Текст книги "The Doll's House"

Автор книги: M. J. Arlidge

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

13

Helen stood stock still in the shadow of St Barnabas’ church. How she had got here she couldn’t tell. Perhaps she should have gone back to the station to make the call to Daniel Briers, but it was already very late and, besides, she was honour-bound to deliver her terrible news as quickly as possible. So she had made the call there and then. As the conversation progressed, Helen filling the heavy silences with as much detail and reassurance as she could, she had sought out a quiet spot and had ended up here, in a lonely churchyard.

The call had been upsetting, as they always were. Daniel Briers had not reported his daughter missing and had no idea that any harm had come to her. They had fallen out a few years back and though she had moved away, he claimed they had still kept in contact intermittently, through social media if not face to face. She had actually sent him a text earlier that day, so to be given news of her ‘death’ was a shock, to say the least. Helen could tell he didn’t believe it. Helen had told him as much as she could, then arranged for him to visit Southampton the following day. Perhaps the reality of this tragedy would start to sink in then.

Helen shivered. The silence after the call was disturbing, especially in these surroundings. However you tried you couldn’t rid yourself of the image of the person on the other end. What was he doing now? Telling his wife that Pippa was dead? Was he crying? Vomiting? Many did, having been given the news. It was terrible to be the instrument through which such awful pain was delivered.

Half an hour later, Helen was at Jake’s door, ringing the bell three times in quick succession – their secret code. The door buzzed and Helen let herself in, hurrying upstairs.

What was it about her conscience? She had done the right thing – the responsible thing – making the call. But now she was plagued by dark thoughts, images of herself as this remorseless engine of misery, tainting everything and everyone she touched.

The first blow landed, jolting Helen from her introspection. Her skin arched deep pink in protest and as the pain coursed through her, Helen shut her eyes and waited for that familiar feeling of release. Slowly it crept up on her, her demons finally in retreat, beaten away by Jake.

Afterwards, he watched her get dressed. Helen had been using Jake’s services for a few years now and they were long past the point where he would turn away. They had even spent the night together once and this had briefly promised to lead to greater intimacy, but Helen had run scared. Jake as her dominator was one thing. Jake as her lover was something else altogether. That was over twelve months ago now and Jake seemed to have swallowed his obvious disappointment and accepted a return to the status quo.

But as Helen pulled the banknotes from her purse, Jake stopped her.

‘Don’t.’ It was simply said, but with emotion.

‘Come on, Jake, you’ve earned it.’

‘This one’s on the house,’ he replied, smiling awkwardly.

Helen looked at him. Was this a genuine one-off – an act of friendship – or was this the first move in something more concerted? Helen didn’t know what had prompted this change of tack, but she didn’t like it.

‘I insist,’ Helen countered, thrusting the notes into Jake’s hand.

‘Helen –’

‘Please, Jake, it’s been a hard day. Take it.’

She turned and left – she didn’t have the stomach for a fight. The last twenty-four hours had been extremely tough and though it was still early days in the investigation, Helen sensed that the worst was yet to come. The storm clouds were gathering and she knew from bitter experience that she couldn’t fight on too many fronts at the same time. She walked back to her bike, never once looking over her shoulder. Despite this, she knew full well that Jake was watching her from the window, every step of the way.

14

DC Sanderson pressed the doorbell firmly and braced herself for what was to come. She had risen early and been on the M2 by 7 a.m., heading east towards Kent. Ruby Sprackling had only been missing for thirty-six hours but Sanderson was already seriously concerned.

Having arranged to meet her mother to rubberstamp her long-sought family reconciliation, Ruby had unexpectedly vanished. She had written a brief email to her landlord giving notice, then sent a single tweet to family and friends announcing that she was taking off. This from a young woman who was remorselessly sociable, a girl of the Twitter generation who lived her life in the open, tweeting her every thought, reproach or epiphany. More suspicious still was the fact that her phone had been turned off since she disappeared. For her phone to be out of commission for that long suggested she either didn’t want to be found or no longer had the phone in her possession. A nagging fear in Sanderson suggested it was the latter.

Her birth mother, Shanelle Harvey, lived in a rundown block of flats in Maidstone. Sanderson had visited some rough places in her time, but Taplow Towers really was an armpit – bursting with sink estate mums and blokes on day release. Sanderson’s mood plummeted as she surveyed the large penis spray-painted on Shanelle Harvey’s front door.

Footsteps, then the front door opened a sliver, the chain firmly on.

‘DC Sanderson, could I have a word?’

Shanelle Harvey looked at her visitor, cleared her throat unpleasantly (the result landing close to Sanderson’s left foot) before reluctantly opening the door.

Inside was worse than out. A sea of cardboard boxes, probably full of knock-off gear, littered the place. There was little room for the usual decoration of a family home. In fact, the only ornaments Sanderson could see were ashtrays, overflowing with the butt ends of hundreds of unbranded cigarettes. The place stank of stale smoke – Sanderson would gladly have opened a window, if she could get to one.

‘Nothing to do with me.’

Shanelle was quick to deny any involvement in Ruby’s disappearance.

‘But you don’t deny having had contact with her recently?’

‘Might have done.’

Shanelle had the weary experience of a professional chancer, determined not to admit responsibility for anything.

‘We can check your phone records, Shanelle, so let’s cut the bullshit, shall we?’ Sanderson continued.

‘Ok. I seen her on and off for the last two years. She used to like coming here. I’m a bit less stuck up than the other lot.’

‘Her parents?’

‘If that’s what they like to call themselves. Always on at her they were, telling her what to do, how to be. It’s no way to live.’

‘And this is?’ Sanderson responded.

‘Yeah, it’s easy to look down your nose at me, but at least I let her be,’ Shanelle spat back. ‘Instead of coming round here pointing the finger, why don’t you ask him about it?’

‘Who?’

‘Her “dad”.’

‘Why would Mr Sprackling know anything about it?’

‘Got a temper on him. Likes to get his own way. Doesn’t like naughty little girls. He used to get very … cross with Ruby.’

Sanderson said nothing.

‘He came round here once. Called me all sorts, threatened to take my head off. I stood my ground, but I don’t mind telling you I was bricking it. I was alone, I didn’t have anything to hand, nothing to stop him …’

‘So what happened?’

‘Neighbour came out. Told us to keep the noise down. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like being caught somewhere like this. I don’t think he’d told his wife he was coming.’

This was said gleefully, retrospectively enjoying his discomfort.

‘So why don’t you ask him about Ruby? Ask him what he wanted to do to the little girl that turned on him?’

Sanderson was irritated by Shanelle, but also disquieted. Most disappearances were the products of domestic disharmony and Sanderson knew there was no reason why this should be any different. Could Jonathan Sprackling be involved? Could he be punishing her for disloyalty and disobedience?

‘Have you seen Ruby in the last week?’

‘No. Last time was about a month ago.’

‘Did she ever stay here overnight?’

‘Yeah, so what?’

‘Just the two of you.’

For the first time, Shanelle hesitated. Sanderson was quick to press home the advantage.

‘Who else was here?’

‘Nobody …’

‘Don’t make me arrest you, Shanelle.’

‘It was just a guy.’

‘What guy?’

‘He came round once in a while. To smoke a bit. I think he was here once when Ruby stayed. He liked the look of her. I told him I’d cut his balls off if he even looked at her.’

‘Name?’

More hesitation, then:

‘Dwayne something. That’s all I got,’ she added in response to Sanderson’s evident irritation.

‘How often did he come round?’

‘Once or twice a month.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘Like I know or care.’

‘Had a falling out, have we?’

‘I threw the little shit out.’

‘Because?’

‘Because he stole from me. I knew he was a freeloader. All he did was sit on his arse smoking dope and watching porn, but then he half inched two hundred notes from me. Said he didn’t, but I wasn’t born yesterday. So I kicked him out. Told everyone on the estate he was a paedo and I ain’t seen him since.’

She smiled at her own wit and invention.

‘Have you had any contact since?’

‘Not face to face.’

‘Meaning?’

‘A brick through the window and some dog shit through the door – is that “contact”? Next time he does it, I’ll have him.’

It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start. She knew of cases where embittered exes had kidnapped and imprisoned children of former lovers. It seemed unlikely that a low-rent crook could be responsible for something like this – but Sanderson knew she had to pursue it.

The clock was ticking.

15

He didn’t like the look of this guy. Not one little bit.

The man had come to the door cursing, reeking displeasure. He was sweating and seemed keen to avoid eye contact, as if visitors were somehow contagious. When he did eventually look up, his expression was full of suspicion, as if the courier were here to rob him, rather than deliver the goods that he had ordered.

The courier held out the package and asked the man to sign for it. As he did so, he looked over his shoulder, curious to see what sort of hole this guy inhabited. It was a bombsite. Broken furniture, cardboard boxes, dustsheets, discarded pizza boxes. The tall Victorian property had presumably once been a rich gent’s townhouse; now it was a stinking hovel. The courier jumped at the sight of a rat scurrying out from among the pizza boxes.

He raised his gaze to find the man staring right at him. His piercing aquamarine eyes silently chastized him for his nosiness.

‘Goodbye,’ the man said, offering an abortion of a smile. Always polite, for once the courier didn’t respond, simply turning and hurrying away, as the front door shut firmly behind him.

Inside the house, the man listened to the van depart, peeking through the dirty curtains to check that he had really gone. Then, sweeping some old newspapers off the sideboard, he set the box down. Ripping off the tape that bound the lid together, he delved inside. He had cursed himself for his stupidity, for his oversight, but the precious contents of this box would rectify matters.

And his new friend would thank him for it.

16

The pain was horrible. It coursed through her eye sockets straight into her brain. Her nerve endings screamed in protest, her head throbbed violently. She buried her face in the bed sheets, praying that it would end.

She had been lying in bed when it happened. The approaching footsteps had not alarmed her, as they had before. She was ravenously hungry and wanted company – even his company – after a long and cold night. The wicket hatch slid open, then shut and Ruby had expected to hear the key turn in the lock next – already a strange kind of routine was developing.

Instead, she was suddenly and unexpectedly blinded. The main lights in her small cell snapped on without warning. She had clamped her eyelids shut, but the damage had already been done. Her eyes, which had grown used to the darkness, were suddenly assaulted by the three heavy-duty sodium lights that were fixed to the ceiling.

Her eyes crept open, clamped shut again, then very slowly opened once more. Weird shapes and lights danced in front of her as her startled retinas scrabbled for some kind of focus.

He was standing over her.

‘Don’t touch me.’

‘Did you sleep well?’

‘No. I bloody froze to death, you stupid freak. I’m going to die down here, is that what you want?’

‘I’ll get you an extra blanket.’

‘Please let me go home.’

‘Get up.’

He barked out this order, his tone suddenly impatient and unfriendly. Ruby realized that she knew nothing about this guy or how his mind worked. Could he turn violent? Could he be reasoned with? Was he insane?

‘Take off your clothes.’

‘Please …’

‘Take off your clothes,’ he repeated, raising his voice.

He wouldn’t look at her. Oddly, his hands were trembling. Ruby tried to speak but her heart was beating too fast, making her breathless and panicky.

‘I don’t want to’ she managed eventually.

‘Do it now or God help me …’

As he took a step towards her, Ruby scrambled off the bed.

‘I’m doing it. I’m doing it.’

Still he wouldn’t look at her. Sobbing quietly, Ruby took off the thin cotton pyjama top that he’d given her in place of her own night gear. She hated the feel and the smell of it, but it kept her from freezing to death. Now she shivered, her naked skin exposed to the cold air. Hesitating, another sob escaping her, she removed her pyjama bottoms, placing them on the bed next to her.

She felt intensely vulnerable, naked in front of a stranger, her gaunt frame illuminated by the overhead lights. She looked ghostly, her pale skin framed by the darkness of her tresses and pubic hair. She stared at the floor, refusing to meet his gaze.

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.’