Down to the Woods

by M. J. Arlidge

  Charlie was already giving another long list of transactions the once-over, her instincts aroused now.

  ‘And here we are again. After the second call, Campbell takes out another £200.’

  She looked up at Helen, triumphant.

  ‘You think they were being blackmailed?’

  ‘Exactly. Lauren had less to give, so maybe gave up after one payment. Campbell paid twice, but the calls kept coming.’

  ‘Right up until the moment they were targeted.’

  ‘So maybe they refused to pay, told their blackmailer where to go …’

  ‘And paid the price.’

  It was an intriguing thought, one which instinctively felt right.

  ‘Even so, it doesn’t get us any further on, does it? We don’t know where the pay-off was made, if it was made at all.’

  ‘Not yet, but it may be that the location of the ATMs can help us. If there was CCTV in the area, we may be able to track their movements, see where they went.’

  ‘Campbell’s withdrawals were both made at a petrol station, so it might be hard to track his movements via CCTV, unless the exchange was made there. We might have to rely on traffic cameras.’

  ‘Scott’s was made at a bank, the Santander on Burgess Road. They would definitely have cameras there and it’s in a CCTV-rich area, which …’

  Helen rose from her desk: ‘… makes that a very good place to start.’

  109

  Within minutes, they were on the road. Leaving her bike at the station, Helen requisitioned a pool car, deciding it would be better to travel to the bank together. They could use the time to turn over the latest developments in the case, but Helen was also keen to assess her old friend’s state of mind. She had been worried about Charlie since their chat in the smokers’ yard.

  ‘How are the nights?’ she asked, as they swung onto Onslow Road. ‘Any better?’

  Charlie shook her head.

  ‘I’m getting less sleep now than I was when she was a baby. They didn’t put that in the brochure.’

  ‘And there’s no obvious reason why she’s waking up?’

  ‘Impossible to say. It may just be a natural thing, part of growing up, or …’

  Charlie didn’t seem in the mood to elaborate, so Helen didn’t press her.

  ‘And how are things with Steve?’

  ‘Even worse. Sorry, Helen, I know I sound like the most depressing person on earth at the moment,’ Charlie laughed, before falling silent once more.

  ‘Do you think you might be? Depressed, I mean. Because if you are …’

  ‘I think I’m tired, worried, grumpy and a little bit sad. But other than that, I’m great fun to be around …’

  She smiled ruefully at Helen, who returned the compliment.

  ‘But let’s not talk about me – I bore myself. Let’s talk about something more exciting.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Joseph Hudson.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Seriously?’

  Helen angled a sideways glance at her friend, to find Charlie smiling at her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, Helen. You must have noticed how he looks at you.’

  Helen said nothing, deciding discretion was the wisest course.

  ‘He’s like a fox in the hen house. And I swear he’s been checking you out. I took a look at his terminal after he’d left for the day, he’d pulled up your entire career history.’

  ‘Charlie,’ Helen replied, warningly.

  ‘I know … but I won’t apologize for keeping an eye out for you. Especially after Gardam.’

  ‘He’s not another Jonathan Gardam. He’s far too green, too up front.’

  ‘So he has expressed his feelings for you, has he?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Not that he needs to, it’s plain as day.’

  Helen shook her head, amused. But privately she was pleased that his attraction to her was obvious.

  ‘And if I’m allowed to bend the rules occasionally,’ Charlie continued, a little glint in her eye. ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t.’

  Helen frowned good-naturedly, but didn’t look at her friend, keeping her eyes on the road.

  ‘I mean he’s a handsome guy, young, athletic …’

  ‘He’s my junior.’

  ‘I’m not saying you have to marry him. And I swear I wouldn’t tell anyone.’

  Charlie was being deliberately provocative, enjoying teasing her old friend. Helen was pleased to see that a little colour had returned to her cheeks.

  ‘I’ll admit he does seem keen.’

  ‘Well, there you go then.’

  ‘And it would be nice to have some company.’

  ‘So?’

  Charlie actually seemed quite excited, but Helen couldn’t resist teasing her back.

  ‘But it’s not something I would ever consider.’

  It was said with a poker face, but Helen’s tone was playful. Charlie eyed her suspiciously, unsure how to read her. In all honesty, Helen didn’t know either – she was unsure what she felt about Joseph Hudson, if she could ever go there. But if it helped cheer Charlie up, distract her from her own problems, then she was happy to play the game.

  Further analysis would have to wait, however. They had arrived at Burgess Road.

  110

  The Santander bank was a curious mixture of the old and new. Housed in an elegant Victorian building, it should have had some majesty, some charm, but this was undone by the gaudy red signs and endless posters of Jenson Button. It was not like the banks Helen remembered from her youth – heavy, portentous, silent as a library. These banks were bright, breezy and remorselessly customer-focused, deputy manager Jane Harris hurrying over to meet them, scenting new custom.

  ‘Can I ask what this is all about?’ she asked, disappointed, once Helen had outlined the reason for their visit.

  ‘It’s connected to a major investigation we’re running. I can’t say more than that, I’m afraid. But your assistance could be invaluable – we’re looking for internal CCTV footage from the third of June.’

  It was said cheerily, and with a smile, but Helen’s tone was laced with urgency. Harris seemed to falter, looking uncertainly at Helen, then Charlie, then back again, before she eventually replied:

  ‘Then you’d better come with me.’

  Having been eager to assist them at first, Harris now hovered over them, looking concerned. Perhaps she was worried some financial crime had taken place, something that might rebound on her, perhaps she was just unnerved by their presence. Either way, she lurked behind them, craning over their shoulders to see the staccato black-and-white images on the screen.

  Helen tried to blot her out, giving her entire attention to the parade of customers hurrying to and from the cash machine. She was playing the footage at double speed, making the customers’ withdrawals slightly comic, as they punched in their PIN numbers furiously, then retreated at high speed. It was strangely hypnotic, the to-ing and fro-ing of the customers in the bank’s atrium feeling like the ebb and flow of everyday life, but Helen kept her senses alert searching for Lauren Scott.

  People came and went. Men, old ladies, young mums, rowdy lads, then suddenly there she was. Helen had shot past her arrival, so paused the footage and wound it back. Yes, there was no doubt it was Scott – she was wearing a vest top and Helen easily spotted one of her distinctive tattoos. More significant, however, was the fact that she wasn’t alone.

  ‘Is that Campbell?’ Charlie murmured, without looking up, keen to exclude Harris from the conversation.

  ‘Too tall,’ Helen said quietly in reply.

  Both figures had their back to the camera, but it was clear that Scott’s companion was too lean, too statuesque to be Tom Campbell. The hair was also too long, too dark and the man’s whole bearing seemed wrong. He was stooped over Scott, standing unnecessarily close to her.

  Helen slowed the footage right down, watching it at half speed now.
The pair seemed to be engaged in some kind of earnest conversation, before Scott turned away to begin her transaction. Without sound, it was hard to tell for sure, but something about their interaction seemed unnatural. The man now laid his hand on her shoulder. Was this an act of affection? Or was he simply holding on to her, for fear she might run away?

  Now Scott turned back to him and this time her discomfort was clear. She seemed distressed, even scared, handing the money over to him quickly, as if she wanted to be rid of it. Helen watched intently, as Scott now tried to disentangle herself from his clutches. But the man held on to her, moving his face close to hers. Scott seemed to back away and a small struggle ensued, but then, darting a look around at the other customers, the man let her go. Scott didn’t need a second invitation, pulling her bag onto her shoulder and hurrying from the bank.

  Helen shot a look at Charlie, who nodded back. Returning her attention to the screen, Helen stared at the figure in the atrium, taking in his lean form, his strangely menacing presence. He appeared to count the money now, before thrusting it into his pocket and making to depart. As he did so, however, he looked around once more, checking perhaps to see if anyone had witnessed his altercation with Scott. As he did so, his gaze rose, sweeping the walls and ceiling, before alighting on the camera. For a brief moment, he was looking directly at them and, jabbing the controls, Helen froze the picture.

  ‘Gotcha,’ Charlie breathed.

  But Helen wasn’t listening, staring intently at the image. It was not the unpleasant sneer on his face that had silenced her.

  It was the fact that she recognized him.

  111

  The cries of happy children filled the air, but he didn’t look up. The scrubby ground he was traversing was uneven and littered with rubbish and, besides, he didn’t want to be noticed. He was a regular fixture at the site now, but he hoped that by keeping his head down, by not engaging, he could pass unseen.

  This was a fond hope, of course. The travellers who dominated this site were a close-knit bunch and the presence of an outsider was always going to excite interest. He had received the odd cat call, even the occasional question, but he’d dead-batted them and hoped that if he showed little interest in them, they would grow bored and leave him alone. Generally, he tried to keep his perambulations across the site to a minimum. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Today was different, however. He had craved a proper, home-cooked meal – he had been living off tins for too long – and wanted to find a newspaper. So, he had risked a daytime sortie. It had not been unsuccessful, but already he was regretting it, the chatter rising as he hurried back towards his caravan.

  ‘What you up to, mister? You got a girl in there?’

  The female voice was young and taunting, revelling in the bawdiness of her question.

  ‘Or a boy?’

  This was met with peals of teenage laughter, but still he didn’t turn, dodging a discarded beer bottle as he approached his caravan. He would have loved to shoot a volley of abuse back – he had never liked gypsies or whatever they called themselves – but there was no question of engaging with them. A wanted man is best advised to keep his own company.

  That was the one saving grace of his current situation. He had chosen the site deliberately and it had suited his purposes perfectly. It had an abandoned caravan which he could claim and, furthermore, was well off the beaten track. Few would stumble upon it in the normal course of things and, if they did, would swiftly retreat, the man on the street having an ingrained suspicion of travellers. Just as importantly, the travellers themselves were unlikely to turn him in, their well-founded paranoia regarding the police making them reluctant to snitch on anyone, regardless of their crimes. Justice was something they dispensed themselves, and as long as he could avoid provoking their anger, he might avoid any complications. It wasn’t the perfect bolt-hole, but it was as good a place as any for someone who needed to remain below the radar.

  He had reached the caravan now and slid the key into the padlock. As he did so, he stole a glance over his shoulder. The gang of teenagers had lost interest and were busy cackling over something they were watching on their phones. He took the opportunity to appraise their leader. She was a well-built, curvy girl, of no more than fifteen, who always wore a regulation outfit of crop top and denim hot pants. She was too large for the latter, a roll of smooth pink skin hanging just over the top of her shorts, but somehow it suited her. She was young, inexperienced, but also fleshy and inviting, ripe for the plucking. He let his eyes linger on her, as the last rays of the setting sun fell on her skin, imagining what might happen if he could get her alone in his caravan.

  For a second, he was lost in the moment, but suddenly she looked up. Instantly he tore away his gaze. Hungry as he was, there was no way he could encourage her, not yet anyway. So, ripping off the padlock, he retreated quickly into the mouldering caravan, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  112

  Graham Ross was a parasite, feeding off other people’s misfortune.

  Emilia often felt that way about herself, but Ross took this to a new level. He had spent most of his adult life surrounded by butchered children, murdered lovers, battered wives – face to face with them, rather than at a remove like her – and still he went back for more. Was this professionalism or something else? To Emilia, it was beginning to seem more like an obsession.

  Having written up her campsite piece, she had swiftly diverted her attentions back to Ross, digging down into his personal history and career trajectory, searching for something she could use, even exploit. But the more she’d read, the more intrigued and concerned she’d become, as his passion for death became clear.

  As Ross had intimated, he was a man who’d always been on the move. He had worked for a number of forces up and down the country – moving from London to Glasgow, then to Manchester, then Hampshire – without ever committing to one place. He could have signed up to work for a specific force at any time, but had taken advantage of the privatization of crime scene services to remain freelance, to keep himself at one remove from the people he worked for. Was this because of a natural shyness or was it something more deliberate?

  From her conversations with him, Emilia suspected the latter. Ross was someone who appeared to view human beings at a remove, as if they were subjects to be observed through the viewfinder of his camera, rather than actually engaged with. Was it possible he found people repellent, that he had a streak of misanthropy running through him? If so, where did she fit in? Why was he so solicitous of her?

  Whether he desired her, wanted her to promote his work or had some other, unforeseen agenda, there was no question that she was the exception to the rule. Ross viewed life as art, something to be captured and preserved, rather than experienced. She could see the appeal – the control you exercised over your subjects, the world in general – but what did this kind of life do to you? His whole existence was caught up in photography – he ran courses on the subject and even curated local exhibitions to add to his income – which must affect your ability to engage, to be a normal human being. Add to this the fact that his job necessitated him recording the bloody remnants of human beings, capturing them only after their hopes and dreams, their very lives, had been snatched away from them and, surely, you had the recipe for some kind of psychological or emotional dysfunction?

  Emilia had pondered before whether he might be dangerous, whether he might even intend her some harm. Previously she had batted these concerns away, but they returned to her forcefully now. Everyone – journalists, members of the public, the police themselves – had been scratching their heads as to a motive for these crimes. But had Ross, wittingly or unwittingly, given her a clue? Perhaps the staging of the deaths was significant, but not because of some deeper meaning to the arrangement of the bodies. Perhaps it was the staging itself that was important for the killer, the ‘beauty’ of the kill sites an end itself. If so, was it possible that Ross himself was somehow involved?


  It seemed unlikely and yet it was a thought that refused to go away. So, swallowing down her disquiet, Emilia continued her descent into the dark world of a man who’d spent his life with dead bodies.

  113

  He was a face without a name.

  As soon as Helen glimpsed him in the grainy, black-and-white CCTV shot, she’d felt a jolt of recognition. Not from any of their main lines of enquiry – their hard digging into the lives of Nathaniel Martin and Dean Clarke – but from something altogether more peripheral. Leaving the bank with the CCTV tapes in hand, Helen had ferried Charlie back to Southampton Central, shutting the door to her office and pulling down the blinds, as she laid out a series of photos that had been taken nearly a decade ago.

  When Helen had first taken possession of the plethora of snaps hidden away in Tom Campbell’s attic, she had sought out images of Campbell and Scott, searching for confirmation of their relationship. But as she did so, her gaze had alighted on other players – fleeting images of Aaron Slater, Julia Winter, but others who appeared more regularly. And one of them – this man, their mysterious blackmailer – had registered strongly with her.

  Some of the photos were domestic in nature – sweet, goofy images of Campbell and Scott in happier times – but most of them were exterior shots. Smoking in the park, dancing in the twilight, sunbathing, swimming – endless shots of carefree, bacchanalian times when alcohol and dope were plentiful. Their suspect was notably absent from the domestic shots, making Helen wonder just how good a friend he was, but he was front and centre in the scenes of revelry, a young, sarcastic, but undeniably attractive lord of misrule. Helen had assumed he would be part of their crowd, a fellow student at the university perhaps, but so far their search had thrown up nothing.

  ‘What about the graduation photos? Perhaps he joined late, did a condensed course?’