The Bull and Last did the best steak sandwich in Southampton. It was also off the radar of most coppers, a middle-class hangout favored by yummy mummies and businessmen, so it was one of Helen’s favorite haunts when she needed a bit of time to herself. After she’d left Tony, she suddenly realized how incredibly hungry she was. She’d hardly eaten for days, surviving on coffee and cigarettes, and now she desperately needed some fuel. Sinking her teeth into the thick sandwich, she immediately felt better—the protein and carb fix hit the spot.
She had to get her head out of the case for a few minutes. When you are deep in an investigation of this magnitude, you become utterly obsessed. It haunts your thoughts, day and night. The longer it goes on, the easier it is to become snow-blind, to lose your sense of perspective and your clarity of vision. It was healthy to come here and people-watch for a little while, speculating on the emotional lives of the wealthy women who enjoyed flirting with the handsome waiters.
A local freesheet lay discarded on the table. She’d avoided picking it up and even as she did so now, curiosity finally getting the better of her, she flicked quickly through the first few pages. They were full of news on the recent murders, trumpeting the fact that police now had the killer’s DNA, but Helen didn’t linger on these. She liked to get deeper inside the local rags, to the small adverts, the petty crimes reported in the court circulars, the horoscopes—and all the other nonsense that was used to fill up these papers.
Flick, flick, flick, then suddenly she froze. She looked away, then looked back, hoping she had imagined it. But there it was. A photo of a house. The same house Helen had seen Robert and his mate Davey breaking into two days ago.
And above it the damning headline:PENSIONER FIGHTS FOR LIFE AFTERSURPRISING BURGLARS.
•••
She made it to Aldershot in record time, driven there by instinct and anxiety. The details of the newspaper report had made for grim reading—a seventy-nine-year-old former teacher had surprised intruders and been savagely beaten. His skull fractured, he was now in an induced coma in Southampton General. It was touch-and-go whether he would survive.
She risked a direct approach to his house, a cover story about an attack on one of Robert’s colleagues at the supermarket up her sleeve, but no one was at home. So she visited the Red Lion, the Railway Tavern and a clutch of other Aldershot drinking holes. Striking out, she visited their preferred off-licenses before finally getting lucky at the arcade. They were playing the slots—no doubt spending the proceeds of their recent crime.
After a while they lost interest and left, heading their separate ways after an excess of fist bumping. Helen followed Robert cautiously, waiting for the right moment to approach him. The streets were busy with shoppers, but when Robert diverted into the park, Helen seized her chance.
“Robert Stonehill?”
He spun round, suspicion writ large on his face.
“I’m a police officer,” she continued, flashing her warrant card. “Can I have a word?”
But he’d already turned to go.
“It’s about Peter Thomas. The man you and Davey beat half to death.”
Now he paused.
“And don’t even think about running. I’ve caught faster guys than you, believe me.”
•••
“I’m not here to arrest you, but I want you to tell me the truth.”
They were seated on a park bench.
“I want you to tell me what happened.”
A long pause as Robert debated what to say, then:
“It was Davey’s idea. It’s always bloody Davey’s idea.”
He sounded bitter and depressed.
“The old boy was a teacher of his. S’posed to be rich.”
“And Davey thought it would be easy pickings?”
Robert shrugged.
“Davey said he’d be out. He’s always out on Thursday nights. Plays cards at the Green Man. He said we’d be in and out in twenty minutes.”
“But...”
“But the old boy walked in. Had a bloody great poker in his hand.”
“And?”
