‘So you have varied viewing habits. And always plenty of tenants moving out and new ones moving in.’
‘Sure.’
‘Do you have a type, Andrew?’
It was offered casually, but Helen could tell that Sanderson was 100 per cent focused on his answer – as was she.
‘There are all sorts of girls on your tapes. Large, small, white, black, dark hair, blondes. Do you favour any particular type of girl?’
‘I’m not fussy … but probably blondes. Especially if it’s dyed, so the rest of their hair is, well …’
He petered out, suddenly aware of the two women looking at him. For the first time in all their dealings, he blushed.
Helen rose.
‘For the purposes of the tape, DI Grace is leaving the room. DC Sanderson will continue and remember the pact we’ve made, Mr Simpson. Chapter and verse.’
She stared at him intently and he met her gaze, nodding gently. Sanderson resumed the questioning before Helen had even quitted the room, but Helen’s mind was already elsewhere. Sanderson’s burning of the midnight oil had thrown up one unpleasant but undeniable truth – Simpson didn’t have a type. The killer they were hunting was compelled to abduct women with black hair and blue eyes, but Simpson by contrast seemed to crave novelty, rather than specific body shapes, eye colour or hair type. It was almost as if the look of his subjects wasn’t important to him – just the fact that he could watch them undetected. Which meant that her nagging fears were probably true – Andrew Simpson was innocent of the beach murders. And of Ruby Sprackling’s abduction.
108
‘I have made the decision to release Andrew Simpson on bail, once he’s finished assisting us.’
The assembled team reacted with surprise and unease. They had heard rumours to this effect but Helen’s statement still took them aback.
‘He will be tailed of course and other charges are still pending. If he cooperates fully and helps us conclude the investigation, we may review those charges. But,’ Helen carried on, ignoring the dirty looks crossing the faces of some of the female officers, ‘unless you hear otherwise from me, Andrew Simpson is no longer our prime suspect.’
There was a brief buzz of chatter and reaction as her words sunk in. Helen found her eyes drifting to Lloyd Fortune. As her DS, he should have been by her side, spearheading the investigation with her, but he had been strangely absent of late – both physically and mentally. Like her, he also looked exhausted.
‘Andrew Simpson wasn’t fussy in the girls he targeted and both DC Sanderson and I believe that he no longer fits our offender profile.’
‘So we’re back to square one,’ DC Lucas chipped in unhelpfully.
‘Not quite,’ Helen countered quickly, alive to the effect that dead ends can have on team morale. ‘We know the killer’s type. And we know he abducts these girls with practised ease, which suggests he had access to their properties or had the girls’ confidence.’
‘Which is unlikely as they were all so different,’ DC McAndrew contributed.
‘Let’s test that theory,’ Helen continued. ‘Pippa Briers was a young professional. Roisin a single mum on benefits. Ruby Sprackling was a wild child. Isobel Lansley seems to be an introverted student who seldom left the flat. How are we getting on with her parents?’
‘They’re flying in this morning. Should be here by the afternoon,’ DC Edwards replied.
‘Good. So we’ve got four very different women, who lived miles apart, but shared a look and lived alone. How does he get to them? Let’s start with Pippa.’
‘Lived in Merry Oak, worked in Sun First Travel in the WestQuay. Liked to socialize in Bedford Place,’ Lucas shot back.
‘Find out who her doctor was. Her dentist. Friends, colleagues, book groups, start from the ground and work up. What about Roisin?’
‘Lived alone in a council flat in Brokenford. A number of boyfriends, some of whom seemed to overlap. Roisin liked the attention. Never had a job, attended a few free baby groups, went to the post office once a week to get her benefits. Spent the rest of her time window shopping, drinking and dreaming of being elsewhere.’
‘Ok, run down the boyfriends – every single one of them. Find out who worked at the Post Office, who was at those mother and baby groups. Ruby we know about, but let’s go over everything again – old school friends, Shanelle Harvey’s boyfriends, anyone who knew where she lived, how she lived … What do we know about Isobel?’
There was an awkward silence, before DC McAndrew eventually replied.
‘Very little really. Lived alone, kept herself to herself. Had fifteen followers on Twitter.’
Helen noticed a couple of the younger officers smirk. Fifteen followers was the equivalent of social death to them.
‘Student at the Oceanography Centre. Was halfway through her course when she went missing. Her parents funded her, so she didn’t have to work to support herself. From anecdotal evidence we’ve gathered so far, she went to lectures and then went straight home again.’
‘Ok, let’s focus our fire on her. She didn’t drink, club, socialize. So what professionals did she come into contact with that might link her to the other women? How is he doing it? How is he getting access to them? Isobel had traces of trichloroethylene in her hair – is that important? Does whoever’s behind this have access to this anaesthetic or derivative of it for their work? Check and double-check.’
There was a brief lull as Helen came to a close.
‘What are you waiting for?’
The team sprang into action, hurrying off to check and recheck their leads. Helen was furious at herself for wasting so much time on Price and Simpson. She hadn’t really had a choice but this would be of no comfort to Ruby. If that girl died, Helen knew she would never forgive herself. Would this last throw of the dice finally yield results or were they already too late?
109
The door swung open and Ruby jerked awake. How long had she been asleep? What day was it? Why had he returned?
Suddenly the whole bed moved. He had a hold of it now and flung it on its side to reveal Ruby cowering underneath. She blinked into the harsh light, ripped from her sanctuary and thrust out into the open. Slowly her eyes became accustomed to the light and she was surprised to see that he seemed to be shaking with anger. It was as if no time had passed at all.
‘Listen carefully, Summer, because this is your last chance.’
His voice was harsh and unpleasant.
‘You have let me down badly. Very badly indeed. If I had any sense I’d forget all about you. But I’m prepared to forgive you. I know you regret your mistake.’
Ruby said nothing. She didn’t know where his crazy talk was leading and she was suddenly very tired of this game.
‘But I won’t be hurt by you again. If you let me down again, you will be punished. Do you understand?’
‘How will you punish me?’ Ruby found herself saying, her words dripping with defiance. It was her talking, yet she had no idea where it was coming from.
‘Don’t push it. You’ve done enough har—’
‘Will you punish me like you punished Roisin?’
She picked Roisin’s crudely drawn Xmas card from the floor, thrusting it at him.
‘Or like you punished Pippa.’
She threw Pippa’s makeshift diary at him, a fierce rage overcoming her. He immediately backed off, as if the cards were toxic.
‘She was a mistake –’
‘Then what does that make me?’
‘Don’t try and trick me, Summer.’
‘I’m Ruby Sprackling –’
‘Your name is Summer –’
‘I’m Ruby Sprackling and I hate your fucking guts.’
His hand shot out, forcing Ruby back, back, back, until she collided heavily with the wall. The breath was knocked from her, his hand was squeezing tighter and tighter.
‘Say another word and I’ll kill you. I swear it,’ he rasped, flecks of his spit landing on Ruby’s face.<
br />
‘There’s nothing you can threaten me with any more,’ Ruby spat back. ‘As far as you’re concerned I’m already dead.’
From somewhere, Ruby managed to find a grim, victorious smile. It had the desired effect. He dropped her like a stone, watching her collapse to the ground.
He walked away from her quickly, then stopped, turned, and hurried back – kicking her harshly three times in the ribs. As she rolled away from the blows, he bent down grabbing her by the collar.
‘You’ll regret this.’
Dumping her back to the floor, he walked over to the bedside table, snatching up her inhaler.
‘No.’
Ruby was crawling across the floor towards him now, hand outstretched, beseeching. But he was too quick for her, crossing the room quickly, unlocking the door.
‘Goodbye, Ruby.’
The door slammed shut behind him.
110
He marched away from the cell, muttering obscenities. He passed through the second door, then turned down the left-hand corridor towards the third and final door. Unlocking then relocking it, he climbed the ladder back to the ground floor.
The house was even more of a mess than usual and it fitted his mood perfectly. His brain felt scattered, his head throbbed violently. He kicked the kitchen chair savagely, then before he knew what he was doing, he’d picked it up and hurled it against the wall. It broke into several pieces but he felt nothing. Just a crushing emptiness.
Already he could feel the darkness creeping up on him again. Those familiar feelings of desolation. And deep, deep loneliness. He had been cursed since birth – he knew that. Born to a whore of a mother in bloody degradation, he would have never survived infancy had it not been for Summer. He had always worshipped her – for her love, her patience, her kindness. Now he bitterly regretted her charity – why hadn’t she left him to die? Why had she consigned him to this?
Was their love a curse? She had been ever present in his life, teaching him to navigate life’s many dangers, teaching him to give and receive love. Latterly, she had been absent of course, but she always came back to him. In the end, she always came back.
As he snatched up the shattered pieces of the chair, ramming them into the already overflowing kitchen bin, which belched some of its contents on to the floor, he felt the full extent of his foolishness. Why was he so easily duped? She was out there, always so close to him that when one of these girls drifted into his life, purporting to be her, he fell for it. He believed. But he couldn’t have got it wrong again, could he? He had watched this one for months, seen the emptiness in her life, witnessed the arguments with her so-called family. They didn’t know her, didn’t understand her, but he did and he’d seen her searching for him. Searching for her missing half. But what if he was wrong? He had been so sure …
This thought took all the strength from him and suddenly he sank to the floor. Curled up in a ball amidst the broken wood, rotting food and the dirt, he started to cry. He never cried but today he couldn’t help himself. He cried for all the disappointments and anguish over the years. For all the false starts and false idols. And for the girl he had loved and lost.
111
Emilia Garanita stabbed the off button on her computer and picked up her bag. She was already late – the household would have descended into merry chaos by now no doubt – and she had spent an unsatisfactory day trying to re-hash the ‘Bodies on the Beach’ story to make it look like there were fresh developments.
She was halfway to the door, when her desk phone rang. She was very tempted to ignore it – today had been a dead loss – but old instincts die hard. For a journalist a phone call is just a story waiting to happen. So she crossed the room and snatched up the phone.
‘Garanita.’
‘Got a phone call for you. From a woman. About the bluebird tattoo.’
Emilia’s mood descended still further. Since putting this story in the Southampton Evening News they had had no end of loonies, chancers and wannabe detectives jamming their line with dead-end ‘leads’. Each was as deluded as the last – Emilia had ended up regretting agreeing to help Helen Grace with this one.
‘Put her through,’ Emilia barked, keen to get this charade over with.
‘Hello?’
The voice on the other end of the phone was cracked and tremulous.
‘Emilia Garanita. How can I help you?’
‘Are you the journalist?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Asking about the bluebird tattoo?’
‘Yes.’
A pause, then:
‘Is there a reward?’
Emilia sighed inwardly. This conversation was developing in a depressingly familiar way.
‘Only if the information provided leads to a conviction.’
‘Yes or no?’ The voice had a sharpness to it now that made Emilia pay attention.
‘Yes.’
‘How much?’
‘£20,000’
‘When would I get it?’
‘We can discuss that when you come to my office. But I’d need to know the nature of your information before we meet.’
‘My daughter had that tattoo. She’s dead now. But she definitely had one of those.’
Emilia sat back down at her desk, silently pulling her phone from her pocket and opening the Notes app.
‘What did she look like?’
‘Thin, bit tarty I guess, but she had something. Like her mother.’ The cracked voice chuckled now, but it sounded bitter not joyful.
‘Hair colour? Eyes?’
‘She was a striking girl. Black hair and big blue eyes.’
Emilia paused, her finger hovering over the screen of her phone.
‘What did you say her name was?’
‘Her name was Summer, God rest her.’
‘And she’s dead you say?’
‘OD’d. Her brother found her.’
‘She had a brother?’ Emilia replied, failing to keep the excitement out of her voice.’ What was his name? And where is he now?’
There was a long pause, then she replied:
‘I’ll tell you when we meet. You don’t get anything for free in this life, my dear.’
And with that, she rang off.
112
Ruby lay dead still on the floor. She was shivering uncontrollably, but she made no attempt to move towards the bed. Her lungs burned, her throat was tight and she felt far too faint to stand.
The fight was over now, Ruby knew that. Why had she pushed him so far? Had she thought she could break him? No, she knew that her verbal assault on her captor was the last act of a desperate girl. The death throes of her resistance. She would never see her mum or dad again. Cassie or Conor. If they ever did lay eyes on her again, they would find her here, rotting in this horrible place.
Breathlessness used to panic her – a legacy of those trips to the hospital when she was young – but now she welcomed the feeling. She had never asked for much in life – had never expected much – but she hoped now that she would be granted one small mercy. Slow asphyxiation would be a blessing, a way to cheat him out of further punishments and humiliations. It would be a small victory, but a victory nevertheless.
If she could drift away, here on this floor, then maybe she would see her family again. Perhaps there was an afterlife or somewhere where she could be at peace. Surely that wasn’t impossible? She had never believed in anything like that before, but now. …
But she didn’t believe it. Never had. And life had taught her not to expect happy endings. Ruby knew in her heart that she would go on suffering until the bitter end. There would be no escape for her and this place – this strange doll’s house – would be her tomb.
113
Lloyd walked to his car, a hundred thoughts tumbling round his head. Anti-Corruption’s investigation into Helen was ongoing and yet there she was – still in charge of the investigation and leading it with confidence and vigour. Ceri Harwood meanwhile was nowhere to be seen,
having called in sick. Lloyd had thought about calling her, but then sense prevailed. While things were up in the air, the best thing he could do was keep his distance. Still, the lack of clarity made him deeply uneasy. Had he backed the wrong horse? Shaking his doubts away, Lloyd pulled the car door open – there was important work to be done on the Ruby Sprackling case.
He slammed the door shut and turned the key in the ignition. Before he could move off, the passenger door flew open and a woman climbed inside. Lloyd turned and was more than a little surprised to see Charlie making herself comfortable, pulling the door quietly shut behind her.
‘Shall we go for a drive, Lloyd?’
She waited until they were well clear of the station before she began. In the heavy silence that preceded this, Lloyd tried to work out if she could know – and if she did, how – but had drawn a blank. Despite this he knew with absolute certainty that she was here to begin the counterattack. She was a loyal ally of Helen Grace’s – always had been – and her sudden appearance could only mean the beginning of a new and potentially decisive phase in this secret war.
‘I don’t think you’re a bad person, Lloyd. At least I hope you’re not. But what you’ve done demeans you and the job.’
Lloyd said nothing but shot a glance sideways at her. Could she be wearing a wire – is that what this was all about?
‘Nobody knows I’m here,’ Charlie continued, reading his mind. ‘And I’m not recording this. I think this is better handled off the record, don’t you?’
Lloyd paused, then nodded. She sounded genuine, but could he trust her?
‘I don’t know whether she offered you money or promotion or anything else and to be honest I don’t really care. But sometime soon this thing is going to break – and break big – so everybody needs to get their story straight. It’s customary in these situations for those lower down the ladder to carry the can for the incompetence or corruption of those above them. But I don’t want that to happen here. I know who set this in motion. I’m only interested in her.’
The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3 Page 21
