The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3 (24 page)

‘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 he 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.

Nothing.

She shook the pen again, this time licking the end with her tongue. The bitter taste of ink cheered her and she began to write. But after three letters – ‘My n’ – the ink ran out and no amount of coaxing could yield any more. It had run dry.

Ruby lay amidst the letters, despondent, furious and utterly bereft. She made no attempt to conceal the letters – what was the point? They were all she had now. Her only connection to a world beyond her captor. She would leave them where they were, fanned out around her on the floor. She would spend the rest of her days in the company of three dead girls.

100

The woman entered the dirty bathroom. She locked the door, then began to undress. Soon she was naked. Standing in front of the cracked cabinet mirror, she regarded herself. Leaning in, she turned this way and that as if searching for imperfections. Then tiring of this self-examination, she climbed into the bath. Pulling the clear plastic shower curtain round, she turned on the shower. A begrudgingly small jet of water squeezed out of the showerhead, running over her face, neck and body.

Helen stopped the tape. The young woman on the tape was Ruby. And the whole scene had been watched from on high, from a God-like vantage point.

‘Are there cameras in all the smoke detectors? Or just in the bathrooms and bedrooms?’ Helen asked him, her voice neutral despite her contempt.

Andrew Simpson, flanked by his lawyer, said nothing.

‘We have a full list here of your properties. If you want us to go round and check we will. I’m sure your tenants would be very interested to learn that you’re spying on th—’

‘Just the bedrooms and bathrooms.’

‘How many properties?’

Another pause, then:

‘Twenty.’

Helen shook her head. She wanted Simpson to know what she thought of him, hoped she might rile him. But he just stared at her with those dead eyes. Sanderson had always questioned why ninety per cent of Simpson’s tenants were female. Now it all made sense.

‘How long has this been going on? And before you think of lying to me,’ Helen continued quickly, ‘I have a team of officers at your lock-up on Valmont Road. So be under no illusions – we know the extent of your “activities”.’

Simpson stared at his hands – Helen was intrigued to see they were covered in small cuts – then looked up.

‘Over ten years now.’

‘How many tapes do you have?’

‘Hundreds.’

‘Why do you do it, Andrew?’

Simpson paused and looked at his brief, who gave him a gentle nod.

‘Because I like to look at them,’ he said quietly.

‘How do you feel when you watch these tapes?’

‘How do you think?’

‘Do you masturbate when you watch them?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Why does it arouse you? Is it their bodies? The fact they don’t know you’re watching? Or is it the power you have over them?’

Simpson held her gaze for a second.

‘No comment.’

‘Oh you’re going to have to do a bit better than that, Andrew,’ Sanderson said, taking up the baton. ‘I’ve seen the inside of your lock-up. I know what obsession looks like. Why do you do it?’

‘My client has declined to comment, so I suggest we move on,’ his lawyer interjected. He was a man of nearly sixty, overweight and overbearing – a telling testimony to Simpson’s casual misogyny. He liked to look at women but clearly would never have one as his lawyer. Sanderson looked at her notes and changed tack.

‘When we first questioned you about Ruby Sprackling, why did you direct us towards Nathan Price?’

‘I answered your questions. You asked me about him, I told you the truth. He had the keys to Ruby’s flat –’

‘You didn’t have an extra set cut? Just in case you needed to pop in and check the fire sensors were working?’

‘No,’ Simpson replied, refusing to rise to her sarcasm.

‘We won’t find any extra sets at your house, in your possessions?’

‘No, I’ve told you.’

Sanderson sat back and looked at him, disbelief writ large on her face.

‘Where were you on Friday night?’

‘I was at home.’

‘Do you live alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you were alone all night?’

‘Correct.’

‘Did you take your car out at any point?’

‘No.’

‘Do you own any other vehicles?’

‘No.’

But he looked twitchy when he said it. Helen looked at Sanderson, who wrote a brief note in her notebook.

‘We’ve also found footage of Roisin Murphy, Pippa Briers and Isobel Lansley in your collection. The three dead women from Carsholt beach. Ever been there?’

‘Don’t like beaches,’ Simpson shot back.

‘We’ll see. The sand there has a very specific mineral content. If we find any samples in your house or car, we’ll be able to tell where it’s from. How many hours of tape do you have of Ruby?’

Simpson looked surprised by Helen’s sudden change of tack.

‘You can be honest with me, Andrew.’

Simpson’s face twitched slightly at the sound of his name. Perhaps he didn’t like women calling him by his first name? Or perhaps he didn’t like his name? Was there something deeper going on here? Helen made a mental note to get to the bottom of this.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is it a lot? A little? Somewhere in between?’

‘A lot.’

‘Did you like her more than the others?’

Andrew looked away.

‘You know she has a mother and father, a sister and a brother, who are missing her, right? People who love her.’

Helen let the words hang in the air.

‘I know you coveted her, Andrew. I know you took her. But I’m asking you now to let her go. Show that you’re a bigger man than people say. Show that you can be merciful.’

Simpson looked at Helen, as if trying to read her. Helen hated to be supplicatory to a man like Simpson, but if he liked his women subservient then so be it.

‘I have no idea where she is. I don’t know anything about these girls.’

‘Oh, I’d say you do,’ Helen replied. ‘I’d say you know an awful lot about them. What they look like naked, what they look like when they use the toilet. What they look like when they make love, when they masturbate. You know all these things, Andrew. And more.’

Simpson stared at his hands once more, to avoid Helen’s fierce gaze. Was that a flicker of shame she saw?

‘And guess what? Pretty soon the whole world is going to know too. When they put you in the witness box, they won’t let up, Andrew. They’ll ask you about the home movies, about the underwear and jewellery you stole, about what you did when you thought about these girls. Imagine for a second what that will be like. The judge, the jurors, the press, the public gallery all looking
at you, as they force you to talk about what you liked to do –’

‘Inspector, please don’t bully my client,’ said the lawyer, attempting to intervene.

‘But I can help you, Andrew,’ Helen continued, unabashed. ‘I can save you all that scrutiny. All that humiliation.’

Still Andrew Simpson didn’t look up.

‘But I need you to help me. I need you to tell me where I can find Ruby. If she’s still alive, then there is a deal to be done here. Set her free, accept a guilty plea and those details will never leave this room. They will be our secret.’

Finally, Simpson looked up at Helen. She was unnerved to see defiance in his eyes.

‘I don’t know where she is.’

‘Is that the best you can do?’

‘You’ve got nothing on me,’ he spat back sharply.

‘These women were all your tenants. You stalked them, spied on them – you knew everything about them. Their routines, their habits, their vulnerabilities. They went missing from your properties – no struggle, no break-ins – because you had the keys. You took them, kept them and when you tired of them, you killed them.’

‘You know nothing.’

‘I know that you’re a dirty little pervert. Your mum’s still alive, isn’t she, Andrew? How do you think she’ll feel when all this comes out?’

‘Fuck you.’

‘I don’t have time for this. Neither does Ruby. So I’m going to ask you again – where is she?’

‘I’ve said all I’m going to say to you. And if you threaten me again you stupid bitch –’

‘WHERE IS SHE?’

Helen was halfway across the table, her hand grabbing Simpson by the collar. But Sanderson was on her feet quickly, hauling Helen off Simpson, who had instinctively raised his fist to retaliate.

‘I think we’ll leave it there for now,’ Sanderson said quickly, heading Simpson’s irate lawyer off at the pass. ‘In the meantime, I’d advise your client to think very carefully about cooperating.’

Sanderson flicked off the tape, but paused as she followed Helen out the door.

‘It’s the only play he’s got left.’

101

Tim was waiting for her when Ceri Harwood got home. He had been trying to contact her all day – in the end she’d had to turn her mobile off. She knew at the time that she was just postponing the moment when she had to face him again.

It had been a long day. The confrontation with Helen Grace had left Ceri feeling dispirited and, more than that, concerned. She had fantasized about that moment for months – ever since she’d started this whole thing – and it had proved a big let-down. There was too much defiance, too much certainty in Helen’s voice that she would survive this latest attack. The fact that Anti-Corruption had found no trace of the missing file since then only made matters worse.

‘I’ve been calling you.’

‘I know,’ Ceri replied without enthusiasm, dropping her bag on the floor and sinking into the sofa. She knew they had to have this conversation, but she couldn’t face it. She was dog-tired – all she could think about was crawling into bed and shutting out the world.

‘We need to talk.’

Was there a more unpleasant phrase in the English language?

‘So talk,’ Ceri said, staring at the ceiling.

‘I’m so sorry, Ceri. That you had to see that. That you should find out that way. I … I should have said something to you before. I meant to, but we never seem to be in the same place at the same time.’

‘So this is my fault?’

‘Of course not. Of course not, darling.’

‘Don’t you dare.’

The look Ceri shot him was so severe that Tim held up his hands in surrender, acknowledging his mistake.

‘What I’m trying to say is I should have told you. But it’s a function of our lives that we don’t spend as much time together as we used to.’

There was more than an element of truth in this, but Ceri was damned if she was going to admit it.

‘I’m not blaming anyone,’ he continued. ‘My business needs me and your job is incredibly demanding.’

‘Why did you bring her here?’ Ceri demanded, tired of his self-justification.

‘Because I’m stupid. Because I didn’t think.’

‘Why her?’

A long pause. Ceri watched her husband closely as he searched for the right words. This was the only question she really wanted an answer to.

‘Because I like her. And because she wants to spend time with me.’