The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3 (21 page)

‘So when she went missing, you didn’t report it at first?’

Sinead shook her head and took another long drag on her cigarette.

‘She’d been finding it tough. Kenton was never a good sleeper and Roisin always hated mornings,’ Sinead continued, smiling briefly at the memory of her grumpy daughter. ‘She tweeted saying she had to get away for a while, so it wasn’t that surprising …’

‘But?’

‘But it still didn’t feel right. Kenton was here alone in the flat.
All night
. If she really wanted to get away, I felt sure she would have brought him to me. I would have kicked up a fuss – I’ve got problems of my own – but she knows I would never have turned him away. I would have done what I could.’

Helen didn’t doubt it – Sinead’s love for her grandson shone through – the one bright spot in this whole story.

‘So you were worried?’

Sinead nodded, then went on:

‘But I didn’t want to contact the authorities, didn’t want to get Roisin into any trouble. She didn’t have much and relied on benefits to feed the boy.’

Bryan shifted uneasily in his seat – Sinead’s judgement of him was coming through loud and clear.

‘What did
you
think, Bryan?’ Helen said, shifting the focus to him. ‘When you heard Roisin was missing?’

Bryan shrugged – he clearly wanted this to be over as quickly as possible.

‘Were you surprised?’

‘Guess so.’

‘Why?’

‘Because … because this was all she had. The flat, the kid.’

‘Your son?’

‘Sure.’

Helen looked at him. She felt there was more here. That his surliness was more than just awkwardness.

‘You weren’t living with her when she went missing?’

‘Nah, we’d split.’

‘How long was this before … ?’

‘About six months.’

‘And where were you living at the time?’

‘With friends.’

Helen was starting to get irritated by his determined non-engagement, but she swallowed her frustration and persevered.

‘Did she ever mention anything to you that subsequently you’ve thought was suspicious? Was she scared of anyone? Was she in trouble?’

‘No,’ he replied, shrugging.

Helen took this in, then:

‘So when Roisin went missing, who had keys to the flat?’

Helen said it lightly, but it was this that interested her most of all.

‘I did, of course,’ Sinead confirmed.

‘Bryan?’

‘She made me give my set back.’

‘Do you still have your key, Sinead?’

‘Of course. I’ve got all her things boxed up,’ she said, a touch indignantly.

‘I’m going to have to look at whatever you have – I hope you understand,’ Helen replied.

Sinead looked at Helen for a moment – it was clear that handing over the treasured keepsakes of her daughter would be hard – then she rose and headed upstairs with McAndrew, sense finally prevailing.

‘Were there any burglaries? Break-ins?’ Helen continued, turning back to Bryan.

Bryan shook his head.

‘Did she mention anyone hanging around? Did she ever have to change the locks? Or express any fears for her security?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ Bryan replied. ‘She was ok.’

‘I’m going to need you to write down the names of everyone she was in touch with,’ Helen continued, as Sinead rejoined them. ‘We’ll need to check them all out, see if anyone had reason to want to harm Roisin.’

The pair promised to help, for once singing from the same hymn sheet. Helen rose, thanking them for their time and headed for the door. She paused in the hallway to look at the boxes of possessions – three of them – that now encapsulated Roisin’s short life. Helen was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness – for her, for her son – and was pleased to make her excuses and leave. As she walked away, she turned to look once more at the bereaved family through the living room window. Bryan was getting ready to leave, Sinead had her head in her hands and beyond them playing happily on the sofa was Kenton, utterly oblivious to it all.

87

There she was – slumbering as usual. Snapping the wicket hatch shut, he drew the bolts and unlocked the door. He was still scrupulous about security, despite the thawing in their relations and never hung around. He had paid the price for carelessness before.

‘Summer?’

Shaking his head, he shut the door, locking it quietly behind him. Summer had never been a morning person. Sometimes it irritated him, other times he found it entertaining. Today he was in indulgent mood.

‘Time to get up. We haven’t got much time, but I can get you something nice for breakfast if you like. I can do pancakes …’

Pancakes had always been her favourite. Why shouldn’t he spoil her now and again?

‘Summer?’

He hurried over to her. He had reached her bedside and now leaned over her.

‘Talk to me, Summer. Are you unwell?’

He pulled back the sheet – but discovered only a rolled up blanket underneath. Before he could process this, he heard footsteps coming up fast behind. He
started to turn – but too late. The hard metal bit into the back of his head and he collapsed heavily to the floor.

He tried to raise himself, but was reeling with shock. Ruby didn’t hesitate, bringing the long metal strut crashing down on his head again. It was heavy and normally she would have struggled to lift it, but fired by adrenaline she wheeled it freely now, bringing it down on the back of his head for a third time. This time he hit the ground and didn’t get up.

Dropping her weapon, Ruby fell to her knees, thrusting her hand into his trouser pocket. A creature of habit, he always kept the keys in his right trouser pocket. But he had fallen forwards and they were trapped underneath his body. Ruby was suddenly panicking. Why hadn’t she thought of this? Could she be frustrated by something so stupidly obvious?

He groaned, lifting his hand to the back of his head. Summoning her strength, Ruby put her shoulder under his thigh, levering his body off the ground. He was heavy – heavier than she’d been expecting given his slight frame – and for a moment the pair hung in suspension, wobbling ridiculously to and fro. Then with a savage grunt, she rolled him over. Thrusting her hand into his pocket she found the keys – tearing them from him.

Now she was heading for the door. Her hand shook as she tried to slip the key into the lock. Her captor groaned once more. Closing her eyes, Ruby willed her hand to be still. This time the key found its groove and
slid inside. She turned it hard to the left. But it wouldn’t move. In desperation, Ruby tried the other way, twisting it as hard as she could. But still it refused to budge. Looking down at the key ring, Ruby suddenly realised that she had chosen the wrong key.

She tugged at the offending key – but it was jammed in the lock now. Her captor was starting to move – Ruby could hear him behind her, slowly pulling himself up off the floor. Ruby felt paralysed – sheer terror robbing her of the ability to move. He was cursing and spitting, fury replacing his disorientation and shock. If she hesitated any longer…

Ruby pulled at the key with all her might and suddenly it came loose, sending her stumbling backwards towards her captor. She felt his hand grasp her leg, his fingers scrabbling for a proper hold on her. Kicking him roughly away, she hared back to the door.

Selecting the second key, she slipped it into the lock. She twisted it hard but the lock was old and stiff, resisting her endeavours stubbornly. Using both hands now, screaming in desperation, she forced the key anti-clockwise and … finally the lock turned. Ruby hauled the door open.

Her first instinct was to bolt, but she caught herself, turning back to remove the key from the lock. If she could lock him in, then she would be safe. She tugged the keys out quickly but as she did so, they spilled from her grasp, landing only a few inches from her captor.
She took a couple of steps towards them, then stopped dead. He was already on his hands and knees, scrambling towards her. Snatching up the keys greedily, she turned and ran for her life.

Sprinting down the short dingy corridor, she soon came to another locked door. She had been expecting this. He always shut this door quietly, presumably to conceal its existence from her, but she had heard it
and
noted the second key on his key ring. She slipped this key into the lock – her hand was steadier now – and swinging the door open, ran through it to freedom.

She was surprised to find a long tunnel stretching out in front of her. She upped her pace, desperate to be away from this place. The exertion exhausted her, she hadn’t moved a muscle in days, wasn’t used to this sudden burst of activity. But she could sense that liberation was close at hand and pushed herself on.

Then she came to an abrupt halt, staring uncomprehendingly at what lay in front of her. She was at a
junction
. Three separate corridors led off from this point – all of them disappearing into gloom. One of them must lead out of this Hell. But which one?

Summoning the last vestiges of her courage and energy, Ruby plunged down the right-hand corridor, disappearing fast into the inky darkness.

88

It was the smell that hit you first. An overwhelming smell of damp, spiced up with bad drains and the thick smell of fried food. DC Sanderson stepped out of the mouldering living room and poked her head into the kitchen – she immediately noted that the ceiling was coated with years of grease and cigarette smoke.

The Kurdish family who lived in this sorry excuse for a flat eyed her suspiciously, saying little. Sanderson presumed they were illegal immigrants but wasn’t going to push it. They didn’t look like scammers and certainly hadn’t washed up in the land of milk and honey. She wondered if they had lived in better conditions at home, but decided against asking them.

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.