Pop Goes the Weasel | страница 22

‘Looks like we’ve found our man.’

Helen snapped out of her reverie.

‘Front desk took a call from a highly distressed woman who’d just had a human heart left on her doorstep. Her husband didn’t come home last night.’

‘Name?’

‘Alan Matthews. Married, father of four, lives in Banister Park. He’s a businessman, charity fundraiser and an active member of the local Baptist church.’

Tony had tried to say the last bit without wincing, but he’d failed. Helen closed her eyes, aware that the next few hours would be deeply unpleasant for everyone concerned. A family man had died a grim death in a known prostitutes’ haunt – there was no nice way to say that. But experience had taught her that prevaricating never helped, so picking up her bag she nodded at Tony to follow her.

‘Let’s get this over with.’

Eileen Matthews was holding it together, but only just. She sat erect on the plump sofa, her eyes fixed on the policewoman as she described the awful events of the last few hours. The Detective Inspector was flanked by a male officer, Tony, and a Family Liaison officer whose name she’d already forgotten – but Eileen had eyes only for the Inspector.

The twins were now safely installed with friends. This was the right thing to do, but Eileen was already regretting it. What must they be thinking and feeling? She had to be here, answering questions, but every instinct told her to run from this room, find her boys, hug them tight and never let them go. Nevertheless she stayed where she was, pinned down by the policewoman’s questions, paralysed by her experiences.

‘Is this your husband?’

Helen handed Eileen a close-up of the victim’s face. She took one look at it, then dropped her eyes to the floor.

‘Yes.’

Her answer was muted, lifeless. Shock still gripped her, keeping tears at bay. Her brain was struggling to process these strange events.

‘Is he…?’ she managed.

‘Yes, I’m afraid he is. And I’m very sorry for your loss.’

Eileen nodded as if Helen had confirmed something obvious, something mundane, but she was only half listening. She wanted to push this whole thing away, pretend none of it was happening. Her gaze was fixed on the many family photos that plastered the sitting room wall – scenes of happy family life.

‘Is there someone we can call to be with you?’

‘How did he die?’ Eileen replied, ignoring Helen’s question.

‘We’re not sure yet. But you should know straightaway that this wasn’t an accident. Or suicide. This is a murder enquiry, Eileen.’