Pop Goes the Weasel | страница 91

‘I don’t like being lied to. I don’t like being looked down on. Especially by a degenerate like you.’

Helen shrugged her off angrily, but was unnerved. There was real venom and a new-found confidence in Emilia’s tone.

‘I want to know, Helen. I want to know everything. And you’re going to tell me.’

‘Or?’

‘Or I tell the world your little secret.’

‘I think the world knows everything about me already. I don’t think you’ll shift any papers rehashing that old stuff again.’

‘But they don’t know about Jake, do they?’

Helen froze.

‘I see you don’t deny knowing him. Well, I’ve had a long chat with him and – after a little gentle persuasion – he told me everything. How he beats you up for money. What is it with some women that they just have to give men the upper hand?’

Helen said nothing – how the hell did she know all this? Had Jake really spoken to her?

‘So here’s the deal, Helen. You will tell me everything, you will give me exclusive access. I want to be ahead of the nationals every step of the way on this and if I’m not… then the whole world will know that heroic Helen Grace is actually a dirty little pervert. How do you think Harwood would like that?’

Her words hung in the air, as Emilia walked off. Helen knew instinctively that she wasn’t bluffing and that for the first time she was in her thrall. Emilia had dangled the sword of Damocles over Helen’s head and would take great pleasure in dropping it.

St Stephen’s Baptist church reared up above her, grey and austere in the spitting rain. Churches were supposed to be places of refuge, warm and welcoming, but Helen found them cold and dispiriting places. She had always felt she was somehow being judged by them and found wanting.

Her mind was still reeling from her discussion with Emilia, but she wrenched it back to the task in hand. She had stewed on their conversation for too long and was nearly late as a result – she had had barely five minutes with DC Fortune before haring up the path – and she could hear the organ music swelling up inside. Slipping quietly into the building, she seated herself in a pew at the back. From here she would have a good view of everyone who attended. It was surprisingly common for murderers to attend the funerals of their victims – serial killers in particular seemed to relish the feeling of power as they watched the body being buried, the vicar intoning, the black-clad mourners clinging to each other. Helen scanned the female faces – was their killer sitting somewhere in this church?