‘Thank you,’ she replied, earning a smile in response. ‘If you were feeling kind, there are a couple of other things you could get for me too,’ Ruby went on, as casually as she could.

Immediately, a frown passed across his face. Was he suspicious? Did he sniff trouble? Keeping her expression as meek as possible, Ruby continued. ‘I would really like some make-up. I would love a hairbrush, some lipstick, some eyelash curlers and, if you don’t mind buying it, some nail polish.’

He looked at her, saying nothing.

‘I just want to look nice for you. And I think I deserve it, don’t you?’

Another long, painful pause, then he finally broke into a broad smile.

‘Were you nervous about asking for these things?’

Ruby looked at her shoes, fearful her expression would betray her.

‘There’s no need to be. I don’t mind it when you’re assertive. It’s more like the old you.’

He rose at this point.

‘I’ll get those things for you. You’ll … you’ll look pretty as a picture.’

With that, he departed. As soon as he’d gone, Ruby sank back down on the bed. It had cost her her last remaining ounce of composure to play her part, but it had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. She had expected more suspicion, more resistance, but actually he had played right into her hands.

The first phase of her plan was complete.

66

‘This is fucking out of order and I will not stand for it.’

Ceri Harwood seldom swore. It was strangely enjoyable, watching her superior lose her cool and Helen privately resolved to provoke her more often.

‘DI Grace knows the chain of command,’ the incandescent Harwood continued. ‘She knows she should have come to me first.’

Chief Constable Stephen Fisher nodded, before turning his attention to Helen.

‘Would you care to explain to me why you didn’t, DI Grace?’

Because Harwood would have told me to go jump in a lake, Helen thought, but swallowed that down. Her decision to go direct to Harwood’s superior was deliberate – a calculated gamble.

‘Detective Superintendent Harwood and I have already had this discussion and she’s made her feelings clear –’

‘So why are we having it again?’ Fisher interrupted.

‘Because the situation has changed,’ Helen replied. ‘Further investigation –’

‘Investigation that was not authorized,’ Harwood interrupted.

‘Further investigation has revealed a number of potential victims,’ Helen continued. ‘I have always believed that Pippa’s killer had the potential to be a serial offender and the evidence now points that way.’

‘Evidence?’ Harwood queried, witheringly.

‘Roisin Murphy and Isobel Lansley. Two young women with the same look, the same profile, who’ve been missing for over a year and who text and tweet at the same times of day and the same locations as Ruby and formerly Pippa. The geography doesn’t make sense – the New Forest, then Southampton city centre, then Brighton, then Hastings – their movements are so random and unlikely that the only explanation is that someone is deliberately trying to throw the young women’s families off the scent. Furthermore, what are the odds that four unconnected girls would be travelling around in the same seemingly random pattern?’

‘So you want to go back to the beach?’ Fisher interrupted decisively.

‘Yes. That’s the only deposition site we know of and serial murderers are creatures of habit. It’s a discreet, out-of-the-way location, which regularly washes away surface evidence, footprints and so on. It’s perfect for his purposes and he’d be a fool not to use it again.’

‘He? You keep referring to “he”. Who is he? You sound like you know him?’

‘We don’t have anything concrete so far –’

‘But still you want us to close a public beach, exhaust our resources digging up great swathes of it and create an unholy storm of public concern and negative publicity in the process. All because of your gut instinct.’

‘Because of the pattern of his offending. There is almost zero chance he won’t have attempted to abduct more victims in between Pippa and Ruby – and Roisin and Isobel fit the bill perfectly.’

‘We need more time, Stephen,’ Harwood countered, now turning to her superior. ‘Let’s investigate the circumstances of the girls’ disappearance and then see –’

‘It’s already been done,’ Helen returned aggressively. ‘Roisin had a one-year-old baby when she went missing. She tweeted saying she couldn’t handle being a mum any more and it’s true she had struggled at times, but her family are totally convinced that she would never have willingly abandoned her baby boy. They’ve spent the last two years searching for her. They’ve used the police, missing persons, local charities. They even hired a private detective – none of the “leads” provided by her tweeting check out. She simply hasn’t been seen anywhere since she went missing over two years ago.’

‘Even so, the investigations of a local family are no substitute for proper police work,’ Harwood fired back. ‘Let us pursue this line of investigation in a measured, methodical way and see if any of these “hunches” bear fruit. Rushing headlong into a major search operation only risks making us look very foolish indeed.’

Both women had finished now. Fisher regarded them, weighing up his options. Harwood had been his appointment and it had worked out well for him. Which is why Helen was surprised when he said:

‘You’ve got one day on the beach, Helen. Make the most of it.’

67

The girl in Boots shoved his purchases into a plastic bag and took his cash without once looking up. While he’d been walking round the shop he’d felt a sudden pulse of fear – would people look askance at a guy with a basket full of make-up? The local paper was still going to town on the Pippa Briers story, urging its readers to keep their eyes peeled for any suspicious activity that might lead them to her killer. They’d even gone as far as publishing a detailed offender ‘profile’, describing his likely race, background, body language and psychology. It was all rubbish of course, but some of their lucky guesses had made him uneasy. So he’d prepared a detailed cover story – even slipping a scratched old ring on to his fourth finger to make him look like a solid husband and father – but in the event these precautions had proved utterly unnecessary. Like most young people, the shop girl was only interested in herself – lazily picking up her smart phone the minute she had finished serving him.

The sight of the girl checking her messages reminded him of an important task he had overlooked. Usually he would have caught a train or bus somewhere before work – he’d had Bournemouth in mind this time – to carry out a swift round of texting and tweeting before returning to Southampton on the same train. It was a good way to throw people off the scent, without taking too much time out of his working day.

But having made a detour to Boots on an extended lunch break, he wouldn’t have time for that today. So seeking out a quiet spot on the Common, he began to send the customary messages. In days gone by he’d enjoyed this guilty pleasure – climbing inside these girls’ identities and speaking for them – but yet again he felt tense doing it. He was taking a risk tweeting so near his place of work, no question about it, and it robbed the little routine of its pleasure.

‘Funny how life keeps kicking you when yr already on the floor. Gettin used to it,’ he tweeted from Roisin’s phone. He was always careful to factor in the misspellings and abbreviations which these girls were so fond of. Roisin had always been a bit of a Jeremiah, would think herself into dark holes, so it was definitely in character for her to be bleating about life’s unfairness. He added a few more cynical thoughts, sent a couple of texts, then turned her phone off and slipped it back in his bag.