Alison sat down on Ruby’s bed and opened her bedside drawers. She knew she cut a sorry figure sitting on the old John Lewis duvet, rooting through drawers she had once been banned from opening, but what else could she do? She had been through Ruby’s stuff three or four times now, searching for some small clue as to her whereabouts—leafing through shoe boxes of old letters, discarded shopping receipts, old school reports—but to no avail. Ruby continued to elude her.
She knew the police no longer had a suspect in custody. There had been a brief surge in optimism when they were questioning that builder, but that had turned out to be a dead end. How she’d cursed them when she found out. Jonathan had counseled her against false hope, but Alison had already played out the narrative in her head. A speedy investigation, a swift arrest and Ruby returned to them safe and well.
The truth was that there weren’t many obvious culprits, and that was what unnerved her. Shanelle had been exonerated, as had this other guy, and, despite all of Alison’s desperate searching, no one else had come out of the woodwork. They said it was often family members who were responsible for these things, but that was impossible, surely? She had contacted Ruby’s boyfriends and schoolmates, but they were all awkward, surprised and innocent of any wrongdoing as far as she could tell.
So who? Who would do such a thing? Alison sensed the answer must be obvious and simple: she didn’t believe in bogeymen or stranger danger, but this was baffling and dispiriting. Ceasing her searching, Alison curled up on Ruby’s bed. Just the smell of the pillow made her cry. It smelled of Ruby’s perfume. Alison had always privately disliked Ruby’s choice of scent—it was one of those celebrity-endorsed products that cost nothing to make and everything to buy—but it smelled sweet to her now. It smelled ofherRuby. Burying her face in the pillow, Alison sobbed quietly. Another sleepless night beckoned, but tonight for once she wouldn’t feel so desperately alone.
63
Dawn was yet to break and the streets were dark and deserted. Recession cutbacks meant the city’s lampposts were switched off after midnight, with the result that Southampton felt a lonely and threatening place in the small hours. Oddly Helen liked it that way, enjoying the cloak of anonymity that it gave her. Cutting through the streets on her bike now, she felt relaxed and at ease—despite the early hour. And despite what lay ahead of her.
She was soon on the ring road, then on the motorway, heading north. Pushing past London, she skirted Northampton, before heading toward a village just to the west of the city. Bugbrooke was an old Norman village, populated by young families and retired workers—it was a pleasant, relaxed village with a friendly vibe.
Georges Avenue was just waking up as Helen parked her bike across the road from number 82. The curtains of the house remainedclosed, but all around the early birds were heading out to work—firing up the vans and swigging coffee from thermoses in expectation of a long day ahead. Helen watched them go, taking in their curious looks, well aware that she stood out like a sore thumb, leaning against her Kawasaki in her biking leathers.
She didn’t have long to wait. She suspected DI Marsh would be working the early shift and at seven a.m. on the nose, he left the house, kissing his wife good-bye as he went. Helen watched, waiting until he’d actually opened the car door before marching over.
“DI Marsh?” Helen asked, flashing her warrant card at him as he looked up. “DI Grace, Hampshire Police. Could I have a quick word?”
***
“How do you know where I live?”
“Detective work, Tom. Can I call you Tom?”
They were sitting together now in the car. Marsh didn’t answer either way, so Helen pressed on.
“Your Facebook site is a bit more informative than it should be.”
Marsh said nothing, conceding the point with a grunt.
“I’m sorry for the cloak-and-dagger,” Helen continued, “but I wanted to have a chat with you and it couldn’t be done officially, given the nature of the inquiry.”
Tom Marsh looked at her, intrigued.
“I know you’re involved in undercover work and I’m not looking for you to betray any promises you’ve made or risk compromising your operations, but there’s an informant of yours I’d like more information on.”
“Robert Stonehill,” Marsh said evenly.
“You obviously know who I am and who he is too. And I’d like to know if he’s been working with you.”
Marsh reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a packet of fags and lighting up. He was clearly contemplating whether to tell his interrogator to sling her hook. Then again, Helen thought as she studied his face, he was also a family man and perhaps not unsympathetic to her plight.
“I can’t give you any names or specific details, as the operation is still ongoing. But it’s about drugs, okay? Far as I can work out, Stonehill rocked up here without much of a plan. He fell into company with some folk from the wrong side of the tracks and before long was running their errands. Doing a bit of dealing and the like—the crews around here are always looking for new runners, fresh meat to take the risks for them. Turned out he was good at it—kind of used to keeping his head down by now. And he gained the trust of a few middlemen, even met a few of the big suppliers.”
“Who are the ones you’re really interested in.”
“Exactly.”
“How did they pay Robert? Cash? Drugs?”
“Mostly cash. He dabbles in drugs but isn’t that interested.”
“And you pay him too?”
Marsh smiled and looked out of the window. He wasn’t going there.
“Is he still on your books?” Helen asked.
