She shook the pen again, this time licking the end with her tongue. The bitter taste of ink cheered her and she began to write. But after three letters—My n—the ink ran out and no amount of coaxing could yield any more. It had run dry.
Ruby lay amid the letters, despondent, furious and utterly bereft. She made no attempt to conceal the letters—what was the point? They were all she had now. Her only connection to a world beyond her captor. She would leave them where they were, fanned out around her on the floor. She would spend the rest of her days in the company of three dead girls.
100
The woman entered the dirty bathroom. She locked the door, then began to undress. Soon she was naked. Standing in front of the cracked cabinet mirror, she regarded herself. Leaning in, she turned this way and that as if searching for imperfections. Then, tiring of this self-examination, she climbed into the bath. Pulling the clear plastic shower curtain round, she turned on the shower. A begrudgingly small jet of water squeezed out of the showerhead, running over her face, neck and body.
Helen stopped the tape. The young woman on the tape was Ruby. And the whole scene had been watched from on high, from a God-like vantage point.
“Are there cameras in all the smoke detectors? Or just in the bathrooms and bedrooms?” Helen asked him, her voice neutral despite her contempt.
Andrew Simpson, flanked by his lawyer, said nothing.
“We have a full list here of your properties. If you want us to go round and check, we will. I’m sure your tenants would be very interested to learn that you’re spying on th—”
“Just the bedrooms and bathrooms.”
“How many properties?”
Another pause, then:
“Twenty.”
Helen shook her head. She wanted Simpson to know what she thought of him, hoped she might rile him. But he just stared at her with those dead eyes. Sanderson had always questioned why ninety percent of Simpson’s tenants were female. Now it all made sense.
“How long has this been going on? And before you think of lying to me,” Helen continued quickly, “I have a team of officers at your lockup on Valmont Road. So be under no illusions—we know the extent of your ‘activities.’”
Simpson stared at his hands—Helen was intrigued to see they were covered in small cuts—then looked up.
“Over ten years now.”
“How many tapes do you have?”
“Hundreds.”
“Why do you do it, Andrew?”
Simpson paused and looked at his brief, who gave him a gentle nod.
“Because I like to look at them,” he said quietly.
“How do you feel when you watch these tapes?”
“How do you think?”
“Do you masturbate when you watch them?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why does it arouse you? Is it their bodies? The fact that theydon’t know you’re watching? Or is it the power you have over them?”
Simpson held her gaze for a second. “No comment.”
“Oh, you’re going to have to do a bit better than that, Andrew,” Sanderson said, taking up the baton. “I’ve seen the inside of your lockup. I know what obsession looks like. Why do you do it?”
“My client has declined to comment, so I suggest we move on,” his lawyer interjected. He was a man of nearly sixty, overweight and overbearing—a telling testimony to Simpson’s casual misogyny. He liked to look at women but clearly would never have one as his lawyer. Sanderson looked at her notes and changed tack.
“When we first questioned you about Ruby Sprackling, why did you direct us toward Nathan Price?”
