Suddenly Ruby was pushing herself up. She hadn’t thought to – she was acting on instinct now, the thought of more suffering driving her on. Pain coursed through her – shooting from her rib cage to the very centre of her brain – but she managed to get to her hands and knees. Immediately she vomited, but she was on the move now and paid no heed to that, turning away and crawling towards the bed. It was still propped up by the chair and seemed to offer her sanctuary now. Swiftly she scuttled underneath, pulling the blanket down around her, hiding her from view.
She wasn’t safe here, but it felt better to be concealed. Clasping her hands together, Ruby found herself muttering mangled prayers once more. Her words were garbled, their meaning confused, but the sentiment was clear. This time Ruby wasn’t praying for deliverance. She was praying for death.
96
DC Sanderson scanned this way and that, searching for danger. The lock-up she was scoping was at the end of a needle-strewn alleyway in Portswood. There was no street lighting, no CCTV, you could vanish off the face of the earth here and no one would be any the wiser. She cursed herself for continuing her survey of Simpson’s properties alone – she should never have allowed station politics to jeopardize her safety. That was the first rule in the book.
She turned to leave, anxious to be out of this fetid alleyway. She had had high hopes for this property. It was remote and isolated, and had not appeared in their first sweep of Simpson’s holdings. For reasons that weren’t clear, the freehold for this property seemed to be in Simpson’s late wife’s name. This might have been a historic oversight or for tax purposes, but Sanderson doubted it. Everything Simpson did was premeditated and controlled. Nothing was left to chance. But on arrival it quickly became clear that there were no potential witnesses in this part of town and there was little hope of gaining access. There was only one entrance and this was covered in padlocks and chains – there was no way of circumventing the lack of a search warrant.
Halfway down the alley, Sanderson paused, her gaze drifting up towards a small window in the side of the building. The dirty window, cracked and broken, hung slightly open. It wasn’t large but was wide enough for the slender Sanderson to slip through.
A wheelie bin lay abandoned nearby. What had once been in it? Food waste? A dead dog? She couldn’t tell, but the maggots didn’t seem to care. Swallowing her nausea and slamming the lid shut she dragged it under the window and climbed on top. From here it was a short jump to the windowsill. Her fingers slipped off first time and she nearly toppled off the wheelie bin as a result, but the second time round she gripped the sill forcefully. Using the toe of her boots to grip in the worn mortar holes of the brickwork, she scrabbled up fast and ten seconds later she was inside.
As she landed, a cloud of dust rose up to greet her, creeping into her nose and eyes and causing her to sneeze violently. The noise seemed to echo round the deserted lock-up, underlining her isolation and vulnerability. Plucking her iPhone from her zip pocket, she used its torch to look around her.
My God, what was this place?
Every square inch of it was taken up with boxes that rose from floor to ceiling. All of them marked and labelled. Sanderson examined the one nearest her. Despite the dust, the label looked new, the writing fresh. Sanderson hesitated – she knew examining the box’s contents was opening a legal can of worms – especially if whatever she discovered found its way into a court case, but Sanderson figured that that horse had bolted with her breaking and entering. Besides, Ruby had to be their first priority now.
Putting on a pair of plastic gloves, she teased open the box. What had she expected to find? Blood-stained clothes? A kidnap kit? A confession written in blood? Whatever she had been hoping for, she was still surprised by what she found. The whole box was stacked full of tapes. Video tapes.
Sanderson hadn’t seen CCTV at any of Simpson’s properties thus far, so she was immediately intrigued. Looking at the spine, her curiosity rose still further – ‘September 2013’ was written on it in blue biro. Flicking through a dozen other tapes, a pattern emerged: ‘June 2013’; ‘August 2013’. Opening one up, she examined the tape – no labels – then looked at the inner sleeve.
And stopped in her tracks. Written in biro on the sleeve – a single word that changed everything.
‘Ruby.’
97
Charlie knew something was up the minute she entered the house. She’d just returned from the newsagent – today’s Evening News had a big spread about the bluebird tattoo lead in the ‘Bodies on the Beach’ case and Charlie was looking forward to reading the details – but something about the feel of the house was… wrong. Was this a legacy of her years of police work? Or the result of her abduction by Marianne? Her senses were particularly acute now and she could tell she was not alone in the house.
She remained stock still, trying to quieten her breathing, which was loud and fast. Her police baton was upstairs at the bottom of a drawer, so she turned now and edged back towards the front door she’d just entered, taking care not to tread on the creaky floorboard on the left. In days gone by, she would have confronted an intruder without hesitation or fear, but there was no question of that now with her swollen belly. But as she laid her hand on the latch -
‘Charlie.’
A female voice. Helen’s voice. Charlie turned, ready to tear a strip off her boss for scaring the life out of her, but when she saw the anxiety on her face, she swallowed the rebuke.
‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I had to see you, but I couldn’t risk contacting you directly.’
Intrigued Charlie ushered her into the living room.
‘What’s going on?’
Helen gestured for them to sit down. Once on the sofa, she moved in close.
‘Harwood’s called in Anti-Corruption. They are ripping my flat apart as we speak.’
‘But why…?’
‘The whole Robert thing…’ Helen paused briefly as the cruelty of Harwood’s scheme hit home once more. ‘The whole thing was faked.’
Charlie stared at her, disbelieving.
‘I don’t think there was a fight in Northampton, I don’t think Robert ever lived there,’ Helen continued. ‘The whole thing was designed to lure me into accessing classified material -’
‘Giving grounds for dismissal.’
Helen nodded. Charlie shook her head – could Harwood really stoop this low?
‘What have they got on you?’
‘A tape recording of my meet with DI Marsh. On its own, it’s not enough. She needs to prove I’ve got the file, hence the search at my flat.’
Now Charlie knew why Helen had come.
‘I’ll do it now,’ she said, rising.
‘Thank you,’ Helen replied, heading back towards the kitchen. She paused in the doorway:
‘Oh, and Charlie, I’d get the lock on your back door sorted. Child’s play.’
Charlie took the rebuke in good humour and hurried upstairs. Anti-Corruption might make the connection between Helen and her or they might not, but there was no point in taking chances. She thanked God now that Helen had seen fit to trust the photocopied file to her for safekeeping. If she hadn’t, she would have been suspended or worse by now. And Charlie and Sally Mason would have been in the firing line too. Steve wouldn’t necessarily have minded, but it wasn’t how Charlie intended her career to end. She owed it to all of them to put this thing to bed once and for all.
She was all fingers and thumbs as she lit the firelighters, stacked underneath the logs in their fireplace. It was an odd time of year for a log fire, but needs must. Eventually the match struck, the paraffin ignited and in minutes the fire was crackling nicely. Charlie didn’t hesitate, feeding the pages of the faked report, then even the file itself, into the flames. She was oddly tense, as she watched the papers catch and curl, as if Anti-Corruption might burst in at any moment. But the house – the street – was quiet and before long the papers were reduced to ash. Charlie wondered if it was enough. They had foiled Harwood’s initial attempt to bring Helen down, but how complex was this scheme? And was there anything they had overlooked? The thought of Southampton Central without Helen was absurd and yet this now seemed to be Harwood’s mission. And Charlie knew from experience that when Harwood wanted something badly enough, she generally got it.