The Doll's House

82

It was 10 p.m. and the incident room was deserted except for two lonely figures. Helen and DC Sanderson sat huddled at the DI’s desk, poring over the photocopied documents that the team had garnered from Simpson’s files.

He had lied to them – that much was clear. He didn’t have forty-two flats – he had over fifty. Some he owned the freehold to – having carved a decaying house into five tiny, dilapidated flats – others he was just the letting agent for. Interestingly, he also owned a number of derelict properties – lock-ups, outbuildings, even a barn or two – dotted around the county. Some were rural, some were urban, but all were isolated.

As Helen skimmed the list that Sanderson had compiled, she was seized with a desire to search them all. In an ideal world she would have been on the phone to a POLSA team already – scrambling the chopper, the cadaver dogs, the heat-seeking equipment – but that would have been a massive commitment of resources over that many properties. She wouldn’t be allowed to call up that kind of firepower without rock-solid evidence and, besides, she wasn’t sure she’d get the warrant anyway. They had one connection between Simpson and the dead women – a strong connection admittedly – but as yet no hard evidence linking the landlord to any instances of abduction or murder. He had no criminal record, there were no witnesses linking him to anything untoward and no picture yet of him having an unhealthy interest in young women. Helen had already instructed McAndrew to take a forensics unit back to Ruby’s flat. If they could place Simpson in her flat, then they’d have something to work with, especially as he had sworn blind he hadn’t been in that flat in years.

So, much as Helen was tempted to go kicking down doors, she knew that she would have to go about this in the old-fashioned way.

‘Round up as many of the team as you can,’ she said to Sanderson. ‘And pull in uniform too. I want every one of the properties on this list checked out. Knock on doors, ask around, find out if anyone’s seen or heard anything unusual at these places. Shouts, cries, lights on late at night. Do whatever you have to – just give me something to work with.’

Sanderson was already on her feet, ready to bash the phones and corral the troops.

‘Does that mean you won’t be joining us?’

‘Love to, but I’ve got something much more unpleasant in mind.’

Sanderson turned, intrigued.

‘I’ve got a date with Emilia Garanita.’