Текст книги "The Doll's House"

Автор книги: M. J. Arlidge

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

34

Night was slowly stealing over Southampton. The landmarks that had looked unfamiliar and work-a-day in the daylight now took on a more sinister appearance. From his viewpoint on the fourteenth flour, Daniel Briers looked out over the city. To some, the twinkling lights against the night sky would have looked exciting, full of promise. To him, it was just a world of shadows. He imagined all sorts of depraved characters out there – murderers, rapists, thieves – exploiting the darkness, using the cover of night to commit numerous unspeakable crimes.

Pippa had come here and been swallowed by this place. Though he was compelled to stay here now, to see justice done, he already hated Southampton with a passion.

Since Helen had left him, the day had seemed to drag on and on. He had made the necessary phone calls immediately, but they had been brief. He couldn’t trust himself to hold it together during a long conversation. There was no question of him trying to analyse events with others yet. He just imparted the dreadful news and made his excuses. As soon as he had finished the calls, he turned his mobile off, had a whisky and tried to get some rest.

He was exhausted from a sleepless night and the awful events of the day, but he couldn’t switch off. A kaleidoscope of images and memories swirled round his mind – Pippa’s birth, her bitter grief at her mother’s passing, the way she used to make him ‘Dad of the Year’ cards when she was small, her pride in her school prizes, the later arguments and recriminations – most of which had been his fault he now realized. An endless carousel of thoughts and feelings, some bad, but mostly very, very good. His Pippa living on, as she would have to now, in his memory.

Was it a wise move to stay here? Kristy, his wife, clearly wasn’t sure – ‘Wouldn’t you be better off here with me and the boys?’ – though she left the final decision up to him. It was hard for her, Daniel now thought to himself. Kristy was deeply shocked by Pippa’s death, as they all were, but she didn’t really like Pippa – Kristy felt she was self-oriented and needy – and her grief was necessarily compromised by her feelings, whatever she might say to the contrary.

Even now Pippa was a source of tension between them – someone Kristy didn’t much care for but whom Daniel couldn’t give up on. The ties that bind a parent to a child can never be broken, however awful their relationship might be, those ties just are. Even in death, that doesn’t change, which is why Daniel had to stay. There would be many awful things he’d have to face here – he hadn’t yet been to the beach where they found her – and he hoped he would have the strength to see it through, for Pippa’s sake if not his own.

But looking out over the bleak vista of Southampton, his courage wavered. This place was so alien to him, so threatening. And hanging over everything was the terrible knowledge that out there somewhere, shrouded in darkness was the person who stole, killed and buried his only child.

35

It was chaos. As she had expected it would be. A wall of noise assaulted Emilia Garanita as soon as she entered the hall – a cacophony of shouts, recriminations, laughter and more. Knackered, she plonked her keys down on the hall table and made her way towards the source of the anarchy.

Her father was serving out the remainder of a lengthy prison sentence and her mother had done a bunk nearly a decade ago, meaning that Emilia – the eldest of six children – had been in loco parentis now for more years than she cared to count. She was still young herself, shy of thirty, but she felt much older, particularly today. The briefing at Southampton Central had yielded nothing concrete and the rebuff from Helen Grace had rankled, setting her on edge for the rest of the day. Some days were like that – fruitless, irritating and depressing.

She entered the kitchen to a litany of accusations and counter-claims. The youngest of her five siblings was only twelve, the closest in age to her not twenty-five, so there were lots of fragile, over-sized egos to create conflict and consternation. As ever, Emilia’s presence calmed things and slowly the grievances of the day were put to bed. As the family sat down to eat together – pork and Chorizo stew, a legacy of their Portuguese heritage – Emilia’s mood slowly began to improve. As exasperating as her family were, they nevertheless loved and accepted Emilia for what she was, warts and all. Some people didn’t like her character, other people despised her because of her job and everyone reacted to her face, half of which was badly scarred following an acid attack by her father’s drug-dealing employers. She had learnt to ignore it, then later took advantage of it, deliberately testing people with her disfigurement to see if they’d react. But, as bullish as she was, the frowns her face provoked still hit home. Not here though – not at home – where she was abused, teased and cherished just the same as everyone else.

Slowly, the younger children sloped off to bed. Her closest sister, Luciana, kept her company through Game of Thrones, then she too called it a day. Leaving Emilia alone with her thoughts.

Her career – her life – had stalled. Her disloyalty in selling the sensational Ella Matthews story to the Mail, rather than to her employers, had not gone down well and she had very nearly lost her job at the Southampton Evening News. The job that had been promised at the Mail never materialized, leaving Emilia in the undignified position of having to beg to keep her old job – a job which she still thought was beneath her. She had always hoped regional crime reporting would be a stepping stone to greater things and even her worst enemies couldn’t deny that she was good at her job. But here she was, still stuck in Southampton, with much less chance of getting promotion than she had had before.

She needed a scoop. Something big that could put her front and centre again. The body on the beach had sounded exciting at first, but would probably end up being some depressing drugs murder or the like. And Helen Grace – the one police officer round here guaranteed to create news – was determined to give her nothing. As she drained the last of her wine, Emilia felt sure that the answer to her present conundrum lay with Helen Grace.

She had to get her back onside – by means fair or foul.

36

Charlie took a deep breath and stepped inside the pub. She had been inside the Crown and Two Chairmen so many times – this drinking hole was a second home to most Southampton Central coppers – but tonight she felt nervous. As she made her way through the crowds towards the knot of familiar faces in the corner, she felt the colour rising in her face, the heat of the pub mingling with her anxiety to give her a distinctly pink hue.

Charlie was greeted with warmth and affection, every man and woman there trumpeting, patting and generally drawing attention to her enormous bump. Charlie smiled and received their enquiries in good humour, but in truth she felt uncomfortable and ridiculous. The baby was particularly active tonight, pummelling her from the inside, pressing down hard on her pubic bone in agonizing fashion. Charlie felt uncomfortable, unattractive and dispirited. She had hoped a night out would raise her spirits, but just getting to the pub had exhausted her and now she found herself chatting to people she barely knew. Helen smiled over at her, but was kept at a distance by the persistent attention of Detective Superintendent Harwood, who was clearly grilling her about operational matters.

The cause of all the merriment was DC Grounds, a career copper soon to retire from the Force. He was a solid, old-fashioned kind of policeman whom you couldn’t help liking – a sort of dad to the team, persistently uncool but well intentioned. It was being spun that they were rewarding him with retirement after twenty-five good years of service, but Charlie saw it differently. Grounds was being elbowed out to make room for fresh blood.

Charlie knew that this was at Harwood’s instigation. Over the last two years, most of Helen’s allies had gone or been sidelined. Mark of course – Charlie pushed that thought away quickly – Tony Bridges, Charlie herself and now Bob Grounds too. They had been replaced by shiny, fast-track coppers of the type beloved by Harwood – Lloyd Fortune, DC ‘Call me Ed’ Stevens and the person Charlie now found herself talking to – DC Sarah Lucas.

The ambitious, shiny Lucas only increased Charlie’s discomfort. She was young, slender, university-educated and going places. She had joined the police late, having completed a degree in Criminal Psychology at Durham, one of the new breed of fast-track CID officers. Harwood had come across Lucas at her previous station and had fought hard to get her transferred to Southampton Central. The rumour was that she was Harwood’s heir apparent. Charlie could well believe it – like her superior, she had no discernible sense of humour and little more sincerity.

‘You look amazing, Charlie.’ It was Lucas’s third lie in as many minutes.

‘I feel horrible,’ Charlie countered, smiling bravely.

‘How long is it till … ?’

‘Any day now.’

‘I’m not surprised’ was the neutral reply, as Lucas eyed Charlie’s bump.

The conversation carried on in this fashion until Charlie feigned a weak bladder to make her escape. To her consternation, on returning from the loos she was cornered by Harwood, who felt duty-bound to engage her in some small talk. They talked about birth, babies and child-rearing, Harwood full of helpful tips that she had no doubt picked up from her nanny. The conversation continued pleasantly enough, but was an exercise in window dressing. Charlie had crossed swords with Harwood a year ago and hadn’t been forgiven. Would she ever make it back into the golden circle? Tonight Charlie seriously doubted it.

DC Sanderson was making her excuses and as Charlie glanced over Harwood’s shoulder at the thinning crowd of revellers, she noted few friendly faces. Helen was of course the notable exception but Charlie now realized that her former boss was no longer present. As Harwood bored on, Charlie suppressed a smile – Helen hated these things even more than she did and if someone was to escape the forced bonhomie and excessive drinking, Charlie was glad it had been Helen. Typical of her to slip away unseen though, Charlie thought to herself.

Forever the enigma.

37

Hurrying through the night air, Helen felt herself relaxing once more. Harwood had been particularly persistent tonight, interrogating her about the Pippa Briers case. Harwood had heard rumours of a connection to the Ruby Sprackling investigation and clearly suspected Helen of withholding information from her. Harwood was right, she was, but Helen had worked hard to convince her superior that there was no established connection yet and no cause for alarm. Since they had first started working together, Harwood had been convinced that Helen looked for these connections, as if obsessed with serial offenders and somehow willing to manufacture them if they didn’t actually exist. It said something about Harwood’s insecurity that she believed Helen would ‘create’ serial killers just to burnish her already impressive reputation.

‘You had a lucky escape, Harry,’ Helen offered breezily, as she buzzed herself back into Southampton Central. ‘If you see any of my team propping up the lamp posts tonight, do me a favour and sling them in the cells, will you?’

‘It will be my very great pleasure,’ Harry replied, grinning.

Helen was soon on the seventh floor and back in the incident room. For a moment she paused to look at the board. Pippa’s young face stared back at her, full of promise, but now snuffed out. Helen couldn’t help wondering what Daniel was up to right now. He was in a Hell of grief and bitter self-recrimination and it would be incredibly hard for him to find some kind of normality again. Dark thoughts would eat him up for months and years to come, torturing him with ‘what ifs’. It was the mystery of Pippa’s last few months that was torturing her father now – as she stared at the board, Helen vowed privately to uncover the truth of this poor woman’s final days and see that justice was done.

She grabbed her bag from her office and was about to leave the empty incident room, when she paused. It was stupid really, worse than that it was pointless, but still something compelled her to sit down at the vacated computer terminal and log into the system. She used DC Lucas’s personal codes this time, which wasn’t on, but needs must. She typed Robert Stonehill’s name into the PNC and hit Search. Why did she do this to herself? She blamed herself entirely for ruining this innocent young man’s life, but even so, what was achieved by this endless trawling? It was a fruitless search, which always ended in bitter disappointment.

Except tonight it didn’t. The computer suddenly came alive with times, dates and more importantly a case number.

There was a match. Robert Stonehill. The nephew whom she had loved and lost was back from the dead.

38

He slipped the key into the lock and turned it silently. He had stayed out late – and drunk too much – and he didn’t want to wake his father by crashing around. Stepping inside the door, Lloyd Fortune listened. He had expected, and hoped for, silence, but the TV in the living room was still on, despite the late hour.

‘Evening, Dad. What’s on?’ Lloyd said brightly, perching on the vacant end of the sofa.

‘The usual fools,’ his dad replied, gesturing at the talking heads on a late-night politics show.

‘Tea?’ Lloyd continued.

‘Yes, I will. I expect you could do with one too,’ his father replied evenly.

Lloyd headed to the kitchen, the earlier fun of the evening already starting to recede. Lloyd loved his father as much as any son could or should, but he was a hard taskmaster and Lloyd often bridled at his implied criticism. And he was the success story of the family, for God’s sake. His brother and sister were work-shy, living off benefits, unwilling to work as hard or as diligently as their father had when they were growing up. Lloyd knew they resented the fact that their father had seldom been present when they were small, often levelling this at him during furious family rows. Lloyd understood their grievance, but he never backed them up. His father had brought the family over from Jamaica with nothing – he’d had to work all the hours God sent just to keep the family in food and clothing.

It had been backbreaking work too – twelve-hour shifts down at the Western Docks as a stevedore – the legacy of which still made itself felt now. At one time or another Lloyd’s father had strained, fractured or broken most parts of his body – Lloyd particularly remembered one nasty fall that had resulted in a broken back that had laid his father out for weeks. His mother had cried pretty much non-stop during that time, as the family stared destitution in the face. But his father had eventually risen from his sick bed and returned to work. He carried on doing just that until they handed him his cards some time later.

So even though he was a hard man to live with, especially now their mother had passed away, Lloyd refused to criticize him. His brother and sister he was less equivocal about, especially as their failure to live up to the hardworking strictures laid down by the previous generation meant that Lloyd was now the sole repository of his father’s dying hopes and ambitions. His father, Caleb, was extremely tough on Lloyd, pushing him to get the best examination results, to pass out of Hendon top of his class, to climb the ranks from PC to DC to DS, faster, faster, faster. Nothing ever seemed to satisfy him. Lloyd kept on achieving, only to find he had still not earned his father’s approbation. He had already gone further and faster than most of his peers, but still he fell short.

Lloyd handed his father a full cup of tea and settled down to watch the politicians insinuate and evade.

‘Look at this one. Lying through his teeth and he doesn’t even bother to hide it.’

His father had no time for politicians, but he still watched these shows. Caleb was a man who took life seriously, who set the highest standards and always seemed to be on the lookout in case someone fell short. Especially his own son, Lloyd thought to himself, as he drank his tea. Especially his first-born son.

39

Helen stared down at the file, her heart breaking. She hadn’t slept a wink and had been on edge all morning, waiting for the file she’d requested on Robert to be faxed through. But now she had it in her hand, she was no further on and her fragile hopes lay in tatters.

There had been some kind of assault in Northampton city centre, which had resulted in Robert’s arrest and detention. A fight outside a pub between Robert and another individual over a trivial matter. The injuries were relatively minor – thank goodness – but that was about as much as Helen could make out. The rest of the two-page report had been heavily redacted, great swathes of it blacked out, so that only scant details of the incident remained. There was no clue as to whether charges had been brought, where Robert was living or what had happened to him. It promised so much but, obscuring its precious content from view, delivered only bitter frustration.

‘I know it’s an unusual request, but in the circumstances a justified one.’ Helen’s tone was even and controlled, as she addressed Ceri Harwood.

‘But why, Helen? To what end?’

Helen wanted to say, ‘I would have thought that was bloody obvious’, but swallowed her derision.

‘He’s been off the radar for nearly a year now. No contact with his parents, no benefits collected, no emails, nothing. I’d like to find out if he’s ok, where he’s living – for their sakes, as much as my own.’

‘I understand, Helen, of course I do. But you know the rules. The unredacted file is classified.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know why – that’s Northamptonshire police’s business, not ours – but even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. I don’t need to remind you of this, surely.’

‘I know the protocols for undercover work,’ Helen replied, just about keeping her voice steady. ‘But I would argue that this is a special case. He’s a young man with no support network –’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘He doesn’t have any contacts in Northamptonshire, any relatives to turn to –’

‘It sounds like he’s been there for nearly a year. Time enough to make friends, put down roots –’

‘Oh come off it,’ Helen spat back, finally losing her temper. ‘When he left here he was in pieces. He’d just found out his mother was a serial murderer. His adoptive parents’ lives had been turned upside down, he was full of anger, grief, resentment … He wasn’t in a frame of mind to “make friends”.’

The last phrase dripped with sarcasm, which Helen instantly regretted, as she saw Harwood’s expression harden. Harwood was her only hope here – she had to keep her onside.

‘I don’t wish to appear aggressive or disrespectful, but you must understand that I have to find him. It was my fault he left –’ Helen continued quickly.

‘You didn’t out him, Emilia Garanita did,’ Harwood replied coolly.

‘To get at me. I feel responsible, which is why I’m asking for your help here. Every day since he disappeared I’ve been expecting the worst. He has nothing to live for, no one to care for him, no reason to go on. I know it’ll cause a fuss, that it goes against well-established protocols, but you can make this happen. So help me. Please.’

Helen had never been so open or vulnerable in front of her superior before. Harwood looked at Helen, then rose and walked round her desk. She put a comforting arm around her and instantly Helen knew she had lost.

‘I hear your pain and I sympathize. But I cannot compromise ongoing operations out of sentiment. I’m sorry, Helen, my answer has to be no.’

Helen stalked away from Harwood’s office. She had the distinct impression that Harwood had enjoyed slamming the door in her face, despite the mock sympathy she ladled on as a sop to Helen’s feelings. It left Helen with so many unanswered questions. What had Robert got himself mixed up in? Was he assisting the police? They had taken the trouble to redact any details of his place of residence, job, acquaintances, which strongly suggested that they wanted to protect him. But why? Was he an asset? If so, how had he come to their attention – as a witness or an informant? Helen’s mind was running riot with a dozen competing scenarios, each as disquieting as the last.

Marching into the incident room, Helen ran straight into DC Sanderson – the latter had clearly been waiting for her boss to arrive. Her news sent Helen’s mood plummeting yet further.

‘The DNA from Nathan Price’s van isn’t Ruby Sprackling’s. And SOC can’t find any traces of his DNA in Ruby’s flat, so …’

In her characteristically gentle way, Sanderson was telling Helen that they had nothing. Was Price innocent or just a very canny operator? It made no difference now – they would have to let him walk.