Marching to the utility room, Ben picked up the squat glass bottle. The rubber bung was still firmly in place and he could see that there was enough clear liquid inside for his needs. He snatched up a couple of old rags and shoved them in his pocket. He turned to leave, then paused. This place would be like a treasure trove when the cops turned up. This distillation unit, his mementoes of Summer, not to mention that thing in the doll’s house downstairs. Bitterness gripped his heart as he thought of those faceless policemen and women passing judgement on him as they patiently fingered his possessions …

Suddenly Ben knew what he had to do. Throwing the cardboard boxes aside, rifling through the detritus of this small room, he found what he was looking for. A large can of turpentine. And nearby it on the shelf, an old lighter, a relic of his smoking days.

Picking them both up, he stalked over to the trap door and hauled it roughly open.

136

Ruby looked up hopefully as the door swung open. Was this it then? But as soon as she saw the look on his face, all hope died within her. He looked at her with ill-disguised contempt and, worse, with intent. Ruby scrabbled off the bed as he approached, bounding towards the other side of the table. But she wasn’t quick enough, his left fist slamming into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her.

As she doubled over, his knee connected sharply with her nose and for a moment she blacked out. When she came to, she found herself lying on the floor. Her wrists were pinched and hurting – when she turned she saw that he was securing her bound hands to the metal bedstead.

‘Please.’

He ignored her, instead producing a battered metal can, whose contents he now poured on to the floor around her. The smell of the clear liquid was overpowering. Suddenly Ruby had an inkling of what he was going to do – but it didn’t make any sense. This was his doll’s house. Why would he destroy something that he’d created? What had gone wrong?

‘Please don’t do this. I’ll do anything. Please don’t kill me.’

The can was now empty and he tossed it aside. Ruby’s pleas seemed to have no effect on him – he now produced a cigarette lighter from his pocket.

‘I’ll be your Summer. I am your Summer, please don’t hurt me.’

Still he refused to look at her, instead igniting the lighter. He looked at the dancing flame in his hands and as he did so a thin smile crept over his face. Finally he looked up, his eyes boring into her:

‘See you on the other side.’

And with that, he tossed the lighter towards her.

137

Helen wrenched the throttle towards her and the bike kicked forward. Cutting down Queen’s Drive, she cornered sharply on to the ring road, immediately upping her speed to 90 mph. Finally they had the lead they wanted – the breakthrough they had been searching for since Pippa’s body was discovered – and yet Helen suddenly felt with total conviction that every second counted. It was as if time had just sped up, pushing them towards some desperate and uncertain conclusion.

Six unmarked cars followed her. They would arrive silently – no sirens, no lights – and once the Firearms Unit arrived to support them, they would go in swift and hard. There was no telling how a psychopath like Ben Fraser would react to the realization that his carefully constructed universe was about to implode. Many serial predators killed their victims and then themselves. Others tried to take some police officers with them. You could never predict how they would react.

Suddenly Helen saw it and her heart skipped a beat. A thin plume of smoke rising up into the sky. He knew. Helen didn’t know how, couldn’t even say for sure yet that the smoke was coming from Alfreton Terrace – and yet what other explanation could there be for this sudden and unexpected sight in a lonely part of town?

There were no school mums or passers-by round here, so Helen upped her speed still further, hurtling down Constance Avenue and into Alfreton Terrace. There it was – number 14 – a horrible, decaying impression of a Victorian home. Lifeless, rotting and nondescript – apart from the smoke that now seeped from the ill-fitting windows.

Helen leapt off her Kawasaki while it was still moving, the discarded bike sliding awkwardly to a stop in the yard. Sanderson was only a minute or two behind in the car, so Helen squeezed her radio, as she ran towards the house.

‘Call the fire service. I’m going in.’

There was a shout of protest from Sanderson, but Helen didn’t respond, ramming the radio into her leather jacket, as she sprinted towards the door. Without stopping, she launched herself at it. Pain seared through her shoulder as it connected with the heavy wooden door. The door buckled but stood firm, denying her entry. A bolt at the bottom was drawn, barring her way. It suggested that their killer was safety-conscious – and, more than that, that he was within.

Helen drew her baton and kicked at the stubborn bolt. Her steel-capped boots connected aggressively and, after a couple of kicks, the bolt flew off its hinges. The door fell crashing to the ground behind, sending up a huge plume of dust. Helen hurried inside, Sanderson and McAndrew pulling up outside just in time to see her disappear into the burning house.

Helen scanned the front room for signs of life, but there were none. Her only thought was to find a way down. His victims had been kept in darkness, so if there was a basement …

She darted her head into the living room, alive to the danger of ambush, but it was empty. She hauled the dirty rug off the floor, but finding nothing, headed straight into the kitchen. It was covered with heavily soiled lino, which looked secure enough, so ignoring it, Helen headed to the back of the house.

And there it was. A trap-door. It had two bolts on its upper surface to secure it from above, but they had been left unsecured. It was like an open invitation. For the first time, Helen paused. Smoke was billowing out of it and who knew what lay within – was Ruby even there? Was it an ambush – one last stand against those who would deny Ben Fraser his fantasy?

Then a cry. Faint, but urgent. And unquestionably female. Now Helen didn’t hesitate, opening the trapdoor and plunging down into the abyss. The metal rungs of the ladder were already heating up, but Helen’s leather gloves gave her some protection and she made it to the bottom swiftly.

She lifted the tinted visor of her helmet and looked around. It was an amazing sight – a warren of little corridors leading God knows where. At intervals, bare bulbs covered in plastic casings were attached to the wall, illuminating the path. It was so well manufactured it was almost like being in a mine, a shocking testimony to the concerted, precise nature of Ben Fraser’s madness. The thought made Helen shiver and she gripped her baton a little harder.

Another cry, closer this time. Helen plunged forward, hopelessly waving her arm in front of her to clear the smoke that surrounded her. It was filling her nostrils, creeping into her eyes, it was completely intolerable. A fire in these damp conditions would create great swathes of smoke. Helen slammed her visor down again – it would make her vision darker, but with it up she couldn’t keep her eyes open.

She navigated by sound now, using Ruby’s plaintive cries to guide her. Instinctively she wanted to call out to her, to reassure her that help was on its way, but he was down here somewhere. And she dare not announce her presence.