The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3 (13 page)

Grim curiosity drove her on to ‘I’’s writings, but they turned out to be the worst of the lot. They were dated a little over a year ago and were obviously written after she had discovered Roisin and Pippa’s hidden letters and cards. This discovery had been a sledgehammer blow for ‘I’’s morale, robbing her of any resistance or hope. Her letters thereafter were a mixture of apologies to people she’d loved and wronged in her old life and long, rambling descriptions of her suffering and incarceration – records which she hoped would be found one day.

‘I’’s deepest fear was that her fate would never be known. That her parents would remain for ever in the dark about what had happened to their little girl. The last letter, dated from May, began in bleak mood, ‘I’ declaring her avowed belief that she would die in this cellar, before going on to offer her final thoughts, her final expressions of love, as she faced the end of her short life. Horrifically, she never managed to complete her goodbyes to her family – the green felt-tip pen that
all the girls had been using finally running out before she could write her last words.

Each letter was like a physical wound to Ruby. Each word a death knell. Ever since her abduction, she had feared she was going to be her captor’s slave. Now she knew she was going to be his next victim.

51

Hidden in a remote interrogation suite, DC Sanderson set about her work in earnest. Helen had tasked her with absolute secrecy, so she’d lied to the rest of the team, telling them she was heading home with a headache. In fact, she had scooped up the impressive number of missing-persons files she’d amassed during the day and spirited them away to a forgotten part of the station that was awaiting refurbishment.

It was an odd, lonely space to be and Sanderson’s mood of disquiet was deepened by the numerous sad stories she encountered as she pored over the files. Family break-ups, child abuse, domestic violence – the various scenarios that had prompted these young people to go missing were uniformly depressing and yet the faces that stared up at her from the files were all smiling. Anxious relatives always gave their ‘best’ photos of their missing loved ones, photos that suggested happiness and hope. Sanderson suspected these moments were fleeting at best and probably wholly unrepresentative of the subject, who had in all likelihood fled, committed suicide or been murdered. And yet for all that, and in spite of Sanderson’s battle-hardened cynicism, the photos
were still affecting. The beaming, optimistic faces proved that the subjects
had
been happy once, that at some point they had occupied a space that was joyful and forward-looking, before their lives caved in on them.

With each file, Sanderson’s spirits sank a notch lower. It wasn’t just the unpleasant details of these young women’s lives – though those certainly were upsetting – it was also the sheer volume of cases. Sanderson wasn’t naïve, she knew the statistics on teen runaways, she knew how many young women ended up walking the streets or worse to escape a difficult home life. But statistics are just numbers – they don’t mean very much until you add up the individual cases one by one, until you are confronted with tiny details of scores of young lives gone awry. She had only trawled Southampton, Portsmouth and Bournemouth’s missing-persons lists, as Helen had instructed, but that had proved enough – more than enough – to keep her busy for the day.

She was now down to the last few files and there were currently six individuals who gave Sanderson cause for concern. Cheryl Heath and Teri Stevens had the look, but were frequent runaways who usually resurfaced when the money ran out. So despite some residual concerns, Sanderson had made the decision to put them on the backburner for now. Which left Anna Styles, Roisin Murphy, Debby Meeks and Isobel Lansley.

There was no question that these girls bore a strong resemblance to Pippa Briers. Long, straight, raven-black
hair, piercing blue eyes and something enigmatic in their expression. They were all somehow beguiling, hinting at deeper layers if you could only get to know them better. Their appearance was different for sure – some were punkish and low-rent, some straitlaced and professional – but they all inhabited their look with the same spirit. If Helen was right – if Pippa’s abductor was a serial offender following a pattern – then Sanderson was in no doubt he would be drawn to these vulnerable women, most of whom came from difficult backgrounds.

Even as Sanderson thought this, she found herself self-editing, bridling at her own euphemisms. Serial offender was a loose term that covered a multitude of sins and was generally used to reduce alarm by softening the reality of the situation. But there was no point dressing things up. If Helen’s hunch was right – and increasingly Sanderson felt that it was – then they weren’t pursuing a serial offender. They were hunting a serial killer.

52

Ruby smashed the brick down with all her force. Then she lifted it and brought it down again. She was in a frenzy, beating out the rhythm of her terror on the door that kept her locked inside.

The letters lay scattered where she’d dropped them. She had been unable to move for the best part of an hour after reading them – her head spinning with the darkest thoughts. The earrings that her captor had made her wear – they weren’t new. They were tarnished and damaged in places. What was so special about them? Had they … had they belonged to one of the other girls? Or to this Summer?

With each passing minute, Ruby’s anxiety had spiked still higher. She’d pulled hard on her inhaler, but it had little effect, so abandoning caution, she’d thrown herself into a full-on assault on the steel door.

Her blows rained down on the lock, producing small dents but failing to make any significant impression. Ruby wound her arm back and redoubled her efforts, bringing her weapon down with sudden, savage force. She heard a crack and for a brief, thrilling moment thought she’d been successful – until she looked down
and saw the half-brick in her hand. The other half lay broken and useless on the floor nearby.

Dropping the remnants, Ruby slid down the cold door to the floor, resting her head against the metal. There was no way out. She was beaten, locked for good or ill into this absurd pantomime with a man who abducted women, imprisoned them and then what? What had he done to those girls? If he’d let them go, surely she would have heard about it on the news or whatever, so what … ?

Should she ask him? Ask him what happened? Would she gain anything by confronting him? Probably not, but even as Ruby dismissed this thought, another idea rose in its place. She pushed it away immediately, too scared to test it unless it proved fruitless, but it forced its way back into her mind again, demanding to be heard. It made her feel sick to even contemplate it, but what choice did she have? She
had
to find a way of getting her captor onside, if she was to have any chance of escaping certain death.

Climbing to her feet, she gathered up the letters and stuffed them back into their secret cavity. Ramming both halves of the brick into the hole to conceal them again, Ruby pushed the bed up against the wall, returning the room to its normal state.

Sweeping the brick dust from the floor, she spat on the dented lock and rubbed it with her sleeve. It was only slightly dented and if she could remove the livid red-brick dust, perhaps he wouldn’t notice on his return.

Soon the room was back in some kind of order – even the clock was back in pride of place above the bed. There was only one thing left to do now and Ruby hurried over to the chair where her clothes lay. She changed quickly, pausing only at the end when she picked up the battered earrings. She hated these things more than life itself now, but there was no room for weakness, so swallowing her repugnance, Ruby closed her eyes and slipped the dirty hoops through her ears. Sitting down heavily on the bed, she exhaled long and hard. The worst was done.

Now all she had to do was wait.

53

‘Are you completely insane?’

It was a valid question and one Charlie had been expecting. It had taken her two hours of chit-chat and reminiscing to build up the courage to ask her old friend to do something that would cost her her job if it came to light. Predictably, DS Sally Mason’s response was one of shock and anger.

‘I’ve only been here six months and it’s a bloody good job. I can’t believe you would even ask me that.’

Charlie was momentarily lost for words. She knew Sally loved her job, but still the strength of her reaction surprised her. They had gone through police training together, surviving the experience largely thanks to their shared sense of humour and plenty of corner-cutting. They were coppers, not form-fillers, happy to break the rules where necessary. But sometime in the interim, Sally had become a responsible grown-up, a career copper with a decent rank, position and pension. Sally was right – she would be a fool to risk all that.

‘I know and I feel awful suggesting it but there’s no other way –’

‘Do you really want to skewer both our careers in
one go? What have you done, Charlie, that would make you risk that?’

‘It’s not me …’ Charlie continued, then hesitated to go further.

Sally regarded her. Now she looked intrigued, rather than angry.

‘Then who?’

‘Helen Grace.’

‘
The
Helen Grace?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you’re off work. And she can go through the normal channels, right?’

‘She’s being blocked. It’s … it’s about her nephew, Robert Stonehill.’

Now Sally was silent. The name was familiar to most coppers, if only through newspaper reports and anecdotes.

‘His name was mentioned in a crime report – a fight in Northampton city centre – but the original’s heavily redacted. No one’s helping her, everyone wants her to just forget him, but he’s her flesh and blood, the only family she has. So I know it’s a lot to ask – too much – but I hope you can see I had no choice. Despite everything, she’s … she’s the best copper I’ve worked for and one of the best people I know.’

Sally looked at Charlie for a long time. Then finally she said:

‘
If
I do this for you, it’ll be on one condition. You
never got it from me – on pain of death, you never got it from me.’

‘Of course. I’d rather quit the Force than get you into trouble because of me.’

‘And if it does lead somewhere,’ Sally continued, ‘you make
sure
Helen Grace does right by me.’

So that was it. The power of Helen’s reputation had people queuing up to join Hampshire CID – far more than could ever be accommodated. First-rate support officers, however, were at a premium and if Sally fancied the reflected glory of working alongside Helen, then Charlie was sure it could be arranged.

The pair separated shortly afterwards, agreeing to meet an hour later in the McDonald’s opposite the station to make the exchange. As Charlie watched Sally go, she was suddenly full of nervous excitement. Against the odds, she had pulled it off. She had done it. But what would it mean for her and Sally?

More importantly, what would it mean for Helen?

54

‘So tell me all about her. I’m dying to know the details.’

Not for the first time, Ceri Harwood’s heart sank. Stuck in another interminable dinner party, she had tried her best to entertain – regaling her guests with stories of the colourful villains she’d nicked, the surprising scrapes she’d survived, while provoking peals of laughter by threatening to frisk them all for banned substances. It was an act – she was dog-tired and couldn’t be bothered – but she performed it well. It was important for her husband’s firm that the local councillors and business leaders look kindly on him and she was happy to do her bit, but it always ended the same way. People seemed to look past her for something more interesting – and that something was always Helen Grace.

The woman quizzing her was blonde, attractive and good company. Divorced, she ran a local advertising agency and made a lot of money out of it. One in the eye for her unfaithful ex-husband. Ceri had been enjoying their chat together, but as they discussed her police work, Ceri could feel the conversation being steered towards her bête noire.

‘She’s a good copper,’ Ceri replied graciously, ‘if a
little unorthodox and prone to hug the limelight. When you’ve achieved a level of notoriety, I’m afraid there is always a part of you that craves adulation and attention. She’s highly effective – don’t get me wrong – but she occasionally forgets that police work is team work.’

Her guest – Lucy – seemed little interested in Helen’s ego or procedural misdemeanours. What she wanted was a blow-by-blow accountof what happened during the fatal shoot-out when Marianne Baines died. Did she really pull the trigger on her own sister? And what about Ella Matthews? Did she die at Helen’s hand? And what was it about this DI that meant she had such a nose for these cases?

The questions rushed out in a torrent. It was as if her guest were a little in love with Helen, Ceri thought uncharitably. And she was about to say something deeply disappointing – she liked to pretend these details were classified despite the fact they’d been all over the newspapers – when she caught Tim’s eye. He was studying her closely. Did he know the subject of the conversation? Either way, he was giving Ceri the eye, tacitly encouraging her to give Lucy what she was asking for.

So, taking another large gulp of Cabernet Franc, Ceri dutifully trotted out the details of Helen’s heroism. It stuck in her craw but there was nothing for it but to play ball. Another evening ruined, Ceri thought to herself.

One more night languishing in the shadow of Helen Grace.

55

Helen slammed the front door shut behind her and hurried into the living room. She didn’t even bother to turn the light on – she simply opened up the file Charlie had given her and began to devour it.

The unredacted file was still frustratingly short on detail. It described an altercation outside the Filcher and Firkin pub in Northampton city centre between Robert and a local thug named Jason Reeves. Drink had been taken and an argument over a girl spilled into violence. A broken bottle was used – making it a serious offence – but the injuries were minor.