“Promised you what, Jessica?”
“Since Sally was born, we haven’t... you know... very much.”
Helen said nothing. She knew something was coming now and that it was best to let Jessica find her own words.
“We’re always so tired,” she continued. “There are always so many things that need doing.”
She took a big lungful of air before continuing:
“A few months ago, I used Chris’s laptop because mine was broken.”
Another deep breath.
“I opened up Internet Explorer to use Ocado and... I found all these sites bookmarked. The stupid bastard hadn’t even tried to hide them.”
“Pornography?” Helen asked. Jessica nodded.
“I opened one up. I wanted to know. It was... disgusting. A young girl—seventeen at the most—and lots of guys... they were bloody queuing up to...”
“Did you challenge him about it?”
“Yes. I rang him at work. He came straight home.”
Her tone softened a little as she continued:
“He was mortified. Ashamed. He hated himself for hurting me. I hated him for looking at that... stuff, but he vowed he’d never watch it again. And he meant it. He really meant it.”
She looked up imploringly, silently begging Helen not to damn her husband.
“I’m sure he did. I’m sure he was a good husband, a good father...”
“He is. He was. He loved Sally. He lovedme...”
At this point Jessica collapsed, the weight of events finally bearing down on her. She had been robbed of her husband and her memory of him would be forever tarnished. His reckless actions had cost him dear, but those left behind had the bitterest legacy. They were staring down a long, dark tunnel.
Suddenly Helen was filled with anger. Whoever was responsible knew what they were doing. They were intent on visiting as much pain on these innocent families as they could. They wanted to take them beyond the limits of human endurance, to destroy them. But Helen wouldn’t let them. She would see them destroyed before she let that happen.
Leaving Alison to rally family support, Helen departed. The messenger is never welcome in a house of death, and besides, she had work to do.
31
Helen strode away from the house, confident that Alison would shepherd Jessica slowly, inexorably, toward a semblance of stability. Alison was brilliant at her job—patient, kind and wise. When the time was right she would sit Jessica down and tell her the full details of her husband’s murder. Jessica would need to know, would need to understand how her husband would now become public property, the subject of gossip and speculation. But it was too early, the shock too great, and she would leave it to Alison to judge the moment.
“Are you chasing another serial killer, Helen?”
Helen spun round, but she knew that voice.
“You really don’t have much luck, do you?”
Emilia Garanita shut the door of her Fiat and walked over. How the hell had she got here so quickly?
“Before you tell me to jump in a lake, I think you should know that I had some face time with your boss today. Ceri Harwood is a breath of fresh air after Whittaker, don’t you think? She’s promised to be open and honest with us—you scratch my back and all that—and said that you were on board. So let’s start off on a new footing, shall we? What can you tell me about this killer and how can theEvening Newsassist the investigation?”
Her pad and pen were poised in anticipation, her face the picture of innocence and enthusiasm. God, Helen wanted to punch her—she had never met anyone who seemed to take such active enjoyment in the unhappiness of ordinary people. She was a ghoul—without a ghoul’s redeeming features.
“If Detective Superintendent Harwood has offered to give you the relevant information, then I’m sure she’ll do so. She’s a woman of her word.”
“Don’t be cute, Helen. I want details. I want an exclusive.”
