Down to the Woods

by M. J. Arlidge

  But the Land Rover had changed direction again, reaching the next intersection and swinging left onto Weston Lane.

  ‘Now heading north-east on Weston Lane.’

  ‘Roger that. We’ll take Archery Grove, see if we can stay ahead of him.’

  McAndrew clicked off and Helen returned her attention to their quarry. Where was he going? He was currently heading away from the New Forest, towards the eastern fringes of Southampton. But perhaps there was method in his madness, the assertive driving and sudden changes of direction instinctively making Helen nervous.

  ‘Do you think he’s spotted us?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ Hudson said cautiously. ‘He’s driving pretty fast, but he hasn’t tried to cut across the traffic or run a red light, which would be the obvious play if he wanted to shake us off. It may be that he’s just a man on a mission.’

  Helen sincerely hoped he was right. Losing him was one thing, being rumbled by him would be something else. He might drop off their radar altogether, if that was the case.

  ‘Shit.’

  Hudson braked suddenly, bringing their car to a halt inches from the vehicle in front of them. It appeared to have stalled, the young driver labouring to start the car. Ramming the gears into reverse, Hudson lurched backwards, then circumvented the small hatchback, swinging round and back into lane.

  ‘There he is.’

  Helen could see the Defender, but he was eight cars ahead now, and even as they spotted him, Clarke changed direction once more, swinging right onto the A3025.

  ‘Is he heading for the motorway? That doesn’t make any sense.’

  Hudson said nothing, increasing his speed to catch the lights before they changed. Arcing round to the right, they joined the A3025 at speed – but the battered Defender was nowhere in sight.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Hudson growled, rapping the steering wheel.

  ‘He must have turned off somewhere, he couldn’t have got to the end of this stretch already.’

  They were both scanning the road desperately for signs of Clarke.

  ‘But which one?’ Hudson asked, an edge in his voice now. ‘There are loads of turnings off here –’

  ‘Try Botley Road. He seems to be sticking to the major roads.’

  ‘Which one’s that?’

  ‘Here, here,’ Helen pointed, chiding herself for forgetting how little Hudson knew the area.

  Flicking the indicator, Hudson swung the car across the dual carriageway and into Botley Road. To Helen’s enormous relief, the Defender could be glimpsed at the top of the road, indicating left. Eschewing caution, Hudson hit the accelerator, pushing the car hard along the road, as Clarke’s vehicle disappeared around the corner.

  ‘Suspect is turning left onto the A3024, from Botley Road.’

  ‘Roger that’ was McAndrew’s brief reply, the pair clearly struggling to keep up with their suspect’s erratic movements.

  ‘Why can’t he just drive in a straight line?’ Hudson grumbled, clocking that Clarke was indicating again.

  Hudson was clearly worried now that they had been spotted, but surely Clarke wouldn’t be indicating, obeying the laws of the road so diligently, if he feared he was being pursued?

  The Defender waited for a gap in the traffic, allowing them to pull a little closer, then turned right into Linacre Road. And now, for the first time, Helen got an inkling of where he was heading.

  ‘Just hang back a bit,’ Helen cautioned, as they drove down the quiet suburban street.

  Hudson did as he was asked and, sure enough, the Defender now slowed right down, before easing into a parking spot. Helen looked away from the car, pretending to talk animatedly to Hudson as they drove past, before pulling up at the end of the road.

  ‘What’s he up to?’ Hudson said, killing the engine and turning to Helen.

  ‘Hold on,’ Helen replied, holding up her hand.

  Clarke was on the move. Quietly shutting the driver’s door, he retrieved something from the back of the Defender then, after a quick check of the street, darted down an alley next to one of the tall tenement buildings. And now, finally, Hudson got it.

  ‘We’re in Linacre Road,’ he said, suddenly recognizing his surroundings.

  ‘Exactly,’ replied Helen, taking up the radio once more. ‘He’s heading for Lauren Scott’s flat.’

  83

  He crept up behind her, laying his hands on her shoulders. Charlie flinched, turning sharply, but immediately caught herself, shaking her head at her own stupidity. Steve often massaged her shoulders when she was crouched over the kitchen table, buried in her work, but tonight she had been so engrossed in what she was doing that she hadn’t heard him coming.

  ‘How you getting on?’ he asked, shaking his head at her, as he kneaded her shoulders.

  ‘Slowly …’

  ‘Anything I can help you with?’

  ‘Believe me, you don’t want to. Police work’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’

  For once, this wasn’t a polite brush-off. She usually kept Steve at arm’s length from her work for reasons of security, but tonight she was saving him from disappointment. Since returning home, she had been glued to her laptop, breaking only to put Jessica to bed. She was investigating the possible university link between Campbell and Scott, running the rule over Southampton Uni’s intake for 2008, when Scott matriculated. In Charlie’s day, you had your matriculation photo, hung in pride of place on your parents’ wall and your yearbook. For the modern student, by contrast, everything was online, which should have made Charlie’s life easier.

  And it was true she had found matriculation photos for both Lauren Scott and Tom Campbell, but not the overlap she’d been hoping for. Campbell looked different – his long hair and earring a far cry from the sober professional he later became – and it was interesting to see Lauren as a teenager, looking even more fragile. But she could find no photos of them together – no clubs, no amateur dramatics, no sporting events, no pub crawl poses. Campbell had joined two years before Scott and they appeared to have moved in different worlds, which was perhaps no great surprise. When Charlie was at university, first-years and third-years were different breeds, gauche, unsophisticated, mindless on the one hand, serious, cultured and staring down the barrel of finals on the other.

  The fact that they had both attended Southampton University, albeit studying different subjects, seemed to be a legitimate connection, but after two hours’ searching Charlie had found nothing of any value. She had a short list of names to check out, students who’d enrolled on the same course as Lauren, but that was the sum total of her findings thus far. Perhaps it was time to call it a day and check in with the rest of the team. They were currently out on surveillance – Charlie sincerely hoped they were having more luck than her.

  ‘Finished for the day, then?’

  ‘Might as well. I’m not getting anywhere …’

  ‘Good,’ Steve replied, gently pushing his thumbs into her shoulder blades.

  The knots in her back protested, then gave way, as he increased the pressure. Charlie closed her eyes and relaxed into it – she had spent far too much time hunched over a laptop and a massage was long overdue. Already she could feel the cares of the day drifting away – Steve had always been a good masseur, with a surprisingly delicate touch for a burly mechanic.

  He moved his hands up now, rubbing the base of her neck. This area was, if anything, even more stiff than her back, which was saying something.

  ‘That nice?’

  ‘Hmm hmm,’ Charlie murmured. ‘Painful, but nice …’

  Steve laughed and continued, keeping the pressure on for another minute or so, before sliding his hands downwards, brushing over the nape of her neck, her breastbone, eventually slipping down into her cleavage, gently brushing the sides of her breasts as he did so.

  ‘Steve …’

  ‘Shhh,’ he replied. ‘You’ve had a long day, you need to relax. Jessie’s asleep – I just checked on her and she’s away with the fairi
es …’

  He bent down and kissed her neck, nuzzling into her, before nibbling her ear.

  ‘Steve …’

  Still he kissed her, running the back of his hand over her right nipple, which immediately stiffened. Charlie knew where this was going and part of her would have happily succumbed. But another part of her knew it had to stop.

  ‘Steve.’

  It was said more firmly this time. She gently plucked his hand away and turned to face him – to find him looking confused, even a little aggrieved.

  ‘Sorry, I thought that –’

  ‘You’ve nothing to apologize for, but I can’t do this.’

  Now Steve looked properly worried, making Charlie feel terrible.

  ‘I don’t mean this,’ she said quickly, gesturing to the house, them, Jessica. ‘Of course not. It’s just …’ She hesitated, trying to find the right words. ‘… I know why you’re being so attentive … and I don’t think I can do it.’

  Still he regarded her, saying nothing.

  ‘I know we talked about it and we said in time we would try for another child …’ Tears were pricking her eyes now, all the frustration and emotion of the last few days catching up with her. ‘But with everything that’s been going on, with Jessie, with the case …’

  She took a breath, before muttering: ‘… with Joanne. I just … I just don’t feel I can.’

  Steve was looking at her, baffled and hurt.

  ‘I’m sorry. I really am. I know this isn’t what you wanted, not what we’d planned …’

  She was desperately hoping he’d say something to put her out of her misery, even if it was only recriminations and abuse. But Steve continued to stare at her, tight-lipped and angry, his sense of betrayal all too clear.

  84

  He hadn’t even bothered to reprimand her. Gardiner’s secretary had tipped Emilia the wink that Simmons had rung her editor’s office following their confrontation and she had duly prepared herself for her second bollocking of the day. But her editor had said nothing. Was this because he knew Emilia’s actions had helped put more heat under the story? Or was it because he was weary of trying to engineer behavioural change in his wilful employee? Emilia suspected it might be both. Whatever the reasons, he was clearly happy to let it slide. Nobody else put the cat among the pigeons like she did.

  ‘I’m thinking we could run a sympathetic piece about Matteo Dominici and Melanie Walton,’ she announced. ‘The legacy of the New Forest Killer, the ongoing trauma of those left behind. Major on what they’ve lost, the plans they’d made, but also highlight their close brush with the killer. By all accounts, their partners were plucked from their tents, while they were both sleeping inside.’

  Gardiner shuddered involuntarily. Emilia had never asked her editor whether he was a camper and wondered now if this was why he’d taken such a keen interest in this story.

  ‘Sounds sensible,’ Gardiner mumbled, staring at the photos of Dominici, in which the latter looked genuinely unhinged. ‘How many pages do you need?’

  ‘Eight?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Emilia. I was thinking four tops. There are other things going on in Southampton at the moment.’

  ‘But there’s only one story. Short-change it at your peril.’

  ‘Five then.’

  ‘I’ll take six and crack straight on with it. Got to keep the public informed, right?’

  Reluctantly, Gardiner conceded, picking up the phone to his deputy editor, as Emilia gathered her things.

  ‘Sally, it’s Martin. Change of plan …’

  Emilia left, concealing her grin. Sally Jones, their long-serving deputy editor, was not a fan and would be aggrieved to have to give her extra pages, but Gardiner had made his decision.

  Skipping back to her desk, Emilia settled down to write. Six pages was a lot and if she wanted to dominate tomorrow’s news agenda, to heap even more pressure on Grace and her team, then she’d have to work fast. She had barely started writing, however, when her phone started to buzz. She picked it up and was surprised to find that she’d received a text. Nobody sent texts any more.

  ‘Good talking to you today. Fancy doing it again?’

  It was not a number she recognized and she assumed by the tone that this had not come from Simmons. Which left only one possibility. Graham Ross wanted to continue, perhaps even deepen, their association.

  Standard protocol dictated that Emilia pause now, perhaps discuss the matter with colleagues, evaluate the pros and cons of meeting a man she barely knew. But Emilia had never run scared, trusting her street smarts to keep her safe, so turning away from her colleagues she tapped in a reply:

  ‘Where and when?’

  85

  What was he doing in there?

  Helen had been standing in the dark street for nearly twenty minutes, hidden from view behind a pair of municipal bins that had been shoved into a narrow alleyway. From here she had a good view of the third-floor flat that Matteo Dominici shared with Lauren Scott.

  She had not set eyes on Clarke since he dived down the alleyway next to the house, but she was convinced he was in the flat. The alley he’d disappeared down bordered the garden wall, which was old, crumbling and low enough for a man of Clarke’s stature to scale. From there, had he accessed the back door? Or tried the fire escape? Joseph Hudson was in the next street, to the rear of the property, and had confirmed that a pull-down fire escape ran down the back of the building. What was the betting Clarke had used this to make his way to the third floor?

  Yet, still, there was no sign of him. The lights hadn’t come on, nor had Helen seen a torch beam. What was his plan? Had he gone to the flat to find something? Had he intended to surprise Dominici? If so, he would be waiting a long time, as Lauren’s bereaved boyfriend would not be returning any time soon.

  Helen peered out of the alleyway, darting a look up the road. DC Osbourne was positioned at one end of Linacre Road, in case Clarke somehow evaded them and made off on foot, DC McAndrew at the other, in case he made a break for his vehicle. Everything was in place – all that was lacking now was their suspect.

  Turning her attention back to the flat, Helen screwed up her eyes, trying to penetrate the darkness. It was maddening to think of him in there, padding around unmolested. She was tempted to kick the front door in and race upstairs, but experience told her she had to let this play out, to let Clarke reveal himself through his actions. Still, she yearned to know what had drawn him to his victim’s flat. What part of his fascination with, or anger towards, Lauren Scott had not been sated by her brutal killing?

  She longed for an answer, a dozen scenarios ricocheting around her head, but there was no question of forcing the situation.

  All she could do for now was watch and wait.

  86

  His eyes never left the house.

  The fire escape at the back of the property had been pulled down and, looking up at the third-floor windows, Hudson was convinced he’d seen the shadowy form of Clarke pass back and forth a couple of times. What he was up to was a mystery, but one thing was clear. If Clarke retreated the way he’d come, then Hudson would be the first to spot him.

  It was an exciting prospect, a chance to prove himself to Helen, to the rest of the team. He had acquitted himself well so far, driving forward the investigation into Dean Clarke, but he had yet to make a real difference. He had disturbed Martin, but not captured him. He had tailed Clarke efficiently, but would have lost him were it not for Helen’s intervention. It was all good, but not good enough for an ambitious DS keen to make his mark.

  Removing his baton from his belt, he checked his position once more, making sure he couldn’t be spotted from above. The communal garden was neglected and he had had no trouble finding a hiding place – the overgrown mulberry bush concealed him completely, cloaking him in its vast shadow. He would be impossible to see in the inky gloom, now that night had fallen.

  A sound nearby. Faint, but audible. Looking up, Hudson spotted movement. A shadow
prowling, then descending. The figure was taking great care, measuring each step carefully, wary of making the slightest noise. Hudson assumed it was Clarke from his size, but it was hard to tell for sure – as the figure turned, he caught a glimpse of his face, but it was masked, only the whites of his eyes visible.

  Gathering himself, Hudson double-clicked his radio, the prearranged signal for signs of movement, then turned it off. Extending his baton, he readied himself. Clarke was nearing the bottom of the fire escape.

  Stepping down onto the spongy turf, the figure suddenly stopped dead, turning to look back up at the building. A light had come on on the second floor, spilling light onto the garden below. The intruder remained out of sight on the edge of the shadows, frozen in the act of fleeing. Hudson wondered what was going through his head – would he make a break for it or sit it out? – but the light was now extinguished, plunging the garden back into darkness.

  Now the figure was on the move again, padding swiftly across the garden. He didn’t seem to be carrying anything, was unencumbered, and Hudson wondered again what the purpose of this night-time visit was. Hopefully, they would soon find out – the retreating figure was only ten yards from him now.

  Hudson tensed. He was in the shadows, but would soon become visible, should Clarke choose to look his way. But their suspect seemed intent on getting away, hurrying past the bush without a glance. Hudson knew this was his moment, so he moved in for the kill, laying a firm hand on the figure’s shoulder.

  ‘Dean Clarke. I’m arresting you –’

  An elbow rammed into his ribs, knocking him backwards. But he had a fistful of Clarke’s clothing and he pulled hard, to stop Clarke escaping. Again, the elbow flew towards him, but this time Hudson dodged it, Clarke’s arm glancing off his flank. Now, however, his quarry twisted violently away from him, breaking his hold. Hudson saw his intention instantly – to vault the nearby garden wall – and slammed his baton into Clarke’s right knee. The fugitive howled in agony, stumbling slightly, and Hudson pounced, grabbing his free arm and wrenching it up his back. But even as he did so, Clarke pirouetted, spinning around sharply and freeing himself once more. Hudson raised his baton again, expecting Clarke to flee, but to his surprise Clarke turned and barrelled straight into him, the top of his head connecting sharply with Hudson’s chin.