Sanderson wasn’t here to cause them trouble – she had bigger fish to fry. For the last two hours, she and a taciturn DC Lucas had supervised a Hampshire-wide sweep of Simpson’s properties, knocking on doors, inveigling their way inside, asking questions of the suspicious occupants. The task was so vast that Sanderson and Lucas had put themselves on the frontline as well. Sanderson had offered to do their rounds together – for company and security – but Lucas had declined.
‘We can get through them quicker if we split up.’
Sanderson agreed, pretending to take her reasoning at face value. But she knew something else was going on. DC Lucas had overplayed her hand in bossing Sanderson around, claiming a superiority that never really existed. And things had changed a lot in the last day or so. DS Fortune had been largely absent, appearing distracted even when he was in the office, whereas Helen Grace seemed to be ever present, driving the investigation forward. This put Sanderson at a distinct advantage, being a long-term ally of DI Grace, and Lucas very much in the shade. If Lucas was bright she would be making strides to befriend Sanderson – perhaps even going as far as to apologize – but Sanderson suspected this was not in her lexicon. Too young and too insecure to show weakness.
So they did their rounds alone. The Kurdish family’s command of English was limited, so after a few fruitless questions, Sanderson completed her tour of the flat. There were far more people living here than was safe or probably legal – a whole extended family crammed in to four cramped rooms in conditions that could not even be described as basic. Simpson had complied with some of the legal obligations required of him as a landlord. The doors were fire doors, there were fire detectors in every room – including the bathroom, which was often skipped by cost-cutters – and the tenants did have a proper tenancy agreement. But that was the limit of the love and attention Simpson lavished on his tenants. Without exception, the flats Andrew Simpson owned or ran were hovels – there was no other word for them. Wallpaper had long since peeled off, the floorboards were increasingly exposed as the dirty carpets wore away, the light bulbs hung naked and unadorned in cheerless rooms.
Not for the first time that day Sanderson was assailed by feelings of guilt – guilt at her good fortune. She wasn’t rich, but she had a decent flat, a little car, nice clothes – all the trappings of a modern, urban lifestyle. These poor people had only poverty and degradation. She felt ashamed that they had travelled so far and found only this. But mingling with her guilt were feelings of anger too. Anger towards Andrew Simpson. Many landlords were guilty of neglect, but this was on a different level. She knew he was unpleasant, grasping and grubby – but even so Sanderson was shocked to realize that this man was prepared to treat fellow human beings as little more than animals.
89
Ruby’s heart stopped as soon as she saw it. A dead end. She had sprinted the length of the right-hand corridor, only to find she had chosen badly. The gloomy tunnel looked like it belonged in a mine – rough earth floor and walls with industrial lights secured to the wooden joists supporting the ceiling – and ended in some kind of storage area. It was piled high with plastic bottles, empty sacks and other detritus. Turning on her heel, Ruby ran back to the junction as fast as she could. Her lungs were burning, her breath short and erratic, but she had to keep going. She only had one shot at this.
Her captor’s groaning was louder than it had been before. Had he made it out of her cell now? Was he coming towards her? For a moment, Ruby was frozen with indecision, the fear that he would catch her suddenly robbing her of her energy and conviction.
Footsteps. Now she could definitely hear footsteps. Turning, she plunged down the central passage. Her legs threatened to buckle, but her desire to live drove her forwards. Down the passage, round the corner, she sprinted on and on. Surely this had to be right? This tunnel was longer than the last one and she could feel cool air ahead of her. Cool, fresh air. Yes, this must be the one.
Ruby turned a bend and now tears – tears of naked fear – sprung to her eyes. Another dead end – a kind of air vent – but no means of escape. For a moment, desolation swept over, then suddenly Ruby was seized with a thought. Perhaps this air vent was a way out after all. She rammed her fingers into the grille and pulled as hard as she could, pushing her leg up against the rough wall to provide extra leverage. Nothing. The grille was secured with numerous heavy-duty screws and, without a screwdriver, she was powerless to move it. Ruby rested her pounding head against the grille, the fresh air mocking her, as it ran over her tear-stained face. Was this it? If he found her, he would kill her, Ruby was sure of that. She would never see her family, her friends … she would never see daylight again.
All was still now. She listened intently. No more groaning. No more footsteps. Suddenly a thought occurred to her. What if he had taken the right-hand passage, leaving the left-hand one unguarded? The soft earth of the floor would have shown up her tracks – surely he would have pursued her down that passageway first?
Keeping close to the wall, Ruby crept back towards the junction, pausing every second step to listen. Her eyes darted this way and that, her ears strained, but there was no sign of him. She went a little further. Then further still. She was only ten yards from the junction. She tried to calm her breathing, bracing herself for one last burst of energy. It was now or never.
She bolted from her hiding place, veering sharply to her right around the corner. Without hesitation, she sprinted down the left-hand corridor. He would probably have heard her movement, so there was nothing for it but to put her head down and run.
A noise made her look up and suddenly she came to a juddering halt. He hadn’t gone down the right-hand passageway – he had raced straight for the exit. And there he was now standing in front of her, blocking her path.
Ruby turned to run, but he was on her in a flash. She felt his rough hand yank her head back, then reeled as his fist crunched into her face. As the blows rained down, Ruby slumped to the floor. She made no attempt to defend herself. She simply closed her eyes, took the blows and patiently waited for death.
90
‘Ok, let’s pull together what we’ve got.’
It was lunchtime and Helen had gathered the team in the incident room. Sanderson and Lucas had returned from their hunt, McAndrew had sifted Roisin’s possessions – it was the first time in a while that the whole unit had been in there. Helen watched them as they assembled – taking in who stood next to who, who avoided who and more besides. It was clear to her that there was still unease within the team. Division? Cliques? It was too early to say, but it alarmed her. She had no time – Ruby had no time – for internal squabbling.
‘So we have three confirmed victims and one missing woman. Pippa Briers was murdered three to four years ago, Roisin Murphy roughly two years ago. Isobel Lansley is our most recent victim – Jim Grieves estimates she was murdered within the last eighteen months. They all share a look – black hair, blue eyes – and each murder victim has a distinctive bluebird tattoo on her left shoulder. DC McAndrew’s diligent work with Roisin’s family and ex has helped confirm that Roisin did not have that tattoo when she went missing. Same goes for Pippa.’
‘And Lansley?’ questioned DC Lucas.
‘We’re yet to interview her parents. They’re based in Namibia – have been for some years – but we’ve informed them of developments and we’re flying them over,’ DC Grounds replied.
‘Sooner rather than later, please,’ DS Fortune chivvied.
‘So we can assume that the killer tattooed the women,’ Helen continued. ‘Why? To mark them as his? To make them resemble someone else? For entertainment? What is its significance?’
Silence from the team, so Helen carried on.
‘What is the importance of their look? Why them? I would like Lucas and McAndrew to lead on breaking down these women’s lives to see if we can pinpoint where he might have come into contact with them. What were these women’s regular commitments, where did they work, socialize, exerc
ise? We need chapter and verse, so we can compare for overlap.’
McAndrew and Lucas nodded, though neither looked overjoyed. Helen didn’t care – she was going to force this team to work together.
‘Next up, access. According to Sinead Murphy, Roisin had four keys to her council flat. Sinead had one in her purse, the other three were recovered from her flat, after she vanished – we found them in her boxed possessions.’
‘So she knew her abductor?’ DS Fortune offered.
‘It’s possible, as there was no sign of a break-in or a struggle at her flat. But Roisin had a small social circle and hadn’t mentioned anyone she knew who worried her or who were new on the scene. So we should also think about people you might let into your flat. People in uniform – police officers, paramedics, gas and electricity inspectors, charity workers. Would these women let these kinds of people in? Let’s go back to the families, see what we can glean.’
‘How does he get them out?’ Finally DC Stevens had spoken. He didn’t say much Helen thought to herself, but his question was on the money.
‘Isobel Lansley had traces of something sticky in her hair. We sent it off for tests and found that it was an industrial solvent,’ Helen replied. ‘It’s called trichloroethylene.’
‘What’s it used for?’ Sanderson asked.
‘All manner of things,’ Helen answered. ‘Cleaning work surfaces, degreasing metal parts, you find it in boot polish and dry-cleaning chemicals, plus historically people have used it to get high.’
‘And would it knock you out?’
‘It was trialled as an alternative to chloroform in the 1920s, a form of anaesthetic, before being taken on by industry – so there’s no question it could incapacitate you. As with chloroform, a soaked rag over the mouth and nose would do the trick.’
The team were silent once more. This latest development was sinister and unnerving.
‘To administer it, he would have to get close to them,’ said DC Lucas, picking up the thread. ‘But there were no breakages, no sign of a struggle in Ruby’s flat, so …’
‘She must have trusted them enough to let them get close,’ DS Fortune offered.
‘Or the victims were already asleep,’ Sanderson interrupted. ‘We know Ruby had had a big night out. She could have conked out and then …’
More silence.
‘Let’s go back to the flats,’ Helen continued. ‘I know this was a while ago, but check if any of the long-term residents remember seeing any authority figures around the flats late at night. Anything that struck them as unusual. There has to be a reason why this guy never leaves a trace. How does he get in?’
The team broke up, directed to their tasks by an energized DS Fortune. Helen watched them go. Progress had been modest, but finally they had a few pieces of the jigsaw, providing the unit with a well-needed morale boost. Perhaps they were finally inching close to understanding their killer’s MO.
Helen’s reflections were interrupted by her mobile phone ringing. She was surprised to see it was James calling. Her downstairs neighbour, a handsome junior doctor at South Hants hospital, had been friendly at first, but had backed off when it became clear that Helen had no interest in being another notch on his bedpost. Puzzled, Helen answered it quickly.
‘James?’
‘You better get back here, Helen.’
‘Why what’s up? Please don’t tell me there’s been another leak.’
‘They’re in your flat.’
‘Who?’
‘Police. Half a dozen of them. You need to get back here NOW.’
91
Helen took the stairs three at a time. By the time she reached the top floor, she was sweating slightly, but she didn’t hesitate – bursting through the doors. She had been expecting the worst, but even so the sight that met her eyes rendered her speechless.
Her flat – her precious flat – was being turned over. Six officers, all sheathed in forensics suits, were taking the place apart. Opening desk drawers, checking under tables, bagging her laptop and iPad.
‘Would someone explain to me what the fuck is going on?’ Helen roared, holding up her warrant card. ‘I’m a Detective Inspector with Hampshire Police, this is my flat and you are in the wrong place.’
‘Actually we’re in the right place,’ a middle-aged woman with a bad haircut shot back, holding up her warrant card. ‘DS Lawton, Anti-Corruption.’
Helen stared at the ID, but couldn’t take it in.
‘Anti-Corruption?’
‘Exactly and we have a warrant to search your flat.’
Helen snatched the piece of paper from Lawton’s hand and scanned it, searching for details of the who, what, why. Predictably it was bland and uninformative.
‘Why are you here? What are you looking for?’
The searching officers didn’t even bother to respond to that one.
‘I am currently running a major investigation. I don’t know what you think you’re doing but I can assure you that Hampshire Police are going to kick you all the way back to whatever hole you –’
‘Cool your boots, DI Grace. We know who you are and what you’re up to. But know this – it was one of your own lot that called us in, so perhaps you could let us get on with our job and save the abuse for someone else?’
With a scowl, Lawton turned back to the task in hand. Helen stood stock still, reeling from this latest revelation. She was none the wiser as to their intent, but now at least it was clear to her who was ultimately responsible.
92
‘You have no right do this. Whatever has happened between us in the past, you have no right to spread lies about me.’
An incandescent Helen faced Ceri Harwood across her desk.
‘I’m going to make an official complaint to Fisher –’
‘What makes you think I’ve been telling lies,’ Harwood replied coolly. Helen was unnerved by her tone, but carried on nevertheless.
‘Anti-Corruption? Really? I think my record shows which side of the fence I’m on.’
She was referring to Harwood’s predecessor – Detective Superintendent Whittaker – whom she had rightly handed to Anti-Corruption on a plate.
‘Which makes your actions all the more surprising, Helen.’
Still that coolness.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’d like to play you something,’ Harwood replied. ‘The original is with Anti-Corruption, hence this morning’s fun and games. I made this copy for our files.’
Helen tensed as Harwood pressed play on her small portable player. What game was this?
Silence, then shuffling, the finally voices. Helen immediately recognized her voice – and that of DI Tom Marsh. For a moment, Helen was struck dumb. Why the hell would he have been recording their conversation? He had no idea Helen was going to doorstep him in Northamptonshire …
She had been set up. DI Marsh had been in on it from the start – he had recorded Helen asking him to leak classified information to her, to compromise ongoing undercover work, to risk the lives of serving officers … the charge list was endless. And Harwood had it all on tape.
‘I told you not to go near this. No, I ordered you not to go near Robert Stonehill,’ Harwood continued. ‘But you ignored me. I’m not sure yet how you accessed the file on him, but I’ll find out.’
Immediately Helen thought of Charlie. What had she dragged her into?
‘File?’ Helen queried, keeping her expression as neutral as possible.
‘Don’t be coy, Helen. The only way you could know about the involvement of DI Marsh is from having read the unredacted file.’
‘I don’t recall any file.’
‘Good God, Helen, if that’s the best you can do, you really are for the high jump. Anti-Corruption are going through your flat with a fine toothcomb – when they find the evidence they need, then you’ll be gone. And not a moment too soon.’
Helen stared at her superior. There was something different about her today. Even at the point of
her triumph, she looked weary and empty. As if her own hatred had eaten her from within. She had laid a complex trap to catch Helen and it had worked. So why did she seem so dispirited?
‘Was any of it true? The fight in Northampton? Robert’s association with the police?’
‘I’m afraid that’s classified.’
And no doubt would remain so. Helen’s anger was spiking now, the thought of how her personal life – her deepest vulnerabilities – had been used against her made her blood boil. She had underestimated Harwood’s thirst for vengeance and was reaping the reward for her complacency.
‘Obviously while this is ongoing, you will be suspended from the investigation –’
‘I don’t think so.’
Harwood laughed.
‘I admire your balls, Helen, but I’m not sure that’s your decision really. Once we’re done here, I am due to meet Fisher to rubberstamp your suspension. He’s across all this obviously –’
‘Then no doubt he’ll be aware what a foolish move that would be. From a publicity view, it wouldn’t play well, would it? You suspended me before and look what happened – I found Ella Matthews while you were running round in circles. I reminded Emilia Garanita of that the other day – I’m sure the Evening News would take a dim view of Southampton Central’s most successful police officer being suspended with such a major investigation in play. I’m sure they would also be interested to hear that I am the victim of a campaign of relentless harassment, despite a total lack of evidence against me, because of your personal vendetta against me –’
‘Are you serious? You were caught red-handed!’ Harwood fired back.
‘A hypothetical conversation between two officers, during which nothing of note was revealed –’
‘You accessed a classified file. In contravention of a direct order.’
‘So where is it?’
For the first time, Harwood paused. Did Helen detect a sliver of doubt?
The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3 Page 17
