to action. Charlie had felt shaky as she’d entered the building half an hour earlier and the lack of a welcoming committee was making things worse. Was this a deliberate snub? A way of letting Charlie know she wasn’t wanted?
‘What do we know about this?’ Charlie replied, mustering as much professional poise as she could.
‘Sex worker found in the boot of a car. The killers had gone to town on her, which made the ID a bit tricky initially, but her DNA did the job. She was on the database – you’ll find her charge sheet on page three.’
Charlie flicked through the file. The dead girl – a Polish woman called Alexia Louszko – had been striking in life, with dark auburn hair, multiple piercings and tattoos and plump, pillow lips. If you liked it gothic, then she was the one. Even in her police photo she looked aggressively sexual. Her tattoos were all of mythological beasts, giving her a primal, animalistic quality.
‘Last known address is a flat near Bedford Place,’ DC Fortune offered helpfully.
‘Let’s get going then,’ replied Charlie, ignoring her colleague’s obvious eagerness to get the whole thing over with.
‘Are you going to drive, or am I?’
Most of Southampton’s sex workers lived in St Mary’s or Portswood, mixing in with the students, junkies and illegal immigrants. So the fact that Alexia lived on Bedford Place, near the smarter clubs and bars, was interesting in itself. She had been arrested for streetwalking a year ago, but must have been pulling in good money to live in this desirable area.
The interior of her flat only served to reinforce this feeling. Faced by a police warrant, the block’s concierge reluctantly let the officers inside and whilst DC Fortune questioned him, Charlie ran a rule over the place. It was a recently decorated, open-plan set-up with affordable but fashionable furniture. In addition to the wraparound sofa and large plasma TV, there was a glass table, espresso machine, retro juke box. Hell, it was nicer than Charlie’s house. Was this girl earning enough for all these middle-class trappings or was she being kept by someone? A lover? Her pimp? Someone she was blackmailing?
