“Roisin Murphy went to a free mums and babies group that was held in the crèche at the shopping center,” DC McAndrew chipped in.
“And Ruby?”
“Ruby used to hang out in the center with her mates. Window-shopping, getting up to no good.”
“Then it fits. They took their keys there and walked into BenFraser’s life. They looked just like his sister, so he kept a key, stalked them, then abducted them.”
“But to make them perfect—a replica of his sister—he would have to ‘customize’ them,” DC Sanderson interjected.
“The tattoo,” Helen responded, “and possibly more besides.”
“Where does he get the stuff, though, the trichloroethylene?” DC Grounds queried.
“Let’s think about what Jim Grieves said,” Helen countered. “Trichloroethylene is used in cleaning agents, solvents but also boot polish. You could perhaps extract it from boot polish—”
“Without ever drawing attention to yourself. No trail of any kind.”
“But why does he starve them? If he loves these girls?”
DC Lucas’s question hung in the air for a moment, before Helen replied:
“Why don’t we go and ask him?”
126
“Hello, Ruby.”
Ruby had crawled into the corner and stared up at her captor with ill-concealed fear.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Ruby kept her eyes riveted to him. The more he insisted he wasn’t going to hurt her, the more convinced she was that he would.
He sat down on the bed a few feet away and looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “I have a confession to make.”
He smiled now, looking for all the world as if he were blissfully happy. “I made a mistake.”
Ruby stared at him. What was he up to? Where was this going?
“I got the wrong girl. I shouldn’t have taken you. I’m sorry.”
He seemed genuinely penitent. And oddly relaxed.
“What are you going to do to me?” Ruby asked, her voice shaking as fear bit.
“What do you think I’m going to do to you?”
He half laughed as he said it, as if she were the one who was mad, not he. “I’m going to let you go.”
127
“Is there another way in?” Helen barked, pulling Sanderson aside, her frustration finally getting the better of her.
“Not according to the architect’s plans,” Sanderson countered.
They had arrived at the WestQuay shopping center discreetly—fifteen officers, all casually dressed as if for shopping—and fanned out, taking up their various vantage points. A few passes confirmed what was obvious straightaway. Despite the fact that it was only five p.m., WestKeys was shut.
They couldn’t force the shutters open without causing a scene and possibly alerting the suspect—or friends of his—to their presence. So Helen was keen to find another way in. But the shop was small—a glorified kiosk, really, sandwiched between bigger, brighter outlets—and had no rear entrance.
