The Doll's House

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.

Helen cannoned off a rough dirt wall, her forward momentum suddenly and brutally checked. Using her free hand she felt her way round the corner, moving carefully but purposefully forward. She had the sense that there was someone with her in the smoke, right behind her, and turning, she swung her baton in wild self-defence. But it connected with nothing, and in the deep gloom Helen could just about make out that she was still alone.

Helen moved forward again. She just wanted to find Ruby and get out of this place. It was getting hotter all the time and harder and harder to breathe. Helen suddenly found herself plunging to the floor, her foot having caught on something solid. In the clear air near the ground, Helen could see she had tripped over the lip of a doorway.

Turning she could make out another open doorway a few yards ahead of her. The heat was less intense lower down, her vision slightly better, so in spite of the obvious dangers, Helen crawled forward, through the threshold and into the room beyond.

The sight that greeted Helen took her breath away. The room was ablaze. A wooden table and chair had already been consumed by the flames and the other fixtures – an old cooker, an iron bedstead – were next in line. Secured to the heavy bedframe and writhing in agony was the thin frame of Ruby Sprackling. A precise ring of fire encircled her, the killer’s sadistic and deliberate method of execution, but Helen was damned if this poor girl was going to die in this hole, so hurdling the flames she sprinted over to her. As she did so, another wave of heat hit her. The fire was freshly made, but fierce and they had only seconds before they would be overcome.

Ruby’s hands were tied tight with nylon cord, secured to the bedframe with a constrictor knot. Ruby’s wrists were already red-raw. There was no way she could wriggle out of the cord’s grip and the bedframe was too strong and too thick to cut through.

Searching desperately for some means of liberation, Helen spotted a small patch of crumbling brickwork in the far wall. Without hesitating, she plunged towards it. Within seconds she was back by Ruby’s side, clutching the loose brick in her hand, hammering at the metal bedframe. The strut that Ruby was tethered to protested, then bent before finally snapping in two. Pulling Ruby to her feet, Helen tugged the securing knot up, up, and eventually off the severed end of the strut. Immediately Ruby collapsed into Helen’s arms, but Helen propped her up, slapping her gently but firmly in the face.

‘Stay with me, Ruby.’

She half dragged, half walked her through the flames and to the doorway.

‘Keep going.’

Ruby’s eyes rolled in their sockets, the smoke filling her lungs, clouding her brain. Helen could tell she wanted to blank out, to sleep, but they had to keep moving. She pinched her hard – eliciting a small reaction – and they moved on once more.

‘Not far to go n-’

Helen froze, the words stillborn in her mouth. The lights had suddenly flicked off, plunging them into darkness.

He was down here after all.