Harwood smiled her wide, attractive smile. Charlie was aware she hadn’t really said enough, so she continued:
“I know you don’t know me from Adam and that you would have been completely justified in washing your hands of me, but I want you to know that I am really, really grateful for this chance you’ve given me”—Charlie was babbling now but couldn’t stop—“and I want to say that I won’t let you down. You won’t regret giving me a second chance.”
Harwood regarded her, clearly unused to such outpourings, then patted her on the arm.
“I don’t doubt it for a second.”
She turned to go, but Charlie stopped her:
“There was one other thing. A development in the Alexia Louszko case.”
Harwood turned, intrigued.
“DC Fortune established that the upmarket brothel Alexia worked for was owned by Sandra McEwan.”
Charlie paused, unsure if the name would mean anything to Harwood.
“I know her. Go on.”
“Well, I was a bit surprised that she owned the freehold to the Brookmire building. Didn’t realize she had that kind of money. So I did a bit more digging to see if Sandra owned any other properties in Southampton.”
“And?”
Charlie paused for a moment. Should she say anything to Harwood without telling Helen first? Too late to be coy now—Harwood was clearly expecting something.
“She owns property on the Empress Road industrial estate.”
Now she had Harwood’s full attention. Charlie picked up a copy of the street map she’d downloaded from the Land Registry and handed it to her.
“Specifically, she owns this row of derelict houses. Alan Matthews’s body was found in the fourth one along.”
Harwood processed this. Charlie went on:
“Alexia was killed and mutilated, probably by the Campbells—Alexia used to walk the streets for them before defecting to Brookmire. A day later, a street punter is found murdered and mutilated in a property owned by Sandra McEwan.”
“You think that Sandra is sending them a message. That it’ll be tit for tat?”
“Could be. History tells us that if you declare war on Sandra McEwan, you’d better be ready for the consequences.”
Harwood’s brow furrowed. Nobody needed a prostitution war—they tended to be long and bloody and always made it into the papers.
“Bring her in.”
Harwood was already heading for the door.
“Should I let DI Grace know before I—”
“Bring her in, DC Brooks.”
29
They were huddled together like cattle at an abattoir. It was astonishing how quickly professional poise could disappear. The staff of Zenith Solutions had taken refuge in the atrium, too unnerved to go back into the office, too curious to go home. Helen walked past them and hurried up to the third floor.
Stephen McPhail, the chief executive of Zenith, was trying his best to look composed, but he was clearly perturbed by the morning’s events. He was holed up in his office, flanked by his long-serving secretary, Angie. The box remained on Angie’s desk where she’d dropped it. It had toppled over on impact, the bloody heart spilling out onto her desk. It lay there still, guarded closely by a pair of uniforms who refused to look at it. The lid flapped down lazily—the single wordSCUM, daubed in blood, screaming out its simple message.
•••
“I appreciate that you must be extremely distressed by what’s happened, but it’s imperative I ask you some questions while events are still fresh in your memory. Is that okay?”
