In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller

by Tina Pritchard

  I feel jubilant and hit the steering wheel so hard I catch the horn. A passing motorist flashes their lights at me in annoyance. I’m eager to get home and read up on the subject with no interruptions, but first I will have to navigate dinner and small talk with Laurie. I feel a bit of a bitch not discussing it with him, but I have the seed of a plan forming, and I’m eager to put it into action without any interference. Do I feel guilty about deceiving Laurie? Undeniably yes. Is that going to get in the way of what I’m about to do? Hell no!

  I made him promise never to lie to me again, and here I am having to climb down off my high horse. Why? Because I am now lying to my husband. Well, not lying, more omitting parts of the story. Why am I doing this? The honest-to-goodness truth is, I don’t really know. It just feels like the right thing to do.

  While telling Laurie of my visit to see Al and Sal at their house and what I was told about Nicky, something stops me from mentioning why they asked me to go there in the first place.

  ‘So you had a good day, then?’

  ‘Yes, I did, thanks. They’re an interesting couple. I think you’d get on with Al. He’s a retired engineer, and Sal is lovely. She can be a bit fractious, but she’s a bright cookie. Nothing much gets past her, that’s for sure.’

  We both pick at the salmon, which I have managed to overcook, and the new potatoes and green beans I have boiled until almost dry.

  ‘It’s sad their son died in such tragic circumstances,’ Laurie says. ‘Can you imagine how awful it would have been for us if Flynn or Alice had gone down that path?’

  ‘Nobody can be smug about substances of any kind. You know it can happen to anyone, however much love and support you pour into them, or whatever their background.’ I realise I must sound peevish and preachy when I see Laurie’s expression.

  ‘Okay, Fran,’ he says. ‘No need to snap. It was just an observation, and I’m certainly not smug about the kids. In fact, I’m damn sure they have both experimented. They certainly enjoy drinking. Either of them could have problems with drugs or alcohol at any point. I was just trying to point out that, like any parent, we would feel deeply upset if it was one of our kids.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It was an enjoyable afternoon, but a sobering one, and it was difficult to hear how awful it was for Sal to lose her son. I came away wondering how much of the problem is personal, how much is societal, and how much is lack of resources. The police do seem to be fighting a losing battle.’

  ‘Probably a combination of all of those things. That’s usually the case,’ Laurie says. ‘I know we dabbled a bit with pills and waccy baccy when we were students, but that seems so innocent now in retrospect.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Laurie,’ I say in mock exasperation. ‘Whatever you do, please refrain from saying “waccy baccy”. Not in front of me or the kids; in fact, in front of anyone. It makes you sound so old.’

  ‘But I am old.’ He laughs. ‘And isn’t saying embarrassing things in front of your children, especially if they’re with friends, par for the course when you are a parent?’

  I’m relieved when he says he has to work. Once he has gone up to the study, I sit with my laptop. Searching through a number of sites, I find numerous articles relating to drug problems in rural areas. The term ‘County Lines’ appears frequently. Further searches and I find I’m being directed to the National Crime Agency website. I feel a flicker of anticipation as I read what’s written there.

  ‘County Lines’ is a term used when drug gangs from big cities expand their operations to smaller towns, often using violence to drive out local dealers and exploiting children and vulnerable people to sell drugs. These dealers will use dedicated mobile phone lines, known as ‘deal lines’, to take orders from drug users. Heroin, cocaine and crack cocaine are the most common drugs being supplied and ordered. In most instances, the users or customers will live in a different area to where the dealers and networks are based, so drug runners are needed to transport the drugs and collect payment. A common feature in County Lines drug supply is the exploitation of young and vulnerable people. The dealers will frequently target children and adults – often with mental health or addiction problems – to act as drug runners or move cash, so they can stay under the radar of law enforcement. In some cases, the dealers will take over a local property, normally belonging to a vulnerable person, and use it to operate their criminal activity from. This is known as cuckooing.

  I’m not familiar with the term ‘County Lines’, but it fits with the article I read previously, and I do know rural areas are being targeted by dealers. Not all of what I have started to uncover makes sense, or even applies in Mel’s case. There are inconsistencies. But bits of the puzzle are lining up and slotting into place. I just need to see if I can try to locate the missing pieces without getting myself into too much trouble.

  22

  I’m not going to do anything reckless or stupid. Laurie would say I was being both, and the police, if they knew, would probably lock me up for perverting the course of justice. My motivations are not crystal clear, even to me. What I do know is that I feel the need to resolve my curiosity about Mel’s activities. Perhaps then, I might also find an explanation for Tyler’s death.

  Being angry with myself for not being able to prevent Tyler’s death is a recent stick to beat myself with. If I’m honest, the feeling of helplessness began some time ago. It first manifested following the death of Baby C and intensified when I was hollowed out from mourning Mum’s death and struggling to hold onto the remnants of my marriage. Seeping like a miasma into the raw, visceral space inhabited by grief, it took me hostage. In moments of introspection, it struck me that having three losses for the price of one could be seen as somewhat unfortunate, to misquote Oscar Wilde.

  As the months passed, a change came about within me. The sadness shifted, to be replaced by a sense of unease and dread. This morphed into a generalised and free-floating anxiety. Being fearful of everything rendered me hog-tied and feeble, and I hated the person I was becoming. Refusing to accept that I was ill, I preferred instead to view the process as a functional response to loss. I just needed time to heal, and then everything would get back to normal. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

  Tyler’s death has put me back on shifting sands and is testing my resilience once again. In spite of that, something is driving me on to try to find satisfactory answers for his death. I’m impatient to uncover as much of the truth as I can, although it’s become apparent there is another reason spurring me on. If Mel turns out to be culpable, then this changes everything. She cannot be allowed to continue. Making Mel accountable for her actions will, in part, assuage the guilt I feel at missing the signs that might have prevented an innocent life, that of Baby C, being snuffed out. If I find out she is involved, then I have to do everything in my power to stop her. I will just have to figure out how to make that happen.

  It’s strange, but for the first time in ages, I feel energised, as though I now have a sense of purpose. I know what it must look like from the outside. A silly, bored, middle-aged woman playing amateur detective. I’m a well-meaning, naive version of Miss Marple poking her nose in where it’s not wanted. Common sense says stay away, don’t get involved, but the invisible thread that links me to Tyler and Mel won’t allow me to give up on either of them.

  So this is my plan. Half-arsed and not very well thought out, but a plan all the same. I am going to attempt to try to befriend Mel Ingram. She has demonstrated she is frosty and difficult to like, but beneath that brittle exterior, I have caught fleeting glimpses of vulnerability. Perhaps I’m wrong, deluded even. Laurie would certainly be worried about my state of mind if he knew what I was thinking of doing. He would be even more concerned if he was to become aware that I stopped taking my medication months ago.

  And what about Mel? What if she’s suspicious of my motives and doesn’t respond to my overtures? The thought is short-lived, and I reject it. I’ve had a long career working with individuals from
all walks of life in and in all sorts of predicaments. I’d like to think there is nothing about people that can surprise me, so I’m putting that to the test. The skills I honed in my job are going to be put to good use in a way that some might consider dubious. I’m going on a charm offensive, and Melanie Ingram is going to be on the receiving end.

  It’s a beautiful autumn morning, and Buddy is in need of a walk. The temperature dropped overnight, so I wrap up warmly to combat the chill. The leaves are crisp underfoot. Some have blown up onto the pavements, or line up alongside the brick and stone walls. Others settle in clumps on top of drain covers. If it rains, the drains will block, and the pavements will turn slippery underfoot. It will be weeks before the Council sends a worker to clear up the soggy mess. Affected by the cuts to funding, the Local Authority seems to be leaving it later every year before tackling the job. It seems to me like a false economy not to deal with a potential hazard in good time. If someone falls and injures themselves, the cost in compensation will surely outweigh the costs involved in a regular clean-up. I make a mental note to mention it to Jenny and, with her assistance, draft up an email to send to the Council.

  The air is clear with just a tinge of woodsmoke carried on the breeze. It’s the time of year when people begin clearing their gardens before winter. Although it’s not illegal to burn wet wood and leaves, it’s antisocial and polluting to send clouds of choking, acrid smoke into the environment. Fortunately, the fire is far enough away for the odour to be just a pleasant reminder of the change in season.

  I think of Bonfire Night when I was a child. Holding sparklers in mittened fingers, the sweet crunch of toffee apples, the high-pitched squeal of rockets, and the roar of the fire topped with a straw-stuffed Guy. With Alice and Flynn, it was an altogether more organised affair. Still thrilling, but with the element of danger removed. The event usually consisted of a huge municipal bonfire, cordoned off for safety, and a spectacular firework display. Returning home, we would all have a go at apple bobbing and eat the baked potatoes keeping warm in foil in the oven. The highlight of the evening would be when it came to toasting marshmallows in the wood burner.

  Deep in thought, I have walked without being aware of my route. We have ended up close to the shops, and I decide to call and see if Tash is with a customer. If she is, I will have a look at her window display and move on. As I approach, I can see she has placed the bran tub by the door.

  Tash does have a customer. I can see her through the window. It’s Avis from yoga. Gone is the spiky tuft of hair. Her colour has been softened to a pale gold, and Tash is rolling the brush expertly from root to tip and waving the dryer through each section of hair to form a sleek, close cap.

  I wave through the glass in the door, and Tash holds up five fingers.

  ‘Five minutes?’ I mouth, and she nods in agreement.

  The summer window has been removed and replaced by this year’s Halloween display. In front of a dark cloth backdrop are stretched gossamer webs, the largest containing a huge black rubber spider. There is ghostly bunting and an enormous pumpkin, the mouth carved into a rictus of a smile. So far so ordinary.

  Then in the far corner of the window, set back in a dark recess, I notice a shape propped upright in a rocking chair. Dressed in a mishmash of women’s clothing, the addition of boots and a wide-brimmed hat give the figure a happy-go-lucky appearance.

  It is only upon closer inspection that it becomes apparent that, from somewhere, Tash has managed to appropriate, not a shop dummy, but a full-sized skeleton.

  I walk around the block and arrive back as Avis is coming out of the door. She eyes me up and down, and I flash her a smile.

  ‘It suits you,’ I say, pointing to her newly coiffed hair. ‘Tash has done a good job.’

  ‘Thank you. She is very talented, and it’s nice not to have to drive all the way to the city to have your hair done.’

  The window display catches her attention. ‘Hmm. Looks as though she has toned it down this year. It’s so much better, don’t you think?’

  I nod furiously, trying my hardest not to laugh. She obviously hasn’t seen what’s lurking in the background. It occurs to me that it was very likely Avis and her friends who complained about the previous displays.

  ‘And how are you holding up, Fran? Have there been any further developments in the murder case? I did see in the local paper that the poor boy’s body has been released. The funeral will be a trying time for his family. I feel for them, I really do.’

  She is studying my face, head tilted to one side, waiting for a reaction. Nosy as always.

  ‘Er, no. I’ve heard nothing. Um, I must get on. I need to have a chat with Tash before her next client. See you at yoga. Bye, Avis!’

  News of Tyler’s funeral has taken me off guard, but I don’t want to give Avis the satisfaction of seeing how taken aback I am. I tie Buddy up outside, push the door and step into the salon. Tash is sweeping the floor and has her back to me. She turns around when she hears me come in.

  ‘Fran, you look a bit shocked. Is it the display? The skeleton is too much? I borrow from retired doctor in my village. I go to her house to do her hair. She is named Glenda, the skeleton not the doctor. She is called Dr Newman. You want a cuppa? Look like you need one.’

  ‘A cuppa would be nice. And it’s not the display. You’ve excelled yourself this year. The skeleton is a nice touch, although once it’s been spotted, there are bound to be complaints. You know that, right? No, I bumped into Avis on my way in, that’s all.’ I sigh and smile weakly.

  Tash comes over and puts her hand on my arm.

  ‘What has silly bitch said to upset you?’

  ‘Nothing, really,’ I say. ‘It just took me by surprise. She told me about Tyler’s body being released for the funeral.’

  Tash clicks her teeth and shakes her head. ‘I know. I hear yesterday in my village shop. Will be a big turnout. Someone said everyone in his year from school will be there.’

  Tash brings tea and biscuits, and I sip the brew slowly, conscious of the slight tremor in my hands. I have questions for Tash, but knowing how she feels about Mel, I don’t want to push it. If she gets angry, she might clam up. I aim for breeziness, which feels forced, but I plough on.

  ‘You know what you said about Mel liking money too much, Tash?’ I take another sip from my cup and watch her expression.

  Her fingers are circling her mug, and I can just make out the outline of a red petal where her arm protrudes from the edge of her sweater. She nods but doesn’t say anything.

  ‘I don’t know this for sure,’ I say. ‘But I’m thinking it’s possible that Mel is involved in the drugs trade and that’s why Tyler was killed. What I’d like to know is, could she be an unwilling participant? A victim just as much as Tyler was? Willington is a small place. Have you heard anything that might explain exactly what is going on?’

  Jesus, I’m beginning to sound like a detective in a cheaply made, trashy American cop show.

  Tash stands up and places her cup on the shelf in front of the mirror. Her face, normally animated, is flat and expressionless. When she does speak, her voice is low and husky.

  ‘Why do you want to know these things, Fran? It’s not good for you. Best you leave alone, eh?’

  She seems prickly, and I wonder why. She knows my mental health has been fragile. Is it that she is trying to protect me? Or does she know more than she is letting on?

  ‘You must take care of yourself, Fran. When baby comes, I need you to be Godmother.’

  It takes a couple of seconds for me to realise what she is saying. ‘Tash, you’re pregnant. How wonderful, but I’ve told you before, I can’t be a Godparent. I’m not religious.’

  ‘Pah.’ She waves her hand dismissively. ‘There is always solution. Anyways, is early days.’

  I give her a hug and kiss her cheek, sensing her concern. ‘It’s the best news, Tash. It must have been the yoga.’

  We dissolve into giggles like a pair of schoolgirls.


  ‘Alex must be thrilled,’ I say.

  ‘Oh yes. Strutting around like big man. He like dog with two dicks.’

  This initiates a further bout of laughter, and I grab a handful of tissues to dry my eyes and blow my nose. When we recover, I give Tash a potted version of the attack by Mel’s dogs and my meeting with Al and Sal. I skip over a lot of the details, but tell her briefly of their suspicions and what they saw in the boatyard car park.

  We are interrupted by the door opening. A well-built woman with a helmet of steel grey hair enters. It’s Tash’s next client. She is carrying a walking stick that she jabs in the direction of the pavement.

  ‘Is that your dog tied up outside?’ she asks brusquely.

  ‘It is,’ I say.

  ‘Well, he’s been there far too long. I saw him when I went into the Co-op, and it took me at least twenty minutes to get my shopping done and then take it to the car. It’s not fair, leaving him tied up for that length of time. Poor little blighter.’

  I open my mouth to comment and think better of it. She does have a point. I’ve been here for at least half an hour.

  Tash, waiting at the desk to book in the woman, raises her eyebrows and rolls her eyes.

  ‘I’ll ring you,’ I say, exiting sharply before I attract any more of the woman’s ire.

  Buddy, pleased to see me as always, seems unperturbed. He usually likes the attention he gets when I leave him outside to nip in for the odd item from the Co-op store. To compensate for abandoning him, I take him to the park, where he indulges in two of his favourite pastimes: sniffing every square inch of the field and chasing squirrels.

  Back home, I sit in the kitchen, picking over the remnants of a cheese sandwich and mulling over what I’m going to say to Mel. That is, if I can pluck up the courage to make the call. My initial bravado is ebbing away, and the more time I have to think about it, the more absurd the idea seems. Mel isn’t going to take the bait; I’m now convinced of that. She’s too shrewd and knowing. Whereas when I’m flustered or caught out in a lie, I’m transparent and give too much away.