The Doll's House - [4]

The doorbell had gone unanswered, so Alison had let herself in. Ruby lived alone in a tiny, down-at-heel flat. She was by nature a party girl and often went out drinking on Friday nights, so it was not beyond her to cower under the duvet, nursing a hangover, blocking out the world. There was of course always the chance that she had brought someone home with her – not something Alison liked to dwell on, given her daughter’s romantic history – but there was too much riding on this to be bashful.

It had taken so long to get the family back to a point where a reconciliation might be possible – Alison was determined not to blow it now, however unreliable and wilful Ruby could be. Months of diplomacy had gone into engineering Ruby’s return to the family – today was the day when they were going to contact her landlord, book a removals firm. It was a day of celebration, a day to rubberstamp a hard-fought victory for common sense over hurt.

It was all Alison craved. A return to normality, a happy united family. So where was she? Where could Ruby be – today of all days? Should she call Jonathan? Get him to come over? No, best not give him any more ammunition when the truce was so fragile.

Ruby’s year-long exile from the family had been awful. Not just the bitter accusations, the tears, the threats, but more the sheer lack of her, their eldest, at family gatherings, holidays, barbecues. It had all just felt wrong, as if they – and she – were somehow wilfully ignoring a burning building or drowning swimmer.

Alison stalked through the flat again – bedroom to bathroom to living area – but there was no sign of her. What was this? A final act of rebellion? A warning that she could – and would – still be her own woman? Or was this something more serious? Was she reneging on their agreement? The uncertainty made Alison deeply nervous.

Then suddenly, birdsong – Alison’s phone heralding the arrival of a new tweet. Ruby was a regular tweeter – it was largely how Alison kept tabs on her – so Alison rushed over to her bag, pulling out the contents in search of her phone.

It was from Ruby. Alison read the tweet. Frowning, she read it again. She couldn’t be that selfish, could she?

‘Need to get away and be by myself If people had loved me better then I would stay… Rx’

She could. Ruby had pulled the roof down on them. And Alison knew immediately there would be no coming back from this.

7

Having finished tweeting, he turned the phone off and stowed it safely in his jacket pocket. He checked again that the coast was clear, but he was being over-cautious: no one penetrated this deep into the forest.

Pushing on, he made his way slowly through the undergrowth, careful not to snag his clothes on any of the thorns or brambles. His synthetic clothing was unlikely to leave any fibres behind, but you could never be too careful.

He emerged into a small clearing. The foliage was less thick here, the soil sandy and dry. Perfect for his purpose. Clearing a small patch of vegetation, he retrieved the large bundle of sticks from his rucksack and laid them carefully on the ground. Soon he had a good pile, encircled by the little trench he had dug carefully with his trowel. The trench would catch any stray sparks – a forest fire here would be catastrophic. Safety first, always safety first.

A little crumbling of firelighter to set it going. This was more dangerous than using newspaper of course, but newspapers could provide useful clues to a half-intelligent police officer, so paraffin it was. It seemed odd to feel the heat of the fire on an already warm Saturday afternoon, but needs must. If anyone did see it, they would think it was holidaymakers having a barbecue – there were loads of them about at this time of year. Anyway, he’d be long gone by the time anyone did find it, so…

The thought of discovery, as ridiculous as it was, prompted him to action. He pulled Ruby’s pyjamas from the bag and laid them on the fire. He watched them burn, riveted by the slow conflagration. They resisted stubbornly at first, then came the first flicker as the fibres began to catch, before eventually they succumbed to the inevitable.

It was stupid to enjoy it as much as he did. But he couldn’t help it. It was beautiful – the leaping flames, the glowing embers and finally the gossamer soft ash. He was moved by what he saw, aware of its wonderful significance. This was the end of Ruby. She was dead and gone now, but from the fire, from the ashes, something new and beautiful would rise.

8

The young woman lay cold and lifeless on the slab. The sand that had encased her for so long had been swept away grain by grain and sent for analysis, leaving the victim looking strangely clean. Now that she was away from the beach, exposed and unadorned in the police mortuary, she was a pitiful sight. She was so thin – skeletal was how Jim Grieves, the pathologist, had put it over the phone. As Helen stared at the corpse, she felt a wave of nausea sweep over her. This had once been a vibrant young woman, but now her skin was grey, her lips cracked and her bones strained everywhere to puncture what remained of her skin. Helen felt profoundly sorry for her.