Using fine tools and brushes, the team had now revealed the woman’s face and the damp black hair that framed it. Helen examined it closely. There were two small holes in her right nostril, but, as with Pippa, the jewellery had been removed. Any make-up there might have been had also vanished, the moisture and movement of the sand effectively scrubbing the young girl clean. There was a stark simplicity to her face, the features proud and undisguised. It was beautiful, but also crushing. Helen had seen the photos, read the files, and looking down at the face below, she had no doubt in her mind that she was now looking at the remains of Roisin Murphy.
Helen was tempted to leave Roisin now. The rest of the team were at the other dig site, twenty odd yards away, disinterring another form, and it was important to establish as swiftly as possible whether she was their other missing girl – Isobel Lansley. Yet something made Helen pause. It’s strange the connection you can make with someone you’ve never met before, someone whose life has been snuffed out months, possibly years, ago. But Helen wasn’t alone in wanting to cleave close to the poor girl, now that she had been discovered. Her family had been searching for so long, hoping against hope that she was ok, wondering if Roisin would ever return to her baby boy. The uncertainty was over now – they would never see their bubbly, troublesome daughter, mum and friend again. She had been let down by those around her and cruelly let down by life and – though there was nothing that could be done for her – it seemed wrong to abandon her now.
It didn’t make much sense, but no one would leave the trench until they had delivered the young woman from her tomb. There was something tender about the way the team eased her shoulders and arms from the sand. It was obviously done to preserve both the evidence and the scene, but it was oddly moving, a final act of kindness in a brief, brutalized life. Helen made a mental note to thank the team later for their professionalism and care.
Already Helen’s mind was scrolling forward, drafting the words she would use to tell Roisin’s family the terrible news, but what she saw suddenly banished all such thoughts. Roisin’s left shoulder and arm had now been fully exposed and the sight of it made Helen’s blood run cold.
There, standing proud on her bare, pale shoulder was a small bluebird tattoo.
72
Ruby looked at her reflection, but saw a stranger staring back. On the back of the improvement in their relationship, Ruby had persuaded her captor to leave the main lights on during the day and had pushed her luck still further by asking for a mirror. He had refused of course – there was no way he was going to give her glass, or anything else that might be fashioned into a weapon.
But, in deference to her wishes, he had found a couple of sheets of Mylar and made a mirror of sorts. It had only taken him a few minutes to find the reflective sheets upstairs and it set Ruby wondering what kind of job he did. Mylar was used to make those shiny silver helium balloons – was he some kind of children’s entertainer? Did he work in a gift shop?
Pushing those thoughts from her mind, Ruby stared at herself in her ‘mirror’. She was already much thinner, anxiety and the denial of food shedding the pounds quickly. She could see her ribs now – all of them – and her arms looked bony too. Ruby wondered how long she could survive down here and once more visions of escape filled her thoughts. Her scrawny body and the sunken features in her face demanded action. She was beginning to look like one of those poor kids you see on charity appeals.
Her plan was in play and tonight she would see if he had gone for it. The anticipation was horrible. Had he got what she needed? And more importantly, if he had, would she have the courage to see it through?
73
She slipped her key in the lock and teased the door open. She should really have gone back to the station after the discoveries on the beach – to brief Stephen and talk to Media Liaison – but she couldn’t face it. Her mouth was dry, her head was pounding and she just wanted to shut the world out for a while.
Yet again, Helen Grace had made her look a fool. She had argued vigorously not to waste time and resources digging up the beach and though neither she, Helen nor Stephen would ever mention it again, it would be remembered by both. For Helen it would confirm her impression that her boss was a politician and desk jockey rather than a real copper, but more worryingly it would set back her relations with Stephen. He knew her well and had always liked her but lately she had come to question where his loyalties lay. Was he attracted to Helen? Many men were, despite the fact that she was totally unobtainable. Or was he just seduced by her status as the heroic face of Southampton policing? Once more, Helen had proved that she had a nose for the big, career-defining cases. And if she managed to bring in another serial killer it would burnish Stephen’s reputation still further. Leaving her as the bad guy who nearly messed the whole thing up.
Opening the fridge, Ceri Harwood took a large swig of Chardonnay straight from the bottle, then held the chilled glass against her raging head. It felt nice and suddenly all she wanted to do was to find Tim, snuggle up on the sofa and finish the rest of it. This cheering thought roused her to action and she climbed the stairs two at a time. Tim often worked at home and was constantly badgering her to get home early, so they could spend more time together. She seldom obliged – how could she in her position? – but having bunked off work she felt exhilarated by the thought of surprising him with her sudden appearance.
She was halfway up the last flight of stairs to the attic office, when she paused. The office was quiet, but there were noises coming from elsewhere. From their bedroom. She could hear Tim, but also female tones too. Laughing, talking and more besides.
Ceri willed herself to move, but her feet stayed firmly planted to the stairs. What does one do in these situations? Slink away or confront? She wanted to do the former – God she wanted to do that – but some vestige of personal pride now forced her to choose the latter course. Summoning her courage, she marched forward, turned the handle and stepped inside.
The confusion started as soon as she entered. Surprise, then shock, then panicked apologies, as the naked lovers scrambled to make themselves decent. Tim was already halfway across the room, trying to steer her from the bedroom, but she didn’t see him. She had eyes only for his lover. The woman she had been tasked with buttering up on numerous occasions, when she dined at their house. Lucy White.
Shrugging off her husband, Ceri Harwood stumbled downstairs to the kitchen. Her first thought was for the girls – she didn’t want them walking into this – so she found herself texting another school mum to see if she could pick them up. She invented a lame excuse for the sudden emergency, which brought her up short. Is this how it would be now – lying to cover up her hurt and Tim’s transgression? What are you supposed to tell your children in these situations?
Ceri sat down on the hard kitchen chair. None of this felt remotely real, but as she heard the front door shut quietly and Lucy’s gentle footsteps clip-clopping down the steps to freedom, she knew that it was. This day had started badly, got steadily worse and ended in utter horror.
All that she had to look forward to now was the fallout.