“I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to say—”
“Okay, but is he still in Northampton?”
A long pause as Marsh debated whether to say anything. Then:
“You didn’t hear it from me and we never met, but... yes, he’s still here. He uses the alias Mark Dolman.”
“Any idea where he lives?”
“Somewhere in Thorplands. I couldn’t say for sure. Thorplands is—”
“I know where it is,” Helen said quickly, pleased for once to be ahead of Marsh.
It was tantalizing. To know he was in Northampton, but not exactly where.
“And where do you two meet?”
“No” was Marsh’s blunt response.
“I’m sorry?”
“I know what you’re going to ask and I’m afraid the answer’s no.”
“Come on, Tom. Think about it from my point of view—”
“I’m sympathetic to your plight—I really am. But I’m not risking compromising a yearlong investigation for you. I’ve already told you enough—more than I should have—so if it’s all right with you, I’d like to be on my way, okay?”
His tone was firm and final, so, thanking him, Helen took her leave, watching his Ford C-Max burn away from her into the distance. He had gone as far as Helen could reasonably expect, but still she felt frustrated. She had no idea when he had last seen Robert, or what state her nephew was in. Nor did she have an address. That said, she did finally have some pieces of the jigsaw. It wasn’t enough—but it would have to do for now.
***
As she was biking back to Southampton, Helen’s head was full of thoughts of what she might do next. As ever her life was a precarious balancing act. Her number-one priority had to be Ruby Sprackling—somehow, somewhere, they had to find a break that would bring them closer to her—but the pull of Robert was strong also. Even if she had to work round the clock, she would have to find a way to achieve both. For her own sanity if nothing else.
These thoughts were still spinning round when Helen noticed the small dark car in the side mirror. She had just reached theoutskirts of Southampton and was arrowing toward the hospital when she spotted it a few cars back. There was something about the number plate—its distinctive EKO ending—that she recognized. Was she imagining it or had she spotted the same car following her down the M1 from Northampton? Upping her speed, she took a sharp left, then left again, ripping the throttle back to enable her to spin round the block in quick order and rejoin the main road a good hundred yards from where she had been.
The car was gone. No sign of it on the main drag or any of the side roads. Had Helen imagined it all? Or was someone interested in her movements today? Suppressing her anxiety, Helen hit the indicator and dived off the main road toward Southampton Central.
64
Sanderson was onto her the minute Helen entered the incident room. Moments later, they were camped in Helen’s office with the blinds down and the door firmly shut.
“Sorry for the amateur dramatics,” Sanderson said in reference to the closed blinds. “But I thought you ought to see this.”
She passed a file across the table, which contained four sheets of paper—all of them with a woman’s photo attached to the top right-hand corner.
“I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours going over the local missing persons registers and liaising with the relevant agencies. And it’s thrown up four possibles.”
Helen kept her expression neutral, but she didn’t like the sound of that number.
“They all have the right look—dark hair, blue eyes—all live alone,are low-income and have been missing for some time. Two of them—Anna Styles and Debby Meeks—seem to have vanished completely, no communication of any kind. The other two—Roisin Murphy and Isobel Lansley—send the occasional text or tweet.”
“How occasional?”
“Not very often, but always at virtually identical times.”
“Before their mobile signal goes off again?”
“Exactly,” Sanderson replied, nodding, her expression somber now.
