The bathroom yielded little of any interest, so Charlie headed into the box room, which served as a space for drying laundry and a mini-office. A phone and cheap laptop sat on a battered desk. Charlie pressed the On button on the computer. It buzzed aggressively as if coming to life, but the screen remained resolutely blank. Charlie pressed a few keys. Still nothing.
‘You got your penknife?’ she asked DC Fortune. She knew he would have it (even though he wasn’t supposed to), he was that kind of guy. Nothing pleased him more than fixing a broken machine in front of his female colleagues. He was a modern kind of caveman.
Taking it from him, Charlie flipped out the screwdriver extension and undid the panels on the back of the computer. As she expected, the battery was still in place, but the hard drive had been removed.
So the flat had been swept. From the moment she’d stepped into the place Charlie had had a suspicion that it had been tidied up. Nobody’s life was this ordered. Someone who knew that the police would be coming had trawled the flat, divesting it of any trace of Alexia, either physical or digital. What had she been doing to earn all this money? And why was someone so keen to conceal it?
There was no point in looking for anything in the usual places any more. It was now a question of lifting wardrobes and tables, pulling up mattresses and rifling through pockets. Looking under, behind, above. It felt very much like a wild-goose chase and Charlie had to put up with a lot of unsubtle sighing by her colleague – who was probably imagining himself busting heads on the Empress Road – but finally after two and a half hours of diligent searching the pair got a break.
The kitchen had an island in it with a pull-out bin. The bin had been lifted out and emptied but whoever had done so hadn’t spotted a piece of paper on the floor of the pull-out drawer. It must have slipped between the bin edge and the drawer wall when tossed inside and lain there undetected ever since. Charlie pulled it out.
To her surprise it was a payslip. For a woman called Agneska Suriav, who was employed by a health club in Banister Park. It looked official – with National Insurance deductions, a PAYE Employee number – and was for a healthy monthly wage. But it didn’t make a lot of sense. Who was Agneska? A friend of Alexia’s? An alias of hers? It raised more questions than it answered, but it was a start. For the first time in ages, Charlie felt good about herself. Perhaps there was life after Marianne after all.
11
‘I want an absolute information lockdown on this until we know more. Nothing leaves these four walls without my say-so, ok?’
The team nodded obediently, as Helen spoke. DS Bridges, DCs Sanderson, McAndrew and Grounds, junior officers, data processors and media liaison were all crammed into the hastily requisitioned incident room. The investigation was coming to life and there was a suppressed hum of excitement in the room.
‘We are obviously looking for a highly dangerous individual, or individuals, and it is imperative that we move swiftly to bring them in. First priority is to ID our victim. Sanderson, I want you to liaise with forensics but also uniform – they are out canvassing witnesses in the area and checking for vehicles that might have belonged to the victim. I doubt there’ll be cameras on that street, but ask the supermarkets and businesses nearby. They may have something that can help us.’
‘On it,’ DC Sanderson replied. It was dull work, but often it was the obvious things that opened up a case. There was always the possibility of glory in the drudgery.
‘McAndrew, I want you to talk to the street girls. There must have been a dozen or more out in the area last night. They might have seen or heard something. They won’t want to talk to us, but things like this are bad for business so impress upon them that it’s in their interest to help us. They may be happier talking to a plain-clothes officer, so use the beat coppers to guide you, but do as many of the one-on-ones as you can yourself.’
DC McAndrew nodded, knowing her evening plans had just gone up in smoke. No wonder she was still single.
Helen paused for a second, then slowly and deliberately pinned the crime scene photos – one by one – to the board behind her. As she did so, she heard a faint but audible intake of breath behind her. Few of the officers present had seen a man turned inside out before.
‘First question – why?’ Helen said, as she turned back to face the team. ‘What did our victim do to provoke an attack like this?’
She let the question hang in the air, taking in the reaction to the photos, before continuing:
‘The derelict houses on this street are used by prostitutes and junkies on a daily basis, so why was this man there? Was he a punter who refused to pay? Was he a pimp who tried to rip off a client? Or a supplier who’d short-changed his dealers? The level of savagery in this attack denotes real anger or the desire to make a very public statement. This is not a crime of passion. Our killer was well prepared – with nylon cords, duct tape, a weapon – and they took their time. Forensics will confirm this later, but it looks like the victim bled to death, given the level of blood saturation on the body and floor. The killer didn’t panic, didn’t run. They had no fear of detection, calmly going about their business, cutting the victim open before…’
Helen paused momentarily, before completing her sentence:
‘… before removing his heart.’
One of the data processors was beginning to look a little green, so Helen pressed on.
‘It looks to me like an ambush. Like punishment. But what for? Is this part of a turf war? A warning to a rival gang? Did the victim owe someone money? Was it robbery? Hookers and pimps have tortured their punters for PIN numbers and got carried away before. Or is it something else?’
It was the something else that Helen was afraid of. Was the heart some sort of trophy? Helen batted the thought away and returned to the briefing. There was no point getting ahead of herself, imagining crazy things that might have a violently mundane explanation.
‘We need to cast our net as wide as possible. Prostitution, gang crime, drugs, criminal grudges. It’s highly likely the killer or killers will give themselves away in the next twenty-four hours. They may be shitting themselves or they may be exhilarated – it’s hard to behave calmly after doing something like this. So eyes and ears open – any sources, any leads. From now on this case is your top priority. Everything else can be handled by others.’
Which everyone knew meant Charlie. Helen hadn’t seen her yet, but their reunion wouldn’t be long in coming. Helen had resolved to be polite and formal, as was her way when nervous, but would she be able to carry it off? In the past her mask had been impenetrable, but not now. Too much had happened, too much of her past had been exposed for people to buy that persona any more.
The room had emptied, as officers rushed off to cancel plans, assuage loved ones and grab some food in expectation of a long night ahead. So Helen was standing alone, wrapped up in her own thoughts, when Tony Bridges hurried back in.
‘Looks like we’ve found our man.’
Helen snapped out of her reverie.
‘Front desk took a call from a highly distressed woman who’d just had a human heart left on her doorstep. Her husband didn’t come home last night.’
‘Name?’
‘Alan Matthews. Married, father of four, lives in Banister Park. He’s a businessman, charity fundraiser and an active member of the local Baptist church.’
Tony had tried to say the last bit without wincing, but he’d failed. Helen closed her eyes, aware that the next few hours would be deeply unpleasant for everyone concerned. A family man had died a grim death in a known prostitutes’ haunt – there was no nice way to say that. But experience had taught her that prevaricating never helped, so picking up her bag she nodded at Tony to follow her.