‘If I took the file it, produce it. Then you can throw the book at me. But until then, I suggest you get back in your box and let me do my job. There’s a young woman’s life at stake and anything – or anyone – who impedes our search for her had better be prepared to face the consequences if things go wrong. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience. Or my face attached to that story.’
A long pause. Harwood said nothing but Helen could tell that she had planted a seed of doubt. Harwood would never allow anything to tarnish her public image or professional reputation. Safety first was her motto and Helen knew it.
‘You will stay on the investigation for now,’ Harwood eventually conceded. ‘But you are to cooperate fully with Anti-Corruption. Specifically you will provide me now with all of your passwords and encryption codes, so that the team can fully access your laptops, phones, tablets and more besides. You will also desist from going back to your flat or discussing this with any serving officers. If you disobey any of these orders, in any way, I will have your badge. Is that clear?’
Helen marched down the corridor, still burning with anger. Life constantly surprised her with its inventive sadism, but she had never expected this. How much must Harwood despise her to act in this manner? She was intent on destroying her and yet even now, as Helen’s future at Southampton Central hung by a thread, Helen was filled with a defiant sense of purpose.
Suddenly she knew exactly what she needed to do, if she was to tilt the battle in her favour, once and for all.
93
DS Lloyd Fortune shifted uneasily in his seat. He never liked public appeals and this one was more harrowing than most. Roisin’s smiling face beamed out from the screens behind them, the backdrop to Sinead Murphy’s emotional appeal for information. Sinead had managed three sentences before breaking down and since then progress had been halting. It made for good TV and might jog someone’s memory or stir their conscience, but it was difficult to watch. It was as if Sinead had been gutted like a fish – all her optimism, her strength, ripped from her by the tragic turn of events. The happy memories of Roisin that she now rehearsed seemed to hurt her still further – they were offered to prompt others into coming forward, but Lloyd feared they only served to underline her own guilt and increase her misery.
When she began talking about Kenton, things got worse. Sinead was almost inaudible now because of the heavy sobbing and the onus was on Lloyd to step in. But it was hard to do so without looking unfeeling or callous. Despite his good looks and articulacy, Lloyd was camera shy and hated being in the spotlight. It made him anxious: he was inclined to clam up for fear of making a fool of himself, which he knew from past experience made him look remote or haughty. Whenever he was approached to front poster campaigns designed to draw in new black and ethnic-minority officers to the Force, he tried to wriggle out of it, usually with little success. People seemed obsessed with putting him in the public eye, hence the endless media training, and once again Harwood had insisted he front today’s appeal, despite the fact that really it should be Helen Grace filling his chair.
Sinead had come to a complete halt now, so finally Lloyd leant over, placing a reassuring arm on hers, while redirecting her attention to the script they had signed off on before the press conference began. Sinead looked at him through sodden eyelashes, then, summoning some last vestige of composure, continued her appeal.
‘Roisin was a beautiful … caring mother and daughter.’
Another long pause, as Sinead drew breath.
‘She has been cruelly taken from us and someone out there knows why. If you have any information about my Roisin’s disappearance … please, please contact the police. She had suffered so much in her short life. A father who abandoned her. A boyfriend who did the same. She deserved so much more from life, but never got it.’
Finally, she looked up from the table and stared right into the nearest TV camera.
‘Don’t let her murder go unpunished.’
94
‘Don’t let her murder go unpunished.’ The blubbering bitch seemed to look directly at him as she said it. He swore violently at her, what did she and her slut of a daughter know about suffering?
The exertion of shouting at the TV brought the pain crashing back again. He was lying on the sofa in the filthy living room, an ice-pack clamped to the back of his head. Empty packets of Naproxin, super-strength Ibuprofen that he’d been prescribed some years earlier, littered the floor. He had taken four times the recommended dose, but it didn’t seem to be making much difference. It was like the worst migraine he’d ever had – a deep, insistent throbbing at the back of the skull.
Worse than all of this, however, was the pain of Summer’s betrayal. How had he been tricked so easily? And so cruelly? She seemed to have returned to him, to want to please him, but actually she was carefully planning her attack, waiting until his heart was open and his guard was down.
Despite the fact that he was concussed, he had dragged her back to her cell by her hair and once there delivered a beating that was savage and unremitting. It shocked him to realize that he had no idea how long it went on for or even if she had survived the attack. Eventually he had run out of steam and then the full extent of her subterfuge became clear. How she had removed the metal strut from the side of the bed, then propped up the bed with one of the chairs to make it look intact, so she could enjoy the element of surprise. What a mug he had been – all those cosmetic purchases from Boots had been designed to lay her hands on something metal. Why had he not seen this?
Rising from the sofa, stuffing two more Naproxin in his mouth, he vowed not to be so naïve again. She had tricked him once – he wouldn’t let her do so again. From now on things were going to be very different.
95
Ruby lay in the darkness. She was sweating and shivering, her body reacting with confusion to the severe blood loss and fractured bones. She had lost consciousness early on in the attack, repeated rabbit punches to her face and neck ending the fight quickly. When she had eventually come to, the pain was kept momentarily at bay by the shock – and horror – of finding that she was still alive. For the first time in her life she truly wished she were dead.
Had he broken her jaw? Her ribs? She couldn’t tell. Everything hurt and everywhere was sticky – cloyed blood clinging doggedly to her mouth, face and hair. Why had he spared her? She had attacked him. Would have killed him if she had had more presence of mind. Would he come back to finish the job?
Suddenly Ruby was pushing herself up. She hadn’t thought to – she was acting on instinct now, the thought of more suffering driving her on. Pain coursed through her – shooting from her rib cage to the very centre of her brain – but she managed to get to her hands and knees. Immediately she vomited, but she was on the move now and paid no heed to that, turning away and crawling towards the bed. It was still propped up by the chair and seemed to offer her sanctuary now. Swiftly she scuttled underneath, pulling the blanket down around her, hiding her from view.
She wasn’t safe here, but it felt better to be concealed. Clasping her hands together, Ruby found herself muttering mangled prayers once more. Her words were garbled, their meaning confused, but the sentiment was clear. This time Ruby wasn’t praying for deliverance. She was praying for death.
96
DC Sanderson scanned this way and that, searching for danger. The lock-up she was scoping was at the end of a needle-strewn alleyway in Portswood. There was no street lighting, no CCTV, you could vanish off the face of the earth here and no one would be any the wiser. She cursed herself for continuing her survey of Simpson’s properties alone – she should never have allowed station politics to jeopardize her safety. That was the first rule in the book.
She turned to leave, anxious to be out of this fetid alleyway. She had had high hopes for this property. It was remote and isolated, and had not appeared in their first sweep of Simpson’s holdings. For reasons that weren’t clear, the freehold for this property seemed to be in Simpson’s l
ate wife’s name. This might have been a historic oversight or for tax purposes, but Sanderson doubted it. Everything Simpson did was premeditated and controlled. Nothing was left to chance. But on arrival it quickly became clear that there were no potential witnesses in this part of town and there was little hope of gaining access. There was only one entrance and this was covered in padlocks and chains – there was no way of circumventing the lack of a search warrant.
Halfway down the alley, Sanderson paused, her gaze drifting up towards a small window in the side of the building. The dirty window, cracked and broken, hung slightly open. It wasn’t large but was wide enough for the slender Sanderson to slip through.
A wheelie bin lay abandoned nearby. What had once been in it? Food waste? A dead dog? She couldn’t tell, but the maggots didn’t seem to care. Swallowing her nausea and slamming the lid shut she dragged it under the window and climbed on top. From here it was a short jump to the windowsill. Her fingers slipped off first time and she nearly toppled off the wheelie bin as a result, but the second time round she gripped the sill forcefully. Using the toe of her boots to grip in the worn mortar holes of the brickwork, she scrabbled up fast and ten seconds later she was inside.
As she landed, a cloud of dust rose up to greet her, creeping into her nose and eyes and causing her to sneeze violently. The noise seemed to echo round the deserted lock-up, underlining her isolation and vulnerability. Plucking her iPhone from her zip pocket, she used its torch to look around her.
My God, what was this place?
Every square inch of it was taken up with boxes that rose from floor to ceiling. All of them marked and labelled. Sanderson examined the one nearest her. Despite the dust, the label looked new, the writing fresh. Sanderson hesitated – she knew examining the box’s contents was opening a legal can of worms – especially if whatever she discovered found its way into a court case, but Sanderson figured that that horse had bolted with her breaking and entering. Besides, Ruby had to be their first priority now.
Putting on a pair of plastic gloves, she teased open the box. What had she expected to find? Blood-stained clothes? A kidnap kit? A confession written in blood? Whatever she had been hoping for, she was still surprised by what she found. The whole box was stacked full of tapes. Video tapes.
Sanderson hadn’t seen CCTV at any of Simpson’s properties thus far, so she was immediately intrigued. Looking at the spine, her curiosity rose still further – ‘September 2013’ was written on it in blue biro. Flicking through a dozen other tapes, a pattern emerged: ‘June 2013’; ‘August 2013’. Opening one up, she examined the tape – no labels – then looked at the inner sleeve.
And stopped in her tracks. Written in biro on the sleeve – a single word that changed everything.
‘Ruby.’
97
Charlie knew something was up the minute she entered the house. She’d just returned from the newsagent – today’s Evening News had a big spread about the bluebird tattoo lead in the ‘Bodies on the Beach’ case and Charlie was looking forward to reading the details – but something about the feel of the house was … wrong. Was this a legacy of her years of police work? Or the result of her abduction by Marianne? Her senses were particularly acute now and she could tell she was not alone in the house.
She remained stock still, trying to quieten her breathing, which was loud and fast. Her police baton was upstairs at the bottom of a drawer, so she turned now and edged back towards the front door she’d just entered, taking care not to tread on the creaky floorboard on the left. In days gone by, she would have confronted an intruder without hesitation or fear, but there was no question of that now with her swollen belly. But as she laid her hand on the latch –
‘Charlie.’
A female voice. Helen’s voice. Charlie turned, ready to tear a strip off her boss for scaring the life out of her, but when she saw the anxiety on her face, she swallowed the rebuke.
‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I had to see you, but I couldn’t risk contacting you directly.’
Intrigued Charlie ushered her into the living room.
‘What’s going on?’
Helen gestured for them to sit down. Once on the sofa, she moved in close.
‘Harwood’s called in Anti-Corruption. They are ripping my flat apart as we speak.’
‘But why … ?’
‘The whole Robert thing …’ Helen paused briefly as the cruelty of Harwood’s scheme hit home once more. ‘The whole thing was faked.’
Charlie stared at her, disbelieving.
‘I don’t think there was a fight in Northampton, I don’t think Robert ever lived there,’ Helen continued. ‘The whole thing was designed to lure me into accessing classified material –’
‘Giving grounds for dismissal.’
Helen nodded. Charlie shook her head – could Harwood really stoop this low?
‘What have they got on you?’
‘A tape recording of my meet with DI Marsh. On its own, it’s not enough. She needs to prove I’ve got the file, hence the search at my flat.’
Now Charlie knew why Helen had come.
‘I’ll do it now,’ she said, rising.
‘Thank you,’ Helen replied, heading back towards the kitchen. She paused in the doorway:
‘Oh, and Charlie, I’d get the lock on your back door sorted. Child’s play.’
Charlie took the rebuke in good humour and hurried upstairs. Anti-Corruption might make the connection between Helen and her or they might not, but there was no point in taking chances. She thanked God now that Helen had seen fit to trust the photocopied file to her for safekeeping. If she hadn’t, she would have been suspended or worse by now. And Charlie and Sally Mason would have been in the firing line too. Steve wouldn’t necessarily have minded, but it wasn’t how Charlie intended her career to end. She owed it to all of them to put this thing to bed once and for all.
She was all fingers and thumbs as she lit the firelighters, stacked underneath the logs in their fireplace. It was an odd time of year for a log fire, but needs must. Eventually the match struck, the paraffin ignited and in minutes the fire was crackling nicely. Charlie didn’t hesitate, feeding the pages of the faked report, then even the file itself, into the flames. She was oddly tense, as she watched the papers catch and curl, as if Anti-Corruption might burst in at any moment. But the house – the street – was quiet and before long the papers were reduced to ash. Charlie wondered if it was enough. They had foiled Harwood’s initial attempt to bring Helen down, but how complex was this scheme? And was there anything they had overlooked? The thought of Southampton Central without Helen was absurd and yet this now seemed to be Harwood’s mission. And Charlie knew from experience that when Harwood wanted something badly enough, she generally got it.
98
It was an ambush. As soon as he opened the door, she was on to him, warrant card shoved roughly in his face.
‘Good morning, Mr Simpson. Not at work today?’
For a moment, Alan Simpson said nothing, too shocked by the sudden appearance of a police officer on his doorstep to respond. He swayed slightly as if unsteady on his feet.
‘I went to your work,’ Sanderson continued, ‘but they said you were running late. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.’
‘Not at all,’ he replied quickly.
‘Good. Because I have a few more questions for you about Ruby Sprackling. May I come in?’
A heavy silence followed Sanderson’s request. Was that fear in Simpson’s eyes? Suspicion? Sanderson gazed over his shoulder to take in the interior. It was a mess. But was it embarrassment or something more sinister that prompted Simpson to pull the door closer behind him, cutting off her view?
‘Do you have a warrant?’
‘No. But it won’t take me long to get one –
‘Then I suggest we do this elsewhere.’
Sanderson stared at him – trying to provoke a reaction with her evident irritation and suspicion, but h
e didn’t blink, looking straight back at her with hard, unflinching eyes.
‘It’ll create a lot of paperwork if we go to the station,’ Sanderson replied. ‘Which will take up far more of your time. It really would be simpler if I just popped in –’
‘We’ll do it at the station. Do you have a car?’
‘Yes,’ Sanderson said resignedly.
‘Then let’s go,’ said Simpson, slamming the door decisively behind him.
99
Ruby came to with a start – a noise from upstairs startling her. How long had she been out of it? And what did that noise mean?
He had not returned to her since the beating, which surprised her. What was he up to, she wondered. Since she’d first encountered him – that awful day – she’d had the sense that he was holding himself back, keeping something in. She had glimpsed the emotion at times – sparks of desire, flashes of anger – but he had always managed to rein it in. To appear in control and in command. Not now. As he had laid in to her, Ruby had seen real fury, a desire to destroy her – which is why she’d been surprised to find she was still alive when she came to. Now that she had crushed his fantasy, now that she had duped him, what was there to hold him back?
The thought made Ruby shudder. She had no fear of death any more, but she was sickened by the thought of more pain. Most of her bones felt broken already, but who’s to say what further pain he might inflict, if he put his mind to it. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the thought of him falling on her in vengeance. Memories of his desire for her made her whimper. Please, God, not that …
The soft tickle of cool air made Ruby turn. The broken brick stared back at her. Shifting over to the wall, she pulled the loose fragments free. Taking the letters and cards from the hidey-hole, she laid them out on the ground next to her. She was in no doubt that she would die down here now – all that was left for her was to leave some kind of message, some kind of marker that she had lived – and died – in this strange, fabricated world. Locating the felt-tip pen, she removed the lid and shook it violently. Then, finding a spare square of blank paper, she began to write.
The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3 Page 18
