Simpson paused, then:
‘Yes.’
‘What about Roisin Murphy? Did she give you proper notice?’
‘Not that I remember,’ he conceded.
‘And Isobel Lansley?’
‘I’d have to look at my records…’
Sanderson glared at him.
‘But I don’t think so,’ he conceded.
Silence. A long pregnant silence.
‘You should know that the bodies of Roisin Murphy and Isobel Lansley were discovered earlier today. Like Pippa Briers, they were tenants of yours. Is there anything you’d like to tell us about them?’ Helen said.
Simpson shook his head firmly. Sanderson noted the first beads of sweat appearing on his forehead.
‘We estimate they were murdered within the last two to three years. I believe you’ve known them both for a while longer than that. Is that correct?’
‘I’ve already said I didn’t “know” them. Yes, they’ve been tenants of mine for several years but -’
‘Tell me about Isobel Lansley’s flat?’ Helen interrupted. ‘What state was it in when you gained access to it after her disappearance?’
‘It was ok. She always kept things nice and neat. She was very fastidious.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t know her?’ Helen said quickly.
‘I don’t. What I mean is that it was very clean and tidy when I went in.’
‘No signs of a struggle. Broken furniture or anything?’
‘No.’
‘The lock on the front door was intact? No windows forced open.’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘So either they let their killer in… or he let himself in?’
Andrew Simpson said nothing.
‘Presumably you have keys to all your properties?’
‘Of course,’ he replied, though he didn’t look happy admitting it. ‘Sometimes I lend them to workmen if there’s a job needs doing -’
‘But it wouldn’t be hard for you to get extra sets cut if you needed to.’
Simpson shrugged.
‘My guess is they were all abducted by someone who had access. Would you say that’s a fair assumption?’ Helen continued.
‘You’re the police officer,’ he replied evenly.
Helen nodded.
‘How many flats do you own in the Southampton area?’ Sanderson continued.
‘Forty-two,’ was the swift response.
‘And do you own any other properties?’
‘No. Other than my house of course.’
‘And you live in Becksford?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Nice and quiet round there, isn’t it?’
Andrew nodded, watching Helen carefully. Helen returned his gaze, enjoying the tension in the room. Then without warning, she got up.
‘That’ll do for now. I’m afraid we’ll have to leave a couple of officers here to gather the necessary paperwork. But thank you, you’ve been very helpful.’
Sanderson smiled her thanks too. Nothing unnerved suspects more than gratitude and courtesy. She followed Helen’s lead, shaking Simpson’s hand, then left the office with her. Both were silent as they walked back to the car. But conversation wasn’t necessary – Sanderson knew her superior well and could tell without asking that she was feeling the buzz too. At long last they were getting somewhere.
81
It was late and Ceri Harwood was alone in the darkness. After her unpleasant interview with Lloyd Fortune, she had poured the rest of the wine down the sink and collapsed on to the sofa. She lay there now, hangover slowly taking effect, chiding herself for her weakness and lack of control. To be drunk in the middle of the day was bad enough – to be drunk in front of a junior officer was unforgivable. What was he thinking now? Had her warnings hit home? Had she pushed him away? The thought made her feel sick.
As she cursed herself, her eyes drifted towards the island and the small Jiffy package sitting on top of it. In all the chaos and emotion, she had forgotten about it. Part of her couldn’t be bothered with it now – so much had happened in the last few hours to render previous preoccupations meaningless. Tim’s betrayal had changed her horizons for ever. And yet… there was something within her that suggested this might yet be her salvation. A way to assert herself against a world that delighted in hurting her.
Picking herself up off the sofa, she crossed over to the island and ripped the envelope open. As expected, inside was a tiny cassette. Fishing it out, she sought out her hand-held player and slipped the tape inside.
She was too wound up to sit – her body tense with anticipation – so she paced up and down having pressed ‘Play’. At first there was nothing – just the sound of fabric scratching against the microphone. She knew there must be more – Lloyd wouldn’t have hurried it over if it was blank – but still it made her worry.
Then the voices started. A man’s voice – odd, regional, unfamiliar – and a woman’s. The conversation was staccato and punctuated by silences as challenges were laid down and decisions made. The pair seemed to be coming to an agreement, despite their differences. As they did so, a smile tugged at the corners of Ceri’s mouth.
She listened some more. The pair didn’t exactly shake hands but the deal had been done. She had heard it straight from the horse’s mouth. What a bizarre day it had been. So unsettling, so distressing, and yet here amidst the wreckage of her life she had found the one thing she craved – the thing she had been searching for for months.
The means to destroy Helen Grace.
82
It was 10 p.m. and the incident room was deserted except for two lonely figures. Helen and DC Sanderson sat huddled at the DI’s desk, poring over the photocopied documents that the team had garnered from Simpson’s files.
He had lied to them – that much was clear. He didn’t have forty-two flats – he had over fifty. Some he owned the freehold to – having carved a decaying house into five tiny, dilapidated flats – others he was just the letting agent for. Interestingly, he also owned a number of derelict properties – lock-ups, outbuildings, even a barn or two – dotted around the county. Some were rural, some were urban, but all were isolated.
As Helen skimmed the list that Sanderson had compiled, she was seized with a desire to search them all. In an ideal world she would have been on the phone to a POLSA team already – scrambling the chopper, the cadaver dogs, the heat-seeking equipment – but that would have been a massive commitment of resources over that many properties. She wouldn’t be allowed to call up that kind of firepower without rock-solid evidence and, besides, she wasn’t sure she’d get the warrant anyway. They had one connection between Simpson and the dead women – a strong connection admittedly – but as yet no hard evidence linking the landlord to any instances of abduction or murder. He had no criminal record, there were no witnesses linking him to anything untoward and no picture yet of him having an unhealthy interest in young women. Helen had already instructed McAndrew to take a forensics unit back to Ruby’s flat. If they could place Simpson in her flat, then they’d have something to work with, especially as he had sworn blind he hadn’t been in that flat in years.
So, much as Helen was tempted to go kicking down doors, she knew that she would have to go about this in the old-fashioned way.
‘Round up as many of the team as you can,’ she said to Sanderson. ‘And pull in uniform too. I want every one of the properties on this list checked out. Knock on doors, ask around, find out if anyone’s seen or heard anything unusual at these places. Shouts, cries, lights on late at night. Do whatever you have to – just give me something to work with.’
Sanderson was already on her feet, ready to bash the phones and corral the troops.
‘Does that mean you won’t be joining us?’
‘Love to, but I’ve got something much more unpleasant in mind.’
Sanderson turned, intrigued.