She was soon on the ring road, then on the motorway, heading north. Pushing past London, she skirted Northampton, before heading towards a village just to the west of the city. Bugbrooke was an old Norman village, populated by young families and retired workers – it was a pleasant, relaxed village with a friendly vibe.
Georges Avenue was just waking up as Helen parked her bike across the road from number 82. The curtains of the house remained closed, but all around the early birds were heading out to work – firing up the vans and swigging coffee from Thermoses in expectation of a long day ahead. Helen watched them go, taking in their curious looks, well aware that she stood out like a sore thumb, leaning against her Kawasaki in her biking leathers.
She didn’t have long to wait. She suspected DI Marsh would be working the early shift and at 7 a.m., on the nose, he left the house, kissing his wife goodbye as he went. Helen watched, waiting until he’d actually opened the car door before marching over.
‘DI Marsh?’ Helen asked, flashing her warrant card at him as he looked up. ‘DI Grace, Hampshire Police. Could I have a quick word?’
‘How do you know where I live?’
‘Detective work, Tom. Can I call you Tom?’
They were sitting together now in the car. Marsh didn’t answer either way, so Helen pressed on.
‘Your Facebook site is a bit more informative than it should be.’
Marsh said nothing, conceding the point with a grunt.
‘I’m sorry for the cloak and dagger,’ Helen continued, ‘but I wanted to have a chat with you and it couldn’t be done officially, given the nature of the enquiry.’
Tom Marsh looked at her, intrigued.
‘I know you’re involved in undercover work and I’m not looking for you to betray any promises you’ve made or risk compromising your operations, but there’s an informant of yours I’d like more information on.’
‘Robert Stonehill,’ Marsh said evenly.
‘You obviously know who I am and who he is too. And I’d like to know if he’s been working with you.’
Marsh reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a packet of fags and lighting up. He was clearly contemplating whether or not to tell his interrogator to sling her hook. Then again, Helen thought as she studied his face, he was also a family man and perhaps not unsympathetic to her plight.
‘I can’t give you any names or specific details, as the operation is still ongoing. But it’s about drugs, ok? Far as I can work out Stonehill rocked up here without much of a plan. He fell into company with some folk from the wrong side of the tracks and before long was running their errands. Doing a bit of dealing and the like – the crews around here are always looking for new runners, fresh meat to take the risks for them. Turned out he was good at it – kind of used to keeping his head down by now. And he gained the trust of a few middle-men, even met a few of the big suppliers.’
‘Who are the ones you’re really interested in.’
‘Exactly.’
‘How did they pay Robert? Cash? Drugs?’
‘Mostly cash. He dabbles in drugs but isn’t that interested.’
‘And you pay him too?’
Marsh smiled and looked out of the window. He wasn’t going there.
‘Is he still on your books?’ Helen asked.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to say –’
‘Ok, but is he still in Northampton?’
A long pause as Marsh debated whether or not to say anything. Then:
‘You didn’t hear it from me and we never met, but … yes he’s still here. He uses the alias Mark Dolman.’
‘Any idea where he lives?’
‘Somewhere in Thorplands. I couldn’t say for sure. Thorplands is –’
‘I know where it is,’ Helen replied quickly, pleased for once to be ahead of Marsh.
It was tantalizing. To know he was in Northampton, but not exactly where.
‘And where do you two meet?’
‘No’ was Marsh’s blunt response.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I know what you’re going to ask and I’m afraid the answer’s no.’
‘Come on, Tom. Think about it from my point of view –’
‘I’m sympathetic to your plight – I really am. But I’m not risking compromising a year-long investigation for you. I’ve already told you enough – more than I should have – so if it’s all right with you, I’d like to be on my way, ok?’
His tone was firm and final, so, thanking him, Helen took her leave, watching his Ford C-Max burn away from her into the distance. He had gone as far as Helen could reasonably expect, but still she felt frustrated. She had no idea when he had last seen Robert, or what state her nephew was in. Nor did she have an address. That said, she did finally have some pieces of the jigsaw. It wasn’t enough – but it would have to do for now.
Biking back to Southampton, Helen’s head was full of thoughts of what she might do next. As ever her life was a precarious balancing act. Her number one priority had to be Ruby Sprackling – somehow, somewhere, they had to find a break that would bring them closer to her – but the pull of Robert was strong also. Even if she had to work round the clock, she would have to find a way to achieve both. For her own sanity if nothing else.
These thoughts were still spinning round, when Helen noticed the small dark car in the side mirror. She had just reached the outskirts of Southampton and was arrowing towards the hospital, when she spotted it a few cars back. There was something about the number plate – its distinctive EKO ending – that she recognized. Was she imagining it or had she spotted the same car following her down the M1 from Northampton? Upping her speed, she took a sharp left, then left again, ripping the throttle back to enable her to spin round the block in quick order and rejoin the main road a good hundred yards from where she had been.
The car was gone. No sign of it on the main drag or any of the side roads. Had Helen imagined it all? Or was someone interested in her movements today? Suppressing her anxiety, Helen hit the indicator and dived off the main road towards Southampton Central.
64
Sanderson was on to her the minute Helen entered the incident room. Moments later, they were camped in Helen’s office with the blinds down and the door firmly shut.
‘Sorry for the amateur dramatics,’ Sanderson said in reference to the closed blinds. ‘But I thought you ought to see this.’
She passed a file across the table, which contained four sheets of paper – all of them with a woman’s photo attached to the top right-hand corner.
‘I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours going over the local missing person’s registers and liaising with the relevant agencies. And it’s thrown up four possibles.’
Helen kept her expression neutral, but she didn’t like the sound of that number.
‘They all have the right look – dark hair, blue eyes – all live alone, are low-income and have been missing for some time. Two of them – Anna Styles and Debby Meeks – seem to have vanished completely, no communication of any kind. The other two – Roisin Murphy and Isobel Lansley – send the occasional text or tweet.’
‘How occasional?’
‘Not very often, but always at virtually identical times.’
‘Before their mobile signal goes off again?’
‘Exactly,’ Sanderson replied nodding, her expression sombre now.
‘Do the timings of the communications tally with those “sent” by Ruby and Pippa?’
‘Yes. They’re a perfect match.’
Helen looked at their pictures – Roisin was a single mum, studded with piercings, rough around the edges, but with stunning aquamarine eyes, while Isobel was a very different kettle of fish. Her eyes were equally striking, but they were hidden behind a long black fringe. Isobel’s gaze was sidelong, as if she was unkeen to be photographed at all. Helen exhaled long and hard, suddenly struck by the fact that she might already be looking at the faces of two corpses.
She was on her feet now
and marching to the door.
‘I’ll take full responsibility for pursuing this line of investigation,’ she said over her shoulder. There was no time to wait, no time for indecision, and Helen knew exactly what had to be done.
65
He was already sitting on the bed when she awoke. Ruby sat upright with a start, freaked out to find him staring at her.
‘You’ve had a rough night,’ he said sympathetically.
He was right. Ruby had spent a sleepless night, kept awake by hope, but also by fear. Her captor’s obvious desire for her still haunted her waking thoughts.
‘I was cold,’ she lied, pulling the sheets up around her.
‘I’ll get you some extra blankets,’ he continued, ‘and I will try and pick up those books for you today.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied, earning a smile in response. ‘If you were feeling kind, there are a couple of other things you could get for me too,’ Ruby went on, as casually as she could.
Immediately, a frown passed across his face. Was he suspicious? Did he sniff trouble? Keeping her expression as meek as possible, Ruby continued. ‘I would really like some make-up. I would love a hairbrush, some lipstick, some eyelash curlers and, if you don’t mind buying it, some nail polish.’
He looked at her, saying nothing.
‘I just want to look nice for you. And I think I deserve it, don’t you?’
Another long, painful pause, then he finally broke into a broad smile.
‘Were you nervous about asking for these things?’
Ruby looked at her shoes, fearful her expression would betray her.
‘There’s no need to be. I don’t mind it when you’re assertive. It’s more like the old you.’
He rose at this point.
‘I’ll get those things for you. You’ll … you’ll look pretty as a picture.’
With that, he departed. As soon as he’d gone, Ruby sank back down on the bed. It had cost her her last remaining ounce of composure to play her part, but it had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. She had expected more suspicion, more resistance, but actually he had played right into her hands.
The first phase of her plan was complete.
66
‘This is fucking out of order and I will not stand for it.’
Ceri Harwood seldom swore. It was strangely enjoyable, watching her superior lose her cool and Helen privately resolved to provoke her more often.
‘DI Grace knows the chain of command,’ the incandescent Harwood continued. ‘She knows she should have come to me first.’
Chief Constable Stephen Fisher nodded, before turning his attention to Helen.
‘Would you care to explain to me why you didn’t, DI Grace?’
Because Harwood would have told me to go jump in a lake, Helen thought, but swallowed that down. Her decision to go direct to Harwood’s superior was deliberate – a calculated gamble.
‘Detective Superintendent Harwood and I have already had this discussion and she’s made her feelings clear –’
‘So why are we having it again?’ Fisher interrupted.
‘Because the situation has changed,’ Helen replied. ‘Further investigation –’
‘Investigation that was not authorized,’ Harwood interrupted.
‘Further investigation has revealed a number of potential victims,’ Helen continued. ‘I have always believed that Pippa’s killer had the potential to be a serial offender and the evidence now points that way.’
‘Evidence?’ Harwood queried, witheringly.
‘Roisin Murphy and Isobel Lansley. Two young women with the same look, the same profile, who’ve been missing for over a year and who text and tweet at the same times of day and the same locations as Ruby and formerly Pippa. The geography doesn’t make sense – the New Forest, then Southampton city centre, then Brighton, then Hastings – their movements are so random and unlikely that the only explanation is that someone is deliberately trying to throw the young women’s families off the scent. Furthermore, what are the odds that four unconnected girls would be travelling around in the same seemingly random pattern?’
‘So you want to go back to the beach?’ Fisher interrupted decisively.
‘Yes. That’s the only deposition site we know of and serial murderers are creatures of habit. It’s a discreet, out-of-the-way location, which regularly washes away surface evidence, footprints and so on. It’s perfect for his purposes and he’d be a fool not to use it again.’
‘He? You keep referring to “he”. Who is he? You sound like you know him?’
‘We don’t have anything concrete so far –’
‘But still you want us to close a public beach, exhaust our resources digging up great swathes of it and create an unholy storm of public concern and negative publicity in the process. All because of your gut instinct.’
‘Because of the pattern of his offending. There is almost zero chance he won’t have attempted to abduct more victims in between Pippa and Ruby – and Roisin and Isobel fit the bill perfectly.’
‘We need more time, Stephen,’ Harwood countered, now turning to her superior. ‘Let’s investigate the circumstances of the girls’ disappearance and then see –’
‘It’s already been done,’ Helen returned aggressively. ‘Roisin had a one-year-old baby when she went missing. She tweeted saying she couldn’t handle being a mum any more and it’s true she had struggled at times, but her family are totally convinced that she would never have willingly abandoned her baby boy. They’ve spent the last two years searching for her. They’ve used the police, missing persons, local charities. They even hired a private detective – none of the “leads” provided by her tweeting check out. She simply hasn’t been seen anywhere since she went missing over two years ago.’
‘Even so, the investigations of a local family are no substitute for proper police work,’ Harwood fired back. ‘Let us pursue this line of investigation in a measured, methodical way and see if any of these “hunches” bear fruit. Rushing headlong into a major search operation only risks making us look very foolish indeed.’
Both women had finished now. Fisher regarded them, weighing up his options. Harwood had been his appointment and it had worked out well for him. Which is why Helen was surprised when he said:
‘You’ve got one day on the beach, Helen. Make the most of it.’
67
The girl in Boots shoved his purchases into a plastic bag and took his cash without once looking up. While he’d been walking round the shop he’d felt a sudden pulse of fear – would people look askance at a guy with a basket full of make-up? The local paper was still going to town on the Pippa Briers story, urging its readers to keep their eyes peeled for any suspicious activity that might lead them to her killer. They’d even gone as far as publishing a detailed offender ‘profile’, describing his likely race, background, body language and psychology. It was all rubbish of course, but some of their lucky guesses had made him uneasy. So he’d prepared a detailed cover story – even slipping a scratched old ring on to his fourth finger to make him look like a solid husband and father – but in the event these precautions had proved utterly unnecessary. Like most young people, the shop girl was only interested in herself – lazily picking up her smart phone the minute she had finished serving him.
The sight of the girl checking her messages reminded him of an important task he had overlooked. Usually he would have caught a train or bus somewhere before work – he’d had Bournemouth in mind this time – to carry out a swift round of texting and tweeting before returning to Southampton on the same train. It was a good way to throw people off the scent, without taking too much time out of his working day.
But having made a detour to Boots on an extended lunch break, he wouldn’t have time for that today. So seeking out a quiet spot on the Common, he began to send the customary messages. In days gone by he’d enjoyed this guilty pleasure – climbing inside these girls’ identities and speaking for them – but yet again he felt
tense doing it. He was taking a risk tweeting so near his place of work, no question about it, and it robbed the little routine of its pleasure.
‘Funny how life keeps kicking you when yr already on the floor. Gettin used to it,’ he tweeted from Roisin’s phone. He was always careful to factor in the misspellings and abbreviations which these girls were so fond of. Roisin had always been a bit of a Jeremiah, would think herself into dark holes, so it was definitely in character for her to be bleating about life’s unfairness. He added a few more cynical thoughts, sent a couple of texts, then turned her phone off and slipped it back in his bag.
The sound of conversation made him look up. Two mums were jabbering loudly as they pushed their strollers along. Startled, he slunk back deeper into the undergrowth. He waited until they were long gone, before pulling Ruby’s phone from his bag. He did the necessaries, but his mood failed to lift. He couldn’t escape the feeling that significant things were happening – things over which he had no control. Previously he had kept these girls alive safe in the knowledge that no one was even aware they were dead. He had revelled in this freedom and total lack of suspicion. But the discovery of Pippa Briers’ body had changed everything. Now a major murder investigation was under way, led by DI Helen Grace. For the first time in his short life, he now understood what it felt like to be hunted.
68
The two women were virtually eyeball to eyeball, neither backing down. Sanderson didn’t normally do all-out assault, but she was too enraged to back down. DC Lucas clearly felt the same, snarling at Sanderson to ‘get back in her box’.
Sanderson could happily have swung for her colleague. It had been her idea to put the mobile phone companies on alert for any sign of the missing girls’ phone signals and now that this plan had paid off, she was buggered if she was going to stand aside and let DC Lucas run with it. The mobile signals had briefly sprung into life, somewhere on or near Southampton Common and the smart thing to do was to get down there as fast as possible, to canvass witnesses, source CCTV footage, search for any signs of their killer.
The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3 Page 12