Simpson looked at Helen, as if trying to read her. Helen hated to be supplicatory to a man like Simpson, but if he liked his women subservient, then so be it.
“I have no idea where she is. I don’t know anything about these girls.”
“Oh, I’d say you do,” Helen said. “I’d say you know an awful lot about them. What they look like naked, what they look like when they use the toilet. What they look like when they make love, when they masturbate. You know all these things, Andrew. And more.”
Simpson stared at his hands once more, to avoid Helen’s fierce gaze. Was that a flicker of shame she saw?
“And guess what? Pretty soon the whole world is going to know too. When they put you in the witness box, they won’t let up, Andrew. They’ll ask you about the home movies, about the underwear and jewelry you stole, about what you did when you thought about these girls. Imagine for a second what that will be like. The judge, the jurors, the press, the public gallery all looking at you as they force you to talk about what you liked to do—”
“Inspector, please don’t bully my client,” said the lawyer, attempting to intervene.
“But I can help you, Andrew,” Helen continued, unabashed. “I can save you all that scrutiny. All that humiliation.”
Still Andrew Simpson didn’t look up.
“But I need you to help me. I need you to tell me where I can find Ruby. If she’s still alive, then there is a deal to be done here. Set her free, accept a guilty plea and those details will never leave this room. They will be our secret.”
Finally Simpson looked up at Helen. She was unnerved to see defiance in his eyes.
“I don’t know where she is.”
“Is that the best you can do?”
“You’ve got nothing on me,” he spat back sharply.
“These women were all your tenants. You stalked them, spied onthem—you knew everything about them. Their routines, their habits, their vulnerabilities. They went missing from your properties—no struggle, no break-ins—because you had the keys. You took them, kept them and when you tired of them, you killed them.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know that you’re a dirty little pervert. Your mum’s still alive, isn’t she, Andrew? How do you think she’ll feel when all this comes out?”
“Fuck you.”
“I don’t have time for this. Neither does Ruby. So I’m going to ask you again—where is she?”
“I’ve said all I’m going to say to you. And if you threaten me again, you stupid bitch—”
“Where is she?”
Helen was halfway across the table, her hand grabbing Simpson by the collar. But Sanderson was on her feet quickly, hauling Helen off Simpson, who had instinctively raised his fist to retaliate.
“I think we’ll leave it there for now,” Sanderson said quickly, heading Simpson’s irate lawyer off at the pass. “In the meantime, I’d advise your client to think very carefully about cooperating.”
Sanderson flicked off the tape, but paused as she followed Helen out the door. “It’s the only play he’s got left.”
101
Tim was waiting for her when Ceri Harwood got home. He had been trying to contact her all day—in the end she’d had to turn her mobile off. She knew at the time that she was just postponing the moment when she had to face him again.
It had been a long day. The confrontation with Helen Grace had left Ceri feeling dispirited and, more than that, concerned. She had fantasized about that moment for months—ever since she started this whole thing—and it had proved a big letdown. There was too much defiance, too much certainty in Helen’s voice that she would survive this latest attack. The fact that Anti-Corruption had found no trace of the missing file since then only made matters worse.
“I’ve been calling you.”
“I know,” Ceri said without enthusiasm, dropping her bag on the floor and sinking into the sofa. She knew they had to have thisconversation, but she couldn’t face it. She was dog-tired—all she could think about was crawling into bed and shutting out the world.
“We need to talk.”
Was there a more unpleasant phrase in the English language?
