Sprinting down the short dingy corridor, she soon came to another locked door. She had been expecting this. He always shut this door quietly, presumably to conceal its existence from her, but she had heard itandnoted the second key on his key ring. She slippedthis key into the lock—her hand was steadier now—and, swinging the door open, ran through it to freedom.
She was surprised to find a long tunnel stretching out in front of her. She upped her pace, desperate to be away from this place. The exertion exhausted her. She hadn’t moved a muscle in days, wasn’t used to this sudden burst of activity. But she could sense that liberation was close at hand and pushed herself on.
Then she came to an abrupt halt, staring uncomprehendingly at what lay in front of her. She was at ajunction. Three separate corridors led off from this point—all of them disappearing into gloom. One of them must lead out of this hell. But which one?
Summoning the last vestiges of her courage and energy, Ruby plunged down the right-hand corridor, disappearing fast into the inky darkness.
88
It was the smell that hit you first. An overwhelming smell of damp, spiced up with bad drains and the thick smell of fried food. DC Sanderson stepped out of the moldering living room and poked her head into the kitchen—she immediately noted that the ceiling was coated with years of grease and cigarette smoke.
The Kurdish family who lived in this sorry excuse for a flat eyed her suspiciously, saying little. Sanderson presumed they were illegal immigrants but wasn’t going to push it. They didn’t look like scammers and certainly hadn’t washed up in the land of milk and honey. She wondered if they had lived in better conditions at home, but decided against asking them.
Sanderson wasn’t here to cause them trouble—she had bigger fish to fry. For the last two hours, she and a taciturn DC Lucas had supervised a Hampshire-wide sweep of Simpson’s properties,knocking on doors, inveigling their way inside, asking questions of the suspicious occupants. The task was so vast that Sanderson and Lucas had put themselves on the front line as well. Sanderson had offered to do their rounds together—for company and security—but Lucas had declined.
“We can get through them quicker if we split up.”
Sanderson agreed, pretending to take her reasoning at face value. But she knew something else was going on. DC Lucas had overplayed her hand in bossing Sanderson around, claiming a superiority that never really existed. And things had changed a lot in the last day or so. DS Fortune had been largely absent, appearing distracted even when hewasin the office, whereas Helen Grace seemed to be ever present, driving the investigation forward. This put Sanderson at a distinct advantage, being a long-term ally of DI Grace, and Lucas very much in the shade. If Lucas was bright she would be making strides to befriend Sanderson—perhaps even going as far as to apologize—but Sanderson suspected this was not in her lexicon. Too young and too insecure to show weakness.
So they did their rounds alone. The Kurdish family’s command of English was limited, so after a few fruitless questions, Sanderson completed her tour of the flat. There were far more people living here than was safe or probably legal—a whole extended family crammed into four cramped rooms in conditions that could not even be described as basic. Simpson had complied with some of the legal obligations required of him as a landlord. The doors were fire doors, there were fire detectors in every room—including the bathroom, which was often skipped by cost-cutters—and the tenants did have a proper tenancy agreement. But that was the limit of the love and attention Simpson lavished on his tenants. Without exception, the flats Andrew Simpson owned or ran were hovels—there was no other word forthem. Wallpaper had long since peeled off; the floorboards were increasingly exposed as the dirty carpets wore away; the lightbulbs hung naked and unadorned in cheerless rooms.
Not for the first time that day, Sanderson was assailed by feelings of guilt—guilt at her good fortune. She wasn’t rich, but she had a decent flat, a little car, nice clothes—all the trappings of a modern, urban lifestyle. These poor people had only poverty and degradation. She felt ashamed that they had traveled so far and found only this. But mingling with her guilt were feelings of anger too. Anger toward Andrew Simpson. Many landlords were guilty of neglect, but this was on a different level. She knew he was unpleasant, grasping and grubby—but even so Sanderson was shocked to realize that this man was prepared to treat fellow human beings as little more than animals.
89
Ruby’s heart stopped as soon as she saw it. A dead end. She had sprinted the length of the right-hand corridor, only to find she had chosen badly. The gloomy tunnel looked like it belonged in a mine—rough earth floor and walls with industrial lights secured to the wooden joists supporting the ceiling—and ended in some kind of storage area. It was piled high with plastic bottles, empty sacks and other detritus. Turning on her heel, Ruby ran back to the junction as fast as she could. Her lungs were burning, her breath short and erratic, but she had to keep going. She only had one shot at this.
Her captor’s groaning was louder than it had been before. Had he made it out of her cell now? Was he coming toward her? For a moment, Ruby was frozen with indecision, the fear that he would catch her suddenly robbing her of her energy and conviction.
Footsteps. Now she could definitely hear footsteps. Turning, sheplunged down the central passage. Her legs threatened to buckle, but her desire to live drove her forward. Down the passage, round the corner, she sprinted on and on. Surely this had to be right? This tunnel was longer than the last one and she could feel cool air ahead of her. Cool, fresh air. Yes, thismustbe the one.
Ruby turned a bend and now tears—tears of naked fear—sprang to her eyes. Another dead end—a kind of air vent—but no means of escape. For a moment, desolation swept over, and then suddenly Ruby was seized with a thought. Perhaps this air ventwasa way out after all. She rammed her fingers into the grille and pulled as hard as she could, pushing her leg up against the rough wall to provide extra leverage. Nothing. The grille was secured with numerous heavy-duty screws, and without a screwdriver, she was powerless to move it. Ruby rested her pounding head against the grille, the fresh air mocking her, as it ran over her tearstained face. Was this it? If he found her, he would kill her; Ruby was sure of that. She would never see her family, her friends... She would never see daylight again.
All was still now. She listened intently. No more groaning. No more footsteps. Suddenly a thought occurred to her. What if he had taken the right-hand passage, leaving the left-hand one unguarded? The soft earth of the floor would have shown up her tracks—surely he would have pursued her down that passageway first?
Keeping close to the wall, Ruby crept back toward the junction, pausing every second step to listen. Her eyes darted this way and that, her ears strained, but there was no sign of him. She went a little farther. Then farther still. She was only ten yards from the junction. She tried to calm her breathing, bracing herself for one last burst of energy. It was now or never.
She bolted from her hiding place, veering sharply to her right around the corner. Without hesitation, she sprinted down the left-hand corridor. He would probably have heard her movement, so there was nothing for it but to put her head down and run.
A noise made her look up and suddenly she came to a juddering halt. He hadn’t gone down the right-hand passageway—he had raced straight for the exit. And there he was now standing in front of her, blocking her path.
Ruby turned to run, but he was on her in a flash. She felt his rough hand yank her head back, then reeled as his fist crunched into her face. As the blows rained down, Ruby slumped to the floor. She made no attempt to defend herself. She simply closed her eyes, took the blows and patiently waited for death.
90
“Okay, let’s pull together what we’ve got.”
It was lunchtime and Helen had gathered the team in the incident room. Sanderson and Lucas had returned from their hunt; McAndrew had sifted Roisin’s possessions—it was the first time in a while that the whole unit had been in there. Helen watched them as they assembled—taking in who stood next to who, who avoided who and more besides. It was clear to her that there was still unease within the team. Division? Cliques? It was too early to say, but it alarmed her. She had no time—Ruby had no time—for internal squabbling.
“So we have three confirmed victims and one missing woman. Pippa Briers was murdered three to four years ago, Roisin Murphy roughly two years ago. Isobel Lansley is our most recent victim—Jim Grieves estimates she was murdered within the last eighteen months. They all share a look—black hair, blue eyes—and each murdervictim has a distinctive bluebird tattoo on her left shoulder. DC McAndrew’s diligent work with Roisin’s family and ex has helped confirm that Roisin didnothave that tattoo when she went missing. Same goes for Pippa.”
“And Lansley?” questioned DC Lucas.
“We’re yet to interview her parents. They’re based in Namibia—have been for some years—but we’ve informed them of developments and we’re flying them over,” DC Grounds replied.
“Sooner rather than later, please,” DS Fortune chivvied.
“So we can assume that the killer tattooed the women,” Helen continued. “Why? To mark them ashis? To make them resemble someone else? For entertainment? What is its significance?”
