“What have they got on you?”
“A tape recording of my meet with DI Marsh. On its own, it’s not enough. She needs to prove I’ve got the file, hence the search at my flat.”
Now Charlie knew why Helen had come.
“I’ll do it now,” she said, rising.
“Thank you,” Helen said, heading back toward the kitchen. She paused in the doorway:
“Oh, and, Charlie, I’d get the lock on your back door sorted. Child’s play.”
Charlie took the rebuke in good humor and hurried upstairs. Anti-Corruption might make the connection between Helen and her or they might not, but there was no point in taking chances. She thanked God now that Helen had seen fit to trust the photocopied file to her for safekeeping. If she hadn’t, she would have been suspended or worse by now. And Charlie and Sally Mason would have been in the firing line too. Steve wouldn’t necessarily have minded, but it wasn’t how Charlie intended her career to end. She owed it to all of them to put this thing to bed once and for all.
She was all fingers and thumbs as she lit the fire lighters, stacked underneath the logs in their fireplace. It was an odd time of year for a log fire, but needs must. Eventually the match struck, the paraffin ignited and in minutes the fire was crackling nicely. Charlie didn’t hesitate, feeding the pages of the faked report, then even the file itself, into the flames. She was oddly tense as she watched the papers catch and curl, as if Anti-Corruption might burst in at any moment. But the house—the street—was quiet and before long the papers were reduced to ash. Charlie wondered if it was enough. They had foiled Harwood’s initial attempt to bring Helen down, but how complex was this scheme? And was there anything they had overlooked? The thought of Southampton Central without Helen was absurd and yet this now seemed to be Harwood’s mission. And Charlie knew from experience that when Harwood wanted something badly enough, she generally got it.
98
It was an ambush. As soon as he opened the door, she was on him, warrant card shoved roughly in his face.
“Good morning, Mr. Simpson. Not at work today?”
For a moment, Andrew Simpson said nothing, too shocked by the sudden appearance of a police officer on his doorstep to respond. He swayed slightly as if unsteady on his feet.
“I went to your work,” Sanderson continued, “but they said you were running late. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”
“Not at all,” he replied quickly.
“Good. Because I have a few more questions for you about Ruby Sprackling. May I come in?”
A heavy silence followed Sanderson’s request. Was that fear in Simpson’s eyes? Suspicion? Sanderson gazed over his shoulder to take in the interior. It was a mess. But was it embarrassment or somethingmore sinister that prompted Simpson to pull the door closer behind him, cutting off her view?
“Do you have a warrant?”
“No. But it won’t take me long to get one—”
“Then I suggest we do this elsewhere.”
Sanderson stared at him—trying to provoke a reaction with her evident irritation and suspicion, but he didn’t blink, looking straight back at her with hard, unflinching eyes.
“It’ll create a lot of paperwork if we go to the station,” Sanderson said. “Which will take up far more of your time. It really would be simpler if I just popped in—”
“We’ll do it at the station. Do you have a car?”
“Yes,” Sanderson said resignedly.
“Then let’s go,” said Simpson, slamming the door decisively behind him.
99
Ruby came to with a start—a noise from upstairs startling her. How long had she been out of it? And what did that noise mean?
He had not returned to her since the beating, which surprised her. What was he up to? she wondered. Since she first encountered him—that awful day—she’d had the sense that he was holding himself back, keeping something in. She had glimpsed the emotion at times—sparks of desire, flashes of anger—but he had always managed to rein it in. To appear in control and in command. Not now. As he had laid in to her, Ruby had seen real fury, a desire to destroy her—which was why she’d been surprised to find she was still alive when she came to. Now that she had crushed his fantasy, now that she had duped him, what was there to hold him back?
The thought made Ruby shudder. She had no fear of death anymore, but she was sickened by the thought of more pain. Most of herbones felt broken already, but who was to say what further pain he might inflict, if he put his mind to it? She closed her eyes, trying to block out the thought of him falling on her in vengeance. Memories of his desire for her made her whimper.Please, God, not that...
The soft tickle of cool air made Ruby turn. The broken brick stared back at her. Shifting over to the wall, she pulled the loose fragments free. Taking the letters and cards from the hidey-hole, she laid them out on the floor next to her. She was in no doubt that she would die down here now—all that was left for her was to leave some kind of message, some kind of marker that she had lived—and died—in this strange, fabricated world. Locating the felt-tip pen, she removed the lid and shook it violently. Then, finding a spare square of blank paper, she began to write.
Nothing.
