The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3

by M. J. Arlidge

  It was all starting to make sense.

  ‘So she got her locks changed?’

  ‘Yes. I remember it was quite a to-do. She asked her college tutor to come round as she didn’t want to be alone with the locksmith. He obviously thought she was mad but obliged anyway.’

  ‘Do you remember who changed the lock?’

  ‘No, but the receipt might be in her effects. She was quite particular like that.’

  ‘Do you know how many keys were provided?’

  ‘Two I think. She kept one on her key ring and wore one round her neck as a back-up.’

  ‘Would she have slept with the key round her neck?’

  ‘No, she wasn’t that mad. Why?’

  ‘It might be important, but let’s focus on the keys. So you believe there were two and neither was out of her possession.’

  ‘No, that’s not quite true,’ Alastair offered. Helen swung her gaze towards him.

  ‘She had some more cut. I know that because she sent one to us. She gave the other one to her landlord, I believe. Much against her better judgement, but those were the rules.’

  ‘And do you know where she got the extra keys cut?’

  There was a long pause as both parents racked their brains for a half-forgotten memory, the tiny events of yesteryear, before eventually Alastair looked up and wearily said:

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve no idea.’

  119

  Andrew Simpson looked up sharply as Helen burst into the room. He and Sanderson had been locked in one of the remoter interview suites for hours already – Helen could tell by the musky scent of his BO that filled the room – and his files were spread out like a blossoming fungus across the table.

  Helen leaned on the table and, dispensing with formalities, got straight to the point.

  ‘Isobel Lansley had her locks changed.’

  Simpson stared at her, still startled by her sudden arrival, then slowly he nodded.

  ‘Her lock was glued up I think. So she had it changed. What of it?’

  His defences were already up, sensing another attack.

  ‘How do you remember that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You didn’t give a shit about your tenants’ lives or the hovels they lived in. Why would you remember such a small detail?’

  ‘Because it’s in the records, the financial records, I mean. Every time something like that happens, I charge a … small fee. For the administrative hassle.’

  ‘I bet you do,’ Helen thought to herself, but swallowed the insinuation.

  ‘This is really important, Andrew. Did any of the other girls – Ruby, Roisin or Pippa – have their locks changed at any point?’

  Andrew thought for a long time.

  ‘Roisin definitely did. Was told to by her boyfriend of the time, I believe. And we could check the records of the other two …’

  Helen was pleased to see that Sanderson was already leafing through Pippa Briers’ tenancy file. Her finger ran down the columns at breakneck speed.

  ‘There. A £25 administration fee. Would that be it?’ she said, turning to Simpson.

  He looked at it.

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘Dated one month before she went missing.’

  ‘Because of Nathan Price,’ Helen said, as the pieces slowly started to fit together. ‘She was scared of her ex, so she changed the locks to keep him out.’

  ‘And look here.’

  Sanderson was now holding Ruby’s tenancy file.

  ‘An administrative charge of £25. Six weeks ago. Just over a month before she went missing.’

  ‘No great surprise,’ Simpson piped up. ‘That girl was incredibly scatty. She probably lost them or had them pinched. Never knew if she was coming or going.’

  ‘He kept an extra key.’

  Helen shivered as she said it out loud.

  ‘Say they all got them cut at the same place, somewhere central, somewhere they all knew. What’s to stop him cutting an extra one for himself, while doing theirs?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘And when they came back to collect the keys, all he’d have to do is shut up shop and follow them home.’

  ‘He’s a textbook stalker,’ Sanderson said, picking up Helen’s thread. ‘He would then know where they live and could watch them at his leisure. He could find out what their family situation is, if they have partners, flat-mates, what their daily routine is –’

  ‘But what separates this guy from ordinary stalkers is that he has a key,’ Helen interjected. ‘He could enter their flats whenever he wanted. He could even do dummy runs while they were out, to make sure the abduction was perfect.’

  ‘No sign of a struggle, no forced entry.’

  ‘No need,’ Helen replied, the awful simplicity of it hitting home. ‘Because he was already in their flats when they came home. He was waiting for them, hiding in a wardrobe, loft, spare room. He was waiting for them to come back and go to sleep.’

  Helen could scarcely believe it, but it made perfect sense.

  ‘They thought they were back safe at home. But in fact they had just walked right into his trap.’

  120

  He kept a good distance behind, so as not to alert her to his presence. He had eventually found his tongue and responded to her concern for his cut finger, before taking the job from her – a simple boot re-heel – promising to have it ready first thing tomorrow as recompense for her kindness and sympathy.

  After she’d gone, he’d remained at his work station for a silent count of twenty, then switched off the shop lights, flipped the ‘Closed’ sign and hurried out, locking the door behind him. Experience had taught him not to dawdle during this process – you risked losing your quarry among the crowds of shoppers, if you were too cautious. You just needed enough time for her to clear the immediate vicinity of the shop.

  He scanned left and right, before spotting her a hundred yards away, idly window shopping. Her crisp navy suit and smartly tied-back hair made her quite distinctive among the loafers and driftwood that usually populated this place. Tired of daydreaming, she moved off again. And he went with her, as always at a discreet distance.

  She meandered slowly homewards. She had finished work for the day – she really did look smart and professional – but clearly had no one to rush home to. She stopped to look in various shop windows, to buy a copy of the Big Issue, but she looked like she was killing time. As if she were waiting for something to happen. Or someone to come along.

  They passed through Bedford Place, then through Portswood to the cheap flats that lay near the university. Though she was well turned out, she clearly wasn’t well-off, living among the detritus of the city. This was in character too, he thought to himself, suppressing a smile. You grow older, but you don’t really change.

  He stopped abruptly. He had momentarily lost himself to memory and inadvertently had walked too close to her. She had stopped at a door – not ten yards from him. If she turned round now, she’d see him. So he upped his pace, thankfully clearing her without exciting her interest. Crossing the road, he chanced a backward look – just in time to see her enter a sorry-looking flat.

  Hugging the corner of the street, he found a decent vantage point behind a hedge. He watched with interest as the lights came on up on the first floor. He didn’t know whether to stay or go. The working day was coming to an end and workers would be filling the streets soon – he couldn’t risk being spotted or, worse, reported. But, as always, she made the decision for him, appearing now in the first-floor window.

  There was no way he was leaving now. He had the perfect vantage point – to watch her, to admire her, to drink in every detail of her life. She made no attempt to draw the curtains, she just looked down on to the street below. Looking for hope. Looking for love.

  Looking for him.

  121

  ‘Why did you lie to me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I asked you to your face if Rois
in had ever had her locks changed and you denied that she had. But that wasn’t true, was it, Bryan?’

  Roisin’s awkward ex-boyfriend attempted to usher Helen towards a quieter part of the garage, but she stood her ground.

  ‘Why did you lie?’

  Bryan shot a look at his fellow mechanics, who stared with undisguised curiosity at the strikingly attractive woman who was now hauling their apprentice over the coals. Was that something resembling respect in their eyes?

  ‘Because of Jamie,’ he eventually murmured.

  ‘Who’s Jamie?’

  ‘Roisin’s ex. Before me, I mean. He used to live with her. Still had his key. I … I found out he’d been coming round, letting himself in, you know …’

  He didn’t need to elaborate. Roisin needed affection and clearly wasn’t picky where she got it from.

  ‘So you made her change the locks.’

  ‘I couldn’t stop her seeing him, if that’s what she wanted. But I wasn’t having him thinking he could come and go as he pleased, letting himself in at any time of day or night.’

  ‘You do know lying to the police is a serious matter.’

  ‘I know all right … I didn’t want to, but I wasn’t going to say nothing with her sitting right next to me.’

  He meant Roisin’s mum – his former mother-in-law. Did he clam up to avoid making himself look foolish or to avoid telling Sinead Murphy that her daughter was faithless and generous with her favours? Helen hoped it was the latter.

  ‘Who changed the locks?’

  ‘A mate of mine – Stuart Briggs at LockRite.’

  ‘I’ll need his contact details.’

  ‘Sure, but he’s got nothing to do with this.’

  ‘We’ll see. Did you get any more cut?’

  ‘Sure. We only got two with the lock and her mum needed one, so –’

  ‘Where? Where did you have them cut?’

  Helen failed to conceal the urgency of her request.

  ‘Roisin did it. But still stung me for the cash.’

  ‘Where, Bryan?’

  ‘She showed me the receipt, but it only had the cost on it – five quid or so. It was just a bit of till roll.’

  Helen stared at Bryan, knowing she would get no more from him. Whoever their killer was, he was meticulous, precise and ultra-cautious. A pro. But this only made Helen more determined to catch him. And as each small piece of the jigsaw fitted together, she felt she was getting closer to the moment when they would finally be face to face. At times like this Helen had no thoughts for her own safety – she would die doing this job, she knew that – and she longed for that encounter. Things were building to a climax now – Helen felt sure of that – and she was determined to be in at the death.

  122

  ‘I don’t expect your forgiveness and I don’t deserve it. I could try to explain myself, my reasons, but I won’t embarrass myself. What I did was wrong, pure and simple, so I’ll get my things, write my resignation letter and be out of your hair.’

  Lloyd Fortune hadn’t once looked up as he said this, the words tumbling out in a sudden rush. He clearly wanted this to be over as quickly as possible.

  Even though he and Helen were closeted away in her office, Lloyd could tell the team outside had half an eye on proceedings and he wanted to be away from their curiosity and censure.

  ‘I would like to know why, Lloyd,’ Helen replied slowly. ‘Because I think you’re a good copper and basically a decent guy, so I would like to know why.’

  Lloyd hung his head – he had been afraid she might take this line.

  ‘But we don’t have time for that now. I’ve had officers resign on me before because of personal indiscretions, officers who I miss now, so I’m going to ask you not to write that letter.’

  Lloyd looked up at her, suddenly wrong-footed.

  ‘We have a major investigation going on which you should be helping me lead. But your focus has been elsewhere – that is what is truly unforgivable.’

  Lloyd took the hit – he knew it was justified.

  ‘However, we need every available officer on this now. And I believe in second chances. So first we find Ruby. Then we deal with you. Ok?’

  ‘Keys. Let’s focus on the keys.’

  The entire team had been called to the incident room. Helen, flanked by Lloyd Fortune and DC Sanderson, led the discussion.

  ‘We think this is how he gains access, so we need to check out every key-cutter in Southampton. It’s a big job but we don’t have any other choice. We’ll start centrally and work out. To narrow the search a little, let’s start with shops that Isobel Lansley passed on her route to and from university. McAndrew?’

  ‘So this is a full breakdown of her route,’ the reliable DC responded, handing out stapled A4 sheets to the assembled officers. ‘You’ll find a breakdown of the route by street name, plus a map showing her route in red. She left her flat in Dagnall Street, turning right on to Chesterton Avenue past a small parade of shops. She would then walk to the city centre along Paxton Road, before cutting through the WestQuay and on to Lower Granton Street. From there …’

  McAndrew ran through the rest of her route, highlighting possible points of interest. Helen had hauled in a couple of bodies from the data analysis unit and they proved to be a godsend now. They speed-typed, bringing up several possible key-cutting shops en route. Sanderson wrote them up on the board and detailed officers to check them out. Though they were only inching forward, Helen was pleased to see the team finally pulling together. Even Sanderson and Lucas seemed to be getting on.

  As the selected officers snatched up their jackets and hurried off, Helen addressed those that remained.

  ‘The rest of you will focus on the other girls now. We need to find overlaps with Isobel’s route that will narrow the search still further. Pippa might have walked down Chesterton Avenue to get to the city centre and we know she worked in the WestQuay shopping centre, so there’s two possibles for starters. Let’s forensically examine their routines and see what that throws up. Roisin didn’t work and neither did Ruby, so where did they go, what did they do?’

  Helen paused a moment before she finished, pleased by the sense of determination that shone from the faces of her team now:

  ‘Find the link and we find our man.’

  123

  ‘First things first, I don’t want my name anywhere near this. I’ve got enough problems as it is.’

  ‘Of course. We won’t publish anything you don’t want us to.’

  Emilia had told this little white lie many times in her career. Oddly this time she actually meant it – if this lead proved important in cracking the ‘Bodies on the Beach’ case then her source would get the royal treatment. Emilia surveyed the woman opposite her. She guessed she was in her early fifties but she looked older. She had a drinker’s face – bloodshot and jowelly – and the yellow fingers and teeth of a smoker. Her voice was deep and she was slightly overweight, but there was something in the eyes – a low cunning, a spark of wicked humour – that nevertheless drew you in. If she met this woman on the street, she would hold her purse tight and move on quickly, but Emilia had her professional face on today and looked only too pleased to be seated with her in this grim backstreet pub.

  ‘Another drink, Jane?’

  Jane Fraser nodded and soon Emilia was back, clutching a pint of Best and a double Jameson’s. The woman threw the whisky back in one go, then got stuck into the pint.

  ‘So tell me about the tattoo?’

  ‘How about a little down-payment first, eh?’ Jane said swiftly.

  Emilia had been expecting this and immediately slid a brown envelope across the table.

  ‘Five hundred pounds. Best I can do for now.’

  Jane paused, giving Emilia a filthy look. For a horrible moment, Emilia thought she was going to get up and walk out. But then she picked up the packet and started leafing through the notes and Emilia knew she was fine.

  ‘The tattoo, Jane.’

&nbs
p; Jane pocketed the money, sniffed unpleasantly, then replied:

  ‘She got it done when she was eleven. She and her brother went to the parlour together – probably half-inched the money from me – and they both got it done. A poxy little bluebird on their shoulders. Just right for those little lovebirds.’

  Emilia eyed up the prodigious display of tattoos that covered Jane’s arms and shoulders. They were not cute – they were aggressive and highly sexual in their content.

  ‘Why a bluebird?’

  ‘God knows. Never asked. Perhaps they wanted to fly away together?’

  She laughed unpleasantly, before the coughing started up again. Once the fit had relented, she lit up. It was banned in here of course, but no one in this hole was going to stop her.

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘My Summer died, didn’t she. Heroin overdose. Ben went looking for her, when she didn’t come home. Found her in the park. Covered in vomit she was, her eyes clamped shut. Silly sod thought she was asleep. Had to be prised off her by the police in the end – he was convinced she’d wake up and be back to normal any second. Wouldn’t let go of her, they said.’

  ‘Ben? He’s your son?’

  Jane grunted a yes.

  ‘Was he an addict too?’

  ‘God, no. Her brother didn’t have the balls for that and he was only small when she died. Twelve or so.’

  Emilia scribbled this down and considered her next question.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Stuck around for a bit, but he and I had never got on, so after a few weeks, he took off.’

  Emilia had a bad feeling they were winding up to a massive dead end.

  ‘And you’ve not seen him since?’

  ‘Didn’t say that, did I? Saw him a few months back – in town, you know.’

  ‘So where does he live?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come on, Jane. You just said –’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me. Didn’t want me hanging about, I guess.’

  Emilia didn’t push it – she could tell more was coming by the sly look on Jane Fraser’s face. She pulled Emilia in close, so close she could smell the stink of stale tobacco on her breath as she whispered: