Pop Goes the Weasel
From the international bestselling author of Eeny Meeny comes the second thriller in the truly excellent series * featuring Detective Helen Grace.
"A man s body is found in an empty house.
A gruesome memento of his murder is sent to his wife and children.
"He is the first victim, and Detective Helen Grace knows he will not be the last. But why would a happily married man be this far from home in the dead of night?
The media call it Jack the Ripper in reverse: a serial killer preying on family men who lead hidden double lives.
Helen can sense the fury behind the murders. But what she cannot possibly predict is how volatile this killer is or what is waiting for her at the end of the chase… "
| Жанр: | Детектив |
| Серии: | - |
| Всего страниц: | 89 |
| ISBN: | - |
| Год издания: | Не установлен |
| Формат: | Полный |
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The second book in the Helen Grace series, 2014
1
The fog crept in from the sea, suffocating the city. It descended like an invading army, consuming landmarks, choking out the moonlight, rendering Southampton a strange and unnerving place.
Empress Road industrial estate was quiet as the grave. The body shops had shut for the day, the mechanics and supermarket workers had departed and the streetwalkers were now making their presence felt. Dressed in short skirts and bra tops, they pulled hard on their cigarettes, gleaning what little warmth they could to ward off the bone-chilling cold. Pacing up and down, they worked hard to sell their sex, but in the gloom they appeared more like skeletal wraiths than objects of desire.
The man drove slowly, his eyes raking the line of half-naked junkies. He sized them up – a sharp snap of recognition occasionally punching through – then dismissed them. They weren’t what he was looking for. Tonight he was looking for something special.
Hope jostled with fear and frustration. He had thought of nothing else for days. He was so close now, but what if it was all a lie? An urban myth? He slammed the steering wheel hard. She had to be here.
Nothing. Nothing. Noth-
There she was. Standing alone, leaning against the graffiti-embossed wall. The man felt a sudden surge of excitement. There was something different about this one. She wasn’t checking her nails or smoking or gossiping. She was simply waiting. Waiting for something to happen.
He pulled his car off the road, parking up out of sight by a chain link fence. He had to be careful, mustn’t leave anything to chance. He scanned the streetscape for signs of life, but the fog had cut them off completely. It was as if they were the only two people left in the world.
He marched across the road towards her, then checked himself, slowing his pace. He mustn’t rush this – this was something to be savoured and enjoyed. The anticipation was sometimes more enjoyable than the act – experience had taught him that. He must linger over this one. In the days ahead, he would want to replay these memories as accurately as he could.
She was framed by a row of abandoned houses. Nobody wanted to live round here any more and these homes were now hollow and dirty. They were crack dens and flophouses, strewn with dirty needles and dirtier mattresses. As he crossed the street towards her, the girl looked up, peering through her thick fringe. Hauling herself off the wall, she said nothing, simply nodding towards the nearest shell of a house before stepping inside. There was no negotiation, no preamble. It was as if she was resigned to her fate. As if she knew.
Hurrying to catch up with her, the man drank in her backside, her legs, her heels, his arousal growing all the time. As she disappeared into the darkness, he picked up the pace. He couldn’t wait any longer.
The floorboards creaked noisily as he stepped inside. The derelict house was just how he had pictured it in his fantasies. An overpowering smell of damp filled his nostrils – everything was rotten here. He hurried into the sitting room, now a repository for abandoned G-strings and condoms. No sign of her. So they were going to play ‘Chase me’, were they?
Into the kitchen. No sign. Turning, he stalked out and climbed the stairs to the second floor. With each step, his eyes darted this way and that, searching for his prey.
He marched into the front bedroom. A mildewed bed, a broken window, a dead pigeon. But no sign of the girl.
Fury now wrestled with his desire. Who was she to mess him around like this? She was a common whore. Dog shit on his shoe. He was going to make her suffer for treating him like this.
He pushed the bathroom door open – nothing – then turned and marched into the second bedroom. He would smash her stupid fa-
Suddenly his head snapped back. Pain raged through him – they were pulling his hair so tight, forcing him back, back, back. Now he couldn’t breathe – a rag was being forced over his mouth and nose. A sharp, biting odour flared up his nostrils and too late instinct kicked in. He struggled for his life, but already he was losing consciousness. Then everything went black.
2
They were watching her every move. Hanging on her every word.
‘The body is that of a white female, aged between twenty and twenty-five. She was found by a Community Support officer yesterday morning in the boot of an abandoned car on the Greenwood estate.’
Detective Inspector Helen Grace’s voice was clear and strong, despite the tension that knotted her stomach. She was briefing the Major Incident Team on the seventh floor of Southampton Central Police Station.
‘As you can see from the pictures, her teeth were caved in, probably with a hammer, and both her hands have been cut off. She is heavily tattooed, which might help with IDing, and you should concentrate your efforts on drugs and prostitution to begin with. This looks like a gang-related killing, rather than common-or-garden murder. DS Bridges is going to lead on this one and he’ll fill you in on particular persons of interest. Tony?’
