The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3

by M. J. Arlidge

  Movement upstairs. A sound, then another. Was it morning? It could just be him wandering around. He wasn’t a good sleeper and she heard him walking around at all hours. But the fact that he had been silent for so long gave her hope that the night had finally passed.

  This was it then. Ruby clutched her weapon a little tighter. She would only get one shot at this, so she would have to get it right. Stupidly she found herself smiling again, excitement overcoming caution. Was she crazy to hope? Could it all end so simply? She tried to quell her sense of anticipation – to fail now would be too much to bear – but she couldn’t help it. She had won his trust. She had the element of surprise. And something inside was telling her that she would be home by nightfall.

  85

  He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. A slick, rust-coloured patch of damp stared back at him. He took in its contours, its shadings of colour, and saw in its form a million different things – an island, a cloud, a sailing boat, a unicorn. He was amused at his eccentricity, lying in bed dreaming up nonsense when there was so much to be done, but he made no attempt to stop. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself the luxury of happiness – why not indulge himself?

  How dark and unremitting his life had been since Summer left. How had he endured so many years of misery and loneliness? It seemed crazy to think now that he had survived more than a decade without her. He had been ripped apart by her desertion of him and he blushed still at the thought of his younger self cradling Summer in his arms, slapping her face to wake her. He had been unable to speak for a month after it happened, mute with shock at this sudden betrayal. He was surprised to find that, even now, if he really concentrated he could summon the distinctive, acrid smell of the vomit that had coated her that night.

  His first thought on realizing she had left him was to kill himself. It was the obvious thing to do and there had been many points since when he’d regretted losing his nerve. He had gone to a DIY store and bought everything he needed, but when it came to the crunch, something held him back. At the time he rationalized this as Summer intervening, pulling him back from the brink. But now he wondered if it was just plain cowardice. He didn’t know whether it was a sign of strength or disloyalty that he was still breathing. Still trying to be happy.

  Many were the times since then that he had lain in this bed and imagined himself back there. When he thought of that space – their small attic room with the ill-fitting floorboards and rotting joists – he always pictured himself as being horizontal. Lying on his tummy, spying through the floorboards at the goings on below, or lying on his back with Summer, staring at the ceiling, imagining themselves anywhere but there.

  There was so much junk in that small room – left by the previous occupants – and he and Summer had made a little sanctuary for themselves out of the discarded objects. A roll of musty carpet, an old tea chest, an old-fashioned doll’s house, a saggy beanbag – they made a little circle of them and hid in the middle, safe from the world, cocooned in secrecy and love. They had read of fairy circles and lucky charms. They had liked the idea so much they had stolen a well-thumbed book from the library – laughing like idiots as they outran the fat librarian – and then, plucking nonsense fantasy words from it, they had cast spells over their little circle, hoping to render it secure and impregnable.

  Once safe, they had turned their attention to the toys within the magic circle. They stole valuable items from Dixons – Gameboys – as well as books, dolls and Top Trumps from other children – but oddly the thing they kept coming back to was the doll’s house. They had inherited it in poor condition. The plastic windowpanes were long gone and there were childish scribblings in biro on the roof that wouldn’t come off however hard they scrubbed. But for all that they loved it, not least because inside were two small figures. One dressed in pink, one dressed in blue.

  They adopted one each, naming them appropriately, and began to play with reality, imagining themselves in faraway places, living unfamiliar, glamorous lives. King and queen of all they surveyed. It was an arresting fantasy and they played it every day, until other interests took over. It was their world – their special world – and he still felt a deep pang of shame whenever he pictured the doll’s house’s sad end – smashed into a hundred pieces by his hand. He had destroyed those four walls with venom – his only regret at the time was that he didn’t have any matches to turn it to ash. What a fool he’d been. There was nothing in this mouldering house – above ground at least – which was precious to him. He would have coveted that doll’s house had he still possessed it.

  The alarm clock snapped into action, forcing him out of his daydreaming. He hadn’t slept much but oddly had enjoyed the strange half-sleep that often conjured up strange memories. But there was no time to indulge himself. He was due in at work soon and he was determined not to do anything that would attract attention. The police focus was so intense now that he would have to be scrupulous not to arouse suspicion. He must be on time and on the button – just another day at the coalface as far as the wider world were concerned.

  However, if he was quick, he could just sneak in a quick visit downstairs. He hated the idea of her being lonely so, dressing quickly, he put a comb through his hair and hurried out of the bedroom. He had a spring in his step, a lightness in his heart – today was going to be a good day.

  86

  It’s hard to watch someone implode. But the worst thing you can do is look away. There’s no point pretending it isn’t happening – you have to front up to it, take them by the hand and lead them to a better place. Aided by DC McAndrew, Helen Grace was doing just that.

  Sinead Murphy was crumbling in front of them, broken by the final confirmation of her daughter’s death. Helen was glad she hadn’t broken the news last night. This had been her first instinct on leaving the mortuary, but she always shied away from doing these things late in the day. Best to give people the awful news early so that your FLO has a shot at creating some kind of order, to give friends and family time to assemble, before the unforgiving night sets in. Then at least you have a chance of leaving the bereaved relatives on an even keel.

  Looking at Sinead, who was drawing hard on her third cigarette of their visit, Helen wondered if that was stupidly optimistic. Roisin had been conceived in difficult circumstances and her father was long gone before her first birthday. History had repeated itself with Roisin. Her ex-boyfriend, Bryan, had split with Roisin before their baby boy – Kenton – was walking. Bryan now sat awkwardly on the sofa, flanking the combustible mother-in-law he had never got on with. They made a strange couple – overweight Sinead crying into her cup of tea as the scrawny Bryan stared at his feet. He clearly didn’t know what to feel about the mother of his child, who had booted him out, but was now dead. Despite his looks, appearance and emotional deadness, Helen felt some sympathy for him. It was a horrible situation for everyone.

  None more so than for Kenton – the toddler now playing with Kinekt bricks on the mud-brown carpet. His whole life had been topsy-turvy and things would only get worse now. His mother was no longer missing, she was a murder victim. Helen knew well how that fact would haunt him as he grew up. Helen had hated her parents most of the time, but their death at the hands of her sister had ensured that they frequently appeared in her daydreams and nightmares, silently accusing both their daughters of betraying them. More than that, the brutal murder of someone close to you – by blood if not affection – colours your view of life. The fact that people who should be with you have been brutally snatched away leaves you ill at ease, forever looking over your shoulder.

  ‘How did Roisin handle motherhood?’

  Sinead would be closed to them soon – a total collapse looked imminent – so Helen pressed on, wanting to get as much information out of her as she could.

  After a long silence, Sinead finally replied:

  ‘It wasn’t easy. She was still so young. None of her mates had kids, she just wanted to party, y’know? Don’t get me wrong, she
loved Kenton to bits, but she wasn’t ready for him.’

  ‘So when she went missing, you didn’t report it at first?’

  Sinead shook her head and took another long drag on her cigarette.

  ‘She’d been finding it tough. Kenton was never a good sleeper and Roisin always hated mornings,’ Sinead continued, smiling briefly at the memory of her grumpy daughter. ‘She tweeted saying she had to get away for a while, so it wasn’t that surprising …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But it still didn’t feel right. Kenton was here alone in the flat. All night. If she really wanted to get away, I felt sure she would have brought him to me. I would have kicked up a fuss – I’ve got problems of my own – but she knows I would never have turned him away. I would have done what I could.’

  Helen didn’t doubt it – Sinead’s love for her grandson shone through – the one bright spot in this whole story.

  ‘So you were worried?’

  Sinead nodded, then went on:

  ‘But I didn’t want to contact the authorities, didn’t want to get Roisin into any trouble. She didn’t have much and relied on benefits to feed the boy.’

  Bryan shifted uneasily in his seat – Sinead’s judgement of him was coming through loud and clear.

  ‘What did you think, Bryan?’ Helen said, shifting the focus to him. ‘When you heard Roisin was missing?’

  Bryan shrugged – he clearly wanted this to be over as quickly as possible.

  ‘Were you surprised?’

  ‘Guess so.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because … because this was all she had. The flat, the kid.’

  ‘Your son?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Helen looked at him. She felt there was more here. That his surliness was more than just awkwardness.

  ‘You weren’t living with her when she went missing?’

  ‘Nah, we’d split.’

  ‘How long was this before … ?’

  ‘About six months.’

  ‘And where were you living at the time?’

  ‘With friends.’

  Helen was starting to get irritated by his determined non-engagement, but she swallowed her frustration and persevered.

  ‘Did she ever mention anything to you that subsequently you’ve thought was suspicious? Was she scared of anyone? Was she in trouble?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, shrugging.

  Helen took this in, then:

  ‘So when Roisin went missing, who had keys to the flat?’

  Helen said it lightly, but it was this that interested her most of all.

  ‘I did, of course,’ Sinead confirmed.

  ‘Bryan?’

  ‘She made me give my set back.’

  ‘Do you still have your key, Sinead?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve got all her things boxed up,’ she said, a touch indignantly.

  ‘I’m going to have to look at whatever you have – I hope you understand,’ Helen replied.

  Sinead looked at Helen for a moment – it was clear that handing over the treasured keepsakes of her daughter would be hard – then she rose and headed upstairs with McAndrew, sense finally prevailing.

  ‘Were there any burglaries? Break-ins?’ Helen continued, turning back to Bryan.

  Bryan shook his head.

  ‘Did she mention anyone hanging around? Did she ever have to change the locks? Or express any fears for her security?’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ Bryan replied. ‘She was ok.’

  ‘I’m going to need you to write down the names of everyone she was in touch with,’ Helen continued, as Sinead rejoined them. ‘We’ll need to check them all out, see if anyone had reason to want to harm Roisin.’

  The pair promised to help, for once singing from the same hymn sheet. Helen rose, thanking them for their time and headed for the door. She paused in the hallway to look at the boxes of possessions – three of them – that now encapsulated Roisin’s short life. Helen was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness – for her, for her son – and was pleased to make her excuses and leave. As she walked away, she turned to look once more at the bereaved family through the living room window. Bryan was getting ready to leave, Sinead had her head in her hands and beyond them playing happily on the sofa was Kenton, utterly oblivious to it all.

  87

  There she was – slumbering as usual. Snapping the wicket hatch shut, he drew the bolts and unlocked the door. He was still scrupulous about security, despite the thawing in their relations and never hung around. He had paid the price for carelessness before.

  ‘Summer?’

  Shaking his head, he shut the door, locking it quietly behind him. Summer had never been a morning person. Sometimes it irritated him, other times he found it entertaining. Today he was in indulgent mood.

  ‘Time to get up. We haven’t got much time, but I can get you something nice for breakfast if you like. I can do pancakes …’

  Pancakes had always been her favourite. Why shouldn’t he spoil her now and again?

  ‘Summer?’

  He hurried over to her. He had reached her bedside and now leaned over her.

  ‘Talk to me, Summer. Are you unwell?’

  He pulled back the sheet – but discovered only a rolled up blanket underneath. Before he could process this, he heard footsteps coming up fast behind. He started to turn – but too late. The hard metal bit into the back of his head and he collapsed heavily to the floor.

  He tried to raise himself, but was reeling with shock. Ruby didn’t hesitate, bringing the long metal strut crashing down on his head again. It was heavy and normally she would have struggled to lift it, but fired by adrenaline she wheeled it freely now, bringing it down on the back of his head for a third time. This time he hit the ground and didn’t get up.

  Dropping her weapon, Ruby fell to her knees, thrusting her hand into his trouser pocket. A creature of habit, he always kept the keys in his right trouser pocket. But he had fallen forwards and they were trapped underneath his body. Ruby was suddenly panicking. Why hadn’t she thought of this? Could she be frustrated by something so stupidly obvious?

  He groaned, lifting his hand to the back of his head. Summoning her strength, Ruby put her shoulder under his thigh, levering his body off the ground. He was heavy – heavier than she’d been expecting given his slight frame – and for a moment the pair hung in suspension, wobbling ridiculously to and fro. Then with a savage grunt, she rolled him over. Thrusting her hand into his pocket she found the keys – tearing them from him.

  Now she was heading for the door. Her hand shook as she tried to slip the key into the lock. Her captor groaned once more. Closing her eyes, Ruby willed her hand to be still. This time the key found its groove and slid inside. She turned it hard to the left. But it wouldn’t move. In desperation, Ruby tried the other way, twisting it as hard as she could. But still it refused to budge. Looking down at the key ring, Ruby suddenly realised that she had chosen the wrong key.

  She tugged at the offending key – but it was jammed in the lock now. Her captor was starting to move – Ruby could hear him behind her, slowly pulling himself up off the floor. Ruby felt paralysed – sheer terror robbing her of the ability to move. He was cursing and spitting, fury replacing his disorientation and shock. If she hesitated any longer…

  Ruby pulled at the key with all her might and suddenly it came loose, sending her stumbling backwards towards her captor. She felt his hand grasp her leg, his fingers scrabbling for a proper hold on her. Kicking him roughly away, she hared back to the door.

  Selecting the second key, she slipped it into the lock. She twisted it hard but the lock was old and stiff, resisting her endeavours stubbornly. Using both hands now, screaming in desperation, she forced the key anti-clockwise and … finally the lock turned. Ruby hauled the door open.

  Her first instinct was to bolt, but she caught herself, turning back to remove the key from the lock. If she could lock him in, then she would be safe. She tugged the keys out qui
ckly but as she did so, they spilled from her grasp, landing only a few inches from her captor. She took a couple of steps towards them, then stopped dead. He was already on his hands and knees, scrambling towards her. Snatching up the keys greedily, she turned and ran for her life.

  Sprinting down the short dingy corridor, she soon came to another locked door. She had been expecting this. He always shut this door quietly, presumably to conceal its existence from her, but she had heard it and noted the second key on his key ring. She slipped this key into the lock – her hand was steadier now – and swinging the door open, ran through it to freedom.

  She was surprised to find a long tunnel stretching out in front of her. She upped her pace, desperate to be away from this place. The exertion exhausted her, she hadn’t moved a muscle in days, wasn’t used to this sudden burst of activity. But she could sense that liberation was close at hand and pushed herself on.

  Then she came to an abrupt halt, staring uncomprehendingly at what lay in front of her. She was at a junction. Three separate corridors led off from this point – all of them disappearing into gloom. One of them must lead out of this Hell. But which one?

  Summoning the last vestiges of her courage and energy, Ruby plunged down the right-hand corridor, disappearing fast into the inky darkness.

  88

  It was the smell that hit you first. An overwhelming smell of damp, spiced up with bad drains and the thick smell of fried food. DC Sanderson stepped out of the mouldering living room and poked her head into the kitchen – she immediately noted that the ceiling was coated with years of grease and cigarette smoke.

  The Kurdish family who lived in this sorry excuse for a flat eyed her suspiciously, saying little. Sanderson presumed they were illegal immigrants but wasn’t going to push it. They didn’t look like scammers and certainly hadn’t washed up in the land of milk and honey. She wondered if they had lived in better conditions at home, but decided against asking them.