Helen’s voice wavered momentarily before she recovered her composure. When she next spoke, her voice was firm but quiet.
“I can’t stop her.”
•••
Helen left shortly afterward, having said too much, yet still not enough. She had failed to be a good leader, copper or friend. Was it too late to pull something from the wreckage? She had lost Mark, she would be a fool to lose Charlie too. But maybe it was too little, too late. Perhaps it was now her destiny to face this killer alone. It wasn’t a fight she thought she could win, but she would fight it nevertheless.
45
Why hadn’t Alison hidden it from her? Surely it was Alison’s job to suck up all the shit that the world threw at Jessica and keep her safe from the storm. Instead, because Alison had been busy playing with Sally, she hadn’t heard the letterbox rattle, hadn’t heard the paper hitting the mat. So it had fallen to Jessica to pick it up.
A TART WITHYOURHEART. Jessica dropped the paper as if it were on fire and fled upstairs. She felt light-headed as she reached the landing, the sudden awfulness of it all ramming its way down her throat again. She started to retch, then choke. Stumbling to the bathroom, she could feel the vomit rising. Crashing through the door, she threw up in the bath, her stomach heaving again and again. Finally, it was over, but all her strength had leached out of her, and she curled up in a ball on the bath mat and put her head in her hands.
She wanted to die. It was just too awful. She had already given up hating Christopher for his betrayal and his stupidity and now she just missed him, wanting him back fiercely. That was the easy bit—it was the other stuff that she couldn’t shake. The violence of his death, the fact that they couldn’t bury him yet, the fact that his heart... his poor heart... was in an evidence bag somewhere...
Jessica heaved again, but there was nothing left to give, and she remained where she was, beached on the floor.
Why was the world so cruel? She had expected anger and incomprehension from her family—and boy, had she got that—but everybody else? The police had advised her not to look at e-mails or Twitter, but how can you live your life like that? She wished now that she’d heeded their advice. Within minutes of the story breaking, the trolls had started their work. E-mailing her directly, posting on forums, filling the world with their hate. Christopher deserved to be killed. Jessica was a frigid bitch who’d driven her man to his death. Christopher was an AIDS-ridden pervert who would burn in hell. Their daughter had syphilis and would go blind.
The police had told her that they were there for her, that they would protect her, but who were they kidding? There was no pity left in the world, no goodness. There were just vultures picking over the entrails, feeding on sadness and pain.
Jessica had always been an optimist, but now she saw how naive she’d been.
A loud noise from downstairs. Sally banging on her xylophone. Then the sound of childish laughter, before she resumed playing her tune. It was as if her daughter were in a parallel universe—a place where happiness and innocence still existed. Jessica was tempted to shut the door, cram her fingers in her ears, but she didn’t. That parallel universe was all she had now and maybe it would save her. In the lonely hours of the night, Jessica wanted to die, but she knew now that she had to live. She had to swallow her pain and bring up Sally to trust and enjoy the world.
Her life was over, but Sally’s was just beginning. And that would have to sustain Jessica for now.
46
Christopher Reid lay on the slab, his glassy eyes staring up at the stained ceiling panels. None of the killer’s victims deserved their fate, but Helen couldn’t help feeling that Christopher deserved it less than Matthews. Matthews was a nasty hypocrite who enjoyed dominating women. But Reid was a guy who missed sex. Why hadn’t he talked to his wife? Found a way to rediscover their intimacy instead of resorting to paying for sex? Did he view his wife as prudish or innocent? In Helen’s experience, women were just as sexually imaginative as men if they were given the chance to express themselves. Had a simple failure of communication condemned Christopher to a repellent death?
“So this guy is the same as but different from your first victim,” Jim Grieves announced as he approached the trolley. “He was incapacitated with chloroform, administered with some sort of soaked rag. Forensics might be able to give you more. There’s no evidence of restraints being used in this case, nor anything this time to suggest he was hooded.”
“So he must have been comfortable in her presence.”
“That’s for you to decide,” Grieves continued, shrugging. “All I would say is that the ‘surgery’ was more skilled this time, so perhaps your girl is getting better at this and doesn’t need to use so much force in either the initial attack or the mutilation.”
Helen nodded.
“Cause of death?”
“Well, he was incapacitated in the car, but killed in the ditch. Too much blood for him to have been killed elsewhere. He was killed by a single knife wound to the throat that severed his carotid artery.”
“Just one wound?”
“Yup. She didn’t spend any more time on this guy than she had to. Heart was removed relatively cleanly, even though she probably began the procedure as he was dying.”
Helen closed her eyes—the awful image planted itself in her brain and refused to budge. She expected Jim to carry on, but he said nothing. She opened her eyes again and immediately saw why he had stopped.
Detective Superintendent Ceri Harwood had joined them.
•••
Grieves made his excuses and left—he didn’t really do stroppy women. Harwood was simmering and Helen braced herself for the onslaught.
“Have you seen the paper?” Harwood said, slapping theTART WITHYOURHEARTheadline down on the table.
“Yes,” Helen replied simply. “I picked it up on the way over.”
