98
It was an ambush. As soon as he opened the door, she was on to him, warrant card shoved roughly in his face.
‘Good morning, Mr Simpson. Not at work today?’
For a moment, Alan Simpson said nothing, too shocked by the sudden appearance of a police officer on his doorstep to respond. He swayed slightly as if unsteady on his feet.
‘I went to your work,’ Sanderson continued, ‘but they said you were running late. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.’
‘Not at all,’ he replied quickly.
‘Good. Because I have a few more questions for you about Ruby Sprackling. May I come in?’
A heavy silence followed Sanderson’s request. Was that fear in Simpson’s eyes? Suspicion? Sanderson gazed over his shoulder to take in the interior. It was a mess. But was it embarrassment or something more sinister that prompted Simpson to pull the door closer behind him, cutting off her view?
‘Do you have a warrant?’
‘No. But it won’t take me long to get one -
‘Then I suggest we do this elsewhere.’
Sanderson stared at him – trying to provoke a reaction with her evident irritation and suspicion, but he didn’t blink, looking straight back at her with hard, unflinching eyes.
‘It’ll create a lot of paperwork if we go to the station,’ Sanderson replied. ‘Which will take up far more of your time. It really would be simpler if I just popped in -’
‘We’ll do it at the station. Do you have a car?’
‘Yes,’ Sanderson said resignedly.
‘Then let’s go,’ said Simpson, slamming the door decisively behind him.
99
Ruby came to with a start – a noise from upstairs startling her. How long had she been out of it? And what did that noise mean?
He had not returned to her since the beating, which surprised her. What was he up to, she wondered. Since she’d first encountered him – that awful day – she’d had the sense that he was holding himself back, keeping something in. She had glimpsed the emotion at times – sparks of desire, flashes of anger – but he had always managed to rein it in. To appear in control and in command. Not now. As he had laid in to her, Ruby had seen real fury, a desire to destroy her – which is why she’d been surprised to find she was still alive when she came to. Now that she had crushed his fantasy, now that she had duped him, what was there to hold him back?
The thought made Ruby shudder. She had no fear of death any more, but she was sickened by the thought of more pain. Most of her bones felt broken already, but who’s to say what further pain he might inflict, if he put his mind to it. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the thought of him falling on her in vengeance. Memories of his desire for her made her whimper. Please, God, not that…
The soft tickle of cool air made Ruby turn. The broken brick stared back at her. Shifting over to the wall, she pulled the loose fragments free. Taking the letters and cards from the hidey-hole, she laid them out on the ground next to her. She was in no doubt that she would die down here now – all that was left for her was to leave some kind of message, some kind of marker that she had lived – and died – in this strange, fabricated world. Locating the felt-tip pen, she removed the lid and shook it violently. Then, finding a spare square of blank paper, she began to write.
Nothing.
She shook the pen again, this time licking the end with her tongue. The bitter taste of ink cheered her and she began to write. But after three letters – ‘My n’ – the ink ran out and no amount of coaxing could yield any more. It had run dry.
Ruby lay amidst the letters, despondent, furious and utterly bereft. She made no attempt to conceal the letters – what was the point? They were all she had now. Her only connection to a world beyond her captor. She would leave them where they were, fanned out around her on the floor. She would spend the rest of her days in the company of three dead girls.
100
The woman entered the dirty bathroom. She locked the door, then began to undress. Soon she was naked. Standing in front of the cracked cabinet mirror, she regarded herself. Leaning in, she turned this way and that as if searching for imperfections. Then tiring of this self-examination, she climbed into the bath. Pulling the clear plastic shower curtain round, she turned on the shower. A begrudgingly small jet of water squeezed out of the showerhead, running over her face, neck and body.
Helen stopped the tape. The young woman on the tape was Ruby. And the whole scene had been watched from on high, from a God-like vantage point.
‘Are there cameras in all the smoke detectors? Or just in the bathrooms and bedrooms?’ Helen asked him, her voice neutral despite her contempt.
Andrew Simpson, flanked by his lawyer, said nothing.
‘We have a full list here of your properties. If you want us to go round and check we will. I’m sure your tenants would be very interested to learn that you’re spying on th-’
‘Just the bedrooms and bathrooms.’
‘How many properties?’
Another pause, then:
‘Twenty.’
Helen shook her head. She wanted Simpson to know what she thought of him, hoped she might rile him. But he just stared at her with those dead eyes. Sanderson had always questioned why ninety per cent of Simpson’s tenants were female. Now it all made sense.
‘How long has this been going on? And before you think of lying to me,’ Helen continued quickly, ‘I have a team of officers at your lock-up on Valmont Road. So be under no illusions – we know the extent of your “activities”.’
Simpson stared at his hands – Helen was intrigued to see they were covered in small cuts – then looked up.
‘Over ten years now.’
‘How many tapes do you have?’
‘Hundreds.’
‘Why do you do it, Andrew?’
Simpson paused and looked at his brief, who gave him a gentle nod.
‘Because I like to look at them,’ he said quietly.
‘How do you feel when you watch these tapes?’
‘How do you think?’
‘Do you masturbate when you watch them?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Why does it arouse you? Is it their bodies? The fact they don’t know you’re watching? Or is it the power you have over them?’
Simpson held her gaze for a second.
‘No comment.’
‘Oh you’re going to have to do a bit better than that, Andrew,’ Sanderson said, taking up the baton. ‘I’ve seen the inside of your lock-up. I know what obsession looks like. Why do you do it?’
‘My client has declined to comment, so I suggest we move on,’ his lawyer interjected. He was a man of nearly sixty, overweight and overbearing – a telling testimony to Simpson’s casual misogyny. He liked to look at women but clearly would never have one as his lawyer. Sanderson looked at her notes and changed tack.
‘When we first questioned you about Ruby Sprackling, why did you direct us towards Nathan Price?’
‘I answered your questions. You asked me about him, I told you the truth. He had the keys to Ruby’s flat -’