The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3 (20 page)

As Helen skimmed the list that Sanderson had compiled, she was seized with a desire to search them all. In an ideal world she would have been on the phone to a POLSA team already – scrambling the chopper, the cadaver dogs, the heat-seeking equipment – but that would have been a massive commitment of resources over that many properties. She wouldn’t be allowed to call up that kind of firepower without rock-solid evidence and, besides, she wasn’t sure she’d get the warrant
anyway. They had one connection between Simpson and the dead women – a strong connection admittedly – but as yet no hard evidence linking the landlord to any instances of abduction or murder. He had no criminal record, there were no witnesses linking him to anything untoward and no picture yet of him having an unhealthy interest in young women. Helen had already instructed McAndrew to take a forensics unit back to Ruby’s flat. If they could place Simpson in her flat, then they’d have something to work with, especially as he had sworn blind he hadn’t been in that flat in years.

So, much as Helen was tempted to go kicking down doors, she knew that she would have to go about this in the old-fashioned way.

‘Round up as many of the team as you can,’ she said to Sanderson. ‘And pull in uniform too. I want every one of the properties on this list checked out. Knock on doors, ask around, find out if anyone’s seen or heard anything unusual at these places. Shouts, cries, lights on late at night. Do whatever you have to – just give me something to work with.’

Sanderson was already on her feet, ready to bash the phones and corral the troops.

‘Does that mean you won’t be joining us?’

‘Love to, but I’ve got something much more unpleasant in mind.’

Sanderson turned, intrigued.

‘I’ve got a date with Emilia Garanita.’

83

Emilia Garanita cast her eye over yesterday’s front page again. She had been allowed so few headlines recently – she was sure the editor was punishing her for her disloyalty – that she allowed herself to wallow in this one. It was a good cover with a great photo – the fluttering police cordon and then not one, but two crime scenes beyond it in the near and middle distance. It captured the magnitude of the crime perfectly, the bleakness of the beach and the loneliness of the graves serving to underline the fact that once more Hampshire Police were hunting a serial killer. Emilia had felt that old excitement when writing the copy – finally a major story to sink her teeth into.

Emilia lowered the paper to find Helen Grace walking towards her. It was a moment of pure serendipity that momentarily struck her dumb: Southampton Central’s hunter-in-chief striding towards her, fresh from the investigation. In the past, Emilia would have greeted her with sarcasm and snide innuendo, but not now. She ushered Helen into the vacant editor’s office, shutting the door behind her.

‘I need your help.’

As usual, her former adversary cut to the chase. Despite their difficult past, Emilia was the first to admit that she and Helen Grace shared some attributes. Women working in male-dominated industries, they both possessed a directness and courage that others of their sex lacked.

‘Happy to do whatever I can,’ Emilia replied breezily.

‘We need to better understand the significance of a tattoo that is present on all three victims.’

‘The bluebird tattoo,’ Emilia responded.

‘Exactly. We haven’t been able to link it to any previous victims or offenders. So it could be a dead end. It may even be a ruse, designed to throw us off the scent.’

Emilia nodded sagely, swallowing a smile. Helen Grace had never been this open with her before about an ongoing investigation. Was she worried this time? Stumped? Or was this the start of a rapprochement in their relationship?

‘Or,’ Helen continued, ‘it may be significant. If it is, then odds on there is someone out there who knows what it means. Who saw it on a friend or colleague or family member. I know it’s a long shot, but presuming the killer lives locally, we were hoping the
Evening News
might go big on this. Capture the attention of the public –’

‘And rattle the killer too?’

‘Perhaps.’

So much and no more. Emilia was enjoying being back in the game.

‘I’ll talk to my editor but I know he’ll be happy to help. This is a big public-interest story.’

And a juicy one too, Emilia thought, but didn’t say.

Helen left shortly afterwards, the rough approach having been agreed between them. Emilia knew that usually this would be a job for media liaison, but Helen had come to her personally. Had her past vendetta against Helen been erased from her rap sheet? Emilia felt the old excitement returning. This could play well for her at the paper – and, who knows, perhaps beyond – so as Emilia sat at her desk, next leader article already half written, she made a silent vow to ride this story as hard as she could.

84

Ruby hadn’t slept a wink all night. She had been exhausted by her efforts and under normal consequences would have sparked out, but hope and adrenaline were keeping her awake. Time was elastic down here – she imagined the minutes and hours passing steadily but had no idea what time it really was. So she tried to stop herself counting and think of other things.

She thought of things she would do when she was free. All the dreams she had postponed out of fear, insecurity or lack of resources. To hell with hesitation now. Silly as it was, she pictured herself in Tokyo. She had always wanted to go to Japan. Why, she couldn’t say, but she had once gone as far as buying a
Teach Yourself Japanese
CD and had listened to it religiously one summer. She had forgotten almost all of it of course, but there were some words she retained. She still loved the sound of them. On-ay-guy-shee-mass. Kon-eech-ee-wa. She smiled to herself as she rolled the words around her mouth, enjoying their familiarity.

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.’