His eyes were beginning to close.
“Can you tell me who did this to you?”
The man opened his mouth. Charlie leaned forward, putting her ear to his mouth to hear what he had to say.
“Who attacked you? Can you give me her name?”
The man was struggling to breathe, but he was determined to say something.
“Her name? Please tell me her name.”
But the man said nothing. All Charlie heard was the last breath escaping his body. The killer had got away and Charlie was left holding her latest victim.
41
Helen stalked the street outside the Liberty Hotel, her eyes raking the walls of the dilapidated terrace for CCTV cameras. They had had a lucky break—Charlie literally bumping into their killer—and as a result of her testimony and the crumbs gleaned from the Polish sex worker who’d disturbed the attack, they had their best description of the suspect so far. She was Caucasian, in her twenties probably and tall, taller than your average girl, with long, powerful legs. She wore dark clothes, probably leather, had a pale face and long black hair cut in a fringe. But no one had seen her face well enough to give more than generic descriptions. The guy who took the money from the girls clearly never dragged his attention away from the TV long enough to actually look at who went in and out of the building. The other working girls said she wasn’t a regular—a couple of them had crossed her path as she took her client upstairs, but she had kept her head down, didn’t meet their eyes and, besides, they had their own clients to attend to. It was infuriating to be so close and yet have so little. A grab from a CCTV camera could change everything, however, so Helen scoured the walls. It was an area where crime was rife, so people often employed extra security here, but her investigation revealed only one camera, poised above the entrance to a down-at-heel off-license. It hung limply, pointing at the wall, clearly the victim of vandalism. Was this the work of children or had their killer disabled it? It would be of little use either way.
Heading back to the hotel entrance, Helen spotted Charlie, who was now wearing a paper suit and a blanket. Her clothes had been taken away for forensic analysis and she was being looked after by a young woman police officer.
“Would you like me to call Steve?”
Charlie looked up to see Helen standing over her.
“Lloyd... DC Fortune’s already done it.”
“Good. Go home, Charlie. You’ve had a big shock and you’ve done all you can. We’ll speak later.”
Charlie nodded, still taciturn with shock. Helen placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, then moved on, impatient to see what the crime scene might offer them. Climbing the stairwell to the top floor, she paused to interrogate a group of Forensics officers crowded round a partial footprint. The outline of a heel and toe was printed on the wooden board in blood.
“Is it hers?” Helen asked.
“Well, it’s not Charlie’s, so...”
“Can you get a size off it?”
The Scene of Crime officer nodded, so Helen moved on. These small details could be surprisingly significant. She was momentarily cheered, but her good humor evaporated as soon as she took in the crime scene. It was drenched in blood. The victim lay on the bed, his hands and legs still tied to the bedstead, his chest opened up like a tin can. His heart, which only thirty minutes ago had been pumping fit to burst, now lay still. Helen leaned over the body, taking care not to touch it. Focusing on the wound, she could see that the tissue around the heart was untouched. Clearly the killer had been disturbed before she could take her prize. Helen looked at the victim’s face—didn’t recognize him—then quickly looked away. It was contorted in agony.
She retreated to watch the Forensics officers at work. In addition to the evidence garnered from the victim’s body, they would also be analyzing a medium-sized Tupperware box that lay discarded on the floor. Was this what their killer put the hearts in? A Tupperware box. It was so common, so domestic, it was almost funny. It could have been bought in a hundred stores in Southampton, so they would have to hope that their killer had left some residue of her identity on it. Helen knew she couldn’t bank on it, though—their killer had hardly put a foot wrong so far.
As Helen took in the crime scene, her mind was full of questions. Why this sudden change in MO? The killer had been so cautious thus far—why bring her latest victim to a place where she could be disturbed or, worse, identified? Was she getting careless? Or were the punters harder to isolate now? Had word got out about the danger? Were clients seeking safety in more public places? She had brought him here during the day, when she knew there would be others around. Was he special in some way? Could she get him only at this time of day? It was a strange turn of events.
One thing that Helen was sure of was that the killer would now be rattled. She had been disturbed during the act and had fled empty-handed. Worse, she had run straight into a cop waving a warrant card and had escaped only through sheer good fortune. She must fear now that the police would have a good description of her and possibly forensic evidence too. Experience had taught Helen that such a scare would make the killer react in one of two ways. Either she would vanish for good or she would step up her killing spree. Which option would she take?
Only time would tell.
42
It was time to say good-bye. Tony had been putting it off, but it was getting late now. He hesitated on the threshold of Nicola’s bedroom, then stepped inside.
“Could you give us a moment, Anna?”
Anna stopped reading aloud and looked up from her book, momentarily doing a double take at Tony’s appearance before recovering her poise.
“Of course.”
She disappeared discreetly. Tony paused, looking down at his wife. Her right eyelid flickered—which was her way of greeting her husband.
“I’ve got to go now, love. Anna’s going to be with you for the rest of the day and through the night. I’ll come and see you in the morning, okay? We can read a bit of Dickens if you’d like. Anna says you’ve nearly finished it.”
