Pop Goes the Weasel | страница 125

The SOC team parted as she approached. There he was. He was still mostly buried in the rubble, but enough had been lifted off to reveal the top of his head and a raised arm. The fingers on the exposed arm pointed upwards in accusing fashion. The skin, though covered in dust, was dark and suggested the victim was mixed race. But that wasn’t what really interested Helen. More important still was the fact that he only had four fingers, the one having been removed some years earlier by the look of the historic wound.

They didn’t know much about Anton Gardiner – his parentage, his early life – but they did know that he had had his ring finger cut off in a tit-for-tat gang punishment ten years earlier. Was he the trigger for Lyra’s killing spree? Was he the cause of all this? Helen shivered as she looked at his mutilated corpse, a pulse of excitement flowing through her. Was Anton’s ravaged hand finally pointing them in the right direction?

It was cold and dark and she was losing patience. It was getting harder and harder to find room to breathe. The police presence was huge all over the city now and she’d had to be exceedingly cautious, walking the streets in tracksuit bottoms and a hoody, as if out for a late-night jog. Once she’d found a secluded patch down by the Western Docks, she’d stripped off to reveal a short skirt and stockings. A tight top exposed her generous frame, with a short fur jacket the icing on the cake. Despite the frustration and stress of the evening, she felt good as she unveiled herself. Now all she had to do was stand and wait for the dirty dogs to come to her.

Twenty minutes later, a lone figure came into view. He was slightly unsteady on his feet and was muttering a song in a foreign tongue. A sailor, probably a Polish one, she thought. Angel’s heart started to beat faster. Sailors were dirty, unhygienic and coarse, but they always had money when on shore leave and they usually came pretty quickly, having been starved of sex for so long.

The man paused when he spotted her. Casting around to check he was alone, he sauntered over. He was surprisingly pretty – twenty-five at the most with a slender face and female lips. He was drunk to be sure, but not unattractive. Angel was surprised he had to pay for it.

‘How much?’ His accent was thick.

‘What do you want?’

‘Everything,’ he replied.

‘Hundred pounds.’

He nodded.

‘Let’s go.’

And with that he sealed his fate.