The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3

by M. J. Arlidge

  All that she had to look forward to now was the fallout.

  74

  They were closeted away in a snug at the back of the restaurant, away from prying eyes. Helen’s first instinct had been to ask Daniel Briers to come to the station, but she’d thought better of it. Too little privacy and far too formal – she loathed the cheerless beige walls of the relatives’ room, which seemed to sap the strength and optimism of everyone who set foot in it. So though an upmarket eatery was an unusual place to brief Daniel on developments, Helen felt she had made the right choice. Their relationship had already progressed well beyond the customary formality.

  Daniel listened carefully as Helen talked him through the discoveries on the beach. She had been light on the detail – alive to the further torment she could see she was inflicting – but the thrust of her message was clear.

  ‘He’s a serial offender? A … serial killer?’ Daniel closed his eyes as he said the words.

  ‘That’s our belief.’

  ‘Good God, what must she have gone through?’

  He looked up at her with an expression that was part anguish, part need. Like all relatives in these awful situations, once the worst has been confirmed, Daniel had hoped for a swift conviction and a clear, understandable explanation. A domestic incident. A crime of passion. A hit-and-run. But to imagine your daughter as the victim – the plaything – of a serial killer … that was too much for anyone to take on board.

  ‘What did he do to them?’

  Helen noted how he talked about ‘them’, as if in his mind the new bodies on the beach were somehow divorced from Pippa’s case. She didn’t blame him for that – she’d do exactly the same in his shoes – but to her it was clear that all three women had fallen prey to a prolific and practised killer. The circumstances of their burial, the careful way they had been stripped off all identifying features and most disturbingly the bluebird tattoo that they’d found on all three corpses – it was the same guy.

  ‘We’re still looking into that,’ Helen replied, avoiding all mention of mortuaries and post-mortems. ‘But there’s no sign he inflicted violence upon them and it doesn’t appear he was sexually motivated –’

  ‘So, what, he just starved them to death?’

  ‘I don’t know, Daniel, but we’ll find out.’

  Daniel took this in, but said nothing, staring at his feet. Instinctively Helen tried to climb inside his head, imagining the awful situations that were playing out for Daniel – his daughter, alone and scared, facing a slow, lingering death. Hoping against hope that the only person who really loved her – her daddy – would rescue her from a living nightmare. When did she realize that no one was coming?

  ‘You will catch him, won’t you?’ he said finally, his voice breaking even as he did so.

  ‘I gave you my word. Pippa will have justice.’

  He looked up at her, his eyes full of tears. Taking her hand in his, he simply said:

  ‘Bless you, Helen. Bless you.’

  75

  He laid out his haul on the bed. It was like an Aladdin’s cave of cheap cosmetics and looked exotic and glamorous in the dingy basement. He couldn’t help a feeling of quiet satisfaction. She had asked him for something and he had delivered more than she could have dreamed of.

  She was grinning from ear to ear. Singing his praises, showering him with compliments. How foolish their petty disagreements and squabbling seemed now. Why had he ever been worried? She just needed a bit of breaking in. But the effort was worth the reward and he basked now in the warm glow of her approbation.

  ‘I wasn’t quite sure what you wanted, so I bought a job lot. Mascara, lipstick, eyelash curlers, nail stuff.’

  He loved all the colours – the gold tubes, the deep red lipsticks, the shocking pink nail varnish. The femininity of it all thrilled him and aroused him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘If you like these, then we could think about other things too. Some new clothes, perhaps some underwear …’

  He said this last bit quickly, not wanting to appear embarrassed in front of her, before listing other luxuries and trinkets that she might like. All the while he could feel his erection growing. The thought of her as his little piece of heaven, hidden away from the world, was too much.

  He excused himself and hurried out. Once the heavy door was locked and bolted behind him, he leant against the cold metal, enjoying its soothing feel. He had been through so much, suffered so horribly, but finally everything was going to be ok. She was his now.

  76

  What the fuck was he doing out there?

  Ruby sat on the bed, her body rigid with tension. Her captor had shut and locked the door, so why wasn’t he going anywhere? Her eyes were fixed on the wicket hatch – any moment she expected it to snap open. The full claustrophobia of her situation suddenly hit home. She had no control here.

  Still no sound, no movement. Had she misjudged the situation? Did he not trust her? She looked at the spread of cosmetics on the bed. Ridiculous baubles to tart up a gruesome reality. She had assumed their purchase signalled something – a willingness to trust her – but now she wasn’t so sure. She had built this up in her head too much for it to fall at the first hurdle.

  Then footsteps walking softly away. Finally disappearing all together. Still, Ruby sat stock still. Not quite believing it. Not wanting to rush things, in case he suddenly returned.

  But the silence remained undisturbed, so she quickly reached down and snatched up the eyelash curlers. She tested and probed them with her fingers – as she’d hoped they were the cheap high street kind, rather than anything professional. Seizing the curved shaper head, she pushed and pulled, trying to loosen it. But it wouldn’t break. Cursing, Ruby lifted the iron leg of the bedstead and pushed it down firmly on to the shaper head, pinning it to the floor, before pulling the rest of the shaper back hard. With a satisfying snap it came free. Lifting the bed once more, she took out the shaper head and pressed down on it with her heel. Gently at first, but then with greater force, stamping down on the small piece of metal. The hard, dusty floor produced only a dull thud, and oddly Ruby felt totally safe from detection. Adrenaline was making her reckless.

  She paused now, wiping the sheen of sweat from her brow. Lifting her foot, she saw that the curved piece of metal was now flat.

  Scooping it up, she heaved the sheets, blanket and eventually the mattress off the iron bed frame. Time was of the essence now. Crouching down, she examined the exposed bed frame. It was a heavy, metal frame – four legs, a bedstead and a headboard. The bedstead was connected to the headboard by two metal screws. They had been screwed very tight and had proved immovable thus far, but now Ruby set to work on them, jamming the flattened shaper into the slot of the screw and turning it as hard as she could.

  Nothing. No give at all. Already Ruby could feel tears creeping up on her. She renewed her efforts. A few seconds later, she relented, cursing. Surely all this hadn’t been for nothing?

  Summoning up her last shreds of determination, Ruby applied herself once more. Her fingers protested as she twisted for all she was worth, the thin metal sides of the shaper cutting into them. She strained harder, could feel the skin on fingers splitting now, then finally it happened. The screw began to move. Begrudgingly at first, then with alacrity and before long she held it in her hand.

  One down, three to go.

  77

  Lloyd knew something was seriously wrong the moment she opened the door to him. Ceri Harwood was always so well presented, so terrifyingly in control of herself and her situation, that he was momentarily lost for words. He had never seen her look rattled and he had certainly never seen her drunk before. She blamed her slurred speech on pills she was taking for a head cold, but Lloyd could smell the wine on her breath.

  She had obviously forgotten they were supposed to be meeting tonight, which angered him – how could she be so bloody cavalier? She looked at him blankly at first, as if trying to place him, then without saying
a word turned and headed back inside. Lloyd felt a fool standing there, clutching his small Jiffy bag, like an unwanted postman. What was he supposed to do? Enter or wait here? Had he been dismissed? Or welcomed?

  Lloyd stepped inside quickly. He was here to do a job and leave – no point lingering where people might see him. A black face in this part of town would excite more interest than usual and he wanted to be as anonymous as possible.

  ‘Hello?’ His voice seemed to echo in the spacious and well-appointed home.

  ‘Downstairs’ was the listless reply from within.

  He walked down a precipitous spiral staircase to the large basement kitchen. He chided himself for it, but he felt deeply uncomfortable here. He had no problem with rich people, with folk enjoying the fruits of their labour, but it was so alien to him. He had never known luxury or privilege. He wouldn’t know what to do with a house this size even if he had one.

  ‘Drink?’

  Harwood smiled grimly at him, as she filled a glass to the brim.

  ‘I’m ok – I need to get back.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Harwood replied, pushing the glass into his hand. ‘So what’s the news from the front?’

  Lloyd looked down at the glass in his hand and anger flared through him. She had no right to play games with him.

  ‘The bodies have both been exhumed now and are with Jim Grieves. We haven’t officially ID’d them yet, but we’re ninety-nine per cent sure they are Roisin Murphy and Isobel Lansley.’

  Harwood drained her glass.

  ‘Press?’

  ‘Nothing yet, but we’ve closed off the beach again, so it won’t be long before we’re fielding questions. Have we discussed a media strategy with liaison?’

  ‘Just give the hacks signed copies of Helen’s mugshot. That should do the job.’

  Lloyd realized she was attempting humour, which only made this whole situation more surreal. Suddenly he wanted to be out of this place. He had no idea what had occasioned this burst of uncharacteristic behaviour, but he didn’t like it. For the first time he realized that perhaps Harwood wasn’t quite as in control of the situation as she had claimed to be.

  ‘Here.’

  He held out the Jiffy package to her.

  ‘Put it on the side,’ she said, gesturing towards the obscenely large marble-topped island, before wandering off to the fridge once more.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’

  Finally, Lloyd’s anger had erupted.

  ‘Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? For me? For us? If you’re so bloody uninterested, why did you start all this?’

  Harwood paused and turned. She looked surprised, rather than offended, by his words. She shot a look at the package and her face softened. Slowly she made her way back over to him.

  ‘Forgive me, Lloyd,’ she said softly. ‘It’s been the worst of all days.’

  She seemed uncertain whether to go on. For his part, Lloyd wasn’t sure what to say.

  ‘I know how this must look. But I am grateful for everything you’ve done. I know I can always rely on you.’

  She looked at him warmly.

  ‘So let’s forget my bad behaviour, have a drink and talk about something else shall we?’

  ‘I don’t want to intrude. Especially if Tim’s at home and –’

  ‘I kicked him out.’

  Lloyd was speechless once more. She didn’t seem keen to elaborate further. Harwood took a step closer to him, her nose now only a couple of inches from his.

  ‘So why don’t you sit down on the sofa, have a drink and relax?’

  As she said it she ran her finger down his face, brushing his lips and chin before coming to rest on his chest. Her eyes sparkled fiercely at him, but he felt no desire for her, just a mixture of horror and pity.

  Gently taking her hand from him, he placed his still full glass in hers and said:

  ‘I really must be getting home.’

  78

  Jim Grieves never said very much, but today he was unusually taciturn. The reason for this was obvious – two partially decomposed women lay on neighbouring slabs in his mortuary. This meant a sudden spike in workload for Jim – which he never appreciated – but more than that it meant a depressing few hours spent in the company of two young people who should have had their whole lives ahead of them. Fifty-something Jim was truculent and sarcastic, navigating his job with gallows humour, but he had grown-up girls of his own and Helen could tell that he was affected by the latest arrivals to the mortuary.

  ‘Roisin Murphy and Isobel Lansley,’ Jim began, ‘Missing Persons had their dental records on file. I’ve sent off DNA samples to double-check, but it’s them.’

  Helen nodded.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Roisin about two years. Isobel less – a year to eighteen months.’

  Two more girls kept alive from beyond the grave through tweets and texts. It gave Helen no satisfaction to see that she had been right about the killer’s need for fresh victims.

  ‘I’m going to need a bit longer to give you cause of death. But both are likely to have suffered some kind of organ failure. They’ve been starved and kept in darkness. Like Pippa, their eyes have deteriorated, they have a complete absence of vitamin D in their systems, their skin is leathery. At some point their bodies just shut down – I’ll pin it down further as we go on.’

  Helen knew this was coming but it still upset her.

  ‘We do have something here that we didn’t have with Pippa. All three bodies were washed clean – either by the killer or by Mother Nature – but I found something odd on Isobel. Two of the hairs in her fringe were stuck together. Nothing unusual in that – wet sand is sticky – but this was stuck together with some kind of solvent.’

  ‘Any idea what it is?’

  ‘Not a clue,’ he replied cheerily. ‘Not my department. But I’ve sent it off for tests. I’ve told them we need it back within hours. You can imagine what they said to that.’

  For the first time today, Helen smiled. Jim enjoyed nothing more than winding up the lab crew, whom he unfairly dismissed as automatons.

  ‘What about the tattoo?’ she said, pressing on.

  ‘Similar pigments as used on Pippa. Hard to say if he used the same needle – if there’s bacteria on the needle that may help us decide either way – but one thing’s clear, he’s getting better at it. Isobel’s tattoo was much more skilled than Pippa’s.’

  Helen took this in.

  ‘Truth be told,’ Jim continued. ‘You can buy these inks and needles online or in scores of stores in Hampshire. They are all pretty generic and I’m not sure that’s going to take you anywhere. If I were you I’d concentrate on the design. Find out why the bluebird is important to him.’

  Helen left shortly after, having thanked Jim for his endeavours. He was right of course, though it didn’t take them any further forward. They had done the necessary checks on the tattoo – nobody sporting a bluebird tattoo had been arrested in recent history, nor was there any record of bodies turning up which were decorated in this way. Computerized records only went back ten to fifteen years, so it might be that the evidence was out there somewhere, predating computerization, but she couldn’t allot valuable manpower to sifting the archive, when the result of this line of investigation was so doubtful.

  There was, however, one card left she could play, though it wasn’t a card she was particularly looking forward to using. She was still pondering how to approach this, when her phone rang.

  On the other end was a very excitable DC Sanderson.

  79

  Lloyd was halfway down the stone steps, when he heard her calling after him.

  ‘Lloyd?’

  He had left so abruptly – rudely – that he wasn’t surprised. Instinct had taken over – he just wanted to be away. Still, he paused now. She was his boss after all. She stood in the doorway beckoning to him, as if keen not to be seen by the neighbours. Suppressing his irritation, he slowly climbed the steps,
until he was standing in front of her. Why did he feel like he’d been summoned to the headmaster’s office? He’d done nothing wrong.

  ‘A word before you go.’

  To Lloyd’s eyes, Harwood suddenly seemed much more cold-eyed and in control than she had been even five minutes ago. Something of the steely professional was returning, in spite of her obvious intoxication.

  ‘We’ll forget today ever happened. It’s business as usual from now on.’

  She chose her words carefully and delivered them with emphasis and conviction. Lloyd could feel himself getting sucked in once more.

  ‘I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,’ she continued evenly. ‘And it would be a shame for our close working relationship to be compromised in any way, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Lloyd nodded, though he was feeling the very opposite. Perhaps Harwood sensed this for now she leaned closer, her lips almost brushing his ear.

  ‘Don’t turn on me, Lloyd.’

  Then she retreated, shutting the front door firmly behind her.

  Driving home, Lloyd cursed himself for his stupidity. Why had he ever got involved with Harwood? Was he really so stupid as to have thought that he could come out of this thing unscathed? It had seemed so simple at first, but now he could see he’d been a fool. Had he come to believe his own hype – the Teflon kid who sailed through life climbing ever upwards, never a mark against his name? There was a joke that followed him everywhere – a joke that infuriated him by its knowing racism – that he was ‘whiter than white’. The goody two shoes, flawless in his prowess and reputation. Lloyd knew it made him unpopular, but oddly it was a badge he clung to now, reminding himself that it meant he was better and more committed than those other jokers. Had he thrown that all away now?