Pop Goes the Weasel | страница 24

She said each word slowly, enunciating every syllable as if talking to someone simple.

‘He was a good man who cared about others. He had a sense of his mission in life. If he came into contact with prostitutes or drug dealers it was purely to help them. He would never use prostitutes in that way.’

Helen was about to interject, but Eileen wasn’t finished.

‘Something awful happened last night. A kind, honourable man offered to help someone and they robbed and killed him in return. So instead of insinuating these… disgusting things, why don’t you get out of my house and find the man who did this to him?’

And now the tears did come. Eileen pulled herself up off the sofa abruptly and ran from the room – she wouldn’t cry in front of these people, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Heading into the bedroom, she threw herself on the bed she’d shared with her husband for thirty years and cried her heart out.

The man crept up the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky board on the fifth step.

Crossing the landing, he avoided Sally’s room and headed straight to his wife’s bedroom. Strange how he always thought of it as her room. A moment’s hesitation, then he placed his fingers on the wooden door and pushed it open. It protested loudly, the hinges groaning as the door swung round.

The man held his breath.

But there was no sound, no sense that he’d disturbed her. So quietly he stepped inside.

She was fast asleep. For a moment a pulse of love shot through him, swiftly followed by a spasm of shame. She looked so innocent and peaceful lying there. So happy. How had it come to this?

He walked out quickly, heading for the stairs. Dwelling on it would only weaken his resolve. Now was the time, so there was no point hesitating. Opening the front door soundlessly, he shot one more cautious glance upstairs, then slipped out into the night.

The sign was discreet – if you didn’t know it was there, you’d miss it.

Brookmire Health and Wellbeing. Strange that a commercial enterprise should be so bashful about announcing its presence. Charlie pressed the buzzer – it was swiftly answered.

‘Police,’ Charlie shouted, struggling to be heard above the traffic. There was a pause, longer perhaps than was necessary, then she was buzzed in. Already Charlie had the feeling she wasn’t welcome.

Charlie climbed the stairs to the top floor. The smile that greeted her was wide, but fake. A neat, attractive young woman in a crisp white uniform, hair tied neatly back in a ponytail, asked how she could be of assistance – clearly intending to be no help at all. Charlie said nothing, casing the place – it looked like an upmarket Champneys and had that perfumed smell that all spas have. Eventually Charlie’s eyes returned to the receptionist, whose name badge revealed she was called Edina. Her accent was Polish.