Текст книги "The Doll's House"

Автор книги: M. J. Arlidge

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

120

He kept a good distance behind, so as not to alert her to his presence. He had eventually found his tongue and responded to her concern for his cut finger, before taking the job from her – a simple boot re-heel – promising to have it ready first thing tomorrow as recompense for her kindness and sympathy.

After she’d gone, he’d remained at his work station for a silent count of twenty, then switched off the shop lights, flipped the ‘Closed’ sign and hurried out, locking the door behind him. Experience had taught him not to dawdle during this process – you risked losing your quarry among the crowds of shoppers, if you were too cautious. You just needed enough time for her to clear the immediate vicinity of the shop.

He scanned left and right, before spotting her a hundred yards away, idly window shopping. Her crisp navy suit and smartly tied-back hair made her quite distinctive among the loafers and driftwood that usually populated this place. Tired of daydreaming, she moved off again. And he went with her, as always at a discreet distance.

She meandered slowly homewards. She had finished work for the day – she really did look smart and professional – but clearly had no one to rush home to. She stopped to look in various shop windows, to buy a copy of the Big Issue, but she looked like she was killing time. As if she were waiting for something to happen. Or someone to come along.

They passed through Bedford Place, then through Portswood to the cheap flats that lay near the university. Though she was well turned out, she clearly wasn’t well-off, living among the detritus of the city. This was in character too, he thought to himself, suppressing a smile. You grow older, but you don’t really change.

He stopped abruptly. He had momentarily lost himself to memory and inadvertently had walked too close to her. She had stopped at a door – not ten yards from him. If she turned round now, she’d see him. So he upped his pace, thankfully clearing her without exciting her interest. Crossing the road, he chanced a backward look – just in time to see her enter a sorry-looking flat.

Hugging the corner of the street, he found a decent vantage point behind a hedge. He watched with interest as the lights came on up on the first floor. He didn’t know whether to stay or go. The working day was coming to an end and workers would be filling the streets soon – he couldn’t risk being spotted or, worse, reported. But, as always, she made the decision for him, appearing now in the first-floor window.

There was no way he was leaving now. He had the perfect vantage point – to watch her, to admire her, to drink in every detail of her life. She made no attempt to draw the curtains, she just looked down on to the street below. Looking for hope. Looking for love.

Looking for him.

121

‘Why did you lie to me?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I asked you to your face if Roisin had ever had her locks changed and you denied that she had. But that wasn’t true, was it, Bryan?’

Roisin’s awkward ex-boyfriend attempted to usher Helen towards a quieter part of the garage, but she stood her ground.

‘Why did you lie?’

Bryan shot a look at his fellow mechanics, who stared with undisguised curiosity at the strikingly attractive woman who was now hauling their apprentice over the coals. Was that something resembling respect in their eyes?

‘Because of Jamie,’ he eventually murmured.

‘Who’s Jamie?’

‘Roisin’s ex. Before me, I mean. He used to live with her. Still had his key. I … I found out he’d been coming round, letting himself in, you know …’

He didn’t need to elaborate. Roisin needed affection and clearly wasn’t picky where she got it from.

‘So you made her change the locks.’

‘I couldn’t stop her seeing him, if that’s what she wanted. But I wasn’t having him thinking he could come and go as he pleased, letting himself in at any time of day or night.’

‘You do know lying to the police is a serious matter.’

‘I know all right … I didn’t want to, but I wasn’t going to say nothing with her sitting right next to me.’

He meant Roisin’s mum – his former mother-in-law. Did he clam up to avoid making himself look foolish or to avoid telling Sinead Murphy that her daughter was faithless and generous with her favours? Helen hoped it was the latter.

‘Who changed the locks?’

‘A mate of mine – Stuart Briggs at LockRite.’

‘I’ll need his contact details.’

‘Sure, but he’s got nothing to do with this.’

‘We’ll see. Did you get any more cut?’

‘Sure. We only got two with the lock and her mum needed one, so –’

‘Where? Where did you have them cut?’

Helen failed to conceal the urgency of her request.

‘Roisin did it. But still stung me for the cash.’

‘Where, Bryan?’

‘She showed me the receipt, but it only had the cost on it – five quid or so. It was just a bit of till roll.’

Helen stared at Bryan, knowing she would get no more from him. Whoever their killer was, he was meticulous, precise and ultra-cautious. A pro. But this only made Helen more determined to catch him. And as each small piece of the jigsaw fitted together, she felt she was getting closer to the moment when they would finally be face to face. At times like this Helen had no thoughts for her own safety – she would die doing this job, she knew that – and she longed for that encounter. Things were building to a climax now – Helen felt sure of that – and she was determined to be in at the death.

122

‘I don’t expect your forgiveness and I don’t deserve it. I could try to explain myself, my reasons, but I won’t embarrass myself. What I did was wrong, pure and simple, so I’ll get my things, write my resignation letter and be out of your hair.’

Lloyd Fortune hadn’t once looked up as he said this, the words tumbling out in a sudden rush. He clearly wanted this to be over as quickly as possible.

Even though he and Helen were closeted away in her office, Lloyd could tell the team outside had half an eye on proceedings and he wanted to be away from their curiosity and censure.

‘I would like to know why, Lloyd,’ Helen replied slowly. ‘Because I think you’re a good copper and basically a decent guy, so I would like to know why.’

Lloyd hung his head – he had been afraid she might take this line.

‘But we don’t have time for that now. I’ve had officers resign on me before because of personal indiscretions, officers who I miss now, so I’m going to ask you not to write that letter.’

Lloyd looked up at her, suddenly wrong-footed.

‘We have a major investigation going on which you should be helping me lead. But your focus has been elsewhere – that is what is truly unforgivable.’

Lloyd took the hit – he knew it was justified.

‘However, we need every available officer on this now. And I believe in second chances. So first we find Ruby. Then we deal with you. Ok?’

‘Keys. Let’s focus on the keys.’

The entire team had been called to the incident room. Helen, flanked by Lloyd Fortune and DC Sanderson, led the discussion.

‘We think this is how he gains access, so we need to check out every key-cutter in Southampton. It’s a big job but we don’t have any other choice. We’ll start centrally and work out. To narrow the search a little, let’s start with shops that Isobel Lansley passed on her route to and from university. McAndrew?’

‘So this is a full breakdown of her route,’ the reliable DC responded, handing out stapled A4 sheets to the assembled officers. ‘You’ll find a breakdown of the route by street name, plus a map showing her route in red. She left her flat in Dagnall Street, turning right on to Chesterton Avenue past a small parade of shops. She would then walk to the city centre along Paxton Road, before cutting through the WestQuay and on to Lower Granton Street. From there …’

McAndrew ran through the rest of her route, highlighting possible points of interest. Helen had hauled in a couple of bodies from the data analysis unit and they proved to be a godsend now. They speed-typed, bringing up several possible key-cutting shops en route. Sanderson wrote them up on the board and detailed officers to check them out. Though they were only inching forward, Helen was pleased to see the team finally pulling together. Even Sanderson and Lucas seemed to be getting on.

As the selected officers snatched up their jackets and hurried off, Helen addressed those that remained.

‘The rest of you will focus on the other girls now. We need to find overlaps with Isobel’s route that will narrow the search still further. Pippa might have walked down Chesterton Avenue to get to the city centre and we know she worked in the WestQuay shopping centre, so there’s two possibles for starters. Let’s forensically examine their routines and see what that throws up. Roisin didn’t work and neither did Ruby, so where did they go, what did they do?’

Helen paused a moment before she finished, pleased by the sense of determination that shone from the faces of her team now:

‘Find the link and we find our man.’

123

‘First things first, I don’t want my name anywhere near this. I’ve got enough problems as it is.’

‘Of course. We won’t publish anything you don’t want us to.’

Emilia had told this little white lie many times in her career. Oddly this time she actually meant it – if this lead proved important in cracking the ‘Bodies on the Beach’ case then her source would get the royal treatment. Emilia surveyed the woman opposite her. She guessed she was in her early fifties but she looked older. She had a drinker’s face – bloodshot and jowelly – and the yellow fingers and teeth of a smoker. Her voice was deep and she was slightly overweight, but there was something in the eyes – a low cunning, a spark of wicked humour – that nevertheless drew you in. If she met this woman on the street, she would hold her purse tight and move on quickly, but Emilia had her professional face on today and looked only too pleased to be seated with her in this grim backstreet pub.

‘Another drink, Jane?’

Jane Fraser nodded and soon Emilia was back, clutching a pint of Best and a double Jameson’s. The woman threw the whisky back in one go, then got stuck into the pint.

‘So tell me about the tattoo?’

‘How about a little down-payment first, eh?’ Jane said swiftly.

Emilia had been expecting this and immediately slid a brown envelope across the table.

‘Five hundred pounds. Best I can do for now.’

Jane paused, giving Emilia a filthy look. For a horrible moment, Emilia thought she was going to get up and walk out. But then she picked up the packet and started leafing through the notes and Emilia knew she was fine.

‘The tattoo, Jane.’

Jane pocketed the money, sniffed unpleasantly, then replied:

‘She got it done when she was eleven. She and her brother went to the parlour together – probably half-inched the money from me – and they both got it done. A poxy little bluebird on their shoulders. Just right for those little lovebirds.’

Emilia eyed up the prodigious display of tattoos that covered Jane’s arms and shoulders. They were not cute – they were aggressive and highly sexual in their content.

‘Why a bluebird?’

‘God knows. Never asked. Perhaps they wanted to fly away together?’

She laughed unpleasantly, before the coughing started up again. Once the fit had relented, she lit up. It was banned in here of course, but no one in this hole was going to stop her.

‘What happened to her?’

‘My Summer died, didn’t she. Heroin overdose. Ben went looking for her, when she didn’t come home. Found her in the park. Covered in vomit she was, her eyes clamped shut. Silly sod thought she was asleep. Had to be prised off her by the police in the end – he was convinced she’d wake up and be back to normal any second. Wouldn’t let go of her, they said.’

‘Ben? He’s your son?’

Jane grunted a yes.

‘Was he an addict too?’

‘God, no. Her brother didn’t have the balls for that and he was only small when she died. Twelve or so.’

Emilia scribbled this down and considered her next question.

‘What happened to him?’

‘Stuck around for a bit, but he and I had never got on, so after a few weeks, he took off.’

Emilia had a bad feeling they were winding up to a massive dead end.

‘And you’ve not seen him since?’

‘Didn’t say that, did I? Saw him a few months back – in town, you know.’

‘So where does he live?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, Jane. You just said –’

‘He wouldn’t tell me. Didn’t want me hanging about, I guess.’

Emilia didn’t push it – she could tell more was coming by the sly look on Jane Fraser’s face. She pulled Emilia in close, so close she could smell the stink of stale tobacco on her breath as she whispered:

‘But I do know where he works.’

124

He lay on the dirty bed, his mind full of strange and exciting thoughts. He had been so blind for so long, trying to see gold in the heart of a worthless slut. Now that he could see again, he couldn’t stop smiling. He felt light as feather. He had stood and watched Summer until she closed the curtains and retreated inside. He had then done a couple of circuits of the street, checking for CCTV, street lighting, as well as the names on the bells at her house. Like all the places round there, it had been divided into numerous flats. He had been pleased to see the names on the top and bottom bells sounded foreign. Far less likely to kick up if they did hear or see anything. But he would make sure they didn’t. He was pretty practised at this now, after all.

As he’d walked home, his head had been full of her. Those bewitching eyes, the tenderness of her touch, her gentle South Coast accent – identical to his of course. He had kissed his fingers and pressed them to his tattoo – then chuckled at the extravagant nature of his tribute. People must think him mad.

As thoughts of her overwhelmed him, he undid his fly and slipped his hand inside his trousers. He had been denying himself for so long, but now it felt so natural, so right. As he closed his eyes and let his mind drift, he saw them back there, two little conspirators hiding in the attic room. Whenever their mother came home, they always scurried up there to avoid her sharp tongue and rough hand. It was their little refuge – she was a heavy smoker and could never be arsed to climb up after them – and for them it was like a magical kingdom. It was only full of junk, but to them it was their world. They would open up the old doll’s house and play with the two cracked figures inside, dreaming up all kinds of scenarios in which they lived happily, in splendour and comfort. At these times the dirt and damp of the attic didn’t register – they were safe in the cocoon of their fantasy.

Sometimes the fantasy worked, at other times reality intruded – usually because of noises downstairs. They lived at the top of a rickety old terraced house and the loose, creaking steps in the communal parts always gave them warning of their mother’s approach. If she was marching up, it meant she was in a mood or having an episode. If the steps were slow and irregular, it meant she was stoned. And if there was more than one pair of feet, it meant she had ‘company’.

Ben hated drugs, never touched them, but his mother couldn’t get enough of them. She funded her habit by fraud, stealing and occasionally bringing foreign sailors home from the dockside bars. They didn’t pay much, but they came and went pretty quickly. When she was ‘entertaining’, Ben and Summer would lie dead still, peering through the floorboards into the flat’s only bedroom. They didn’t understand what they saw at first – believing the men were hurting their mother – but at the end of it everyone seemed happy. And after a while, they began to realize that these grunting, half-naked men were taking pleasure in these acts and that on occasion their mother seemed to be too.

It was only when they were older – Summer was fourteen and Ben eleven – that they truly understood. He had been surprised when Summer slipped her hand into his trousers, but he didn’t mind.

Later, they went further, exploring each other’s bodies, when their mother was entertaining those men below. Their little private joke. Did their mother suspect anything? If she did, she never said anything. As long as Summer was on hand to run down to the park for her next baggie, that was all that mattered.

The thought of this made him angry. He tried to concentrate on his fantasy, but he could feel his desire ebbing away now. His fury at his mother for dragging Summer away from him into the vile world of drugs still burned strong. He had seen that awful woman not three months ago. He was shocked to see her and his first reaction had been to beat the living hell out of her. He was older, bigger now – she wouldn’t have stood a chance. But she wasn’t worth it and he had bigger fish to fry, so he’d said a few curt words to her and sent her on her way.

There was no point continuing, he was too angry to focus on pleasure now. Zipping up his trousers, he rose from the bed and headed down to the ground floor. His mind was turning and he walked straight into the old utility area. It looked like a bloody school chemistry lab now and stank as bad too. But he always liked it here. He always felt a sense of achievement in its narrow confines. It had taken him a long time to learn how to distil trichloroethylene, but when he had he was childishly pleased with himself. He remembered the first sniff of it – the pleasant light-headed feeling it gave him. He laughed too as he remembered his experiments with dosage. There were numerous rats in the house and he didn’t discourage their presence as they were useful for his experiments. He’d killed a few before he got the saturation levels in the wool right of course, but practice makes perfect.

This brought him up short. Excited as he was about the future, there was still the present to deal with. Now that the real Summer had returned, she was surplus to requirements and he just wanted her out. So, summoning his resolve, he unlocked the basement door and descended into the darkness.

125

‘Do you think she’s on the level?’

Helen’s heart was pounding, her tone urgent.

‘To be honest I think it’s so odd, it has to be true.’

Emilia and Helen were huddled in the outside courtyard beloved of Southampton Central’s smokers. Mercifully they were alone today.

‘I don’t think Jane Fraser has the imagination to make something like that up. It sounds like the two children were very close. They always shared the same bed, never went to school, they lived in each other’s pockets. And I don’t blame them to be honest – their mother had no love for them. Clearly didn’t even know who their fathers were, so …’

‘So they were the world to each other.’

Emilia nodded then continued:

‘Apparently the son – Ben – was ungovernable after Summer’s death. Police, doctors, social services – nobody could handle him.’

‘Because he was mad with grief.’

‘Still is mad with grief,’ Emilia added, echoing Helen’s thoughts.

‘And you’re sure about this address?’

‘Well I haven’t been down there, but I know it.’

‘Good. Thank you, Emilia.’

Helen was halfway to the door, when Emilia called out:

‘Usual rules?’

‘You’ll get your exclusive,’ Helen said over her shoulder, as she hurried back into the station.

‘So the address is a boot-heeling and key-cutting concession in the WestQuay shopping centre. It’s called WestKeys.’

Nobody groaned at the bad pun. The team were hanging on Helen’s words, processing this major development.

‘I’ll need volunteers for a surveillance unit to go down there.’

Helen was pleased to see a dozen hands shoot up.

‘But before we go, lets double-check our facts. Pippa Briers worked in the WestQuay shopping centre, so it would have been convenient for her to get her keys cut there. Ditto Isobel Lansley, who walked through the centre every day on her way to lectures.’

‘Roisin Murphy went to a free mums and babies group that was held in the crèche at the shopping centre,’ DC McAndrew chipped in.

‘And Ruby?’

‘Ruby used to hang out in the centre with her mates. Window shopping, getting up to no good.’

‘Then it fits. They took their keys there and walked into Ben Fraser’s life. They looked just like his sister, so he kept a key, stalked them, then abducted them.’

‘But to make them perfect – a replica of his sister – he would have to “customize them”,’ DC Sanderson interjected.

‘The tattoo,’ Helen responded, ‘and possibly more besides.’

‘Where does he get the stuff, though, the trichloroethylene?’ DC Grounds queried.

‘Let’s think about what Jim Grieves said,’ Helen countered. ‘Trichloroethylene is used in cleaning agents, solvents but also boot polish. You could perhaps extract it from boot polish –’

‘Without ever drawing attention to yourself. No trail of any kind.’

‘But why does he starve them? If he loves these girls?’

DC Lucas’s question hung in the air for a moment, before Helen replied:

‘Why don’t we go and ask him?’