18
Andrew Simpson ran his finger down his tie and regarded the young lady sitting opposite him. It was unusual for him to have such pleasant company during the working day.
“So Ruby e-mailed you two days ago, giving notice?” Sanderson asked. Simpson Rentals had a broad portfolio of properties for rent in Southampton, most of them one- and two-bed flats in shoddily converted houses. They were cheap, but like Andrew Simpson’s office, they were also unloved.
“That’s correct. It was brief to say the least.” Andrew Simpson turned his laptop round for Sanderson to see. As he did so, a strong odor of stale sweat drifted toward her. He was a thin man, with precise features and a very meticulous manner, but there was something about him that felt oddly washed out.
“I hereby give notice. Ruby Sprackling.” Sanderson read the e-mail aloud.
“It’s supposed to be in writing obviously, but nobody bothers with that anymore,” Simpson said.
“Did you have any warning? Any sense of why she was leaving?”
“No, it was completely out of the blue. But then, she was a scatty girl. Always losing things, forgetting to pay her rent on time—”
“And do you have any idea where she might have gone?”
“No. I don’t see my tenants very much.”
Sanderson could well believe it. Out of sight, out of mind. “Do you have a set of keys to her flat?”
This was what Sanderson had been building up to. It seemed logical that if a third party was involved in her disappearance, then he or she must have had access to Ruby’s flat. There had been no sign of forced entry, detritus from her night out had been found in the bin, the door had been double-locked on the way out—everything was in order, apart from the forgotten inhaler. If she had been taken, it was more of a... removal than an abduction or struggle.
“Yes, I do, but they are not in my possession at the moment.”
Sanderson knew of four sets of keys in existence—Ruby had a set, as did Shanelle Harvey and Alison Sprackling. The latter two sets had been accounted for. Ruby presumably still had hers, so that left one set out there. “Where are they?”
“I gave them to my builder on Thursday. We’ve had a few problems with leaking pipes in that property. I’d asked him to go in over the weekend and paint over the damage.”
Two days ago. Time enough to plan and execute an abduction.
“And what’s his name?”
Andrew Simpson looked uncertain, hesitating for the first time in their conversation, as if scared of the consequences, before finally replying:
“His name is Nathan Price.”
19
He was a strange sight in the tattoo parlor. Clutching his New Look and M&S bags, he looked like any number of beleaguered dads on a Saturday afternoon shopping trip. Except it wasn’t Saturday and he wasn’t in a shopping center. He was in Angie’s tattoo parlor—a forgotten dive in the shadow of the Western Docks that specializes in cheap body art and drug dealing.
The place had only been open five minutes when he entered. It was still a mess from last night’s trade—sailors, hookers, stag parties—and the grumbling owner seemed irritated to have business so soon. She was still half-asleep and more than half-intoxicated. She offered him her body art menu with a shaking hand:
“Choose your poison,” she said without smiling.
He looked her up and down before replying, “Actually I’d like to buy some needles.”
She paused with her tidying and turned to face him. “You want kit?”
“I need round liner needles, flat shader needles, some curved stacks and inks too, of course.”
“Any particular colors?”
“The full palette, please.”
Angie looked him up and down—he hadn’t a tattoo anywhere and didn’t look the type—then rooted around for the items. He watched her intently, alive for any signs of curiosity or suspicion on her part.
But he had chosen his quarry well. Money was all that mattered to Angie.
