Pop Goes the Weasel (28 page)

Tony was relieved to see that Nicola was asleep. It was late, but she often struggled to get to sleep. Tony knew that had she been awake, had those deep blue eyes looked up at him as he entered, he would have confessed everything to her. He wouldn’t have been able to hold back, such were his feelings of confusion, exhilaration and shame. As it was, he just had to exchange a few stilted sentences with Violet – staring at the floor and claiming tiredness – before she went on her way and he was left alone with his wife.

Tony had never been unfaithful before and he still loved Nicola. Loved her even more if that was possible, now that he had the shame of his infidelity weighing on his conscience. He didn’t want to hurt her – he’d never wanted to hurt her – and they had always told each other everything. But what was he going to say to her now?

The truth was that he was still buzzing. He and Melissa had made love twice more before he eventually left. The plod on the door looked at the thick file under his arm and seemed to buy that he had been diligently taking Melissa’s testimony all the while. Tony felt
another pulse of shame; not only had he betrayed Nicola, he had betrayed his colleagues too. He had always been a good copper, where had this sudden fall from grace come from?

He knew where. Of course he did. He’d tried for so long to tell himself that his life with Nicola was the norm. That it was ok. He often told enquiring friends that he had married for life and that if these were the cards that they’d been dealt, then that was fine by him. But it wasn’t and never had been. Not because he wanted more, but because
Nicola
had been so much more.

She had opened up everything for him. Whereas he came from a family of nomadic low achievers, she came from a family that was successful, cultured and driven. Whatever she did – whether in work or play – she did with utter determination, a will to succeed and a real sense of fun. And he missed her. He really, really missed her. Romantically she was impulsive and surprising, sexually she had been imaginative and mischievous, and emotionally she was always so giving. She could give him nothing of that now, and though he berated himself for thinking she was turning into his friend, that was the bitter truth of it. She would never be a burden, but she might be something less than his wife.

This, he had always thought, was the real betrayal. But what about Melissa then? This was something new, something dangerous. It was crazy but he already had feelings
for her. It couldn’t be love because he’d only just met her, but it felt like something similar. Having been starved of love and affection for so long, he was now overdosing on it.

And he didn’t want to stop.

Helen stood stock still, barely able to breathe.

The first signs of trouble had come with repeated calls to Helen’s mobile from Southampton Central’s media liaison unit, flagging repeated attempts by the
Mail
to get access to Helen. Then the same again from Hampshire Police HQ and this time it was the editor of the
Mail
who had called. There was confusion all round – media liaison had assumed it was to do with their current investigation into the killings in Southampton, but actually they wanted to talk to Helen about someone called Robert Stonehill.

At the first mention of his name, Helen had switched off her phone and raced back to the nick. Once there she had demanded sight of tomorrow’s front pages. Most led on the ongoing hostage crisis in Algeria, but the
Mail
had gone for something different. ‘Son of a Monster’ splashed across the front page and beneath it a grainy, sinister-looking picture of Robert, shot from a distance on a long lens. Marianne’s police mugshot leered out underneath – the details of her crimes rehashed with relish.

Dropping the paper, Helen sprinted from the media suite, racing down the stairs and out to her bike. As she
raced to the outskirts of the city, one question kept swirling round and round her head. How? How had they found out? Emilia must be involved somehow but Helen hadn’t told anyone about Robert, so unless he had … No, it didn’t make any sense. When had Emilia suddenly become omniscient, able to penetrate the most secret chambers of Helen’s life?

All she wanted to do was find Robert and comfort him. Protect him. But as she approached Cole Avenue, she could already see the press pack assembling. A TV crew had just pulled up and there was a growing crowd of hacks ringing the doorbell, demanding an interview. Helen’s first instinct was to barrel through them to find Robert, but wisdom prevailed and she stayed where she was. Her presence would only inflame the story and the Stonehill family had enough to deal with already.

How could she help him? How could she stop the shit storm that
she
had brought crashing down on this innocent young man? This was her fault and she cursed herself bitterly for her weakness in ever contacting Robert. He had been happy. He had been ignorant. And now this.

In trying to save him, she had damned him.

She was splayed out on the ground, lifeless and pliable, her arms snaking out across the ground in capitulation. She was his now and he took his fill. He didn’t bother to wear a condom. In a few hours he would be on his way to Angola aboard the PZR
Slazak
. By the time they found her, he would be long gone. He always made good use of his shore leave and this time had been no exception.

It had taken him a while to gather himself after he’d strangled her. It always did. The adrenalin raged through him – his heart beating as if it were going to burst – and stars danced in front of his eyes. He was breathless and exhausted even in his triumph. The cuts on his face stung sharply and his senses were supercharged – every drip of water sounded like an approaching footstep, every blast of wind like a shrieking woman. But there was no one else here. It was just him and his prey.

She was just like all the others. Sinful, dirty and cheap. How many had he killed now? Seven? Eight? And how many had fought back –
really
fought back? None. This one had been tougher than most but like all the others she
knew
. She knew that she was fallen – that she had given away any chance of salvation thanks to her own
depravity – and that’s why they were happy when he relieved them of their suffering. Did they know or care that they were going straight to Hell?

He shuddered to a finish. Closing his eyes, he savoured the moment. The tension that had been building up within him week upon week was already starting to dissipate. Soon he would feel that all-pervading calm that was so rare but so precious to him.

He opened his eyes, hoping to indulge himself with one last look at her bloodless face. But as soon as he did so, he froze.

Her eyes were open. And she was looking straight at him.

Next to her was her bag. And in her right hand was a very large knife.

‘Gówno!’

The knife punctured his face with a sickening crunch. He blacked out and within less than a minute Wojciech Adamik was dead.

She was on to him in a flash. As she put her key in the lock, she felt him coming up fast behind her. Spinning, she grabbed the outstretched arm, swinging her attacker hard into the wall, whilst raising the key in her hand to eye level. She could blind her assailant in a second if she had to.

It was Jake. Breathless, panting, Helen dropped her arm to her side.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Jake could hardly speak, winded by his collision with the hard brick wall, but eventually he said:

‘Waiting for you.’

‘Why couldn’t you ring like any normal person? Or wait downstairs?’

‘I’ve tried ringing you, Helen. You know I have – I’ve left … what … five, six messages? You’ve not responded to any of them.’

His raised voice echoed round the stairwell of the building. Downstairs, Jason had just crashed through the front door, with another young nurse in tow, so Helen quickly slipped the key in the lock and pushed Jake inside her flat.

‘I
was worried. I thought something might have happened to you. Then I thought I must have done something wrong. What’s going on?’

Jake was now in her front room, surrounded by her books and journals. It felt profoundly odd to have him in her space, the context somehow all wrong.

‘Emilia Garanita knows about us. She knows what I come to you for and she is threatening to expose me in the press.’

Jake looked stunned, but Helen had to ask the question anyway.

‘Did you tell her?’

‘No, of course not. A hundred times, no.’

‘Have you told anyone else? Anyone who might know her, who might have a big mouth?’

‘No, why on earth would I do that? What happens is between us and no one else, you know that.’

Helen stared at the floor. Suddenly the weight of the day’s events caught up with her and she started to cry. Furious with herself, she kept her head bowed, refusing to show her weakness, but her shoulders started to shake. Things had gone so horribly, horribly wrong and most of it was down to her own weakness and stupidity. Was she always destined to be on the losing side?

Jake crossed the room and enveloped her in a warm hug. It felt good. Some people despised her, others questioned her, still others thought she was odd. But Jake had never judged her, had always cared for her, despite the unusual nature of their relationship. Helen had been
starved of unconditional love all her life, but she realized in that moment that this was what Jake wanted to give her.

She had always kept him at a distance, even when he’d signalled his desire to get closer to her. Which is why it surprised him as much as Helen when she finally looked up and said:

‘Stay.’