The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3

by M. J. Arlidge

  ‘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 co
uld 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?’

  126

  ‘Hello Ruby.’

  Ruby had crawled into the corner and stared up at her captor with ill-concealed fear.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.’

  Ruby kept her eyes riveted to him. The more he insisted he wasn’t going to hurt her, the more convinced she was that he would.

  He sat down on the bed a few feet away and looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

  ‘I have a confession to make.’

  He smiled now, looking for all the world as if he were blissfully happy.

  ‘I made a mistake.’

  Ruby stared at him. What was he up to? Where was this going?

  ‘I got the wrong girl. I shouldn’t have taken you. I’m sorry.’

  He seemed genuinely penitent. And oddly relaxed.

  ‘What are you going to do to me?’ Ruby asked, her voice shaking as fear bit.

  ‘What do you think I’m going to do to you?’

  He half laughed as he said it, as if she were the one that was mad, not him.

  ‘I’m going to let you go.’

  127

  ‘Is there another way in?’ Helen barked, pulling Sanderson aside, her frustration finally getting the better of her.

  ‘Not according to the architect’s plans,’ Sanderson countered.

  They had arrived at the WestQuay shopping centre discreetly – fifteen officers, all casually dressed as if for shopping – and fanned out, taking up their various vantage points. A few passes confirmed what was obvious straight away. Despite the fact that that it was only 5 p.m., WestKeys was shut.

  They couldn’t force the shutters open without causing a scene and possibly alerting the suspect – or friends of his – to their presence. So Helen was keen to find another way in. But the shop was small – a glorified kiosk really sandwiched between bigger, brighter outlets – and had no rear entrance.

  ‘Keep our eye on it,’ said Helen, handing over the surveillance to Sanderson and marching over to DC McAndrew, who stood with her mobile clamped to her ear.

  ‘What have you got?’

  McAndrew held her hand over the mouthpiece as she replied:

  ‘WestKeys is owned by an Edward Loughton.’

  ‘So Ben Fraser is just an employee. Can we raise Loughton? If he can give us a home address for Ben Fraser, then we might still be able to save Ruby.’

  ‘Loughton died three years ago. He’s got a sister who lives somewhere locally, we’re trying to track her down.’

  McAndrew resumed the call, spelling out the name of the woman they now sought. As she did so, Helen paced up and down. Every delay, every setback would cost them dear now. They were so close to unmasking him, but would it all be for nothing? Thoughts of Alison and Jonathan Sprackling arrowed into her mind now – she could sense their desperation, their longing to be reunited with the girl they had rescued all those years ago. Helen refused to believe that their kindness had been for nothing, that Ruby could be snuffed out as cruelly as the other girls. But she was powerless to influence matters and the fact that the shop had been shut early filled her with alarm. Any deviation from his normal routine was bad news for them.

  And bad news for Ruby.

  128

  Helen stopped in her tracks as soon as she entered the lobby of the Great Southern. She had been in a world of her own, walking automatically towards the lift bank, but the sight of Daniel Briers at reception brought her to a halt. He had a suitcase with him and by his side stood a tall lady with long dark hair and an elegantly swollen belly.

  ‘Daniel?’

  He turned and on seeing Helen smiled – but it was forced and unconvincing.

  ‘Are you leaving?’

  ‘I am,’ he replied, failing to look her in the eye. ‘I wanted to stay for the duration as you know. But obviously I’ve got other responsibilities so … This is Kristy, my wife.’

  ‘DI Helen Grace. I’m running the investigation –’

  ‘I know who you are,’ Kristy Briers replied, shaking hands cursorily with Helen.

  ‘You’ve got all our contact details haven’t you, in case there’s any news …’ Daniel continued. His concern and interest were genuine, but Helen could sense he just wanted to be out of this conversation.

  ‘Of course. In fact I was just coming here to update you. There have been some significant dev—’

  ‘Do you always update people in hotel rooms? At night?’

  Kristy’s question was delivered calmly, but had an edge to it that was hard to miss.

  ‘No, but I made your husband a promise to keep him up to speed with the very latest developments. And I was honouring that promise.’

  Helen’s tone was even but firm. She had undoubtedly put herself in an awkward position by handling Daniel Briers personally, but they had done nothing wrong, so why should she be castigated for showing compassion?

  Pulling the couple aside, Helen told them about the police search for Ben Fraser and her hope that they would soon make an arrest. Daniel asked a few questions, but the conversation swiftly came to a natural conclusion. There was nothing more to say.

  ‘Thank you, Helen. For everything. It would mean the world to me to see justice done.’

  He spoke from the heart, but the words still sounded strange to Helen. Everything was slightly off tonight. Daniel shook her hand formally and with a brief look back walked towards the awaiting car. Kristy made to follow then paused, turning back to Helen.

  ‘Don’t feel too bad. It happens to them all in the end.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ve been with Daniel for over ten years now. I know what he’s like –’

  ‘Kristy, I really don’t know what you’re allud—’

  ‘The thing about Daniel is that he likes attention. Loves to have a pretty face staring up at him, an arm round his shoulder. Or someone to keep him warm at night. It’s like an addiction, there’s no other way to explain it. But you should never take it personally, it’s not you he’s interested in. It’s himself.’

  Kristy stared at Helen. She was victorious, but it was a pyrrhic victory for a woman who seemed accustomed to betrayal.

  ‘I should probably leave him, but I guess it’s a bit too late for that, isn’t it?’ She patted her belly and looked Helen in the eye. ‘Don’t contact him directly again. If there is any news, get another officer to call. Preferably a male one.’

  She turned on her heel and walked towards the car. Daniel held the door open for her, shutting it gently behind her once she’d climbed in. A brief apologetic look at Helen and he was gone. Leaving Helen alone and feeling more foolish than ever.

  129

  Whatever the weather, there is always something nice about Friday morning. The dark clouds that hung over Southampton spat contemptuously on the early-morning workers hurrying through the streets to their shops and offices, yet in spite of this Ben Fraser thought he detected optimism and happiness in their expressions. Only a few more hours and the weekend would begin. Who wouldn’t smile at that?

  He too had hope in his heart this morning. There was still much to be done of course – some of it pleasant, some of it not – but when the path is clear in front of you, life is easy. He had risen early, washed and dressed by six a.m., and been on the streets not long afterwards. On these early reconnaissance trips, he always wore the regulation uniform of city workers in the summertime – jeans, T-shirt, sunglasses and a record bag casually slung over his right shoulder. He looked for all the world like a young man going places. But there was only one place he was going today.

  Blenheim Road in Portswood looked even more drab in the daylight. Last n
ight, it had had a kind of faded glamour but now it appeared in its true colours – a haven for students and wasters. Impoverished young workers – like Summer – liked it because the rents were cheap, but the whole place had the tired, lazy feel of a student hive. You could almost smell the ganja fumes as you walked up the street, Ben thought to himself.

  He had barely been at his vantage point five minutes when Summer appeared. The gods really were smiling on him now. She looked even lovelier than he remembered. Crisp white blouse, smart charcoal suit, and long suede boots that click, click, clicked down the street away from him.

  Ben slipped out from his hiding place and padded down the street after her, seemingly intent on a phone call – on an iPhone that had given up the ghost years ago. He muttered nonsense into it, amusing himself by the random collision of words. He didn’t care what he was saying, his real focus was fifty yards ahead of him.

  She stopped at a nearby Costa to pick up a latte and a croissant, slipping the latter into her bag to eat at her desk later. Ben wondered if this was her habitual breakfast stop-off – time would tell. She walked to the bus stop and Ben kept pace with her, slipping on to the number 28 bus behind her.

  Watching her at close quarters, he felt himself blessed as never before. It had been so long, but here she was. Back where she should be. He took in every detail of her hair, her face, her clothes, her mannerisms, her habits. He noted that she left her bag open, having removed her phone to text. A little trusting, he thought, but not unhelpful – he could glimpse her set of keys within. What else did she have in there, he wondered.

  She got off the bus in Nicholstown and Ben was soon padding behind her, making a mental note of her route to the employment agency where she worked. She was so oblivious to his presence, he even managed to clock the key code she tapped in to enter the lobby – all useful information for the future.