Silence from the team, so Helen carried on. “What is the importance of their look? Why them? I would like Lucas and McAndrew to lead on breaking down these women’s lives to see if we can pinpoint where he might have come into contact with them. What were these women’s regular commitments—where did they work, socialize, exercise? We need chapter and verse so we can compare for overlap.”
McAndrew and Lucas nodded, though neither looked overjoyed. Helen didn’t care—she was going to force this team to work together.
“Next up, access. According to Sinead Murphy, Roisin had four keys to her council flat. Sinead had one in her purse. The other three were recovered from her flat, after she vanished—we found them in her boxed possessions.”
“So she knew her abductor?” DS Fortune offered.
“It’s possible, as there was no sign of a break-in or a struggle at her flat. But Roisin had a small social circle and hadn’t mentioned anyone she knew who worried her or who were new on the scene. So we should also think about people you might let into your flat.People in uniform—police officers, paramedics, gas and electricity inspectors, charity workers. Would these women let these kinds of people in? Let’s go back to the families, see what we can glean.”
“How does he get them out?” Finally DC Stevens had spoken. He didn’t say much, Helen thought to herself, but his question was on the money.
“Isobel Lansley had traces of something sticky in her hair. We sent it off for tests and found that it was an industrial solvent,” Helen replied. “It’s called trichloroethylene.”
“What’s it used for?” Sanderson asked.
“All manner of things,” Helen answered. “Cleaning work surfaces, degreasing metal parts; you find it in boot polish and dry-cleaning chemicals. Plus, historically people have used it to get high.”
“And would it knock you out?”
“It was trialed as an alternative to chloroform in the 1920s, a form of anesthetic, before being taken on by industry—so there’s no question it could incapacitate you. As with chloroform, a soaked rag over the mouth and nose would do the trick.”
The team was silent once more. This latest development was sinister and unnerving.
“To administer it, he would have to get close to them,” said DC Lucas, picking up the thread. “But there were no breakages, no sign of a struggle in Ruby’s flat, so...”
“She must have trusted them enough to let them get close,” DS Fortune offered.
“Or the victims were already asleep,” Sanderson interrupted. “We know Ruby had had a big night out. She could have conked out and then...”
More silence.
“Let’s go back to the flats,” Helen continued. “I know this wasa while ago, but check if any of the long-term residents remember seeing any authority figures around the flats late at night. Anything that struck them as unusual. There has to be a reason why this guy never leaves a trace. How does he get in?”
The team broke up, directed to their tasks by an energized DS Fortune. Helen watched them go. Progress had been modest, but finally they had a few pieces of the jigsaw, providing the unit with a well-needed morale boost. Perhaps they were finally inching close to understanding their killer’s MO.
Helen’s reflections were interrupted by her mobile phone ringing. She was surprised to see it was James calling. Her downstairs neighbor, a handsome junior doctor at South Hants Hospital, had been friendly at first, but had backed off when it became clear that Helen had no interest in being another notch on his bedpost. Puzzled, Helen answered it quickly.
“James?”
“You better get back here, Helen.”
“Why, what’s up? Please don’t tell me there’s been another leak.”
“They’re in your flat.”
“Who?”
“Police. Half a dozen of them. You need to get back herenow.”
91
Helen took the stairs three at a time. By the time she reached the top floor, she was sweating slightly, but she didn’t hesitate—bursting through the doors. She had been expecting the worst, but even so the sight that met her eyes rendered her speechless.
Her flat—her precious flat—was being turned over. Six officers, all sheathed in forensics suits, were taking the place apart. Opening desk drawers, checking under tables, bagging her laptop and iPad.
“Would someone explain to me what the fuck is going on?” Helen roared, holding up her warrant card. “I’m a detective inspector with Hampshire Police, this is my flat andyouare in the wrong place.”
“Actually we’re in the right place,” a middle-aged woman with a bad haircut shot back, holding upherwarrant card. “DS Lawton, Anti-Corruption.”
