‘DI Marsh?’ Helen asked, flashing her warrant card at him as he looked up. ‘DI Grace, Hampshire Police. Could I have a quick word?’

‘How do you know where I live?’

‘Detective work, Tom. Can I call you Tom?’

They were sitting together now in the car. Marsh didn’t answer either way, so Helen pressed on.

‘Your Facebook site is a bit more informative than it should be.’

Marsh said nothing, conceding the point with a grunt.

‘I’m sorry for the cloak and dagger,’ Helen continued, ‘but I wanted to have a chat with you and it couldn’t be done officially, given the nature of the enquiry.’

Tom Marsh looked at her, intrigued.

‘I know you’re involved in undercover work and I’m not looking for you to betray any promises you’ve made or risk compromising your operations, but there’s an informant of yours I’d like more information on.’

‘Robert Stonehill,’ Marsh said evenly.

‘You obviously know who I am and who he is too. And I’d like to know if he’s been working with you.’

Marsh reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a packet of fags and lighting up. He was clearly contemplating whether or not to tell his interrogator to sling her hook. Then again, Helen thought as she studied his face, he was also a family man and perhaps not unsympathetic to her plight.

‘I can’t give you any names or specific details, as the operation is still ongoing. But it’s about drugs, ok? Far as I can work out Stonehill rocked up here without much of a plan. He fell into company with some folk from the wrong side of the tracks and before long was running their errands. Doing a bit of dealing and the like – the crews around here are always looking for new runners, fresh meat to take the risks for them. Turned out he was good at it – kind of used to keeping his head down by now. And he gained the trust of a few middle-men, even met a few of the big suppliers.’

‘Who are the ones you’re really interested in.’

‘Exactly.’

‘How did they pay Robert? Cash? Drugs?’

‘Mostly cash. He dabbles in drugs but isn’t that interested.’

‘And you pay him too?’

Marsh smiled and looked out of the window. He wasn’t going there.

‘Is he still on your books?’ Helen asked.

‘I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to say –’

‘Ok, but is he still in Northampton?’

A long pause as Marsh debated whether or not to say anything. Then:

‘You didn’t hear it from me and we never met, but … yes he’s still here. He uses the alias Mark Dolman.’

‘Any idea where he lives?’

‘Somewhere in Thorplands. I couldn’t say for sure. Thorplands is –’

‘I know where it is,’ Helen replied quickly, pleased for once to be ahead of Marsh.

It was tantalizing. To know he was in Northampton, but not exactly where.

‘And where do you two meet?’

‘No’ was Marsh’s blunt response.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I know what you’re going to ask and I’m afraid the answer’s no.’

‘Come on, Tom. Think about it from my point of view –’

‘I’m sympathetic to your plight – I really am. But I’m not risking compromising a year-long investigation for you. I’ve already told you enough – more than I should have – so if it’s all right with you, I’d like to be on my way, ok?’

His tone was firm and final, so, thanking him, Helen took her leave, watching his Ford C-Max burn away from her into the distance. He had gone as far as Helen could reasonably expect, but still she felt frustrated. She had no idea when he had last seen Robert, or what state her nephew was in. Nor did she have an address. That said, she did finally have some pieces of the jigsaw. It wasn’t enough – but it would have to do for now.

Biking back to Southampton, Helen’s head was full of thoughts of what she might do next. As ever her life was a precarious balancing act. Her number one priority had to be Ruby Sprackling – somehow, somewhere, they had to find a break that would bring them closer to her – but the pull of Robert was strong also. Even if she had to work round the clock, she would have to find a way to achieve both. For her own sanity if nothing else.

These thoughts were still spinning round, when Helen noticed the small dark car in the side mirror. She had just reached the outskirts of Southampton and was arrowing towards the hospital, when she spotted it a few cars back. There was something about the number plate – its distinctive EKO ending – that she recognized. Was she imagining it or had she spotted the same car following her down the M1 from Northampton? Upping her speed, she took a sharp left, then left again, ripping the throttle back to enable her to spin round the block in quick order and rejoin the main road a good hundred yards from where she had been.

The car was gone. No sign of it on the main drag or any of the side roads. Had Helen imagined it all? Or was someone interested in her movements today? Suppressing her anxiety, Helen hit the indicator and dived off the main road towards Southampton Central.

64

Sanderson was on to her the minute Helen entered the incident room. Moments later, they were camped in Helen’s office with the blinds down and the door firmly shut.

‘Sorry for the amateur dramatics,’ Sanderson said in reference to the closed blinds. ‘But I thought you ought to see this.’

She passed a file across the table, which contained four sheets of paper – all of them with a woman’s photo attached to the top right-hand corner.

‘I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours going over the local missing person’s registers and liaising with the relevant agencies. And it’s thrown up four possibles.’

Helen kept her expression neutral, but she didn’t like the sound of that number.

‘They all have the right look – dark hair, blue eyes – all live alone, are low-income and have been missing for some time. Two of them – Anna Styles and Debby Meeks – seem to have vanished completely, no communication of any kind. The other two – Roisin Murphy and Isobel Lansley – send the occasional text or tweet.’

‘How occasional?’

‘Not very often, but always at virtually identical times.’

‘Before their mobile signal goes off again?’

‘Exactly,’ Sanderson replied nodding, her expression sombre now.

‘Do the timings of the communications tally with those “sent” by Ruby and Pippa?’

‘Yes. They’re a perfect match.’

Helen looked at their pictures – Roisin was a single mum, studded with piercings, rough around the edges, but with stunning aquamarine eyes, while Isobel was a very different kettle of fish. Her eyes were equally striking, but they were hidden behind a long black fringe. Isobel’s gaze was sidelong, as if she was unkeen to be photographed at all. Helen exhaled long and hard, suddenly struck by the fact that she might already be looking at the faces of two corpses.

She was on her feet now and marching to the door.

‘I’ll take full responsibility for pursuing this line of investigation,’ she said over her shoulder. There was no time to wait, no time for indecision, and Helen knew exactly what had to be done.

65

He was already sitting on the bed when she awoke. Ruby sat upright with a start, freaked out to find him staring at her.

‘You’ve had a rough night,’ he said sympathetically.

He was right. Ruby had spent a sleepless night, kept awake by hope, but also by fear. Her captor’s obvious desire for her still haunted her waking thoughts.

‘I was cold,’ she lied, pulling the sheets up around her.

‘I’ll get you some extra blankets,’ he continued, ‘and I will try and pick up those books for you today.’