The Doll's House

51

Hidden in a remote interrogation suite, DC Sanderson set about her work in earnest. Helen had tasked her with absolute secrecy, so she’d lied to the rest of the team, telling them she was heading home with a headache. In fact, she had scooped up the impressive number of missing-persons files she’d amassed during the day and spirited them away to a forgotten part of the station that was awaiting refurbishment.

It was an odd, lonely space to be and Sanderson’s mood of disquiet was deepened by the numerous sad stories she encountered as she pored over the files. Family break-ups, child abuse, domestic violence – the various scenarios that had prompted these young people to go missing were uniformly depressing and yet the faces that stared up at her from the files were all smiling. Anxious relatives always gave their ‘best’ photos of their missing loved ones, photos that suggested happiness and hope. Sanderson suspected these moments were fleeting at best and probably wholly unrepresentative of the subject, who had in all likelihood fled, committed suicide or been murdered. And yet for all that, and in spite of Sanderson’s battle-hardened cynicism, the photos were still affecting. The beaming, optimistic faces proved that the subjects had been happy once, that at some point they had occupied a space that was joyful and forward-looking, before their lives caved in on them.

With each file, Sanderson’s spirits sank a notch lower. It wasn’t just the unpleasant details of these young women’s lives – though those certainly were upsetting – it was also the sheer volume of cases. Sanderson wasn’t naïve, she knew the statistics on teen runaways, she knew how many young women ended up walking the streets or worse to escape a difficult home life. But statistics are just numbers – they don’t mean very much until you add up the individual cases one by one, until you are confronted with tiny details of scores of young lives gone awry. She had only trawled Southampton, Portsmouth and Bournemouth’s missing-persons lists, as Helen had instructed, but that had proved enough – more than enough – to keep her busy for the day.

She was now down to the last few files and there were currently six individuals who gave Sanderson cause for concern. Cheryl Heath and Teri Stevens had the look, but were frequent runaways who usually resurfaced when the money ran out. So despite some residual concerns, Sanderson had made the decision to put them on the backburner for now. Which left Anna Styles, Roisin Murphy, Debby Meeks and Isobel Lansley.

There was no question that these girls bore a strong resemblance to Pippa Briers. Long, straight, raven-black hair, piercing blue eyes and something enigmatic in their expression. They were all somehow beguiling, hinting at deeper layers if you could only get to know them better. Their appearance was different for sure – some were punkish and low-rent, some straitlaced and professional – but they all inhabited their look with the same spirit. If Helen was right – if Pippa’s abductor was a serial offender following a pattern – then Sanderson was in no doubt he would be drawn to these vulnerable women, most of whom came from difficult backgrounds.

Even as Sanderson thought this, she found herself self-editing, bridling at her own euphemisms. Serial offender was a loose term that covered a multitude of sins and was generally used to reduce alarm by softening the reality of the situation. But there was no point dressing things up. If Helen’s hunch was right – and increasingly Sanderson felt that it was – then they weren’t pursuing a serial offender. They were hunting a serial killer.