The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3 (6 page)

She could tell he was looking at her now, appraising what he saw. ‘Go to Hell,’ she thought, but her empty bravado did little to cheer her. She was exposed and powerless here.

He stepped forward. Still Ruby stared at the floor. Then another step – he was right by her now. His hand reached out, lifting up her chin. She was looking straight at him, they were virtually nose to nose. His peculiar aroma filled her nostrils once more. She refused to blink, or smile.

His hands rose and Ruby flinched. There was something cold pressing against her stomach. She flicked a glance down. It was the end of a tape measure. He was measuring her.

She tried to stay stock still, but her body was quivering with fear. He measured her hips, her shoulders, her chest. As the cold tape pressed against her nipples, another tear escaped, a sense of rising horror overwhelming her.

He slipped the tape round her neck, pulling it tight.

Then, satisfied, he stepped away.

‘You can get dressed.’

Ruby gathered her pyjamas, tugging them on quickly and clumsily.

‘I have to go out now, but I won’t be long,’ he said, watching her change. ‘And because you’ve been cooperative, I’ve brought you a present.’

He pulled something from his pocket and placed it on the table.

An inhaler.

Ruby took a step forward, then checked herself.

‘It’s yours now. Don’t make me take it away from you.’

It was said with a smile but chilled Ruby to the core. It was obvious to her in that moment, as it should have been from the start, that this stranger now wielded the power of life or death over her.

17

He was taller than she expected. On the phone he had sounded hesitant and lacking in stature. But the reality was very different. Daniel Briers was tall and handsome, with a confident stride and an easy manner. Dark hair, flecked with grey at the temples, framed an open countenance.

‘DI Helen Grace. Thanks for coming down so quickly.’

‘I just want to get this thing sorted. There must have been a mix-up with the serial numbers. Pippa was tweeting again this morning, so it’s hardly likely that –’

‘May I have a look?’

They were heading out of Southampton train station towards Helen’s pool car. Daniel Briers handed her his phone. Helen read the tweet – a brief and anodyne comment about Sunday morning hangovers.

‘Have you actually spoken to her in the last two to three years?’ Helen asked, as she handed back the phone.

Daniel paused, frowned, then said:

‘No, I haven’t.’

He suddenly seemed less assured, the fatigue of a sleepless night catching up with him, eroding his optimism. ‘I tried many times, left countless messages, but …
I don’t think she was ready to talk, so we had to rely on the occasional tweet and text. She seemed to be doing well in Southampton and … I was happy for her.’

As they drove to the mortuary, Daniel filled her in on the cause of their estrangement. Helen could have guessed before he said anything: a new wife.

Pippa’s mother had died of breast cancer when Pippa was six, sending the family into a spin for several years. But when Daniel had married again all seemed set fair. However, Pippa and his second wife did not get on. Kristy brought two children to the party from a previous marriage and to her mind, where they were constructive and polite, Pippa was hostile and unhelpful, unwilling to accept Kristy as her new mother. The situation had only worsened during Pippa’s teenage years and as soon as she was old enough to leave school
and
home, she did.

‘I tried to reason with her,’ Daniel explained, ‘but she just wanted away. So she dossed down with an old school friend who was at college in Portsmouth and eventually she moved to Southampton. Got a job, a flat, she was making a go of things. It broke my heart when she left, I missed her every day, but I hoped over time we could repair the damage. That I could encourage her to come home.’

They parked in the mortuary car park and headed inside to see Jim Grieves. As soon as they stepped into the building, Daniel’s manner changed. He had been chatting sixteen to the dozen previously, but now he
seemed affected by the cold sterility of the place. He was silent, focused, his body rigid. Helen had seen this many times before – the anxiety that affects all civilians when they are about to come face to face with a dead body for the first time.

The pleasantries were kept to a minimum – there was no point delaying the inevitable. Slowly, Jim Grieves lowered the sheet, revealing the young woman’s face.

The effect on Daniel Briers was terrible and instant. A horrid, pained intake of breath. He looked like he had momentarily stopped breathing and Helen put her arm on his to check he was ok. He turned to her, his face now drained of colour, a man visibly ageing in front of her.

When he did finally speak it was in a whisper and through tears:

‘That’s Pips.’

18

Andrew Simpson ran his finger down his tie and regarded the young lady sitting opposite him. It was unusual for him to have such pleasant company during the working day.

‘So Ruby emailed you two days ago, giving notice?’ Sanderson asked. Simpson Rentals had a broad portfolio of properties for rent in Southampton, most of them one- and two-bed flats in shoddily converted houses. They were cheap, but like Andrew Simpson’s office, they were also unloved.

‘That’s correct. It was brief to say the least.’ Andrew Simpson turned his laptop round for Sanderson to see. As he did so, a strong odour of stale sweat drifted towards her. He was a thin man, with precise features and a very meticulous manner, but there was something about him that felt oddly washed out.

‘I hereby give notice. Ruby Sprackling.’ Sanderson read the email aloud.

‘It’s supposed to be in writing obviously, but nobody bothers with that any more,’ Simpson added.

‘Did you have any warning? Any sense of why she was leaving?’

‘No, it was completely out of the blue. But then she was a scatty girl. Always losing things, forgetting to pay her rent on time –’

‘And do you have any idea where she might have gone?’

‘No. I don’t see my tenants very much.’

Sanderson could well believe it. Out of sight, out of mind.

‘Do you have a set of keys to her flat?’

This was what Sanderson had been building up to. It seemed logical that if a third party was involved in her disappearance, then he or she must have had access to Ruby’s flat. There had been no sign of forced entry, detritus from her night out had been found in the bin, the door had been double-locked on the way out – everything was in order, apart from the forgotten inhaler. If she had been taken, it was more of a … removal than an abduction or struggle.

‘Yes I do, but they are not in my possession at the moment.’

Sanderson knew of four sets of keys in existence – Ruby had a set, as did Shanelle Harvey and Alison Sprackling. The latter two sets had been accounted for. Ruby presumably still had hers, so that left one set out there.

‘Where are they?’

‘I gave them to my builder on Thursday. We’ve had a few problems with leaking pipes in that property. I’d
asked him to go in over the weekend and paint over the damage.’

Two days ago. Time enough to plan and execute an abduction.

‘And what’s his name?’

Andrew Simpson looked uncertain, hesitating for the first time in their conversation, as if scared of the consequences, before finally replying:

‘His name is Nathan Price.’

19

He was a strange sight in the tattoo parlour. Clutching his New Look and M&S bags, he looked like any number of beleaguered dads on a Saturday afternoon shopping trip. Except it wasn’t Saturday and he wasn’t in a shopping centre. He was in Angie’s tattoo parlour – a forgotten dive in the shadow of the Western Docks that specializes in cheap body art and drug dealing.

The place had only been open five minutes when he entered. It was still a mess from last night’s trade – sailors, hookers, stag parties – and the grumbling owner seemed irritated to have custom so soon. She was still half asleep and more than half intoxicated. She offered him her body art menu with a shaking hand:

‘Choose your poison,’ she said without smiling.

He looked her up and down before replying.

‘Actually I’d like to buy some needles.’

She paused with her tidying and turned to face him.

‘You want kit?’

‘I need round liner needles, flat shader needles, some curved stacks and inks too, of course.’

‘Any particular colours?’

‘The full palette please.’

Angie looked him up and down – he hadn’t a tattoo anywhere and didn’t look the type – then rooted around for the items. He watched her intently, alive for any signs of curiosity or suspicion on her part.

But he had chosen his quarry well. Money was all that mattered to Angie.

She placed the items on the counter, but as he reached out to take them, she slammed her hand down to stop him.

‘Money first. No cards, no cheques.’

He handed over the cash and departed with his purchases. As he walked through the back streets of this forgotten part of town, he afforded himself a small smile. He now had everything he needed and though he didn’t normally go in for such cheap amusement, he had to admit to a small thrill at having paid for it with Ruby’s own money. She wouldn’t thank him for it – who would given the pain that lay ahead? – but he was prepared to face down any protest or defiance. After all, she had been put on this earth to make him happy. And the best way to do that was to learn how to submit.

20

They were caught in a strange kind of hell. This one came complete with plastic flowers, a statuette of Jesus and tired sofas. Many people, having discovered the worst, fled the mortuary, wanting to get as far away from the reality of their tragedy as possible. Others, like Daniel Briers, simply didn’t have the strength in their legs. Which is why Helen now found herself sitting by his side in the mortuary relatives’ room.

‘It doesn’t make any sense.’ Daniel Briers hadn’t said a word since he’d identified his daughter. Now, a full thirty minutes later, he was trying to process the awful news, cradling a full cup of cold tea.

‘She texted me, wrote tweets,’ he continued. ‘I replied to her texts for God’s sake.’

‘Did she ever reply directly to your texts? Within the following day or so, say?’

Daniel looked at her, but didn’t speak. It was as if he didn’t understand the question.

‘Daniel, I know that none of this seems real, that you’re in shock, but it’s really important that you answer my questions, if you can.’

He looked at her for a moment, his mind scrolling
back, trying to connect to his past with his daughter.

‘No. It’s true, there were always large gaps between the texts. And the tweets.’

His mind was whirring with the awful possibilities this presented.

‘It did seem odd,’ he continued. ‘But she’d left under such a cloud that I thought this was her way of keeping control of the situation, of letting us know that she was in charge.’

At this point, he finally broke. The last words cascaded from him and were then swallowed up by huge, racking sobs. His misery was primal, elemental – a towering, imposing man howling in grief for his lost daughter. Helen had witnessed this scene many times before and always felt deeply for those left behind. She knew what it was like to lose a loved one and feel responsible. But this time her sympathy was particularly acute.

Not only was Daniel Briers grappling with the fact that his daughter had died before they could be reconciled – he was also beginning to realize that all recent communication between them had been fake, fabricated by a devious killer. Someone had been keeping his little girl alive from beyond the grave.

21

‘Put them on.’

Ruby stood by the bed, under the glare of the sodium lights that had suddenly snapped on. It seemed part of her captor’s technique now to half blind her before opening the door.

She turned her gaze to the bed, where he had laid out a complete outfit for her. Knickers, tights, a short denim skirt, low-cut top, hoop earrings. A funky Saturday night outfit or a hooker’s uniform, depending on how you wore it.

‘Now.’

His raised voice made her jump. This time she kept her nerve – though her bottom lip quivered as she picked up the skimpy black thong – she was not going to give him the satisfaction of crying again. She undressed and dressed quickly, not wanting to be naked for long. Even so she faltered as she put the earrings in. Unlike the clothes, these were not new – they looked tarnished and old. Somehow they felt like death to Ruby.

‘Let me look at you.’

She turned to face him. At first he didn’t react, but then a smile crept over his unshaven features.

‘Good.’

He stared at her, enjoying the moment. All the while Ruby tried to swallow down the bile that crept up her throat.

‘As it’s Sunday,’ he continued cheerily, ‘I thought we’d eat together. I know how you like a roast.’

Ruby now spotted the tray on the table. It had drinks on it and two plates covered with plastic food warmers. Ruby didn’t want to play ball, but she was so, so hungry. He removed the covers to reveal a ready-meal Sunday lunch. It was a travesty of the real thing … but the gravy smelt good. Ruby sat down and fell on the meal, cramming great forkfuls into her mouth.

‘Don’t give yourself indigestion.’

He seemed amused by her hunger. She slowed her intake slightly, but was not about to let a feast like this go begging.

‘It’s good you’ve got your appetite back, Summer. You always were a good eater.’

Ruby paused momentarily, then carried on eating, trying to quell the fear rising inside her.

‘Don’t call me that.’

‘Why not? It’s your name.’

‘It’s not my n—’

‘What else would I call you?’

Ruby’s fork clattered down on to the table, gravy splashing messily around. Tears were already streaming down her face, her strength suddenly evaporating.

‘Please don’t do this. I want to go home. I want to be with my family –’