Pop Goes the Weasel | страница 85

Looking around the detritus, the only item of value was the computer. Perched in glorious isolation on the cheap desk, it stood proud. Its aluminium casing and familiar logo looked fresh as if this totemic item had been kept clean and safe whilst all else had been allowed to go to seed. No doubt this treasured item was Gareth’s passport to life and Charlie felt sure that the key to his death lay within it.

The Bull and Last did the best steak sandwich in Southampton. It was also off the radar of most coppers, a middle-class hangout favoured by yummy mummies and businessmen, so was one of Helen’s favourite haunts when she needed a bit of time to herself. After she’d left Tony, she suddenly realized how incredibly hungry she was. She’d hardly eaten for days, surviving on coffee and cigarettes, and now she desperately needed some fuel. Sinking her teeth into the thick sandwich, Helen immediately felt better – the protein and carb fix hitting the spot.

She had to get her head out of the case for a few minutes. When you are deep in an investigation of this magnitude, you become utterly obsessed. It haunts your thoughts, day and night. The longer it goes on, the easier it is to become snow-blind, to lose your sense of perspective and your clarity of vision. It was healthy to come here and people-watch for a little while, speculating on the emotional lives of the wealthy women who enjoyed flirting with the handsome waiters.

A local freesheet lay discarded on the table. She’d avoided picking it up and even as she did so now, curiosity finally getting the better of her, she flicked quickly through the first few pages. They were full of news on the recent murders, trumpeting the fact that police now had the killer’s DNA, but Helen didn’t linger on these. She liked to get deeper inside the local rags to the small adverts, the petty crimes reported in the court circulars, the horoscopes – and all the other nonsense that was used to fill up these papers.

Flick, flick, flick, then suddenly Helen froze. She looked away, then looked back, hoping she had imagined it. But there it was. A photo of a house. The same house Helen had seen Robert and his mate Davey breaking into two days ago.

And above it the damning headline: ‘Pensioner fights for life after surprising burglars.’

She made it to Aldershot in record time, driven there by instinct and anxiety. The details of the newspaper report had made for grim reading – a 79-year-old former teacher who had surprised intruders and been savagely beaten. His skull fractured, he was now in an induced coma in Southampton General. It was touch and go whether he would survive.