‘Ruby, fancy seeing you here,’ Frances said, tottering up the newly cleaned corridor before opening hours. Ruby could barely hide her annoyance.
‘I’m always here,’ Ruby said nonchalantly. ‘A lot of our victims end up in hospital.’
Frances’s lips pursed in a taut little smile, her fingers tightly gripping the lip of her designer handbag. She looked too overdressed to be visiting hospital, and Ruby hoped she was going on holiday. Preferably somewhere very far away.
‘Why don’t you join me for a cuppa in the canteen?’ Frances said. ‘You’re a tea drinker, aren’t you? Although judging by your breath I’d say you’d had a drink or two.’
Ruby frowned. Had Frances paid someone to tail her, or just smelt it on her breath? Ignoring the barbed comment, she took a seat across from her in the small hospital canteen. She checked the clock on the wall. It was time she could ill afford. She needed to get home and have a shower before work. But you did not say no to Frances Crosby; things were tenuous between them as it was. Ruby stirred her tea, which was disappointingly weak. Masking a yawn, she waited for what was going to come next. Everything had an agenda with the Crosbys. There were no accidental meetings. She swivelled her head to look for Lenny and was relieved to see no sign. It was odd she had yet to mention Nathan’s stabbing, but unless she brought it up Ruby was going to leave well alone. There was no fooling Frances. She would have known that Ruby had ignored her advice to stay away from her son.
‘Have you heard the news?’ Frances said, taking a dainty sip from her cup. ‘Our Nathan’s getting married.’
Ruby almost spat out her tea, and in an unladylike slurping manner just managed to swallow it back in time. Her throat burned from the insipid liquid, but Ruby barely noticed; she was too busy contemplating Frances’s words. Surely she had been hearing things given what Nathan had just said to her? She raised her eyebrows, forcing a smile as she tried to regain her composure.
‘No, I hadn’t heard, but I don’t really mix in those circles anymore.’ She would not give Frances the satisfaction of enquiring about it. It was quite clear why she wanted to talk to Ruby on her own.
‘Oh yes, he’s been seeing this lovely girl called Leona for some time now. She’s got a degree you know; she’s very pretty as well. Of course, at twenty-eight years of age she would be.’ Frances leaned her head to one side, speaking in a sickly sweet tone. ‘They’re completely head over heels. We’re expecting him to pop the question any day now. They’ve even been out looking at rings.’
‘That’s nice,’ Ruby said. ‘You’ll be able to have those grandchildren you’ve always wanted.’ Ruby cursed herself for the bitterness lacing her words. Her stomach was churning with the news. Frances was lying. She had to be. Or was this why Nathan had bought her the flat? Was it a final farewell because he wanted to move on with someone else? He was never any good with break-ups; dealing with emotions was beyond his capabilities. But getting his mother to do his dirty work seemed out of character. And Ruby could not believe that he had any part in this meeting.
Frances pursed her lips in a smug smile. ‘I’m going shopping soon to buy an outfit for the wedding. It’ll be a lavish affair, of course; her family is very well-to-do.’
‘I wish you all the best,’ Ruby said, gathering her things to leave. ‘But I really must be off now.’ She bit back the words balled up in her throat. She wanted to tell Frances about the daughter she and Nathan gave up for adoption. That would wipe the smile from her smug face. She also wanted to say that if she hadn’t been such an overbearing cow, she could have already had a place in her granddaughter’s life.
Perhaps it would be for the best, Ruby told herself as she returned to the station. A new start for Nathan with his twenty-eight-year-old bride, who would give him all the children he wanted, or at least that his mother wanted. And she would be free to get on with her work and concentrate on the one thing left in her life that had any meaning: cleaning up the streets that she loved so much. But criminals are like weeds: you stamp one out and the next morning there’s another two growing in its place.
Every time she closed her eyes she could see Frances grinning at her. The ferocity of her emotions took her by surprise. Why did she let that woman affect her this way? It was exactly what she wanted. And Ruby fell for it every time. She pushed her thoughts of Frances away and regained her focus. Women were in danger. She had to find the killer before they struck again.
Ruby sat at her desk with the door closed. Having sat through briefing in the stuffy conference room, she now had the unenviable task of working out the overtime figures for approval. Piles of paperwork were mounting on her desk, and as she shoved her overflowing ‘in’ tray to one side a black-edged envelope caught her eye. She picked through the rest of the unopened post, blowing out her cheeks at how much she had let things slide. There was not one but two of these envelopes, directed solely to her. ‘DS Ruby Imogen Preston, C/O Shoreditch Police Station’. A shiver ran down her spine and she closed the window. But it was more than the outside breeze making her uneasy. She had seen these envelopes somewhere before. But she was yet to draw up the memory which would provide her with answers. Plucking a pair of scissors from her desk drawer she slid it through the top of the envelope, extracting the information within.
A slim white card, black lined, just like the envelope.
‘In Memoriam:
EMILY EDMONDS
Died in her sleep
Rest in Peace’
‘What the?’ Ruby stammered, sliding her reading glasses from her pocket and reading the text again. Like the envelope it was printed in black ink, but these words drew her in. She glanced at the other envelope, itching to tear it open. But she had already tainted one; best to save the second in case of DNA evidence. What were the chances that it mentioned Charlotte’s or Monica’s names? Or was there a future victim declared?
Ruby stared at the postmark. The first one was stamped the day before Emily’s body was discovered, so it would have been delivered the day her body was dumped. She glanced at the second envelope, dated the day Monica’s body was found. Was it someone who had watched the TV appeal playing a sickening joke? But it had been addressed directly to her. Not Downes or Worrow, who led the appeal.
The emails, the letters, and the use of her middle name: it had to be her daughter, trying to gain her attention. With a heavy heart she picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘Bones?’ she said, waiting for him to respond. ‘I’ve got something for you. And I need it analysed right now.’