by Elena Forbes
A freezing rain started to spatter the car as they crossed over the A4 and headed south over a small river and along narrow lanes through a couple of villages and open farmland.
‘The woods are just up here,’ he said. ‘There are several ways in, I seem to remember. But I think we’ll head for the main car park. It will be more sheltered there and probably quicker on foot to where you want to go.’
He turned off the lane onto a muddy track and almost immediately they were in the woods. The trees were tall, thickly planted on either side, and the high evergreen canopy cut out much of the remaining light. A minute later, the pine trees faded into a mixture of evergreen and bare, deciduous trees, and they came to a large clearing surrounded by huge beeches, the area underneath dotted with wooden picnic benches and tables. They pulled up alongside a couple of parked cars, but there was nobody in sight.
They got out and Gavin changed his shoes for a pair of wellingtons from the back of the car and put on a heavy waterproof jacket. ‘Last time I was here, the bluebells were out. It looked absolutely amazing. Just a sea of violet everywhere, and sunlight. It must have been late April, or early May.’
‘I prefer it like this,’ she said. ‘I imagine it’s full of people in spring and summer.’
‘And endless, bloody dogs.’ He zipped up his coat and, glancing over at her, caught her shivering. ‘You’re going to freeze, dressed like that. Do you want to put my coat around you?’
‘No. I’m OK. Don’t worry.’
He looked at her as though she were mad. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
A biting gust of wind blew her hair into her face and she could feel the cold through her jacket, but now she was there, she didn’t want to give up. ‘Really, I’m fine. I’ll warm up once we start walking.’
He shrugged. ‘Up to you.’
She sensed his reluctance. Given the weather, it was a lot to ask and no doubt he’d rather be tucked up in front of a fire somewhere. She consulted Dan’s map, getting her bearings.
‘It’s this way, I think,’ she said, pointing towards a wide track that led away uphill. ‘Are you sure you want to come? I’m happy to go alone, if you don’t mind waiting for me in the car.’
He shook his head and smiled. ‘No. I’m more than happy to keep you company. It just seems such a strange thing to be doing, that’s all.’
She realized it must be very odd for him to walk around some deserted woods in the middle of the afternoon, with someone he hadn’t seen for twenty years, trying to find the spot where a murdered woman had been found. But for her, it was as normal as breathing. She needed to get a feel for the place. Ten years on, at almost the same time of year to the day, it probably looked little different. But the trail was cold and any traces of evidence long gone. The lack of freshness and immediacy was something she had never had to deal with in her years at the Met. It all felt incredibly distant. For a moment, she wondered if she were mad to have agreed to take on Farrell’s case. It was also strange to be there with Gavin. He was part of a different world. Only a few days back, she would never have imagined that she would see him again, let alone that she would be doing something like this with him, particularly after everything that had happened between them.
They walked in silence for a while, following the series of tracks and bridleways marked out on Dan’s map. The route was up and down, the ground soft and slippery beneath the thick carpet of decaying leaves. The air was bitingly cold but at least the trees offered some protection from the wind. She saw a couple of people out riding in the distance. Somewhere a man called and whistled to a dog. Otherwise they were alone, the only sounds coming from the crunching of twigs beneath their feet and the soft drip of moisture through the branches above. Eventually, they joined a bridle path and came to the point that Dan had circled on the map. Although it was a blown-up version of the local Ordnance Survey map, it still wasn’t very detailed. According to Peters’ report, Jane McNeil’s body had been found about twenty metres off the bridleway, in a north-easterly direction. It had been concealed next to a small brook or gulley, under a pile of leaves, up against a fallen tree. The general picture had probably changed little in the intervening years, but the specifics had done. The dead tree would have been removed and chopped for wood long ago, and others had fallen since. Without any other distinguishing features, let alone police tape to help guide her to the scene, it was impossible to know where the exact spot had been. The only observation she could make was that the killer had chosen a location well off the beaten track.
She pulled out her phone, wondering if there was some way to get a better reading of the location, but there was no signal. In a way, it didn’t matter. Although tyre tracks had been found in the muddy ground near the body, both from a 4×4 vehicle and a couple of off-road motorbikes, it wasn’t clear who had made them, or when. Even if Jane had gone there willingly, why bring her all this way to kill her? She agreed with the conclusion of the original investigation; it wasn’t a place of execution. The woods had been just the dumpsite. The question was why there. They were more or less in the centre of the woods. Assuming that the killer had driven to the woods with Jane’s body, either parking in one of the lanes on the perimeter, or in the car park, it would still have been quite a trek. Lugging a five-feet-five, hundred-and-ten-pound dead woman that distance, over that terrain, without being observed, was no mean feat. Perhaps the killer had managed to drive into the woods, skirting around the various heavy barriers she had noticed along the way. She also wondered if the killer had deliberately brought the petrol with them, or if it was an afterthought. Maybe, as the police had initially suspected, the killer had had an accomplice. Perhaps they hoped the body would never be found, or at least not until the spring, or even several years later. One thing was clear, the choice of location showed local knowledge and her gut feel was that the killer was someone Jane knew.
High up in the trees birds were calling to one another and she heard the rasping alarm of a blackbird, along with something else she didn’t recognize. It was only mid-afternoon but the woods were already filled with a murky half-light.
‘What are you thinking?’ Gavin asked, from behind her.
She had forgotten he was there and turned around. He was standing a few metres back, under the dripping branches of a tree, watching her. His hair was dark from the rain and he looked pale and cold, chin tucked into the zipped-up collar of his jacket, hands deep in his pockets.
‘Just that somebody knew these woods and went to a lot of trouble to hide Jane’s body. I think they were very unlucky she was found so quickly.’
‘Is this where it happened?’
‘No. I’m sure she was killed somewhere else and brought here.’
He looked grave and shook his head slowly. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about. I feel incredibly sad for poor Jane and her family all over again. But if you’ve seen enough, we’d better get going. It’s going to be dark very soon and we’ll have trouble finding our way out.’
TWENTY-ONE
Zofia’s bath was on the short side for someone of Dan’s height – or anyone over average height – and it was as narrow as a coffin. The bath water wasn’t as hot as he would have liked either, and there wasn’t much of it. But it was all that was on offer, short of going to the local swimming pool and taking a shower there. Convenience was everything, after the day he’d had.
He had spent the morning with a group of law students at UCL, who were setting up an innocence project that might provide 4Justice with additional free research support. It was through the law faculty that Kristen had originally come across Zofia. In Kristen’s absence, he was developing a good rapport with one of the female lecturers, who seemed interested in working together. Even though the students would need a great deal of supervision and he had the strong suspicion that the woman fancied him, which wasn’t reciprocated, he badly needed help with sifting through all the potential new cases that were coming in. It was a laborious process. Many were h
opeless from the start, not meeting the basic criteria that the charity had set out for applications. These could be thrown out straight away. But others required more work – often a great deal of work – before it was possible to assess whether or not it was worth spending further time and resources looking into them in greater depth. If a case passed this hurdle, the charity’s advisory panel of experts would then review it, looking for the holes in the prosecution case and usually the holes in the defence that might be filled by proper research and expert input. If they agreed that a case had merit, it would then be taken on. This all took manpower and time – neither of which he had.
That afternoon he had been hunched over his desk back in his office, reviewing two cases that had been shortlisted from the latest bunch of no-hopers. Neither looked particularly compelling at first glance, but he still had to go through the motions and put together a considered response to the men’s solicitors. He had already told himself that, with Kristen gone, he would have to cut right back on the number of cases he took on. He had a few journalistic contacts who were prepared to lend a hand from time to time, but without Kristen, it wasn’t enough. Whilst he still believed, with all his heart, in the importance of the work 4Justice did, he had run through most of his savings and he couldn’t carry the weight of it much longer on his own. They either needed a serious cash injection, or they would be forced to fold.
His shoulders and back were stiff and aching from the worry of it all and his head was spinning. Zofia was out somewhere, supposedly checking on how things were going with the attempt to hack into Mickey’s memory stick, so at least he wouldn’t be disturbed. He slid down in the bath until the water was lapping his chin, knees uncomfortably out in the cold, feet jammed under the taps. The light bulb that hung from the centre of the ceiling was covered in a pink gingham shade that was turning brown at the edges. The towels were also pink and fluffy, and bottles of bath oil and candles were dotted around the room on every available surface. He found it difficult to imagine Zofia lying in the bath, surrounded by a sea of scent and candlelight, let alone choosing anything pink. Maybe there was a hidden, soft, girlie side to her that he had missed, deeply repressed beneath the usually humourless, no-nonsense attitude and uniform of black. Thinking about it, it was almost kinky, like finding bondage gear beneath a nurse’s starched uniform, except the other way around. A tumbler of ice-cold vodka, still viscous and sweet, sat reassuringly on the little wooden stool next to the bath, along with his phone. He closed his eyes, let his mind zone out. For a moment, he was back in the bathroom in Kristen’s flat. Her bath was big enough for two and he imagined her coming in, peeling off her clothes and slipping in with him.
The ring of his phone brought him back to the present. He peered over the edge of the bath, glanced down at the screen and saw Mickey’s name. He sat up, sending a wave of water splashing onto the old lino. Mickey Fraser, in stark white letters. It really was Mickey’s number. Was it a joke? Then he remembered that Mickey’s phone was missing, apparently stolen by the killer from his flat. He grabbed a towel off the rail above, hurriedly wiped his fingers and reached for the phone. But as he answered, the call was cut. For a moment, he wondered if he had been hallucinating. But the glass of vodka was still half full and it was his first that day. He checked the recent call log. Mickey’s name was definitely there. For a brief, unreal moment, he thought again that he’d gone mad and that Mickey wasn’t actually dead. Then he refocussed. He grabbed the vodka and took a large swig. Who has Mickey’s phone and why were they trying to contact him? Was it the police, or Mickey’s killer, or someone else? He took another gulp and emptied the glass, wondering if whoever it was would call back, but the phone stayed silent. Maybe his number had been dialled by mistake, but it meant that Mickey’s phone was switched on somewhere. He opened his call log and pressed Mickey’s name.
He expected the phone to be switched off, but it rang several times. Then a man answered.
‘Yes?’ The voice was deep and gruff. From the intonation, Dan could tell he was foreign.
He heard music in the background, something electronic, with a thudding beat.
‘You called my phone just now. From Mickey Fraser’s phone.’
There was breathing at the other end, then the man said, ‘Wait.’
Muffled sounds followed, like a pocket call, with distant, inaudible voices. Then silence.
‘Hello. HELLO. My name’s Dan Cooper. You called my number.’
There was crackling at the other end, men talking in a language he didn’t recognize. He heard the music again, then another voice.
‘You Dan? You friend of Mickey?’ It was very different in tone to the previous man’s, younger and higher in pitch, but with a similar, thick accent.
‘Yes. My name’s Dan Cooper. I was a friend of Mickey’s.’
‘He tell me your name. I am Mickey’s friend too. My name is Hassan.’
‘Why do you have Mickey’s phone? Why are you calling me?’
Silence.
‘Mickey’s dead.’
There was another long pause, then the man said, ‘I know. I am very sad. I need to talk with you.’
TWENTY-TWO
‘What will you have?’ Gavin asked.
‘Soda, ice and lemon, please.’
‘Nothing stronger?’
Eve shook her head. ‘I don’t drink alcohol anymore.’
He looked at her enquiringly, then nodded, as though it was yet another strange thing about her to take in, and turned away towards the bar.
They were in the Bargeman’s Rest free house, by the Kennet and Avon canal, where Jane McNeil’s car had been found ten years before, tucked away in a corner of the car park. It was a picturesque spot overlooking the water. She imagined it would be packed with tourists in summer, although with the dark-brown stretch of canal outside and lack of greenery and flowers around it, it looked a little bleak and uninviting at this time of year. From the report Peters had given her, the police had formed no theory as to why the car had been left there, other than that Jane must have driven it herself. No fingerprints, other than hers and Farrell’s, had been found inside it. The pub had changed hands twice in the intervening period and the woman behind the bar, who had a strong Geordie accent, said she’d only worked there for six months and had no knowledge about what had happened ten years before, nor knew anyone who did.
Gavin returned a few minutes later with their drinks. Seeing him walk across the room towards her, Eve was struck again by how extraordinarily handsome he was. She could see it objectively now, not coloured by complex teenage emotions, and was amused to watch as heads, both female and male, turned involuntarily in his direction as he crossed the room. He was heart-stoppingly beautiful. That was the right word for it. He should have been an actor, not a politician, she thought.
‘Any particular reason you don’t drink anymore?’ he asked, sitting down opposite her.
There was no edge to the words, nothing more than a polite inquiry. Unlike so many people, Gavin said what he meant. His directness and lack of side had been one of the many things she had liked about him. Most people assumed she was a reformed alcoholic, which didn’t bother her. But something about Gavin invited frankness, particularly in the bizarre situation they found themselves in. It was as though reality was suspended. She had to be on her guard not to give away too much. She had no desire to explain that, when he knew her, alcohol had been a means of escape from her ‘demons’, as Dr Blake, one of her psychotherapists, had called them, a man very fond of clichés. Later, she had tried all sorts of other mind-altering substances in the hope of blotting out the memories, but the release was temporary and, if anything, it made it all so much worse. The past became even more vivid and present and terrible. Sobriety was the only thing that seemed to work and make the shadows recede for a while.
‘I found alcohol didn’t suit me, that’s all.’ She met his gaze, hoping he wouldn’t probe further. Alcohol had also been her only means of developing
a relationship with him, allowing her to go far further than she might otherwise have done with what she had viewed at the time purely as an experiment.
He smiled good-naturedly and picked up his pint. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Can I ask you something, Gavin?’
‘You can ask me anything. Anything at all.’
‘Why did Tim Michaels commit suicide?’
He coughed, stared at her hard for a moment, then put his glass firmly on the table.
‘Sorry, Eve. I really wasn’t expecting that.’
The question was perhaps a little blunt and maybe he wasn’t comfortable discussing the Michaels family, but she decided to press ahead. If he wouldn’t talk to her, who would?
‘I need to check every possible angle.’
He raised his eyebrows, looking almost pained. ‘Tim’s death is an angle?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
He wiped the back of his mouth with his hand and sat back in his chair. ‘I guess I can tell you, if that’s what you really want. If you think it will help.’ Again he hesitated.
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘OK. From what I know, Tim suffered from depression most of his adult life. He was a difficult man to be with at the best of times. He was a perfectionist and very exacting, some would say hard, on both himself and those around him. We only found out after his death he’d been having money problems for several years.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘I don’t know the ins and outs, but racing’s a fickle business and you’re only as good as your latest results. He’d overspent on upgrading the facilities and then he had a few bad seasons, coupled with a run of bad luck generally, and clients started taking horses away. They said he’d lost his touch. As you’ve gathered, the family’s been in racing for several generations and there’s a lot at stake, not least personal pride. For him, a life outside racing was not worth living. Also, I guess he couldn’t cope with the idea that he might be the one to lose it all.’