The Silent Girls: A gripping serial-killer thriller

by Dylan Young

  Twenty-Six

  The same midnight hour under the same November sky. And in this place, too, this stone chamber carved out of the rock beneath the earth, a mind sits preoccupied with its own thoughts, waiting for the dawn in hungry anticipation.

  He’d found it years before during one of his expeditions into the forest; the place where he felt, like any animal, most at home. He’d met some cavers setting off to explore the old stone mines. Curious and fascinated, he’d watched them being swallowed up by the ground. He’d come back to the spot, had found another entrance and below it the chamber. Inside there’d been crockery, crates for sitting on, old newspapers. He’d concluded that this must have been a rest area, hived off from the main shafts. A staging post for workers, now long since dead, to enjoy their tuck and tea.

  The mine had closed a century ago and the entrance from the chamber to the main shaft was half blocked by rock fall. He’d completed the job, hauling pieces in from the large chambers beyond. Above ground it had been easy to conceal the entrance, so no one but he would know of its existence. And then he’d made the chamber his. Literally somewhere he could go to ground.

  He could live there for days. Enough air from above found its way into the mine and through gaps he’d left in the walls he’d constructed. He’d bought a battery-operated lamp, which provided light, and warmth if needed, though he didn’t find the cold to be a problem. He hunted rabbits in the forest. Cooked and ate when he could. Hunted other prey when the need took him, subdued them, squeezed them. And from them he procured his trophies. He tried to take things that were important to them, that they’d feel the loss of. Like the vet. He’d watched her limp back to the van. Saw her scream and cry in frustration at what he’d done. He’d loved that. And her trophies proved to be useful as well.

  But tonight, in the light of the battery lamp, he knew it was the last time he’d spend any time in this place. He picked his precious prizes up in turn, handling them tenderly, remembering each girl with the touch. He thought about enjoying them once more, but decided not to. He’d save himself for the task in hand. And perhaps, if it all went well, one day he would return. Stronger, more powerful even than he’d become already. He looked forward to that day. It buoyed him.

  There was one more piece of the poison that had tainted his existence to cut away. He’d bought himself some time. Not much, but enough. Tomorrow he would be reborn once more. One final act before he could change, transform himself. He’d need to leave his hiding place and his forest for a while, but he could do that. Needs must. He turned off the lamp and sat in the complete darkness, letting it flow over him. He’d let his eyes adjust before leaving, though he didn’t need to. His hearing and smell and touch would find the way through the dark forest. Like any good Woodsman could.

  Twenty-Seven

  Anna awoke, after finally falling asleep at around 2 a.m., to cold sunlight streaming in through a chink in the bedroom curtains. She squinted at the bedside clock and, not seeing it clearly, pushed herself up, brushing hair away from her eyes and face.

  7.10 a.m. She never slept beyond six thirty. She pushed her hair back and checked her phone. No messages, but her news feed had a headline from a red-top that caught her eye.

  * * *

  Woodsman killer is serial rapist

  * * *

  Gloucestershire police refused to comment last night over allegations made by sources close to the investigation that the killer of eighteen-year-old Emily Risman, butchered in a beauty spot in the Forest of Dean in 1998, and more recently sixteen-year-old Nia Hopkins, was also a rapist they had been hunting for eighteen years. Last week, Thames Valley police revealed thus-far-withheld details of a serial rapist who had committed twenty brutal attacks in four counties. Sources confirmed last night that they were investigating the possibility that one man was responsible, but refused to elaborate.

  The authorities’ failure to comment in a case that has captured the public’s imagination is bound to fuel further speculation. With the man known as the Woodsman, Neville Cooper, stable in hospital after an abortive suicide attempt while in police custody, sources have also refused to rule out the possibility that Cooper, awaiting retrial for the murder of Emily Risman, may not have been acting alone.

  In a new twist, the identity of a body found on the main railway line between South Wales and London has been confirmed as that of Charles Willis, husband of Gail Willis, who was found murdered in the garden of her own home just days ago. Police have released the name of a man wanted in connection with the rapes and murders of these three women. Richard Osbourne is thought to be dangerous and the public are advised not to approach him if sighted.

  A candid photograph of Osbourne took up one column. The journalists had chosen the image for maximum effect. Taken at work, Osbourne was smiling, a hammer in one hand.

  This new connection provides yet another bizarre twist in what has become a cause célèbre for the Southwest Major Crimes Review task force, who have been re-examining the Woodsman killings following the release of Neville Cooper.

  Anna scrolled down to find her own face staring back at her from a grainy black and white portrait taken years before. Beneath was a caption: Inspector Anna Gwynne, leading the investigation.

  She groaned. Another leaked story to the press they could have done without.

  Photographs of the victims stared back at her accusingly: Emily, Nia and Gail were the silent witnesses with all the answers. She read on with growing incredulity as her theories were expounded in black and white. Someone, somewhere, had tipped them off. She read the article again, the flush rising from her chest to her neck like warm water.

  Fucking press.

  Even now they would not let Neville Cooper off the hook. And linking the rapes to Nia’s and Emily’s murders was something she had hoped to avoid, but with Willis dead and Osbourne on the run, it was unlikely to cause much damage. Indeed, there was very little there that truly jeopardised the investigation, but seeing her face splashed all over the news made her cringe. On edge and needing to find an outlet for the frustrations, Anna threw on her running gear and set off with a small backpack containing only water and her phones.

  She’d gone with her intuition in asking Slack to find out about Osbourne’s clinic visit. He may, or may not, have taken her seriously. Harris’s team did not have a good track record when it came to that. She allowed herself a little rueful snort. She wanted so much to believe that it would yield results. Wanted desperately to know that by trusting in herself – this strange alchemy of analysis and instinct that had, so far in her life, caused nothing but angst – it might once, just once, come up with the goods. Never mind the plaudits, never mind the glory. She wanted to nail this monster and, if nothing else, to at least justify her dad’s belief in her.

  She’d ring Slack as soon as she got in to the office. It was too early to do it now. And if it all came to nothing, she’d console herself with knowing that she’d at least given Tobias a chance to finally clear Cooper’s name. But Anna knew that would not be enough for her. Even thinking these thoughts brought a wave of guilt. Shaw had seen through her and tapped into her ambition. He’d seen how desperate she was to prove herself worthy of those who believed in her, even if she sometimes didn’t believe in herself. But none of this was about her now. Her hunger was driven by a need to stop this man from ruining another life. Murder was the ultimate crime, but rape could desecrate a life in another kind of way just as easily.

  Better that she release the tension that was wound so tightly in her head with a run.

  * * *

  Mist had rolled up the channel during the night and, though the sun was up, grey murk hung over the city’s rooftops and the naked branches of the trees on Horfield Common. Street lights were still on, glowing like miniature suns, each surrounded by a soft halo of water vapour. Even the usual hum of traffic seemed distant and strange as cars rolled by, slowed by the conditions, their lights looming out of the fog, their engine noises
oddly subdued, rubber tyres on wet tarmac hissing like snakes.

  Anna crossed the common and hit the damp streets, letting her mind beat its own path, praying silently that her efforts and those of everyone else involved in the horror that the Woodsman case had become would finally pay off. In the mile and a bit to Badock’s Wood, she passed commuters muffled against the chill mist. When her eyes met theirs for the briefest of moments, in the split second it took for her to pass, she read wary acknowledgement.

  In the summer, she was often met with smiles. But winter had arrived and with it the knowledge that every one of these people would face their journey to and from work in the darkness for another three months. If they’d seen the news that morning they’d know, too, about what the Woodsman was capable of. Fanciful though it might be, Anna found herself easily believing that she saw some of the horror of his actions etched on every face she passed. Few, if any, welcomed the coming winter, their moods a slave to a wired reaction shared with ancestors as old as the hills. An irrational fear perhaps, but one that most people were helpless to resist and augmented by knowing there was a monster in their midst.

  Even in the twenty-first century, warm-blooded animals all knew that things hunted in the dark.

  Twenty-Eight

  He’d stolen the bicycle from a side street off the Gloucester Road. Bolt cutters dealt with the puny chain easily. He’d chosen this one because there’d been a helmet as well and he wanted to blend in. He’d made passes on the bike, past where she lived, biding his time in the cold damp morning on the common, letting the hunger grow, embracing it, allowing it to become him and him it. He cursed the weather. He hated the wet, preferred dry conditions for his work, but today there would be no choice. And the poor visibility would undoubtedly play to his advantage, blurring details, favouring stealth. Eventually, his patience had been rewarded in spades.

  He’d toyed with the idea of confronting her on her doorstep. Now he knew exactly where she’d be. A risky gambit still; even this early there were too many people on the streets. But she’d emerged dressed for running. He smiled. It was all coming together. There’d been an inevitability about it ever since he’d first watched her; her and the other detective. He’d even showed himself, his ghost self, up on the ridge. He’d thought she’d seen him. He’d wanted her to see him; his form in the woods. She’d given no sign other than to pause and peer. But he knew. The connection was made. The deal sealed there and then.

  Now, in the damp morning air, he followed in silence, stalking her, keeping well back, his keen eyes on the prize. He was good at stalking. Good at watching and waiting. Ever since his brother made him wait in the woods until he’d finished with Emily all those years ago, because he’d needed help to get home through the darkening gloom even then. But he did more than wait. He watched.

  Watched his brother and Emily at it. Watched and felt his groin stir. Knowing instantly he wanted it, too. He’d waited for his chance, plied Emily with cider one early evening and she’d laughed when he’d suggested she let him do it like his big brother. He hadn’t liked the laughter. He did it anyway with her trying to fight him off. But he’d been too strong for her even at just over fourteen. She’d stormed off afterwards, calling him names. But when, four months later, she’d arranged to meet him, he’d brought condoms, convinced that she’d relented.

  But she’d wanted to meet him to talk about something else. Three months pregnant and about to start showing. Threatened him with all sorts if he didn’t sort it. There was a clinic over at Gloucester but she’d need money. If he didn’t get her the money then she was going to the police to tell them what he’d done. Him and his blind brother could go fuck themselves.

  That was when he’d lost it. He’d wanted her to shut up. Wanted her to stop the threats and the taunts. He’d put his hands around her neck just to stop the words more than anything. There’d been no planning but when he saw them there, they looked so cool in the Oakley gloves he’d nicked from the cycle shop in Coleford. She’d struggled mightily, but he was strong from helping his father in the woodland. Before his accident, Willis’s father could cut down a forty-foot pine with twenty strokes on a good day, and Charles was a quick learner. His fingers were long, his thumbs meeting in the middle over her larynx as he squeezed the apple. Emily fought, but he squeezed even more and, to his surprise, she passed out. For a moment, he thought she was dead, but when he stopped she coughed and sucked in air.

  It thrilled him.

  Emily Risman, moaning, half choked, lying there just waiting for him. He’d never felt so excited, never felt so hard. This time he did wear a condom. Kept his hands on her neck as he rode her, squeezing whenever she started to fight.

  And that moment shaped him. Became the mould that he was poured into, where he hardened and cured to the beast that would always need feeding.

  He finished with Emily and rolled off. Got up and adjusted his trousers. She’d moaned again, but she was breathing. He reached down to retrieve his school backpack and, when he turned back, she was sitting up, glaring at him, horror and disgust written all over her face, her own hands over her livid, bruised neck. It was then that she’d started to scream.

  He’d tried to stop her, tried to tell her that it would be OK. But she was hysterical, terrified of him, pushing herself away on her backside to get away. The knife was in his backpack. Something he always carried, not because he wanted to use it on another person, but because it was a tool of his father’s trade, the trade he was likely to go into.

  He’d hoped that showing it to her might stop her noise, but all it did was make it worse. People would hear her. People would come.

  After he’d used the knife a dozen times, she’d stopped screaming. He’d added a dozen more to her belly just to be sure. He’d tried to hide the body as best he could, finding a natural hollow, meaning to completely cover her, but he’d heard voices and had had to abandon it. Yet not before he’d noticed the way she looked. A nymph, half covered by leaves, so still, as if she were emerging from the earth and the trees.

  So beautiful.

  Afterwards, he was scared. Scared enough to tell his brother what he’d done. Adding a small but important lie. That he’d done it because Emily had told him that the baby was Roger’s and that she was going to ruin his life.

  They’d hatched the cover-up between them, used Cooper as the scapegoat. And, after a while, Charles Willis forgot about the screaming and the blood. But what he didn’t forget was the way that Emily had lain there for him. Quiet, submissive, semiconscious from his power.

  He saw her in his dreams.

  His brother Roger was weak. A bleeding heart. It would have done no one any good for the truth to come out. The river had been an obvious answer.

  And still he dreamed of Emily. Quiet Emily, his first one.

  After a while, he made the dreams a reality again.

  Just as he was about to do with this one.

  Twenty-Nine

  She entered Badock’s Wood at Lakewood Road along the hard tarmac path. The weather and the hour meant that few had yet ventured out. She passed two dog walkers and a few cyclists, crossed the River Trym and took a right along the river path, settling in to her rhythm, enjoying the wood and the freedom it represented. Such a welcome haven in the heart of this city, Anna thought. Others had found this space of significance over the millennia. A Bronze Age barrow in the northwest corner attested to that. They’d brought their dead to this sacred place, but Anna relished it because it allowed her the space to feel alive.

  She’d completed two-thirds of the loop, and was on the return leg along a soft woodland path, when her phone rang. Unslinging her backpack, the ring tone told her it was her work mobile. Panting, she accepted the call.

  ‘Hello?’

  Slack answered. ‘Morning, ma’am.’ He paused, hearing her breathing. ‘Is this a bad time?’

  ‘No. Morning run. Need I ask if you’ve seen the newspapers?’

  ‘Uh, yes, ma’am.’


  ‘Any ideas as to who did it?’ She stood on the deserted path, gazing up at the few leaves clinging on to the branches, waiting for Slack to explain.

  ‘Someone in Thames Valley let it slip, ma’am. Some reporter contacted them claiming they had a source from inside prison who’d tipped them off about a likely link.’

  She lifted her face to the sky. ‘Shaw. I might have bloody guessed.’

  ‘You know who this is?’

  She snorted, and when she spoke her words were bitter as acid. ‘I do, Sergeant. And God, do I keep underestimating him.’

  ‘I do have one bit of good news. Your hunch. You hit the jackpot with the infertility clinic. You were right, they did have frozen semen samples. For legal reasons, they do genetic work-ups and a full DNA profile as a matter of course. They’ve had one or two problems of disputed paternity. You know – a redhead in a family of blonds – that sort of thing.’ Slack sounded jaunty. ‘They didn’t like releasing the information, but the DNA from Osbourne’s semen matches the DNA from the corpse found on the railway line.’ Anna squeezed her eyes shut to relish the electric surge that pulsed through her. His words confirmed what she’d dared to believe. Words that changed everything. They’d been wrong. All wrong right from the start.

  She dragged her tumbling thoughts back to the moment as Slack continued. ‘I got the result five minutes ago. Superintendent Harris is with me but—’