‘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.
40
He drove steadily, but one eye remained fixed on the rearview mirror. He hadn’t believed it when they’d told him he was free to go and he had been right to be wary. He wasn’t off the hook yet.
Nathan Price noticed he was being tailed as he drove up Shirley High Road – a dark Vauxhall saloon following at a discreet distance. Unsure at first whether he was being paranoid, he diverted up Winchester Road.
It was out of his way but would serve his purpose. The road opened up in front of him and he stabbed the accelerator sharply. His speed leapt to 50 mph. He was comfortably breaking the speed limit now and was amused to see the Vauxhall increase its speed to keep pace.
Instinct now took over and he turned sharply into Dale Road, heading in the direction of the hospital. The road was full of parked cars as always, but Nathan spotted a single space ahead and manoeuvred the van deftly into it. With no other spaces nearby, the Vauxhall glided past, eventually stopping at the top of the road. Their view of Nathan’s vehicle was now blocked by the van in front. Nathan had no doubt that they would be out of the car in a flash and heading back down the street. But he had time enough, if he was quick.
Killing the engine, he leapt into the back of the van, taking care not to trip over the building detritus that littered the van floor. Easing the back door partially open, he slipped out and, crouching down behind the sides of the parked cars, scurried along the road.
Reaching the end of the road, he took cover behind a green Fiat and paused. This last bit was the most important – he could blow it now if he was rash. Counting to ten, he chanced a look round the back of the Fiat towards his van. Sure enough, a plain-clothes copper was peering through the van windscreen, searching for his mark.
‘Imbecile,’ Nathan muttered to himself, as the police officer ran back up the road towards his colleague.
Seeing him turn his back, Nathan took his chance, darting out of his hiding place and around the corner. Now he picked up his pace, sprinting down Winchester Road again, before cutting sharply left into St James’ Park. Pulling his hood up over his face, he slowed to a quick walk now, moving steadily but with purpose. Soon he was on Church Street and finally safe from pursuit.
As he walked home, Nathan felt no temptation to congratulate himself. He had had a lucky escape and from now on he would have to be very, very careful. One slip, one small mistake and the whole house would come crashing down.
41
The sun shone down on the water so brightly that Ruby had to raise her hands to shield her eyes from the glare. It was punishing, but it was a ravishingly beautiful sight nevertheless.
Steephill Cove was a perfect horseshoe bay and it looked resplendent today in the fierce spring sunshine. Ruby and her family had been coming to the Isle of Wight since she was small, and this was their favourite place on the island. Ruby knew every detail of it, right down to her favourite rock pools and climbing crags.
Mum, Dad, Cassie, Conor and their border collie, Max, were haring about on the beach, playing frisbee and splashing in the surf as a prelude to their picnic. They never did these by halves and though it was a pain to lug the hampers down the steep steps to the beach, it was always worth it. The kids would be allowed a swig of the sparkling wine – Dad always fired the cork up into the sea much to Mum’s consternation – to wash down the pies, crisps, sandwiches, home-made cakes and biscuits that Mum had assembled the night before. They always felt sick afterwards of course – but in a good way.
Stripping off to her bikini, Ruby ran into the surf, the foaming water jumping up at her as she hurdled the waves. Diving in, she swam hard – her arms cutting gracefully through the water – and before long she was far out to sea, her family now distant figures on the beach.
Holding her breath, Ruby plunged under the water. Down, down, down she went, kicking hard away from the churning surface and into the depths below. It was part of a game she’d invented to wind up her mother. She would swim out a long way, then disappear under the waves for as long as she could. Her mother, who wasn’t a confident swimmer and hated the sea, never failed to react, pacing the shoreline, calling to her. Her father, who was used to her tricks, never reacted, which irritated Ruby a touch, but at least she could always rely on Mum.
When she did finally surface, she would wave cheerfully to her as if she couldn’t hear her mother’s cries, before plunging under again. She would keep this up until she eventually took pity on her. Swimming back to shore, she could always be sure of a cuddle and an affectionate reprimand.
Her breath was running out now, her lungs bursting for fresh air, so she turned and kicked hard for the surface. She hadn’t achieved much in life, but she had always been a strong swimmer and Ruby felt elated now as she arrowed upwards, her sleek form cutting through the water.
Bursting through the surface, she took off her goggles and trod water, while drinking in great gulpfuls of air. Sure enough, she heard her mother’s plaintive cries. Smiling to herself, she prepared to dive again. Her mother’s cries were louder now and she resolved to ignore them, but suddenly she felt her mother’s arm on her shoulder, pulling her to shore. How had she got out here? It was miles from –
‘Summer.’
Already her dream was starting to fragment.
‘Summer.’
It wasn’t her mother pulling her to shore, it was him shaking her awake from her reverie.
Her jailer had returned.
42
‘So what do we do now?’
Harwood was to the point as usual. Helen had informed her that Nathan had escaped his surveillance team, with predictable results.
‘Watch and wait,’ Helen replied evenly. ‘We’ve tagged the van, so if he comes back we’ll know and I’ve sent teams to his home, the job he’s currently on –’
‘And are we sure he’s worth all these resources? I’ve no doubt he’s a nasty piece of work, but he has no record to speak of –’
‘He’s the only face in the frame. He has a history of violence and an unhealthy interest in young women, and had access to both women’s flats. If we watch him, I think we’ll get results.’
Helen had soft-pedalled the possible connection between Ruby Sprackling and Pippa Briers until now, but with Nathan Price slipping off the radar, the need for extra resources had forced her to come clean with Harwood.
‘Possibly,’ Harwood replied without enthusiasm. ‘Two days max and I want to be kept up to speed, right?’
‘Of course,’ Helen countered, refusing to react to the implied criticism.
‘Was there something else?’
Harwood was clearly keen to get back to her paperwork and was both confused and mildly irritated that Helen showed no signs of leaving. Helen sized up the situation – it was far from ideal – then ploughed on nevertheless.
‘I’d like to take a POLSA team back to Carsholt beach.’
‘What on earth for? The beach has just been reopened to the public, we’ve got school holidays coming up. What could we possibly gain from sending a full search team down there?’
‘I’m worried about the interval between Ruby’s disappearance and Pippa’s,’ Helen continued quickly. ‘There could be a gap of four years or more between them and, well, that just doesn’t feel right.’
‘What doesn’t feel right?’ Harwood countered.
‘Both these girls share a look, they are vulnerable and lonely, both have vanished without a trace. Furthermore, they have both been kept “alive” through the use of texts, Twitter and the like. It looks like it’s the same perpetrator and if it is, then we can say that this guy is organized, determined and most of all driven. He’s looking for a certain kind of gratification that only these girls can provide and is clearly willing to go to great lengths and take great risks in order to get it. Stranger abduction of grown adults from the home is incredibly rare.’
‘So?’
‘So, do we believe he would abduct and murder Pippa, then wait another three to four years before trying again? The level of organization that goes into these abductions suggests to me a level of compulsion that is unlikely to come and go. All the studies show that these sorts of predator –’
‘Please don’t quote your courses at me. I know how well qualified you are in this territory,’ Harwood replied coolly.
‘I’m worried he may have targeted other girls –’
‘And do you have any proof of this?’
‘Not yet. But –’
‘Then, we’ll leave things as they are. I don’t want to alarm the public and until we know more about what we’re dealing with, we sit tight.’
Helen said nothing.
‘It does seem to be my day for saying no, doesn’t it,’ Harwood added breezily, ‘but you know what our budgets are like.’
Helen left shortly afterwards, with as much grace as she could muster. Was she being punished for her earlier outburst? For past crimes? Either way, Helen had the nasty feeling that they had just made a very bad decision and that their failure to act would cost more lives.
43
They stared at each other, neither saying a word. Ruby was still furious at being dragged from the warm cocoon of her dream and enraged by her captor’s patronizing kindness.
‘I’m sorry to have left you alone for such a long time.’
He clearly wanted a response, but she wasn’t going to give him one. What right did he have to wake her up? To keep her here? He was a sick fuck, who deserved nothing but her scorn.
‘Summer?’
Still she stared at him.
‘Are you feeling ok? You look pale.’
‘I’m fine, how are you?’ Her tone was withering and she was amused to see that she had hurt him.
‘I’m trying to be nice, Summer.’
‘Go to Hell.’
She had wanted to sound angry, but her voice wobbled slightly. She cursed herself for her weakness.
‘Well, aren’t you going to say something?’ she continued, eyeballing him.
He looked at her for a long time, saying nothing in response. Then with a small shake of the head, he rose and walked back to the door.
‘Don’t go.’
Ruby found herself rising, the thought of being alone suddenly too much for her to bear.
He paused at the door to look over his shoulder.
The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3 Page 8