Pop Goes the Weasel | страница 70

The man was struggling to breathe, but he was determined to say something.

‘Her name? Please tell me her name.’

But the man said nothing. All Charlie heard was the last breath escaping his body. The killer had got away and Charlie was left holding her latest victim.

Helen stalked the street outside the Liberty Hotel, her eyes raking the walls of the dilapidated terrace for CCTV cameras. They had had a lucky break – Charlie literally bumping into their killer – and as a result of her testimony and the crumbs gleaned from the Polish sex worker who’d disturbed the attack, they had their best description of the suspect so far. She was Caucasian, in her twenties probably and tall, taller than your average girl, with long, powerful legs. She wore dark clothes, probably leather, had a pale face and long black hair cut in a fringe. But no one had seen her face well enough to give more than generic descriptions. The guy who took the money from the girls clearly never dragged his attention away from the TV long enough to actually look at who went in and out of the building. The other working girls said she wasn’t a regular – a couple of them had crossed her path as she took her client upstairs, but she had kept her head down, didn’t meet their eyes and, besides, they had their own clients to attend to. It was infuriating to be so close and yet have so little. A grab from a CCTV camera could change everything, however, so Helen scoured the walls. It was an area where crime was rife so people often employed extra security here, but her investigation revealed only one camera, poised above the entrance to a down-at-heel off licence. It hung limply, pointing at the wall, clearly the victim of vandalism. Was this work of children or had their killer disabled it? It would be of little use either way.

Heading back to the hotel entrance Helen spotted Charlie, who was now wearing a paper suit and a blanket. Her clothes had been taken away for forensic analysis and she was being looked after by a young WPC.

‘Would you like me to call Steve?’

Charlie looked up to see Helen standing over her.

‘Lloyd… DC Fortune’s already done it.’

‘Good. Go home, Charlie. You’ve had a big shock and you’ve done all you can. We’ll speak later.’

Charlie nodded, still taciturn with shock. Helen placed a comforting hand on her shoulder then moved on, impatient to see what the crime scene might offer them. Climbing the stairwell to the top floor, Helen paused to interrogate a group of forensic officers crowded round a partial footprint. The outline of a heel and toe was printed on the wooden board in blood.