The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3 (28 page)

‘I’ve spoken to Tom Marsh. Went up to his home in Bugbrooke. Met his wife too – Rose, nice lady. He’s going to cooperate to save his neck and I would strongly advise you to do the same. You’ve got until the end of the day to decide. You can drop me off here.’

Lloyd slowed the car quickly, bringing it to a halt in the bus lane. As Charlie exited, she said:

‘Oh and this conversation never happened.’

She slammed the door and hurried round the car to join the queue for the bus. Lloyd drove away quickly, his eyes scanning the street for CCTV cameras that might have picked up their exchange. Normally so cool under pressure, Lloyd was surprised to find now that his shirt was damp with sweat.

As he drove, he played out different situations in his head, each as bad as the last. Harwood had threatened to break him if he didn’t play ball. Now Charlie would throw him to the lions if he didn’t expose her. It was a lose–lose situation but Charlie had forced the issue now and he would have to choose sides.

It was decision time.

114

This was usually a space he dominated. A place where he was in complete control. Which was why it felt so strange to be on the back foot now, to be standing, embarrassed and cowed, in front of her.

On hearing the familiar three rings of the buzzer, Jake had raced to open the door. He had expected Helen to avoid him for a while, to punish him with her absence, but here she was the very next morning. As she entered, her mood had been hard to read – she stared at the floor – but her first concern seemed to be for his well-being, which cheered him. She asked him about his injuries and he filled her in on his late-night trip to A&E. He’d had to have a few stitches above his eye, but the wound would heal quickly and there would be no permanent damage.

Helen was clearly anxious to be away, so Jake wasn’t surprised when she cut to the chase, demanding to know the full extent of his surveillance. Jake decided to hide nothing from her – a full and frank confession was the very least she deserved – but as the details tumbled out, the depth of his feeling for her became painfully clear to them both. He hadn’t meant to get so involved with
her – but he had – and now Helen wouldn’t look him in the eye as a result.

‘Jake, I’m really grateful for everything you’ve done for me –’

‘Please don’t do this, Helen.’

Jake could see where this was going and wanted to stop Helen before she could articulate her decision.

‘You have helped me more than you know,’ Helen continued, unabashed. ‘More than I deserved. But we both know this has to end now.’

‘Of course. We can go back to how we were, strictly professio—’

‘I mean “we” have to end,’ Helen interrupted. ‘We’ve crossed a line that should never have been crossed.’

‘Why shouldn’t we cross it?’ Jake retorted, his swelling anger finally overcoming his sense of shame.

‘Because I don’t want to. And it’s not fair on you to pretend otherwise.’

‘That’s bullshit. I know you, Helen. You’re no different to anyone else, but you persist in pushing everyone away.’

Helen looked at him as if he were mad, but he had seen her vulnerability, her need for comfort and love – so surely
she
was the mad one?

‘I’m sorry, Jake, but I’ve made up my mind. I don’t want to hurt you – that was never my intention – but I won’t be coming here any more.’

‘Then you’ll be on your own for ever,’ he spat back.
He hadn’t meant to sound bitter, but he did nevertheless. ‘Because of your pride, because of your fear, you’ll be lonely for the rest of your days.’

As he spoke, he wrenched the front door open. Her very presence seemed to mock him now and he just wanted her out of sight. And as she departed, walking out of his life for ever, he couldn’t resist one final shot.

‘Good luck, Helen. You’re going to need it.’

115

Charlie pushed the front door shut behind her and leaned against it. She had been feeling peculiar all day – at sixes and sevens – and now she just felt exhausted. Had she been stupid tackling Lloyd directly? She didn’t know him at all well and who was to say he wouldn’t have reacted angrily, even violently, to her accusations? She was glad she hadn’t thought too deeply about it or she probably wouldn’t have gone through with it. And that would have been wrong – she had played an unwitting part in the ambush on Helen and she had been determined to put that right. She didn’t want cowardice or caution to stop her. Not that Steve would have seen it like that, if anything had happened.

All she wanted to do was collapse on the sofa, but oddly her legs wouldn’t move. Her batteries were dead, as her father would say, and she remained where she was, propping up the front door. Something definitely wasn’t right. She felt more than peculiar now, she felt uncomfortable. The baby had been less active today, which had at first worried her, then intrigued her as she had felt the occasional cramp. Was this Braxton Hicks
or something more meaningful? She wasn’t one to jump the gun but today did feel different.

She looked down and was surprised to see her leggings stained dark. Placing her hand on her thighs, she found that her legs were wet. She investigated further and there was no doubt about it. Her waters had broken. The time had come.

The baby that she’d craved for so long was finally on her way.

116

She had never anticipated failure. Never seen it in her mind’s eye. So when it finally happened, she wasn’t quite sure how to behave.

The ring on the doorbell was insistent, but Ceri Harwood had nevertheless ignored it at first. Tim was there, driven home by guilt or uncertainty for another of their ‘chats’, and though she didn’t hold out much hope that this was anything more than window dressing, she didn’t want a postie or duster salesman interrupting them during such a raw conversation.

But the ringing then became repeated knocking on the door. It was obvious they were in because the upper windows were open and the sitting room light on, so it seemed fruitless to hide. Ceri armed herself with a dismissive turn of phrase, but as she opened the door, words failed her. She could tell exactly who they were by their bad suits and their sombre expressions, but it still came as a bit of a shock when they said:

‘Anti-Corruption. Can we come in?’

Ceri Harwood. Head girl. Top of her class at Hendon. The youngest female DCI in the Met. Now staring at failure and, worse than that, possible ruin.

‘Tim, we’d better take a rain check on this. There are a few procedural things that need to be sorted out.’

But he could tell she was lying. Had she gone pale? She felt like she had. Or perhaps she was just a bad actress – failing to cloak the anxiety that gripped her now?

‘Can we do this here?’ she asked, as her husband watched on, making no attempt to leave.

‘Better if we do this down the station,’ came the sober reply.

‘Is that really necessary?’ Ceri replied, her superior rank surfacing as she fixed them with a beady eye.

‘Yes’ was the blunt apologetic reply. ‘We’d prefer it if you came willingly but if we have to arrest you –’

‘Ok, ok.’

Now that it had come to this, there was no point in dragging it out. Picking up her bag, she nodded to Tim – and was surprised to find tears pricking her eyes. When she had started this thing, she had been so sure that it would achieve the desired result, that she would drive Helen Grace from Southampton Central and be the top dog once more. Successful, untouchable, victorious. She paused on the threshold to smile a sheepish goodbye to Tim and in that moment she knew – her defeat was total. She had reached the end of the road.

117

He worked the machine furiously, his anger with himself – with the world – unconcealed from all around. People came in and out as usual, but where he would normally exchange pleasantries with them, today he served them in silence, his glowering expression enough to repel any casual conversation.

A sudden sharp pain made him look down. Distracted, he had taken his eye off the machine and the blade had sliced his thumb right open.

‘Fuck.’

He spat the word out, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Blood oozed from the deep cut. Flicking the machine off, he hurried out back, swathing his injured finger in rounds of paper towelling. The blood seeped through the pale green towelling, but it looked more black than brown.

Why was he such a failure? Such a waste of space? Was he forever to be on this journey, searching, searching, searching – but finding only misery and crushing desolation. How could he have got it so wrong? He could see now that she wasn’t Summer. He had just been trying to convince himself, hoping against hope that her
coldness and rough manner was some reserved anger at their long separation. But it had actually been because she was a nasty, worthless slut. Why had he lavished so much care, attention and – yes – love on her, when all she wanted to do was throw it back in his face and return to her peevish little step-family, who thought she was nothing but trouble. He knew enough about her to know that she spurned and ridiculed those who tried to help – why hadn’t he seen the signs. Why had he exposed himself in this way?

The blood was still oozing from his cut. There was no way he could do any more work today, so he might as well shut up shop. It was far too early to close and there would no doubt be a few shoppers confused by his unusual absence. His first instinct was to say ‘Stuff them’ but caution – his watchword – reasserted itself once more. So, having turned off the till, he started writing out a note blaming ‘Staff sickness’ for the temporary closure of the shop. It was hard going – he wasn’t used to writing with his left hand – and he was still writing when the ringing bell alerted him to the arrival of a customer.

‘We’re closed,’ he barked without looking up.

‘The sign said you were open and this won’t take a minute.’

Her voice was soft and gentle. But he didn’t look up, concentrating even harder on his note.

‘Please could you squeeze me in?’

Sighing, he put down his pen. No point creating
questions, when it was so easy to serve her and send her on her way. Looking up, he held out his hand.

‘Oh, you’re bleeding. Are you ok?’

Her voice matched her features, which were delicate and pretty. Her accent was local but subtle and she had a kindness in her expression that instantly put you at your ease.

‘Can I help at all?’

Still he couldn’t speak. It seemed impossible and yet it was true. As if the cosmos
was
listening. This lovely kind girl who was offering the hand of friendship had walked right into his shop, right into his life. Like he always imagined she would. He let her examine his wound, but as she did so, he never took his gaze off her, transfixed by her delicate nose, her long, black hair and those piercing blue eyes.

118

Alastair and Gemma Lansley stood stock still, barely able to breathe. Helen watched them closely. She could tell that, like Daniel Briers, they had found news of their daughter’s death hard to credit. But they had done the right thing and flown over from Windhoek to be confronted by the grim reality of Isobel’s murder. She lay on the mortuary slab in front of them, her body discreetly covered, but her pale, thin face unveiled. Her opaque eyes stared up at her parents, giving them none of the love they craved. She had been dead for over a year.

Helen was surprised to see that while Alastair’s eyes were already brimful of tears, Gemma’s eyes were dry, as if they hadn’t yet taken in what they were seeing. Usually it was the other way around, the husband desperately trying to be strong for his wife. But that was not the case here. Helen had already established in their preliminary chats that Alastair was very close to his daughter – his only daughter. When he and his wife had retired abroad, Alastair had hoped that Isobel would eventually join them – a life in the sun – but she had cleaved close to Southampton and her studies. Alastair had picked up a
note of cynicism, even weariness in her recent tweets and texts that perhaps tokened a change in attitude to her surroundings and this had raised his hopes of a reunion. But these had turned out to be somebody else’s fabrication – a revelation that was too big, too horrific for this elderly couple to process.

Having concluded the identification, Helen moved them into the relatives’ room.

‘I know this is hard, but I need you to tell me as much as you can about Isobel. Her friends, her study schedule, her habits. We’re working on the assumption that Isobel’s attacker was not known to her, but rather someone who she came into contact with in daily life.’

‘We could have told you that,’ Gemma Lansley said curtly. ‘Isobel didn’t have any friends.’

‘Gemma …’ her husband murmured, a gentle note of warning in his voice.

‘They need the facts, Alastair,’ she shot back quickly, her voice wobbling for the first time. ‘There’s no point dressing things up.’

There was a pause and then Alastair looked straight at Helen.

‘When Isobel … when she was a teenager, she was the victim of a sexual assault.’

‘Go on.’

‘She was walking home from school. Took a short-cut across the heath. The man … the man responsible was caught and imprisoned.’

‘Eight years with time off for good behaviour,’ Gemma added bitterly.

‘But it left a lasting impression on Isobel. She hated open spaces, hated to be outside. She hardly ever left her flat and didn’t really want to share. She had trust issues, I think the psychiatrist said. Hence she lived alone.’

‘She had a limited social circle?’ Helen asked.

‘Limited was the word,’ Gemma said. ‘She deliberately cut herself off from her family, her friends –’

‘Please Gemma, you’re not helping –’

‘Cut herself off from anyone who might have cared for her.’

Gemma Lansley lapsed into silence now, overwhelmed by misery and grief.

‘So she wouldn’t have let someone she didn’t know into the flat?’

‘Have you been listening, Inspector?’ Gemma replied acidly. ‘She wouldn’t let people she
did
know into the flat. She felt safe only when she was alone behind a closed door.’