Текст книги "The Doll's House"

Автор книги: M. J. Arlidge

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

78

Jim Grieves never said very much, but today he was unusually taciturn. The reason for this was obvious – two partially decomposed women lay on neighbouring slabs in his mortuary. This meant a sudden spike in workload for Jim – which he never appreciated – but more than that it meant a depressing few hours spent in the company of two young people who should have had their whole lives ahead of them. Fifty-something Jim was truculent and sarcastic, navigating his job with gallows humour, but he had grown-up girls of his own and Helen could tell that he was affected by the latest arrivals to the mortuary.

‘Roisin Murphy and Isobel Lansley,’ Jim began, ‘Missing Persons had their dental records on file. I’ve sent off DNA samples to double-check, but it’s them.’

Helen nodded.

‘How long?’

‘Roisin about two years. Isobel less – a year to eighteen months.’

Two more girls kept alive from beyond the grave through tweets and texts. It gave Helen no satisfaction to see that she had been right about the killer’s need for fresh victims.

‘I’m going to need a bit longer to give you cause of death. But both are likely to have suffered some kind of organ failure. They’ve been starved and kept in darkness. Like Pippa, their eyes have deteriorated, they have a complete absence of vitamin D in their systems, their skin is leathery. At some point their bodies just shut down – I’ll pin it down further as we go on.’

Helen knew this was coming but it still upset her.

‘We do have something here that we didn’t have with Pippa. All three bodies were washed clean – either by the killer or by Mother Nature – but I found something odd on Isobel. Two of the hairs in her fringe were stuck together. Nothing unusual in that – wet sand is sticky – but this was stuck together with some kind of solvent.’

‘Any idea what it is?’

‘Not a clue,’ he replied cheerily. ‘Not my department. But I’ve sent it off for tests. I’ve told them we need it back within hours. You can imagine what they said to that.’

For the first time today, Helen smiled. Jim enjoyed nothing more than winding up the lab crew, whom he unfairly dismissed as automatons.

‘What about the tattoo?’ she said, pressing on.

‘Similar pigments as used on Pippa. Hard to say if he used the same needle – if there’s bacteria on the needle that may help us decide either way – but one thing’s clear, he’s getting better at it. Isobel’s tattoo was much more skilled than Pippa’s.’

Helen took this in.

‘Truth be told,’ Jim continued. ‘You can buy these inks and needles online or in scores of stores in Hampshire. They are all pretty generic and I’m not sure that’s going to take you anywhere. If I were you I’d concentrate on the design. Find out why the bluebird is important to him.’

Helen left shortly after, having thanked Jim for his endeavours. He was right of course, though it didn’t take them any further forward. They had done the necessary checks on the tattoo – nobody sporting a bluebird tattoo had been arrested in recent history, nor was there any record of bodies turning up which were decorated in this way. Computerized records only went back ten to fifteen years, so it might be that the evidence was out there somewhere, predating computerization, but she couldn’t allot valuable manpower to sifting the archive, when the result of this line of investigation was so doubtful.

There was, however, one card left she could play, though it wasn’t a card she was particularly looking forward to using. She was still pondering how to approach this, when her phone rang.

On the other end was a very excitable DC Sanderson.

79

Lloyd was halfway down the stone steps, when he heard her calling after him.

‘Lloyd?’

He had left so abruptly – rudely – that he wasn’t surprised. Instinct had taken over – he just wanted to be away. Still, he paused now. She was his boss after all. She stood in the doorway beckoning to him, as if keen not to be seen by the neighbours. Suppressing his irritation, he slowly climbed the steps, until he was standing in front of her. Why did he feel like he’d been summoned to the headmaster’s office? He’d done nothing wrong.

‘A word before you go.’

To Lloyd’s eyes, Harwood suddenly seemed much more cold-eyed and in control than she had been even five minutes ago. Something of the steely professional was returning, in spite of her obvious intoxication.

‘We’ll forget today ever happened. It’s business as usual from now on.’

She chose her words carefully and delivered them with emphasis and conviction. Lloyd could feel himself getting sucked in once more.

‘I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,’ she continued evenly. ‘And it would be a shame for our close working relationship to be compromised in any way, wouldn’t you agree?’

Lloyd nodded, though he was feeling the very opposite. Perhaps Harwood sensed this for now she leaned closer, her lips almost brushing his ear.

‘Don’t turn on me, Lloyd.’

Then she retreated, shutting the front door firmly behind her.

Driving home, Lloyd cursed himself for his stupidity. Why had he ever got involved with Harwood? Was he really so stupid as to have thought that he could come out of this thing unscathed? It had seemed so simple at first, but now he could see he’d been a fool. Had he come to believe his own hype – the Teflon kid who sailed through life climbing ever upwards, never a mark against his name? There was a joke that followed him everywhere – a joke that infuriated him by its knowing racism – that he was ‘whiter than white’. The goody two shoes, flawless in his prowess and reputation. Lloyd knew it made him unpopular, but oddly it was a badge he clung to now, reminding himself that it meant he was better and more committed than those other jokers. Had he thrown that all away now?

Parking up, Lloyd walked to his front door. The lights were on in the living room, which meant his father was still up. Lloyd felt a flash of irritation – why did he insist on staying up so late? – then a wave of shame. Why should he criticize his dad when it was himself he was furious with?

‘How was your day?’

Caleb turned to his son, switching the TV off immediately. It was as if he’d been waiting for Lloyd – waiting for some company – all day and was now seizing on it eagerly. His siblings never visited, work friends no longer called round, which meant that like many old people his father was alone for most of the day. Lloyd had tried to encourage him to enrol in clubs, he’d even tried to get paid help to visit at one stage, but his father had pooh-poohed the idea. He didn’t have anything to say to new people, he said. He just wanted to spend time with family. Which in practice meant Lloyd.

‘Usual,’ Lloyd replied casually.

‘You sure? You look … a bit beaten up, son.’

Lloyd shrugged.

‘A few issues at work. No big deal.’

‘Problems with a case?’

‘No, just … staff issues,’ Lloyd answered.

‘Want to talk about it?’

‘Thanks, Dad, but to be honest, I just want to go to bed – I’m bushed.’

Caleb said nothing and Lloyd stayed where he was, as if awaiting his father’s permission to leave.

‘You can confide in me you know, son. I know I haven’t always been easy on you, but … you can talk to me. I’d like to talk.’

Did Lloyd imagine it or was there a slight quiver in his dad’s voice? Did he really feel that lonely? That shut out by his own son? He stole a look at his father, who dropped his eyes to the floor quickly.

Lloyd stayed for a few minutes more, chatting about this and that, then took himself off to bed. The truth was, he really didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to dwell on his reckless foolishness in getting into bed with Harwood. Which of course only made him hate himself more.

Today he felt like a failure, both as a police officer and as a son.

80

Sanderson wondered if she was staring into the eyes of a killer. He met her gaze, then looked away quickly, settling instead on Helen, who sat across the desk from him.

Andrew Simpson had been visibly unnerved to find police officers waiting for him in his office when he returned to close up for the day. During Sanderson’s first visit, he had been confident, precise and helpful – now he was on his guard. This no longer felt routine.

‘How well did you know Roisin Murphy?’ Helen asked, skipping the niceties.

‘I don’t know her.’

‘But you were her landlord?’

‘That doesn’t mean I know her though. Most of my business is done online, I meet the clients once, then sign the contracts and that’s it.’

‘No more contact.’

‘Not unless they’ve got a serious complaint. If it’s minor problems – leaks, boilers, what have you – it’s handled by my men.’

‘Men like Nathan Price.’

‘That’s right. I was very surprised to hear he’d been arrested and charged with underage –’

‘We’re not here to talk about Nathan Price. We’re here to talk about you, Andrew.’

Sanderson suppressed a smile. She loved watching Helen when she had her game face on. Because she was tall, athletic and pretty, people thought she would be genial and pleasant – and often she was. But there was a steel within Helen and an unwavering focus that unnerved people under interrogation. They could find no way to distract her, no purchase of any kind with which to drag the interrogation to areas where they felt more secure. She looked at you with such intensity and such purpose – Sanderson had seen many a criminal give up the ghost before they had even begun.

‘So for the record you only met Roisin once?’

‘Once or twice,’ Andrew conceded, fingering his tie.

Helen nodded, writing this down in her notepad. The subtle shift from ‘once’ had been noted.

‘And Isobel Lansley?’

‘Same.’

Monosyllabic now – that was a good sign. A sign that they had him boxed into a corner already.

‘What percentage of your tenants are female?’ Sanderson asked, finally entering the fray. She had let Helen put the wind up him, but it was her lead and she wanted to direct the conversation now.

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Hazard a guess,’ Sanderson responded.

‘I don’t know – fifty to sixty per cent.’

‘We have a court order here allowing us full access to your tenancy lists.’

Andrew Simpson stared at her.

‘So when we look through your records, you’re confident that roughly fifty to sixty per cent of your tenants will be female?’ she repeated.

Sanderson caught the swift glance Andrew Simpson shot at the CID officers outside, who were meticulously leafing through his filing cabinets. His anxious secretary stood over them, all at sea at this sudden and unexpected intrusion.

‘Maybe not fifty to sixty per cent,’ he eventually replied. ‘It’s hard to remember off the top –’

‘How many?’ Helen interjected.

‘About ninety per cent or so.’

Sanderson shot a look at Helen, but her boss didn’t react. The phrase hung in the air. Then with a very slight nod of the head, Helen gave Sanderson the licence to proceed.

‘About ninety per cent. Possibly even a touch more, I’m guessing,’ Sanderson continued. ‘That’s statistically highly unlikely if they are randomly selected. Why are so many of your clients female?’

The ‘your’ was slightly louder than the rest of her sentence.

‘Because they’re less trouble. They are cleaner, more organized, more reliable –’

‘Not always,’ Sanderson shot back. ‘Pippa Briers left you in the lurch, didn’t she?’

Simpson paused, then:

‘Yes.’

‘What about Roisin Murphy? Did she give you proper notice?’

‘Not that I remember,’ he conceded.

‘And Isobel Lansley?’

‘I’d have to look at my records …’

Sanderson glared at him.

‘But I don’t think so,’ he conceded.

Silence. A long pregnant silence.

‘You should know that the bodies of Roisin Murphy and Isobel Lansley were discovered earlier today. Like Pippa Briers, they were tenants of yours. Is there anything you’d like to tell us about them?’ Helen said.

Simpson shook his head firmly. Sanderson noted the first beads of sweat appearing on his forehead.

‘We estimate they were murdered within the last two to three years. I believe you’ve known them both for a while longer than that. Is that correct?’

‘I’ve already said I didn’t “know” them. Yes, they’ve been tenants of mine for several years but –’

‘Tell me about Isobel Lansley’s flat?’ Helen interrupted. ‘What state was it in when you gained access to it after her disappearance?’

‘It was ok. She always kept things nice and neat. She was very fastidious.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t know her?’ Helen said quickly.

‘I don’t. What I mean is that it was very clean and tidy when I went in.’

‘No signs of a struggle. Broken furniture or anything?’

‘No.’

‘The lock on the front door was intact? No windows forced open.’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘So either they let their killer in … or he let himself in?’

Andrew Simpson said nothing.

‘Presumably you have keys to all your properties?’

‘Of course,’ he replied, though he didn’t look happy admitting it. ‘Sometimes I lend them to workmen if there’s a job needs doing –’

‘But it wouldn’t be hard for you to get extra sets cut if you needed to.’

Simpson shrugged.

‘My guess is they were all abducted by someone who had access. Would you say that’s a fair assumption?’ Helen continued.

‘You’re the police officer,’ he replied evenly.

Helen nodded.

‘How many flats do you own in the Southampton area?’ Sanderson continued.

‘Forty-two,’ was the swift response.

‘And do you own any other properties?’

‘No. Other than my house of course.’

‘And you live in Becksford?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Nice and quiet round there, isn’t it?’

Andrew nodded, watching Helen carefully. Helen returned his gaze, enjoying the tension in the room. Then without warning, she got up.

‘That’ll do for now. I’m afraid we’ll have to leave a couple of officers here to gather the necessary paperwork. But thank you, you’ve been very helpful.’

Sanderson smiled her thanks too. Nothing unnerved suspects more than gratitude and courtesy. She followed Helen’s lead, shaking Simpson’s hand, then left the office with her. Both were silent as they walked back to the car. But conversation wasn’t necessary – Sanderson knew her superior well and could tell without asking that she was feeling the buzz too. At long last they were getting somewhere.

81

It was late and Ceri Harwood was alone in the darkness. After her unpleasant interview with Lloyd Fortune, she had poured the rest of the wine down the sink and collapsed on to the sofa. She lay there now, hangover slowly taking effect, chiding herself for her weakness and lack of control. To be drunk in the middle of the day was bad enough – to be drunk in front of a junior officer was unforgivable. What was he thinking now? Had her warnings hit home? Had she pushed him away? The thought made her feel sick.

As she cursed herself, her eyes drifted towards the island and the small Jiffy package sitting on top of it. In all the chaos and emotion, she had forgotten about it. Part of her couldn’t be bothered with it now – so much had happened in the last few hours to render previous preoccupations meaningless. Tim’s betrayal had changed her horizons for ever. And yet … there was something within her that suggested this might yet be her salvation. A way to assert herself against a world that delighted in hurting her.

Picking herself up off the sofa, she crossed over to the island and ripped the envelope open. As expected, inside was a tiny cassette. Fishing it out, she sought out her hand-held player and slipped the tape inside.

She was too wound up to sit – her body tense with anticipation – so she paced up and down having pressed ‘Play’. At first there was nothing – just the sound of fabric scratching against the microphone. She knew there must be more – Lloyd wouldn’t have hurried it over if it was blank – but still it made her worry.

Then the voices started. A man’s voice – odd, regional, unfamiliar – and a woman’s. The conversation was staccato and punctuated by silences as challenges were laid down and decisions made. The pair seemed to be coming to an agreement, despite their differences. As they did so, a smile tugged at the corners of Ceri’s mouth.

She listened some more. The pair didn’t exactly shake hands but the deal had been done. She had heard it straight from the horse’s mouth. What a bizarre day it had been. So unsettling, so distressing, and yet here amidst the wreckage of her life she had found the one thing she craved – the thing she had been searching for for months.

The means to destroy Helen Grace.

82

It was 10 p.m. and the incident room was deserted except for two lonely figures. Helen and DC Sanderson sat huddled at the DI’s desk, poring over the photocopied documents that the team had garnered from Simpson’s files.

He had lied to them – that much was clear. He didn’t have forty-two flats – he had over fifty. Some he owned the freehold to – having carved a decaying house into five tiny, dilapidated flats – others he was just the letting agent for. Interestingly, he also owned a number of derelict properties – lock-ups, outbuildings, even a barn or two – dotted around the county. Some were rural, some were urban, but all were isolated.

As Helen skimmed the list that Sanderson had compiled, she was seized with a desire to search them all. In an ideal world she would have been on the phone to a POLSA team already – scrambling the chopper, the cadaver dogs, the heat-seeking equipment – but that would have been a massive commitment of resources over that many properties. She wouldn’t be allowed to call up that kind of firepower without rock-solid evidence and, besides, she wasn’t sure she’d get the warrant anyway. They had one connection between Simpson and the dead women – a strong connection admittedly – but as yet no hard evidence linking the landlord to any instances of abduction or murder. He had no criminal record, there were no witnesses linking him to anything untoward and no picture yet of him having an unhealthy interest in young women. Helen had already instructed McAndrew to take a forensics unit back to Ruby’s flat. If they could place Simpson in her flat, then they’d have something to work with, especially as he had sworn blind he hadn’t been in that flat in years.

So, much as Helen was tempted to go kicking down doors, she knew that she would have to go about this in the old-fashioned way.

‘Round up as many of the team as you can,’ she said to Sanderson. ‘And pull in uniform too. I want every one of the properties on this list checked out. Knock on doors, ask around, find out if anyone’s seen or heard anything unusual at these places. Shouts, cries, lights on late at night. Do whatever you have to – just give me something to work with.’

Sanderson was already on her feet, ready to bash the phones and corral the troops.

‘Does that mean you won’t be joining us?’

‘Love to, but I’ve got something much more unpleasant in mind.’

Sanderson turned, intrigued.

‘I’ve got a date with Emilia Garanita.’

83

Emilia Garanita cast her eye over yesterday’s front page again. She had been allowed so few headlines recently – she was sure the editor was punishing her for her disloyalty – that she allowed herself to wallow in this one. It was a good cover with a great photo – the fluttering police cordon and then not one, but two crime scenes beyond it in the near and middle distance. It captured the magnitude of the crime perfectly, the bleakness of the beach and the loneliness of the graves serving to underline the fact that once more Hampshire Police were hunting a serial killer. Emilia had felt that old excitement when writing the copy – finally a major story to sink her teeth into.

Emilia lowered the paper to find Helen Grace walking towards her. It was a moment of pure serendipity that momentarily struck her dumb: Southampton Central’s hunter-in-chief striding towards her, fresh from the investigation. In the past, Emilia would have greeted her with sarcasm and snide innuendo, but not now. She ushered Helen into the vacant editor’s office, shutting the door behind her.

‘I need your help.’

As usual, her former adversary cut to the chase. Despite their difficult past, Emilia was the first to admit that she and Helen Grace shared some attributes. Women working in male-dominated industries, they both possessed a directness and courage that others of their sex lacked.

‘Happy to do whatever I can,’ Emilia replied breezily.

‘We need to better understand the significance of a tattoo that is present on all three victims.’

‘The bluebird tattoo,’ Emilia responded.

‘Exactly. We haven’t been able to link it to any previous victims or offenders. So it could be a dead end. It may even be a ruse, designed to throw us off the scent.’

Emilia nodded sagely, swallowing a smile. Helen Grace had never been this open with her before about an ongoing investigation. Was she worried this time? Stumped? Or was this the start of a rapprochement in their relationship?

‘Or,’ Helen continued, ‘it may be significant. If it is, then odds on there is someone out there who knows what it means. Who saw it on a friend or colleague or family member. I know it’s a long shot, but presuming the killer lives locally, we were hoping the Evening News might go big on this. Capture the attention of the public –’

‘And rattle the killer too?’

‘Perhaps.’

So much and no more. Emilia was enjoying being back in the game.

‘I’ll talk to my editor but I know he’ll be happy to help. This is a big public-interest story.’

And a juicy one too, Emilia thought, but didn’t say.

Helen left shortly afterwards, the rough approach having been agreed between them. Emilia knew that usually this would be a job for media liaison, but Helen had come to her personally. Had her past vendetta against Helen been erased from her rap sheet? Emilia felt the old excitement returning. This could play well for her at the paper – and, who knows, perhaps beyond – so as Emilia sat at her desk, next leader article already half written, she made a silent vow to ride this story as hard as she could.