The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3 (16 page)

‘Thank you,’ she replied, earning a smile in response. ‘If you were feeling kind, there are a couple of other things you could get for me too,’ Ruby went on, as casually as she could.

Immediately, a frown passed across his face. Was he suspicious? Did he sniff trouble? Keeping her expression as meek as possible, Ruby continued. ‘I would really like some make-up. I would love a hairbrush, some lipstick, some eyelash curlers and, if you don’t mind buying it, some nail polish.’

He looked at her, saying nothing.

‘I just want to look nice for you. And I think I deserve it, don’t you?’

Another long, painful pause, then he finally broke into a broad smile.

‘Were you nervous about asking for these things?’

Ruby looked at her shoes, fearful her expression would betray her.

‘There’s no need to be. I don’t mind it when you’re assertive. It’s more like the old you.’

He rose at this point.

‘I’ll get those things for you. You’ll … you’ll look pretty as a picture.’

With that, he departed. As soon as he’d gone, Ruby sank back down on the bed. It had cost her her last remaining ounce of composure to play her part, but it had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. She had expected more suspicion, more resistance, but actually he had played right into her hands.

The first phase of her plan was complete.

66

‘This is fucking out of order and I will not stand for it.’

Ceri Harwood seldom swore. It was strangely enjoyable, watching her superior lose her cool and Helen privately resolved to provoke her more often.

‘DI Grace knows the chain of command,’ the incandescent Harwood continued. ‘She knows she should have come to me first.’

Chief Constable Stephen Fisher nodded, before turning his attention to Helen.

‘Would you care to explain to me why you didn’t, DI Grace?’

Because Harwood would have told me to go jump in a lake, Helen thought, but swallowed that down. Her decision to go direct to Harwood’s superior was deliberate – a calculated gamble.

‘Detective Superintendent Harwood and I have already had this discussion and she’s made her feelings clear –’

‘So why are we having it again?’ Fisher interrupted.

‘Because the situation has changed,’ Helen replied. ‘Further investigation –’

‘Investigation that was not authorized,’ Harwood interrupted.

‘Further investigation has revealed a number of potential victims,’ Helen continued. ‘I have always believed that Pippa’s killer had the potential to be a serial offender and the evidence now points that way.’

‘Evidence?’ Harwood queried, witheringly.

‘Roisin Murphy and Isobel Lansley. Two young women with the same look, the same profile, who’ve been missing for over a year and who text and tweet
at the same times of day and the same locations
as Ruby and formerly Pippa. The geography doesn’t make sense – the New Forest, then Southampton city centre, then Brighton, then Hastings – their movements are so random and unlikely that the only explanation is that someone is deliberately trying to throw the young women’s families off the scent. Furthermore, what are the odds that four unconnected girls would be travelling around in the same seemingly random pattern?’

‘So you want to go back to the beach?’ Fisher interrupted decisively.

‘Yes. That’s the only deposition site we know of and serial murderers are creatures of habit. It’s a discreet, out-of-the-way location, which regularly washes away surface evidence, footprints and so on. It’s perfect for his purposes and he’d be a fool not to use it again.’

‘He? You keep referring to “he”. Who is he? You sound like you know him?’

‘We don’t have anything concrete so far –’

‘But still you want us to close a public beach, exhaust
our resources digging up great swathes of it and create an unholy storm of public concern and negative publicity in the process. All because of your gut instinct.’

‘Because of the pattern of his offending. There is almost zero chance he won’t have attempted to abduct more victims in between Pippa and Ruby – and Roisin and Isobel fit the bill perfectly.’

‘We need more time, Stephen,’ Harwood countered, now turning to her superior. ‘Let’s investigate the circumstances of the girls’ disappearance and then see –’

‘It’s already been done,’ Helen returned aggressively. ‘Roisin had a one-year-old baby when she went missing. She tweeted saying she couldn’t handle being a mum any more and it’s true she
had
struggled at times, but her family are totally convinced that she would never have willingly abandoned her baby boy. They’ve spent the last two years searching for her. They’ve used the police, missing persons, local charities. They even hired a private detective – none of the “leads” provided by her tweeting check out. She simply hasn’t been seen anywhere since she went missing
over two years ago
.’

‘Even so, the investigations of a local family are no substitute for proper police work,’ Harwood fired back. ‘Let us pursue this line of investigation in a measured, methodical way and see if any of these “hunches” bear fruit. Rushing headlong into a major search operation only risks making us look very foolish indeed.’

Both women had finished now. Fisher regarded them,
weighing up his options. Harwood had been his appointment and it had worked out well for him. Which is why Helen was surprised when he said:

‘You’ve got one day on the beach, Helen. Make the most of it.’

67

The girl in Boots shoved his purchases into a plastic bag and took his cash without once looking up. While he’d been walking round the shop he’d felt a sudden pulse of fear – would people look askance at a guy with a basket full of make-up? The local paper was still going to town on the Pippa Briers story, urging its readers to keep their eyes peeled for any suspicious activity that might lead them to her killer. They’d even gone as far as publishing a detailed offender ‘profile’, describing his likely race, background, body language and psychology. It was all rubbish of course, but some of their lucky guesses had made him uneasy. So he’d prepared a detailed cover story – even slipping a scratched old ring on to his fourth finger to make him look like a solid husband and father – but in the event these precautions had proved utterly unnecessary. Like most young people, the shop girl was only interested in herself – lazily picking up her smart phone the minute she had finished serving him.

The sight of the girl checking her messages reminded him of an important task he had overlooked. Usually he would have caught a train or bus somewhere before work – he’d had Bournemouth in mind this time – to
carry out a swift round of texting and tweeting before returning to Southampton on the same train. It was a good way to throw people off the scent, without taking too much time out of his working day.

But having made a detour to Boots on an extended lunch break, he wouldn’t have time for that today. So seeking out a quiet spot on the Common, he began to send the customary messages. In days gone by he’d enjoyed this guilty pleasure – climbing inside these girls’ identities and speaking for them – but yet again he felt tense doing it. He was taking a risk tweeting so near his place of work, no question about it, and it robbed the little routine of its pleasure.

‘Funny how life keeps kicking you when yr already on the floor. Gettin used to it,’ he tweeted from Roisin’s phone. He was always careful to factor in the misspellings and abbreviations which these girls were so fond of. Roisin had always been a bit of a Jeremiah, would think herself into dark holes, so it was definitely in character for her to be bleating about life’s unfairness. He added a few more cynical thoughts, sent a couple of texts, then turned her phone off and slipped it back in his bag.

The sound of conversation made him look up. Two mums were jabbering loudly as they pushed their strollers along. Startled, he slunk back deeper into the undergrowth. He waited until they were long gone, before pulling Ruby’s phone from his bag. He did the necessaries, but his mood failed to lift. He couldn’t
escape the feeling that significant things were happening – things over which he had no control. Previously he had kept these girls alive safe in the knowledge that no one was even aware they were dead. He had revelled in this freedom and total lack of suspicion. But the discovery of Pippa Briers’ body had changed everything. Now a major murder investigation was under way, led by DI Helen Grace. For the first time in his short life, he now understood what it felt like to be hunted.

68

The two women were virtually eyeball to eyeball, neither backing down. Sanderson didn’t normally do all-out assault, but she was too enraged to back down. DC Lucas clearly felt the same, snarling at Sanderson to ‘get back in her box’.

Sanderson could happily have swung for her colleague. It had been
her
idea to put the mobile phone companies on alert for any sign of the missing girls’ phone signals and now that this plan had paid off, she was buggered if she was going to stand aside and let DC Lucas run with it. The mobile signals had briefly sprung into life, somewhere on or near Southampton Common and the smart thing to do was to get down there as fast as possible, to canvass witnesses, source CCTV footage, search for any signs of their killer.

‘DS Fortune specifically left me in charge,’ Lucas was saying. ‘If anything significant came up while he was at the beach, I was to handle it.’

Sanderson was about to come back at her, but DC Lucas was not finished yet.

‘And every minute you spend arguing with me reduces the chances of us bagging this guy and bringing Ruby
home safe and well. Do you understand, DC Sanderson?’

Lucas had enunciated the syllables of Sanderson’s name deliberately slowly – to underline her point. The eyes of the rest of the team were on her now and there was no way she could continue the fight, without looking irresponsible. With bad grace, she backed down and returned to her desk.

Ever since the investigation had widened to include Roisin Murphy and Isobel Lansley, Sanderson had been busy compiling dossiers on both women, climbing inside their lives to test Helen’s theory about their abduction. She had made good progress but she flicked through the pages listlessly now, still fizzing with anger over her confrontation with Lucas. She had never liked the humourless fast-tracker whose ambition was so ill-concealed, but now she was growing to loathe her. This sort of conflict was unnecessary and counter-productive. It risked turning the team against each other, which could only hamper the investigation. It was outrageous of Lucas to accuse her of risking lives, when
she
was the one whose ego could prove costly.

Sanderson returned to the task in hand, wrenching her mind away from crucifying Lucas to the important police work in front of her. She mustn’t compromise her own work through anger or bitterness – that wouldn’t be fair to Ruby or Pippa. So she continued to leaf through the files, diligently comparing the life of Roisin – a single mother of Anglo-Irish extraction who
lived off benefits in a small flat in Brokenford – with that of Isobel Lansley, a student at Southampton University about whom they knew almost nothing. She had few friends, little money, no jobs or hobbies. All they did know about her was that she lived in a one-bed flat in –

Sanderson stopped in her tracks, her heart suddenly racing. Checking the details again, she skimmed back fast through Roisin’s growing file, searching for the relevant entry. And there it was. The discovery took Sanderson’s breath away.

Finally, they had the break they needed.

69

The three figures stood alone, whipped by the wind that roared in off the Solent. Helen was on one side of the trio, Harwood on the other, with an uncomfortable DS Fortune in between. The two women had hardly spoken to each other since arriving and the atmosphere was tense. Helen got the feeling that Lloyd would rather be anywhere else but here, but that was too bad. This was too important not to have her right-hand man by her side.

The beach had been deserted when they arrived, so securing it wasn’t hard. Given the brief window she’d been allowed, Helen had pulled out all the stops, dragging a dozen uniformed coppers off the beat, so that that the beach could be taped off swiftly and the necessary public notices erected. Nobody was swimming off this beach today.

A POLSA team had been scrambled from Kent Police, making it to Carsholt in under two hours – Helen had impressed upon them the urgency of the situation. They were now at work, the metal detectors, cadaver dogs and ground-penetrating radar scouring the broad expanse of sand for any signs of burial, deposition or
human remains. The occasional bleep from the metal detectors was all Helen could hear above the wind.

The beach presented in a very different light from the last time Helen had been here. When they had found Pippa, the weather had been incongruously glorious, the sun beating down on the SOC officers as they’d completed their painstaking forensic work. Today the sun had disappeared behind looming grey clouds, hiding its warmth and cheer from the scene. Even the sea seemed to be getting in on the act, raging and crashing on the surf nearby.

DS Fortune sneaked a look at his watch.

‘How many hours of daylight do we have left?’ Helen asked him.

‘About seven,’ he replied quickly. His voice was clipped, infused with the anxiety of a man serving two masters.

‘Seven hours before we can bring this charade to an end,’ Harwood added. ‘Are you planning on staying down here all day, DI Grace? Or do you have some police work to do?’

‘I’ll stay as long as is necessary,’ Helen replied evenly. She wasn’t going to embarrass herself by squabbling with Harwood in front of a junior officer. ‘After all, we only have limited time.’

Harwood didn’t respond, so Helen took this as her cue, heading down to the water’s edge. Once there she turned, taking in the full panorama of Carsholt beach. Harwood and Fortune were chatting easily – more
relaxed now Helen had left them – in sharp contrast to the men and women from Kent, who had worked out a grid and were now combing every inch of it.