Pop Goes the Weasel | страница 128

At the first mention of his name, Helen had switched off her phone and raced back to the nick. Once there she had demanded sight of tomorrow’s front pages. Most led on the ongoing hostage crisis in Algeria, but the Mail had gone for something different. ‘Son of a Monster’ splashed across the front page and beneath it a grainy, sinister-looking picture of Robert, shot from a distance on a long lens. Marianne’s police mugshot leered out underneath – the details of her crimes rehashed with relish.

Dropping the paper, Helen sprinted from the media suite, racing down the stairs and out to her bike. As she raced to the outskirts of the city, one question kept swirling round and round her head. How? How had they found out? Emilia must be involved somehow but Helen hadn’t told anyone about Robert, so unless he had… No, it didn’t make any sense. When had Emilia suddenly become omniscient, able to penetrate the most secret chambers of Helen’s life?

All she wanted to do was find Robert and comfort him. Protect him. But as she approached Cole Avenue, she could already see the press pack assembling. A TV crew had just pulled up and there was a growing crowd of hacks ringing the doorbell, demanding an interview. Helen’s first instinct was to barrel through them to find Robert, but wisdom prevailed and she stayed where she was. Her presence would only inflame the story and the Stonehill family had enough to deal with already.

How could she help him? How could she stop the shit storm that she had brought crashing down on this innocent young man? This was her fault and she cursed herself bitterly for her weakness in ever contacting Robert. He had been happy. He had been ignorant. And now this.

In trying to save him, she had damned him.

She was splayed out on the ground, lifeless and pliable, her arms snaking out across the ground in capitulation. She was his now and he took his fill. He didn’t bother to wear a condom. In a few hours he would be on his way to Angola aboard the PZR Slazak. By the time they found her, he would be long gone. He always made good use of his shore leave and this time had been no exception.

It had taken him a while to gather himself after he’d strangled her. It always did. The adrenalin raged through him – his heart beating as if it were going to burst – and stars danced in front of his eyes. He was breathless and exhausted even in his triumph. The cuts on his face stung sharply and his senses were supercharged – every drip of water sounded like an approaching footstep, every blast of wind like a shrieking woman. But there was no one else here. It was just him and his prey.