by S J Bolton
Someone in the town, maybe. Someone in a bar, restaurant, bookshop? Talaith could probably help me with the places where Bryony had hung out.
And yes, I knew exactly what I was doing. I didn’t want Nick Bell to be involved in whatever was going on here. I’d liked him.
When I’d drawn a complete blank with Bell, I turned to my other self-appointed task. Finding the names of the women Evi had half told me about that morning, the suicides who’d suspected they’d been raped.
Three academic years earlier, five young women and one man had taken their own lives, making it one of the worst years on record for student suicides. I spent some time searching through the university newspapers and journals and the more general Cambridge-based ones, and eventually found six names. Without Joesbury’s help, though, there was no way of knowing which one Evi had been talking about.
The previous year was an even harder task, with seven self-inflicted student deaths. I couldn’t even find all the names, so had no way of knowing who Evi’s two had been. The year before that, though, I struck lucky. The woman Evi had referred to as Patient D hadn’t died and I found her quite quickly. Danielle Brown, a twenty-year-old neurology student from Clare College, had tried to hang herself in woods just outside the city. She’d been spotted by some kids who’d cut her down and saved her life.
Danielle Brown. Still alive.
By three o’clock, I knew I couldn’t stay indoors much longer. For one thing, I was still feeling groggy, making it pretty difficult to concentrate. For another, I was getting less and less comfortable in my room. Maybe it was just the recollection of what Bryony had gone through, but something was making me edgy.
And with every hour that went by, my feeling of frustration was growing. I’d spent the better part of three days doing exactly what I’d been told to – immersing myself in university life, watching and observing. I’d spent several hours of each day just surfing, looking for evidence of Evi’s theory that some virtual subculture was damaging the collective mental health of the university. There was plenty on the net about suicide websites, but nothing I could find that was Cambridge-specific.
By quarter past three I was on the verge of going nuts. Normally, feeling like this I’d try to shake off the sluggishness with sixty or more lengths, but I hadn’t discovered the pool or begun to work out the timetable. I decided I was well enough to risk a run.
I changed, took a look at the map and was about to head for the river when I remembered my trip to the industrial estate the previous day and the riverside public footpath I’d noticed. Another quick check of the map told me it was a four-mile circular walk close to one of the Cam’s tributaries. As good a place as any for a late-afternoon run.
At first it was hard work, maybe for half a mile I struggled, but I soon found a rhythm. It’s all in the breathing, running any distance. Get your breathing under control and you can more or less keep going till your strength gives up. For someone of my age with my fitness, that can be several hours. And as I ran I couldn’t help but think about Bryony’s strange scribbled message.
Someone was watching her. Someone was scaring her. Real fears or just the imaginings of someone semi-delusional? She wouldn’t be the first disturbed young woman to invent a stalker as a cry for attention. And was I right or wrong to suspect Nick Bell? Was it normal for GPs to visit patients in hospital? Once, maybe, but on the regular basis that Bell himself had admitted to? Somehow I didn’t think so.
Once I left the buildings behind, the landscape blanched. Grass crackled beneath my feet, iced-over puddles shattered like glass and trees sprinkled tiny ice-flakes over me like confetti as I passed beneath them.
I ran on, as the sun got lower in the sky, through ploughed fields and over stiles. For a mile or so I followed a small river that wound its way, serpent-like, through the meadows. Willow trees grew on either side and the water was lined with rushes that, as the sun cast out its colour, seemed to be made of polished copper.
After thirty minutes, I crossed the tiniest of footbridges and knew I was heading back. I’d covered the better part of a mile when, some distance ahead, I thought I could see the large, corrugated roofs of industrial-type buildings. I was approaching the estate again from the opposite side from where I’d parked. As I climbed the wooden stile into the next field, I saw it was closer than I’d thought. Maybe another half-mile. From this direction I could see a much older brick building. It looked Victorian, and derelict. Like an old factory, or possibly a foundry.
Then it happened. Quite literally out of the blue, the very last thing I’d have expected. One second I was running along, conscious that my pace had slowed and that sweat was trickling down between my shoulder blades. The next, a high-pitched screeching took me completely by surprise. Some instinct made me look up. About a hundred yards ahead, flying low and heading my way, was a large bird.
I wasn’t too alarmed at first, but as the bird drew closer, screaming all the time, I found myself slowing down, as though putting off the moment when we’d reach each other. I looked up, just as it passed directly overhead, low enough for me to make out dappled brown breast feathers, estimate that its wingspan was about three feet, and see yellow scaled talons.
I turned, fully expecting to see the bird flying away. It was, but not for long. It was harder to see now because it was coming directly from the sun but there really wasn’t much doubt it had turned and was coming back.
OK, what do you do? You’re a couple of miles from shelter, there’s no one else around and a large bird of prey attacks you. Any terms of reference for that? Because I hadn’t. Knowing the stupidity of trying to outrun a bird, especially a big one, that’s exactly what I did. I felt the rush of wind that could even have been physical contact as the bird passed overhead again.
What the hell was going on here? Birds didn’t attack people. Had I fallen asleep at my desk and woken up in a Hitchcock movie? I glanced up. OK, I needed a plan. Fast. To my left was a wired fence, about four feet high, with woodland on the other side. The bird would almost certainly find it harder to attack me around trees than in open countryside.
It was coming back, lower, heading straight for my face. I turned and sprinted for the fence. The bird rose higher in the air, hovering above me, screeching like a banshee all the while. The trees were tall but slender. Luckily for me, they grew very close together and I really didn’t think the bird could fly down here.
It couldn’t and it didn’t try. But it wasn’t giving up easily. I could still hear it above the tree canopy, screeching, probably accusing me of all sorts of cowardice in bird-speak.
I made my way through the woods, ducking to avoid a low-hanging branch, and after about five minutes came into a small clearing. In the centre were the remains of a campfire. Kids sneaking out to drink cheap booze and smoke dodgy cigarettes was my first assumption. Except there were no obvious signs that teenagers had been here. Teenagers are messy; they don’t party and go home via the recycling bins. Yet there was nothing here but the blackened remains of a fire.
On the other side of the clearing was a narrow track and I made for it with relief. To my surprise, I found the path was lit. To either side of it, at five-yard intervals, alternating from the left side to the right, were small lamps. In brighter light I’d hardly have noticed them, but as the daylight got weaker they began to glow. They were solar powered, not dissimilar to the ones I had at home. Which meant they had to be wired up to panels. I walked to the tree nearest the lamp I was standing by. Sure enough, a thin covered wire ran up the trunk, going up higher than I could see.
Installing solar lights in a wood in the middle of nowhere was an expensive operation. And why would you light up a path leading to a clearing?
It was difficult to be sure in the growing gloom but I had a feeling I was coming to the end of the woodland. Through the trees ahead of me and to my left, I caught glimpses of large buildings. To my right was the field where the footpath lay and that was the obvious way home, but I
was willing to bet the hawk from hell would have better night vision than I had. Better to get among the buildings, keep close to shelter and make my way back to the car.
I was still pretty jumpy by this stage so when something sounded behind me I spun round like I’d been shot. Nothing I could see, but woodlands are full of tiny creatures. Branches fall from trees, sometimes things just crack for no reason. No need to be alarmed, and walking backwards through a thick tangle of brambles, nettles and tough ground elder probably wasn’t a great idea. I turned back to face the way I was going.
And thought I might die of fright.
Directly in front of me, not ten yards away, a human figure hung by the neck from a tree. A split second later I realized it wasn’t a real person. It was just a large rag doll.
I moved closer. The doll was about three feet high. Its arms and legs seemed to have been made from a creamy-coloured cotton. It wore a yellow dress, stained by rain, mildew and bird droppings. Matching fabric had been sewn around its feet to simulate shoes. Its hands had been painted. Its hair was made from orange wool, twisted either side of its face in two plaits. Both were tied with large yellow bows. Its face was grotesque. A huge, grinning, misshapen mouth, heavy brows and fierce black eyes. A massive scar ran down the right cheek. This was no child’s toy: this had been made to scare. And it worked.
I made my way round the tree, giving the hanging figure a wide birth, suddenly feeling that a second encounter with a territorial bird might not be such a bad idea. Definitely not a bad idea, because the rag doll wasn’t the only thing hanging by the neck in these woods. Directly in front of me was an animal, swinging gently as though someone had given it a playful tap not moments before.
The fox was real. There was blood around its neck, which meant it had probably been alive when it was strung up here. On another tree, about five yards away, I could see another hanging figure. I was too far away to be sure it wasn’t human so I had to go closer. Too small to be adult, only about three or four feet high. I was close enough. Another hideously painted cotton face. Red hair this time, tied with blue ribbon.
Oh, this felt very wrong.
‘These woods are private.’
I’d had no idea anyone was near by and yet the small, silver-haired man had crept up close enough to touch. He was in country clothes, brown corduroy trousers and an oilskin coat.
‘What’s going on here?’ I asked without thinking, indicating the nearest doll. ‘What is this?’
I had to half admire the way a man hardly more than five foot seven could look down his nose at me. ‘Did you hear what I said?’ he asked. ‘Do you understand the word private?’
Oh, to have had my warrant card. ‘Sorry,’ I said, through gritted teeth.
‘That’s your quickest way out,’ he said, pointing to the field on my right, the one I’d been running through when the bird attacked. ‘I suggest you take it.’
I looked towards the industrial estate. ‘I’ll go that way,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit dark to be running through fields.’
His outstretched right arm didn’t budge. ‘That way,’ he said.
A bit annoyed now, I wished him a good evening and stepped to the side, meaning to go round him and head towards the buildings. He mirrored me, effectively blocking my path.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I asked him, sounding bolshie enough but just beginning to be a tiny bit afraid of him. He was in his early sixties and, whilst not a big man by any means, would probably outmatch me in strength. And there was something in his eyes that didn’t look quite reasonable.
‘My land,’ he said. ‘I can do what I like.’
‘No you can’t,’ I told him. ‘Get out of my way.’
He didn’t move. Except to point more emphatically with his right hand. ‘That is your way.’
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘What’s yours?’ he replied.
Well, he had me there. Laura Farrow could not get into a public argument with a local landowner. If the regional police got involved, they’d find out soon enough that Laura Farrow didn’t exist. It could blow the whole undercover operation.
‘Have a nice evening, sir,’ I told him, which, on reflection, probably wasn’t wise. Wishing someone a pleasant evening and calling them sir was a decidedly copper-ish thing to do. I turned and walked quickly to the edge of the woodland. Once more over the fence and I was in the field. When I turned back, he was still watching me.
I started running. Didn’t stop till I got to my car.
I got home to an email message from Evi, asking if I might be free to join her at a supper party the following night. It would be a chance for me to meet more people, she said, and might give the two of us time to talk if anything had come up.
It would also, I realized, give me a chance to ask her about Nick Bell, whether she knew him, what she thought of him. I sent her a quick message back saying I’d be happy to join her and she replied instantly with the address. A farmhouse just outside Cambridge. We’d meet there at eight.
I spent the evening cruising the net again, looking for sites that might be inciting vulnerable people like Bryony, Nicole and Jackie to take their own lives. If they were out there, they were elusive. I was getting increasingly convinced that Evi’s theory wasn’t right. When I felt as if my eyes were in danger of falling out of their sockets, I sent my report to Joesbury and went to bed.
JOESBURY LET OUT the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. For the love of … What part of you are not there to investigate was the woman struggling with? He leaned back, stretched, rubbed his eyes and read the paragraph again.
This isn’t date rape, remember, Sir. These four women, five including Bryony, didn’t go home with someone they met in a bar. They all believed someone came into their room at night, while they slept, and abused them. Most girls in college-type environments lock their rooms at night, which means someone gained entry through locked doors. Most women would wake up and scream the place down if a stranger started touching them in the middle of the night.
Except you, Lacey, Joesbury was thinking, as he walked to the window. A stranger touching you in the middle of the night is an entirely normal occurrence. Jesus, he needed to be off this case. No, he needed her off this case. He simply could not think straight when … and he was starting to feel like a caged animal in this hotel bedroom. He’d go for a walk except he knew where he’d end up. On the green outside the residential block of St John’s.
Instead, he turned back and looked at the blue file next to his laptop on the narrow hotel desk. He knew exactly who the four women were. Freya Robin, Donna Leather, Jayne Pearson and Danielle Brown. He was starting to recite their names – and those of all the others – in his sleep. He sighed again and went back to the report.
Christ, only Lacey Flint could be attacked by a rabid kestrel, find dead animals hanging from trees and be ordered off private land by a psychotic farmer all in one afternoon. When she finally finished rabbiting on about how she spent her leisure time, she went back to her previous point.
Seems to me there’s a pattern developing. Bad dreams, possible disappearances, recreational drug use, unproven sexual abuse and even rape, then death. I know you said I’m not investigating, Sir, but with the attempted suicides there are potentially twenty-nine cases of something very sinister going on here. Evi won’t give me names, some patient-confidentiality bollocks, but I found a few of them, including Danielle Brown, one of the possible rape victims, in newspaper archives. I know you can get the rest from CID files. It would be really helpful to know who they are. I’ve got plenty of time on my hands here. I can just sit at a computer and go through the facts. See if anything jumps out. I’m good at detail, did I mention that? Another thing that would be really useful is to track down Danielle Brown and go and talk to her. If she tells us her actions were influenced by online pressure, that’s a major step forward, isn’t it? I might just work on that tomorrow.
She wrote in
a way she never spoke to him. Much less formal, even friendly. When they were face to face she was always guarded, as though measuring every word that came out of her mouth. Except when she lost her temper. When he’d first got to know her, he’d made a point of winding her up in a way that was completely unprofessional, just to get a reaction out of her that seemed real.
OK, here’s the really serious bit. I went to see Bryony Carter again today and I discovered something. She can’t talk but she can write. Only the odd word at a time because she doesn’t seem to have much control over her muscles. She told me someone was watching her. Which really doesn’t fit with Evi’s online bullying theory. For someone to be watching, it all sounds more focused and deliberate. She also said that she was scared and then wrote down the word Bell. Mean anything to you? Bryony’s GP is called Nick Bell and he was in her room (watching her?) the day I met him, but to be honest I can’t see it. He seems nice. No one else of that name at the university who seems likely. I’m going to go and see her again. I don’t want to push it, though, she’s in a very delicate condition.
OK, I think that’s all for today. I can barely keep my eyes open and there’s a young gentleman reclining on my pillow who is looking decidedly neglected. I’m talking about the teddy, by the way. I call him Joe, did I mention that? Blimey, I’m tired. Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs … I’m really going now. Zzzzzz …
Joesbury stood up, crossed the room and let his head fall against the cool wood of the door. After five minutes he sighed and reached for the phone.
Cambridge, fifteen years earlier
‘NO ONE HAS to do this,’ said the young man who’d stolen the key and opened the door at the top of the church tower. He was tall and lean and at twenty-one his body was as close to perfect as the male form usually gets. His hair, grown longer since he’d left his strict boarding school behind, flew out around his head like a pagan crown. ‘I know we’ve talked, but until we got here, none of us knew how we’d feel. If anyone changes his mind, that’s OK.’