Down to the Woods

by M. J. Arlidge

  Looking up, he realized that his colleagues were faring little better. Ellie McAndrew and a couple of junior officers were sifting the web for weapons nuts, perusing an endless parade of muscle-bound thugs brandishing all manner of offensive weapons, while his own officers were as bogged down as him. He could see them drawing thick lines through potential suspects, at best occasionally adding a question mark, if they had been unable to contact the car owner over the phone or if the vehicle had been reported stolen.

  It was a pretty depressing picture and prompted Hudson to take action. Grabbing his list, his phone and his jacket, he hurried over to his colleagues. If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, as his mother was fond of saying, it was time to get moving. There was nothing to do now but hit the streets and try and track these owners down personally. It would be tiring, it would be laborious, but it was a chance he would have to take.

  In cases such as these, the devil was often in the detail.

  57

  She stared at the corpse, her eyes crawling over the skin.

  From Southampton Central, Helen had biked straight over to the mortuary, keen to glean what she could from Jim Grieves. The pathologist was even more grumpy than usual, complaining that he was still in the initial stages of his examination, that nobody afforded him the respect he deserved. Helen was happy to weather the storm of his complaints – Grieves always did this – as his insights were often significant.

  They were standing in the viewing area, at a safe distance from David Spivack, who was still hard at work on the body, his hands currently deep in the victim’s abdomen. Lauren Scott’s blood-soaked clothing had been removed and sent to Meredith for analysis, allowing Helen a clear view of their second victim. She was quite a sight, not because of her shoulder-length black hair or her lacerated feet, which were pointing almost directly at Helen, but because of the sheer number of markings on her body. She had several tattoos – none of them particularly pleasant – and a plethora of small cuts. The latter seemed to cover her torso, upper arms and thighs.

  ‘Are those all from last night?’

  ‘No,’ Grieves replied firmly. ‘There are dozens of historic cuts, some of which have been there several years.’

  ‘Self-harming?’

  ‘I’d say. They are all in places that can be easily concealed.’

  Helen’s eyes lingered on one of the tattoos – a snake devouring a baby’s head, just beneath her left breast. What frame of mind had Lauren been in?

  ‘Are they all old?’

  ‘No, some are more recent. I’d say she was pretty committed to it.’

  ‘How about bloods? Any drugs? Alcohol?’

  ‘Clean as a whistle.’

  Helen digested this – Matteo Dominici had clearly been telling the truth, when he insisted they were both dry and clean.

  ‘Anything else, Jim? I know your time is precious.’

  ‘Very similar wounds to Tom Campbell’s,’ Grieves pressed on, ignoring the attempt to butter him up. ‘Lacerations to the feet, scratches and jagged cuts on the arms, neck, face, all consistent with thorns, vegetation and so on. Three major wounds caused by the crossbow bolts. The impact areas are more severe than with Campbell, the haemorrhages greater, meaning she would have bled out more quickly.’

  This was something at least. Perhaps Lauren’s nightmare had had a mercifully quick end.

  ‘We’ve obviously removed the bolts and sent them to Meredith, but they look similar to me.’

  Confirmation, if it were needed, that the same perpetrator was responsible for the two murders. Turning, Helen replied:

  ‘Ok, well, keep me up to speed –’

  ‘There was one more thing,’ Grieves interrupted, his eyes still glued to the corpse on the slab. ‘Though it’s nothing to do with the circumstances of the attack.’

  Helen paused, intrigued.

  ‘She was pregnant.’

  Helen’s heart sank.

  ‘Very early stages, but no question about it. Thought you’d want to know.’

  Thanking Grieves for his work, Helen left the mortuary shortly afterwards. She wandered to her bike, deep in thought. Matteo Dominici had not mentioned the pregnancy when they spoke. True, he was distracted, frantic with worry, but surely he would have mentioned it, had he known? Extra pressure to bring to bear on the police to find her? Did this mean he was unaware? And what of Lauren? If she was in the very early stages, it was possible even she didn’t know.

  The thought stopped Helen in her tracks. This baby could have been Lauren’s future, her legacy to the world, something good to come out of what had obviously been a difficult life.

  But now it would never be.

  58

  ‘Sorry, do I know you?’

  Graham Ross had jumped out of his skin when Emilia approached him. His mind was elsewhere – he hadn’t seen her coming – but now confusion was giving way to suspicion.

  ‘We’ve not met, but I know your work,’ she replied winningly. ‘I’m Emilia Garanita, from the Southampton Evening News.’

  ‘Of course …’ Ross replied slowly, recognition kicking in. ‘You’re the one who’s been terrifying Southampton with your ill-judged headlines.’

  ‘Just reporting the facts, Graham,’ Emilia replied breezily. ‘Talking of which I’d love to have a quick word with you, if you can spare the time.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The case, of course. I’d be very interested to get your take on it.’

  He looked at her, appraising her, appraising the situation. As he did so, he pulled nervously on the strap of his camera bag, which was slung over his shoulder.

  ‘How did you know I’d be here?’

  ‘This is your office, isn’t it?’ she replied, gesturing to the flat-cum-studio nearby, where Ross lived and worked. ‘A friend at Southampton Central said I’d find you here.’

  In fact, a mole at the DVLA had confirmed his home address – once the requisite cash had been promised. But Emilia hoped mention of a friendly face at the station might put him at his ease.

  ‘I don’t think I can. I’m supposed to be at a meeting in an hour or so –’

  ‘Just a quick drink,’ Emilia countered, laying a hand on his bare forearm. ‘I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.’

  Ross looked at her hand, then up at Emilia. He seemed amused, even a little intrigued.

  ‘Why should I?’ he replied, challenging her good-humouredly.

  Emilia flashed her widest smile.

  ‘Because I’m buying.’

  ‘I can’t tell you anything that’s not in the press release.’

  They were cocooned together in a local pub. Emilia didn’t generally drink during the day, but had made an exception on this occasion – Ross seemingly eager to quench his thirst with a pint of IPA.

  ‘That hardly told us anything,’ Emilia complained. ‘But that’s nothing new.’

  News that Hampshire Police were putting out a general alert, warning campers to steer clear of the New Forest, had filtered through as Emilia was idling in her car, waiting for Ross. For a moment, she had been tempted to hotfoot it over to Southampton Central to hear the details, then thought better of it. Grace never fielded press briefings herself and whoever did would be evasive, so Emilia sent a colleague instead. She was more interested in Ross.

  ‘That’s the game, right?’ Ross said with a crooked smile, enjoying their banter.

  ‘Maybe. But this game just got serious, so a bit of candour would be appreciated. You photographed Campbell and Scott, right?’

  Ross reacted, clearly surprised that she knew the identity of the second victim.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘There’s no need to be coy, Graham. I know the MIT team was at Woodland View two days ago and at Sunnyside this morning. I’m assuming Scott’s body was found in woodland near South Baddesley?’

  Ross stared at her, clearly intrigued to know how she was so well informed.

  ‘I managed
to have a word with her boyfriend, Matteo Dominici,’ Emilia lied. ‘But he was obviously very shaken and didn’t want to discuss the details. I’m assuming that she was also murdered with a crossbow?’

  Now Ross smiled.

  ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ he said, finishing his pint.

  ‘God loves a trier.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he continued, somewhat magnanimously. ‘You can ask me questions and I’ll nod or shake my head.’

  It was beyond childish – a sad, lonely man’s way of playing at being a mole – but Emilia was happy to play along.

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘But first, I need a slash. Why don’t you buy me another pint while you’re waiting?’

  With that, he sidled off to the Gents. Emilia rose too, but as she did so, her eyes alighted on Ross’s camera bag, tucked discreetly under his chair. A moment’s hesitation, then she pulled it out and unzipped it. Removing the camera, she switched it on. It was not dissimilar to the SLR she used and she quickly found the playback mode.

  ‘Oh my God …’

  A close-up of Lauren Scott’s blood-streaked face filled the screen.

  Breathlessly, Emilia scrolled through. Long shots, mid-shots, then detailed shots of the arrow wounds, the torn feet, the raw ankles. The images were horrendous, but amazing. She darted a look at the Gents – there was still no sign of Ross – then reached into her own bag. From the inside pocket, she retrieved a data stick, which she swiftly plugged into the port on the camera.

  Selecting a dozen of the most shocking pictures, she pressed ‘transfer’. Immediately, a little hourglass started spinning on the camera’s screen. One photo, two, three … It was efficient enough, but seemed to be going slowly, too slowly. She darted another look at the Gents and was horrified to see Ross emerging.

  Five photos, six, seven …

  She would surely be caught. Any minute now, he would round the corner.

  Nine photos, ten …

  To her intense relief, Emilia saw Ross stop to chat to the barmaid. She obviously knew him and didn’t seem offended by his amateurish flirting.

  Eleven, twelve.

  The camera pinged as the transfer completed and, quick as a flash, Emilia retrieved her data stick and popped the camera into its case. She was sliding it back under the chair as Ross finally approached.

  ‘Sorry, work call,’ she said, rising, waving her phone at him. ‘Let me get you that drink.’

  She skipped off to the bar happily. Sometimes she resented other people getting drunk at her expense, but not today. Two pints of beer was a small price to pay for the plethora of horrifying images that were now safely tucked away in her pocket.

  59

  ‘Can you confirm that both victims were killed in the same way? With the same weapon?’

  It was the tone of the question that irritated Grace Simmons. The journalist, a cub from one of the local free sheets, was trying to sound sober, but couldn’t hide her excitement about the exotic brutality of the murders.

  ‘A crossbow was used in both instances,’ Simmons replied calmly. ‘It’s too early to say if it was the same weapon.’

  She turned away from the young woman and immediately a dozen more journalists took their chance, firing questions at her. All the local media outlets were present, plus a few freelancers who worked for the nationals, who’d managed to scramble to the press conference, scenting a major story. And all thanks to Emilia Garanita’s stirring. They would have had to share news of the murders with the media eventually of course – it was their duty to do so – but they would have done so properly and responsibly. Garanita was only interested in creating hysteria, something she seemed to have achieved handsomely, given the ridiculous number of journalists crammed into their modest briefing room.

  ‘Do you have any idea as to motive?’ a local radio broadcaster was asking.

  ‘We’re keeping an open mind on that at the moment –’

  ‘Suspects, then?’ the journalist persisted. ‘Do you have any names in the frame?’

  ‘None that I’m willing to share, but the public can be reassured that we are making swift progress and should be in a position to say more shortly.’

  ‘Are you looking for an individual? Or a group of suspects?’

  ‘I’d rather not comment on that for now.’

  ‘Is an arrest imminent?’

  ‘Like I said, our investigation is ongoing –’

  ‘We’ll take that as a “no” then,’ one of the assembled wags commented, to general amusement.

  Simmons stared directly at the offender, until he looked away. She would have loved to call him out, but sensibly bit her tongue. Still, it beggared belief that people could find humour in such a situation.

  ‘Are you declaring the forest a no-go zone?’

  This time the question came from a local TV reporter.

  ‘Of course not. Thousands of people use the New Forest every week, for work, for pleasure. What we are saying is that people should exercise caution, avoiding remote areas of the forest, and consider postponing non-essential visits.’

  ‘Is it true there’s a wild man in the forest?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ Simmons countered dismissively.

  ‘There have been several reports of a crazy hermit living deep –’

  ‘Every significant lead will be investigated, but we’re not in the business of engaging with wild speculation and gossip –’

  ‘What measures are you putting in place to protect the public?’

  Simmons was taken aback by the speed with which the questions kept landing. It was as if the assembled throng scented blood.

  ‘There is an increased police presence in the forest and we will be keeping the public up to speed with the latest developments via the Hampshire Police website and local media outlets. We have also set up a dedicated hotline for anyone with information about these crimes –’

  ‘Is the public safe? Can you hand on heart say that you can keep us safe, when there is a maniac stalking the forest?’

  ‘We will do everything in our power to ensure public safety and a swift resolution to this case.’

  ‘And what about DI Grace? Does she retain your confidence? There’ve been two murders and no concrete developments, no tangible leads,’ the journalist from the Evening News now piped up.

  ‘Yes, she does. And I’m surprised that her competence should be in question, given her exemplary track record.’

  It was said pointedly, even a touch aggressively, cowing the interrogator. But Simmons knew this was only a temporary reprieve. While the killer remained at large, while they struggled to get a handle on these baffling crimes, the questions would continue to come.

  60

  ‘Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?’

  Matteo Dominici was visibly distraught, so Charlie sat down beside him on the sofa, resting a supportive hand on his shoulder. Having received Helen’s update from the mortuary, she’d been keen to share the terrible news with Dominici before he heard it from another source. So they were now alone together in the flat he used to share with Lauren Scott.

  ‘We are, I’m afraid. She was about two months along.’

  Dominici’s whole body shook. Charlie felt awful delivering such devastating news, when he was already raw with grief, but she had to be straight with him.

  ‘She never mentioned anything …’ he murmured eventually.

  ‘Do you think it’s possible she knew?’

  ‘I don’t know … Her … her periods were incredibly irregular, so she may not have assumed that she was …’

  He couldn’t say the words, so Charlie helped him out.

  ‘If she did know, it’s possible she was waiting until the three-month mark, until it was safe to share her news.’

  Charlie had no idea if this was true, but wanted to say something to ease his pain. Dominici nodded, as if it made sense, but said nothing.

  ‘When we first spoke, M
atteo, you said you and Lauren had been together for around eighteen months.’

  Another nod.

  ‘During your time together, were you aware that she was self-harming?’

  ‘Of course. She … she was secretive about it, tried to hide it from me. But when we were together, in bed, in the bath, it was hard to hide …’

  ‘Do you know why she did it?’

  ‘No, I asked her a million times, but she just said that when the mood overcame her, she felt compelled to. She hated herself, thought she was unworthy, that the world would be better off without her. I know she had contemplated suicide in the past, but we managed to get past that. Once she was dry, once I was dry, it was possible for us both to see a way forward.’

  ‘Can I ask why you drank, Matteo?’

  ‘Why I was an alcoholic, you mean?’

  Charlie had seen this from ex-alcoholics before – a fierce determination not to dress up their behaviour.

  ‘Marriage breakdown. Got hitched too young and it ended messily.’

  That would need to be checked out. It was not beyond the realms of possibility that Dominici might be connected in some way. Though his pain, his distress, seemed genuine, they only had his word as to what happened that night.

  ‘And now this,’ Dominici said, looking up. ‘Why did this happen just when she was getting her shit together?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we will find out, I can promise you that.’

  ‘Dear God, this is all my fault,’ Dominici moaned, seeming not to hear Charlie at all. ‘All my fault …’

  ‘Why do you say that, Matteo?’

  ‘Because she didn’t want to go,’ he replied, shaking his head.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Camping was my thing, not hers. She wasn’t keen, didn’t like the idea of sleeping outdoors. But I went on and on at her.’