M. Arlidge - The Doll's House

‘The body was found on Saturday morning and has since been identified as being that of Pippa Briers from Reading, a woman in her mid-twenties. The family have been informed.’

Detective Superintendent Ceri Harwood’s delivery was crisp and authoritative. Sitting next to her, Helen privately conceded that Harwood was made for this sort of thing – the massed ranks of the press spread out in front of her like an adoring audience – and she always came across as calm and in control. Helen by contrast often found it hard to suppress her impatience in these situations. She knew the press was a valuable tool for an investigation, but she hated the inactivity of sitting here answering questions, when she could be out chasing leads.

‘How did she die?’ Emilia Garanita asked.

As ever, the Crime Correspondent of the Southampton Evening News got the first question in. She had an uncanny ability to talk over her colleagues in the press. Her question was aimed directly at Helen, but before she could answer, Harwood jumped in.

‘The post-mortem examination is ongoing. We will release more information as and when we have it.’

‘Is the beach safe? Should the public be worried?’ Emilia replied with hesitation. Helen could see her searching for the story, the sensation. But once again Harwood played a straight bat.

‘The beach is perfectly safe. I must stress that the body appears to have been buried several years ago – this is not a recent incident. The beach has been reopened and the public should feel free to use it as usual.’

‘Any leads, Inspector?’ asked Tony Purvis from the Portsmouth Herald , nipping in just ahead of Emilia.

‘We’re pursuing several lines of enquiry,’ Helen replied, ‘and we would ask anyone who knew Pippa Briers socially, or who worked with her at the Sun First travel agency, to contact the incident room. Any details – no matter how small – about her life in Southampton could be extremely helpful. She had several piercings and a tattoo, an image of which is in your briefing notes, which we believe was done during her time in Southampton. If anyone recognizes it or knows where it was done, we would ask them to get in touch.’

‘Any suspects? Anyone you’d like to talk to?’ Tony continued.

‘Not at this time,’ Helen said firmly. ‘But obviously we’ll let you know if that changes.’

Helen had debated long and hard about whether to release Nathan Price’s name to the press. But Harwood had urged caution and for once Helen had agreed with her. Naming him might drive him further underground, which was the last thing they wanted.

The briefing wound up shortly afterwards. As Helen was leaving, she felt a familiar tap on the shoulder. She turned to find Emilia Garanita facing her. They were old foes, but Emilia had nevertheless gone out of her way to be publicly supportive of Helen recently. During the investigation into the Ella Matthews murders, Emilia had seriously overstepped the mark, illegally tracking Helen’s movements during the hunt for the killer – and she was still eating humble pie because of it.

‘Any further titbits for the News ? We’d love to help in any way we can.’

Helen smiled inside. Emilia clearly found it quite a struggle to be friendly – full-frontal assault was her default setting.

‘Nothing yet, Emilia. But I’ve got your number.’

Emilia watched her go. She had had precious little from Helen since they called a truce a year ago and the pain of being nice was beginning to tell on her. She was working her ass off to get some new purchase on Helen, but it was abundantly clear that she was still frozen out. Irritated, she gathered up her things and followed the rest of the assembled journalists towards the exit. She’d hoped this case might be a way back in – a chance to get her career back on track – but already it was looking like another horrible dead end.

She was going to break his neck this time. She was going to march right in there and break his stupid neck. What a mug she’d been. Sticking up for him, lying for him, when all the time he’d been lying to her . About where he was, what he was doing, who he was with…

Angela Price’s fury was at fever pitch, yet still she hesitated. A girlfriend had tipped her off that she’d seen Nathan in Southampton city centre, when he’d specifically told Angela he would be working the week in Bournemouth. He’d probably been up to no good – boozing, chasing girls, being the faithless little shit he always was. Why did she put up with it?

She’d been round his usual haunts – the builders’ cafes, pool halls, drinking dens – and eventually found him in the Diamond Sports Bar. There he was – not thirty feet away – watching the rolling TV news intently, totally oblivious to her presence. Her hand was on the bar door, she could walk in there right now and call him out. Embarrass him in front of his mates, call him every name under the sun, let the world know what he was really like…

‘Out the way, love.’

A thirsty punter barged past her, irritated by her hovering presence at the doorway. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t going in there. She looked like death – lank hair, no make-up, bags under her eyes – and would only embarrass herself. It was all blokes in there and they’d only laugh at her pathetic display. She would be the one who’d end up looking ridiculous, not him.

Tears pricked her eyes as she walked away. Why was she such a massive waste of space? She would never be anything but a doormat, something for Nathan to pick up and toss aside whenever he wanted…

She slowed as a thought occurred to her. There was one way she could get her own back on the faithless bastard, one thing she could do to scupper him once and for all.

Summoning her courage, she pulled out her battered Nokia and after a moment’s hesitation dialled 999.

‘Get your hands off me, girl.’ It was said with a smile, but the aggression beneath was clear. ‘I know you want to get in my trousers, but I’m a married man, so get your fucking mitts off me.’

Sanderson didn’t dignify Nathan Price’s outburst with a reply. He’d been effing and blinding since she’d picked him up and, besides, she wouldn’t put it past him to do a runner. One hand on his cuffs, one hand on his collar – that was the best way to keep hold of him. If she was honest, this was one of the small perks of the job, cutting violent, unpleasant men down to size. She bustled him roughly through the doors, only releasing him when they reached the custody sergeant.

‘Got a nice one for you, Harry,’ Sanderson said, depositing Price at the front desk. The formalities were soon done and they were buzzed through to the custody area. As they neared the interrogation suite, DS Lloyd Fortune approached.

‘All right, fella, what did they get you for?’ Nathan asked with mock sympathy.

Ignoring Price’s racist jibe, Lloyd turned to Sanderson.

‘I’ll take this charmer off your hands.’

For a moment, Sanderson said nothing. Price was her suspect and more importantly her collar.

‘It’s all right, I’ve got it.’

Sanderson should have backed down immediately of course, but something – pride? anger? – stopped her.

‘DI Grace suggested that she and I lead on this one.’

Was this true? Was she being elbowed aside? Whatever the truth of the matter, she couldn’t argue the point with Nathan Price hanging on their every word, visibly enjoying the tension between the two officers.

‘Lovers’ tiff?’ he offered helpfully. ‘Like a bit of black, do you?’

‘Watch your mouth,’ Lloyd barked back, hauling the grinning suspect away towards the custody suite.