‘How was your day?’

Caleb turned to his son, switching the TV off immediately. It was as if he’d been waiting for Lloyd – waiting for some company – all day and was now seizing on it eagerly. His siblings never visited, work friends no longer called round, which meant that like many old people his father was alone for most of the day. Lloyd had tried to encourage him to enrol in clubs, he’d even tried to get paid help to visit at one stage, but his father had pooh-poohed the idea. He didn’t have anything to say to new people, he said. He just wanted to spend time with family. Which in practice meant Lloyd.

‘Usual,’ Lloyd replied casually.

‘You sure? You look … a bit beaten up, son.’

Lloyd shrugged.

‘A few issues at work. No big deal.’

‘Problems with a case?’

‘No, just … staff issues,’ Lloyd answered.

‘Want to talk about it?’

‘Thanks, Dad, but to be honest, I just want to go to bed – I’m bushed.’

Caleb said nothing and Lloyd stayed where he was, as if awaiting his father’s permission to leave.

‘You can confide in me you know, son. I know I haven’t always been easy on you, but … you can talk to me. I’d like to talk.’

Did Lloyd imagine it or was there a slight quiver in his dad’s voice? Did he really feel that lonely? That shut out by his own son? He stole a look at his father, who dropped his eyes to the floor quickly.

Lloyd stayed for a few minutes more, chatting about this and that, then took himself off to bed. The truth was, he really didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to dwell on his reckless foolishness in getting into bed with Harwood. Which of course only made him hate himself more.

Today he felt like a failure, both as a police officer and as a son.

80

Sanderson wondered if she was staring into the eyes of a killer. He met her gaze, then looked away quickly, settling instead on Helen, who sat across the desk from him.

Andrew Simpson had been visibly unnerved to find police officers waiting for him in his office when he returned to close up for the day. During Sanderson’s first visit, he had been confident, precise and helpful – now he was on his guard. This no longer felt routine.

‘How well did you know Roisin Murphy?’ Helen asked, skipping the niceties.

‘I don’t know her.’

‘But you were her landlord?’

‘That doesn’t mean I know her though. Most of my business is done online, I meet the clients once, then sign the contracts and that’s it.’

‘No more contact.’

‘Not unless they’ve got a serious complaint. If it’s minor problems – leaks, boilers, what have you – it’s handled by my men.’

‘Men like Nathan Price.’

‘That’s right. I was very surprised to hear he’d been arrested and charged with underage –’

‘We’re not here to talk about Nathan Price. We’re here to talk about you, Andrew.’

Sanderson suppressed a smile. She loved watching Helen when she had her game face on. Because she was tall, athletic and pretty, people thought she would be genial and pleasant – and often she was. But there was a steel within Helen and an unwavering focus that unnerved people under interrogation. They could find no way to distract her, no purchase of any kind with which to drag the interrogation to areas where they felt more secure. She looked at you with such intensity and such purpose – Sanderson had seen many a criminal give up the ghost before they had even begun.

‘So for the record you only met Roisin once?’

‘Once or twice,’ Andrew conceded, fingering his tie.

Helen nodded, writing this down in her notepad. The subtle shift from ‘once’ had been noted.

‘And Isobel Lansley?’

‘Same.’

Monosyllabic now – that was a good sign. A sign that they had him boxed into a corner already.

‘What percentage of your tenants are female?’ Sanderson asked, finally entering the fray. She had let Helen put the wind up him, but it was her lead and she wanted to direct the conversation now.

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Hazard a guess,’ Sanderson responded.

‘I don’t know – fifty to sixty per cent.’

‘We have a court order here allowing us full access to your tenancy lists.’

Andrew Simpson stared at her.

‘So when we look through your records, you’re confident that roughly fifty to sixty per cent of your tenants will be female?’ she repeated.

Sanderson caught the swift glance Andrew Simpson shot at the CID officers outside, who were meticulously leafing through his filing cabinets. His anxious secretary stood over them, all at sea at this sudden and unexpected intrusion.

‘Maybe not fifty to sixty per cent,’ he eventually replied. ‘It’s hard to remember off the top –’

‘How many?’ Helen interjected.

‘About ninety per cent or so.’

Sanderson shot a look at Helen, but her boss didn’t react. The phrase hung in the air. Then with a very slight nod of the head, Helen gave Sanderson the licence to proceed.

‘About ninety per cent. Possibly even a touch more, I’m guessing,’ Sanderson continued. ‘That’s statistically highly unlikely if they are randomly selected. Why are so many of your clients female?’

The ‘your’ was slightly louder than the rest of her sentence.

‘Because they’re less trouble. They are cleaner, more organized, more reliable –’

‘Not always,’ Sanderson shot back. ‘Pippa Briers left you in the lurch, didn’t she?’

Simpson paused, then:

‘Yes.’

‘What about Roisin Murphy? Did she give you proper notice?’

‘Not that I remember,’ he conceded.

‘And Isobel Lansley?’

‘I’d have to look at my records …’

Sanderson glared at him.

‘But I don’t think so,’ he conceded.

Silence. A long pregnant silence.

‘You should know that the bodies of Roisin Murphy and Isobel Lansley were discovered earlier today. Like Pippa Briers, they were tenants of yours. Is there anything you’d like to tell us about them?’ Helen said.

Simpson shook his head firmly. Sanderson noted the first beads of sweat appearing on his forehead.

‘We estimate they were murdered within the last two to three years. I believe you’ve known them both for a while longer than that. Is that correct?’

‘I’ve already said I didn’t “know” them. Yes, they’ve been tenants of mine for several years but –’

‘Tell me about Isobel Lansley’s flat?’ Helen interrupted. ‘What state was it in when you gained access to it after her disappearance?’

‘It was ok. She always kept things nice and neat. She was very fastidious.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t know her?’ Helen said quickly.

‘I don’t. What I mean is that it was very clean and tidy when I went in.’

‘No signs of a struggle. Broken furniture or anything?’

‘No.’

‘The lock on the front door was intact? No windows forced open.’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘So either they let their killer in … or he let himself in?’

Andrew Simpson said nothing.

‘Presumably you have keys to all your properties?’

‘Of course,’ he replied, though he didn’t look happy admitting it. ‘Sometimes I lend them to workmen if there’s a job needs doing –’

‘But it wouldn’t be hard for you to get extra sets cut if you needed to.’

Simpson shrugged.

‘My guess is they were all abducted by someone who had access. Would you say that’s a fair assumption?’ Helen continued.

‘You’re the police officer,’ he replied evenly.

Helen nodded.

‘How many flats do you own in the Southampton area?’ Sanderson continued.

‘Forty-two,’ was the swift response.

‘And do you own any other properties?’

‘No. Other than my house of course.’

‘And you live in Becksford?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Nice and quiet round there, isn’t it?’