“Still trying to pin the exact location down, but it’s somewhere on the eastern fringes of the New Forest.”
Helen kept her expression neutral, despite the fear rising inside her. “And the second?”
“Sent this morning at around ten, Southampton city center.”
There it was. An exact match to the times and locations when Pippa Briers had texted and tweetedherlatest offerings. The relative briefness of the messages and the generalized, anodyne contact were concerning, as was the fact that both phone signals were on only briefly before vanishing again, presumably having been switched off. It looked very much like a third party was keeping the girls’ digital presence alive. The killer obviously didn’t know that Pippa’s body had been found and identified. Helen was glad that this discovery had been kept away from the press, as it now gave the lie to these fake tweets and texts.
“I want this link kept quiet for now,” Helen continued, after she’d filled Sanderson in on her thinking. “But Nathan Price is now our number-one suspect in both cases and I want him found. Give his photo to uniform, get people back to his house, circulate his van registration details to traffic—and get Stevens down to Pippa Briers’s flat in Merry Oak. There may still be tenants in the building who remember Pippa and Nathan. We need as much info as we can, as fast as we can.”
Sanderson nodded and hurried off to do Helen’s bidding. Helen watched her go, her emotions churning. They were making progress and Helen could already see Sanderson’s orders energizing the team—the latest developmentscouldherald the safe return of Ruby Sprackling if they moved with speed and purpose. On the other hand, their latest breakthrough had confirmed Helen’s very worst fears. They were dealing with a serial offender. A skilled and experienced predator. Helen had caught two serial killers already in her short career. But would her luck hold a third time?
28
“The body was found on Saturday morning and has since been identified as being that of Pippa Briers from Reading, a woman in her mid-twenties. The family have been informed.”
Detective Superintendent Ceri Harwood’s delivery was crisp and authoritative. Sitting next to her, Helen privately conceded that Harwood was made for this sort of thing—the massed ranks of the press spread out in front of her like an adoring audience—and she always came across as calm and in control. Helen by contrast often found it hard to suppress her impatience in these situations. She knew the press was a valuable tool for an investigation, but she hated the inactivity of sitting here answering questions, when she could be out chasing leads.
“How did she die?” Emilia Garanita asked.
As ever, the crime correspondent of theSouthampton EveningNewsgot the first question in. She had an uncanny ability to talk over her colleagues in the press. Her question was aimed directly at Helen, but before she could answer, Harwood jumped in.
“The postmortem examination is ongoing. We will release more information as and when we have it.”
“Is the beach safe? Should the public be worried?” Emilia asked with hesitation. Helen could see her searching for the story, the sensation. But once again Harwood played a straight bat.
“The beach isperfectlysafe. I must stress that the body appears to have been buried several years ago—this is not a recent incident. The beach has been reopened and the public should feel free to use it as usual.”
“Any leads, Inspector?” asked Tony Purvis from thePortsmouth Herald, nipping in just ahead of Emilia.
“We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry,” Helen replied, “and we would ask anyone who knew Pippa Briers socially, or who worked with her at the Sun First Travel Agency, to contact the incident room. Any details—no matter how small—about her life in Southampton could be extremely helpful. She had several piercings and a tattoo, an image of which is in your briefing notes, which we believe was done during her time in Southampton. If anyone recognizes it or knows where it was done, we would ask them to get in touch.”
“Any suspects? Anyone you’d like to talk to?” Tony continued.
“Not at this time,” Helen said firmly. “But obviously we’ll let you know if that changes.”
Helen had debated long and hard about whether to release Nathan Price’s name to the press. But Harwood had urged caution and for once Helen had agreed with her. Naming him might drive him further underground, which was the last thing they wanted.
The briefing wound up shortly afterward. As Helen was leaving,she felt a familiar tap on the shoulder. She turned to find Emilia Garanita facing her. They were old foes, but Emilia had nevertheless gone out of her way to be publicly supportive of Helen recently. During the investigation into the Ella Matthews murders, Emilia had seriously overstepped the mark, illegally tracking Helen’s movements during the hunt for the killer—and she was still eating humble pie because of it.
“Any further tidbits for theNews? We’d love to help in any way we can.”
Helen smiled inside. Emilia clearly found it quite a struggle to be friendly—full-frontal assault was her default setting.
“Nothing yet, Emilia. But I’ve got your number.”
Emilia watched her go. She had had precious little from Helen since they called a truce a year ago, and the pain of being nice was beginning to tell on her. She was working her ass off to get some new purchase on Helen, but it was abundantly clear that she was still frozen out. Irritated, she gathered up her things and followed the rest of the assembled journalists toward the exit. She’d hoped this case might be a way back in—a chance to get her career back on track—but already it was looking like another horrible dead end.
29
She was going to break his neck this time. She was going to march right in there and break his stupid neck. What a mug she’d been. Sticking up for him, lying for him, when all the time he’d been lying toher. About where he was, what he was doing, who he was with...
Angela Price’s fury was at fever pitch, yet still she hesitated. A girlfriend had tipped her off that she’d seen Nathan in Southampton city center, when he’d specifically told Angela he would be working the week in Bournemouth. He’d probably been up to no good—boozing, chasing girls, being the faithless little shit he always was. Why did she put up with it?
She’d been round his usual haunts—the builders’ cafés, pool halls, drinking dens—and eventually found him in the Diamond Sports Bar. There he was—not thirty feet away—watching the rolling TV news intently, totally oblivious to her presence. Her hand wason the bar door; she could walk in there right now and call him out. Embarrass him in front of his mates, call him every name under the sun, let the world know what he was really like...
“Out of the way, love.”
A thirsty punter barged past her, irritated by her hovering presence at the doorway. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t going in there. She looked like death—lank hair, no makeup, bags under her eyes—and would only embarrass herself. It was all blokes in there and they’d only laugh at her pathetic display. She would be the one who’d end up looking ridiculous, not him.
