The Doll's House

96

DC Sanderson scanned this way and that, searching for danger. The lock-up she was scoping was at the end of a needle-strewn alleyway in Portswood. There was no street lighting, no CCTV, you could vanish off the face of the earth here and no one would be any the wiser. She cursed herself for continuing her survey of Simpson’s properties alone – she should never have allowed station politics to jeopardize her safety. That was the first rule in the book.

She turned to leave, anxious to be out of this fetid alleyway. She had had high hopes for this property. It was remote and isolated, and had not appeared in their first sweep of Simpson’s holdings. For reasons that weren’t clear, the freehold for this property seemed to be in Simpson’s late wife’s name. This might have been a historic oversight or for tax purposes, but Sanderson doubted it. Everything Simpson did was premeditated and controlled. Nothing was left to chance. But on arrival it quickly became clear that there were no potential witnesses in this part of town and there was little hope of gaining access. There was only one entrance and this was covered in padlocks and chains – there was no way of circumventing the lack of a search warrant.

Halfway down the alley, Sanderson paused, her gaze drifting up towards a small window in the side of the building. The dirty window, cracked and broken, hung slightly open. It wasn’t large but was wide enough for the slender Sanderson to slip through.

A wheelie bin lay abandoned nearby. What had once been in it? Food waste? A dead dog? She couldn’t tell, but the maggots didn’t seem to care. Swallowing her nausea and slamming the lid shut she dragged it under the window and climbed on top. From here it was a short jump to the windowsill. Her fingers slipped off first time and she nearly toppled off the wheelie bin as a result, but the second time round she gripped the sill forcefully. Using the toe of her boots to grip in the worn mortar holes of the brickwork, she scrabbled up fast and ten seconds later she was inside.

As she landed, a cloud of dust rose up to greet her, creeping into her nose and eyes and causing her to sneeze violently. The noise seemed to echo round the deserted lock-up, underlining her isolation and vulnerability. Plucking her iPhone from her zip pocket, she used its torch to look around her.

My God, what was this place?

Every square inch of it was taken up with boxes that rose from floor to ceiling. All of them marked and labelled. Sanderson examined the one nearest her. Despite the dust, the label looked new, the writing fresh. Sanderson hesitated – she knew examining the box’s contents was opening a legal can of worms – especially if whatever she discovered found its way into a court case, but Sanderson figured that that horse had bolted with her breaking and entering. Besides, Ruby had to be their first priority now.

Putting on a pair of plastic gloves, she teased open the box. What had she expected to find? Blood-stained clothes? A kidnap kit? A confession written in blood? Whatever she had been hoping for, she was still surprised by what she found. The whole box was stacked full of tapes. Video tapes.

Sanderson hadn’t seen CCTV at any of Simpson’s properties thus far, so she was immediately intrigued. Looking at the spine, her curiosity rose still further – ‘September 2013’ was written on it in blue biro. Flicking through a dozen other tapes, a pattern emerged: ‘June 2013’; ‘August 2013’. Opening one up, she examined the tape – no labels – then looked at the inner sleeve.

And stopped in her tracks. Written in biro on the sleeve – a single word that changed everything.

‘Ruby.’