The Doll's House: DI Helen Grace 3 (14 page)

The arresting PC had scented a good collar – assault with a deadly weapon. However, twenty-four hours after Jason Reeves had made his statement – in colourful language – he had suddenly withdrawn the charges. There was no statement retracting his earlier one – just a brief coda written at the end of the report. Charges withdrawn because of mistaken identity.

Helen read the file from top to bottom again. It was obvious that someone had got to Reeves, as he’d been clear about Robert’s involvement in his initial statement. And as Robert didn’t really have any friends in
Northampton and wouldn’t have had time to build up the necessary flying hours with the local criminal fraternities, Helen could only conclude that the police had leant on Reeves.

What had Robert become involved in that he would have that kind of backing? Helen could only infer that he was an informant and the thought made her shiver – things seldom ended well for informants, however careful they might be.

Amidst so much mystery and uncertainty, there was one small clue however – the name of the officer who had signed off the charge sheet, effectively exonerating Robert. His rank was intriguing – too senior to be a desk sergeant or beat copper – as was his name: DI Tom Marsh. Did that name ring a bell? Should Helen approach him directly or employ subterfuge? Not knowing the character of DI Marsh, it was hard to know which way to jump.

Helen was still considering her next move, when her phone rang. This day that was full of surprises had one more left in store. The caller was Daniel Briers.

56

He’d taken the number 76 bus out to Otterbourne, waiting almost until the end of the line before turning on Ruby’s phone and sending the customary tweets and texts. Normally this little charade amused him, but today it made him anxious. Had he tweeted from Pippa’s phone
after
the police had discovered her body? If so, had they made this connection?

So many questions he couldn’t possibly answer and the not knowing was torturing him. Exhausted by the day’s events, he found no satisfaction in the dance of death today – he just wanted to be home. One stop before the terminus, he got off and crossed the road to take the number 38 back into town.

Stepping inside the old house, he collapsed on to the sofa, sending a cloud of dust into the air. The whole place was in a state of chaos – half-finished bits of DIY, creeping patches of damp and empty pizza boxes everywhere, which the rats visited nightly. Coming home had failed to raise his spirits in the way he’d hoped and he felt curiously despondent. What if Summer was as recalcitrant and hostile as she’d been earlier? He wasn’t
sure he could face another round of that. Putting off the moment of their reunion, he grabbed a bin bag from the kitchen and started shovelling rubbish into it, determined to get a grip on a house that was falling down around his ears.

Soon he was dusty, thirsty and even more exhausted than before. His body and his mind were urging him to go to bed, to get some rest. But still he resisted. She was down there, underneath these floorboards, waiting for him. Try as he might he couldn’t resist her pull. She was his drug. The one thing he couldn’t do without.

He paused and looked at himself in the mirror. Where once he had been young and handsome, now he appeared careworn and tired. No wonder she struggled to accept him. But still, was there any need to be so cruel? If she carried on like this, he would have to impose sanctions. He would take away her inhaler. If she needed to be broken, then so be it …

He found he was already halfway to her cell, his feet guiding him there on auto-pilot. It was as if he were in a dream – unable to control his actions or events. Pulling himself back to reality, he slipped the wicket hatch open. For once, she wasn’t lying on the bed, despondent. It was hard to make out details in the gloom, but she seemed to be sitting up, waiting for something.

Sliding the wicket hatch shut, he switched on the main lights and slipped inside. To his surprise, there was
Summer, just like he always pictured her, sitting on the bed in her skirt, earrings and top, a pretty smile spread across her face.

This
is
a dream, he thought to himself. But finally it’s a good one.

57

She hated lying, but sometimes you had no choice. At least that’s what DC Sanderson told herself as she dialled Sinead Murphy’s number. Having already lied to her team about what she was up to, she was now about to lie to an unsuspecting member of the public.

‘It’s about your daughter Roisin.’

The voice on the other end of the line – which moments earlier had been warm and welcoming – suddenly went quiet.

‘There’s no need to be alarmed. This is just a routine follow-up call,’ Sanderson continued, keen to put Roisin’s mother at ease. ‘Our records show you reported your daughter missing nearly three years ago. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, for all the good it did me.’

‘I take it you’ve not seen her since you made the report?’

‘No’ was the brief and sober response.

Sanderson ran through the particulars on the forms – occupation, family, physical descriptions, past behaviour – before asking the only question that mattered.

‘Has there been
any
contact between you and Roisin since she went missing? Anything at all?’

There was a long pause, then:

‘I suppose you could call it contact.’

‘Meaning?’

‘She sends the odd text or tweet. But she never replies when I text back.’

‘Have you tried calling her on that number?’

‘What do you think?’ was the withering response.

‘And?’

‘Always straight to voicemail.’

‘Can you remember the last time she tweeted?’

‘Why do you want to know? Why are you asking me all these questions?’

Sanderson paused – how to respond?

‘We’re just trying to make some progress on Roisin’s case. Frankly, too little has been done so far and her communications are the best hope we have of finding out where she is.’

Another long silence, then:

‘She tweeted earlier today actually.’

‘Saying?’

‘Nothing of interest. Just a gripe about having a bad day.’

‘Can you remember the exact time?’

‘Hold on,’ Sinead replied. Sanderson could hear her rummaging through her bag for her phone. ‘Come on, come on,’ Sanderson thought to herself, casting a nervous eye over the sheet of timings that lay on the table in front of her.

‘Here we are,’ Sinead responded. ‘She tweeted at … 6.14 p.m. today.’

‘And the one before that?’

‘Yesterday. Just after ten a.m.’

Sanderson took Sinead back through a few more of Roisin’s tweets, then ended the call, promising that she would be back in touch shortly. Sanderson had a nasty feeling that she would honour that promise and when she did, it would be with the bleakest of news. The timings of Roisin’s last five tweets matched exactly with the timing of Ruby Sprackling’s latest communications.

Helen had been right all along.

58

‘So how was your day?’

The words sounded so alien, but she forced them out, all the while maintaining her broad smile.

‘It was fine, thanks.’

‘Were you working? Do you work?’

‘You know I work, Summer.’

His knowing reply rattled her, but she was not going to be weak. Not today.

‘What do you do?’

He looked at her and smiled.

‘You look pretty tonight,’ he eventually said.

‘Thank you. I … I wanted to make an effort.’

‘It shows.’

Ruby hesitated, looked at her lap, then lifting her gaze to his, carried on:

‘I also wanted to say sorry. For being unkind. I didn’t mean it.’

He was watching her, as if unsure whether to believe her or not.

‘I want us to be friends.’

He looked at her, but still said nothing. Not a smile, not a rebuke, nothing.

‘I get lonely down here, so if we could spend more time together, then …’

‘That’s all I want, Summer. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.’

The fervency in his voice took her by surprise. She tried to speak but fear was creeping up on her again now, robbing her of the power of speech.

‘It’s a clean slate for both of us, then,’ he went on. ‘So why don’t we spend the evening together? I’ll cook for us.’

He looked straight at her. He had a fire in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before.

‘It’ll be just like old times.’

59

Helen had no idea what she was doing here. But here she was – sitting in the Great Southern’s rooftop restaurant, opposite Daniel Briers.

‘I feel a bit of a fraud,’ Daniel Briers was saying, as he topped up her coffee. ‘I don’t have anything new to tell you and I’m sure you’d have been in touch if there’d been any developments. I guess I just wanted the company of someone who knew what I was going through.’

‘It’s fine. I wasn’t doing anything important,’ she lied.

‘Have I dragged you away from your family?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ Helen replied, artfully avoiding the question.

‘You get a bit stir crazy sitting in this room all day. I’ve tried to get out, but I don’t know my way around and … and truth be told I don’t really want to get to know this place. I feel happier here.’

‘I understand. It’s hard. And if you ever feel you’d rather go home, then I won’t think any the less of you. There are many different ways to show your love and commitment to Pippa.’

He looked at her for a second.

‘I’d rather stay.’

Helen nodded and for a moment neither of them spoke. Daniel looked out over Southampton, while Helen surveyed the other guests in the restaurant. Immediately she caught the eye of a middle-aged woman who was staring at her. The woman was obviously intrigued by them – was she trying to work out if they were on a date? Married? Friends? The realization made Helen feel foolish.

When she turned back, she was surprised to find Daniel smiling at her.

‘If it’s awkward for you to be here, then just say so. I don’t want to make your life difficult, Helen.’

‘I want to help,’ Helen replied. And it was true. Daniel had given her her cue to leave, but she didn’t
want
to abandon him here, a grieving man in a lonely city.

‘I know what you’re going through,’ she continued. ‘When you’ve lost someone close … it kind of surrounds you, doesn’t it? It’s hard to see a way through it.’

Daniel nodded.

‘She’s all I think about. She’s as alive to me now as she ever was.’

Helen smiled. Reaching out, she took his hand.

‘And that’s fine. It’s not weird or morbid. It’s natural. You loved her. You
love
her. Nothing that’s happened can change that.’

Thank you, Helen. I thought I was going a bit crazy, but –’

‘It’s not crazy and you must think of her. You must always think of her.’

Daniel nodded his thanks, just about keeping his emotion in check.

‘Pippa was always so boisterous when she was little. They say boys are the troublesome ones, but that wasn’t true in our case. She had this great mate – Edith – and together they would create havoc. They would dress up as pirates, soldiers, whatever, and create elaborate games in the living room. The sofas would be turned into hideouts, skipping ropes would become lassos, cardboard tubes would become rocket launchers – they could play like that for hours.’

As Daniel lost himself in tales of Pippa’s childish exploits, Helen thought back to her own childhood. Among all the horror, abuse and degradation, there had been odd moments of contentment. Holidays on the Isle of Sheppey, shoplifting trips with her mum and sister, cider-fuelled hysterics with Marianne and their mate Sam. Brief slivers of happiness.

The one character who was always absent from these memories was her father. She tried to think if he’d ever done anything loving or kind, but nothing came to mind. The only thing he had ever given his children was bruises and broken bones. To him, children were first an irritant and expense and later a commodity to be passed around fellow paedophiles. Perhaps he had suffered when he was young, perhaps there were experiences and demons that
had driven him to behave the way he did, but Helen had never wanted to go there. She refused to entertain the idea that his brutality could ever be excused or justified.

He was a far cry from the decent, wounded man sitting opposite her now. Helen knew that’s why she was still here, drinking coffee late into the night with a man she barely knew. The fact that he did care – that he
loved
his daughter – really hit home with her. And though she chided herself for not passing Daniel on to a trained Family Liaison Officer, she didn’t blame herself for it. She was enjoying the rush of his memories – there was an innocence and warmth to them that Helen found irresistible. Neither seemed keen to break up the evening or to acknowledge that – minutes later – they were still holding hands.

60

He reached out and took her hand, running his finger over her knuckles.

‘Isn’t this nice?’

Ruby smiled in response, forking another mouthful of pasta in her mouth. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but the food was good – pasta carbonara, rich, creamy and comforting. She cleared her plate, then picked up her wine, draining the plastic beaker it had been served in. Despite the absurdity of the situation, the wine felt good – a brief spike of exhilaration surging through her before drifting away again.

‘Pudding?’

Ruby nodded and within a minute had wolfed down a bowl of trifle. Stuck down here all she could think of was how hungry she was.

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ she said suddenly. ‘I … I get bored down here waiting for you, so I was wondering if I could have some books.’

He regarded her for a second, then said:

‘What sort of books?’

‘Anything.’

‘You’re not fussy.’

‘I just want to read.’

Another pause.

‘Tell me some titles and I’ll see if I can get them for you.’

Ruby racked her brains, reeling off a list of favourites that would make her feel a little less alone. Books her dad loved, that Cassie was obsessed with. They would be her family down here. Finally, she ran out of ideas. Her captor swallowed a yawn, fatigue finally overcoming him.