by Dylan Young
Kate must have read something in her sister’s expression. ‘Well, I’ve heard that he is in a steady relationship now.’
Anna’s mum’s face fell, the pillars of her imaginary matchmaking crumbling. ‘Oh, don’t say that. And anyway, how would you know?’
‘Facebook,’ Kate said, without missing a beat and causing her mother to frown. Social media proof brooked no argument.
‘Well, it wouldn’t do any harm if you poked him, would it?’
Kate suppressed a guffaw. Anna shook her head and muttered, ‘I wouldn’t poke him with a fifty thousand volt taser.’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic,’ their mother said. ‘It’s not as if your social life is crammed, is it?’
‘Mum,’ Kate said, with a stony glare.
Anna’s work phone vibrated on the dining-room table, where she’d left it. Maybe she did have a guardian angel. But not even in her wildest dreams did she imagine it would be Sergeant Slack.
‘Inconvenient?’ he asked, by way of greeting.
‘No. Fire away,’ Anna replied, moving away from the table into the empty living room.
‘Sorry to spoil your Sunday, ma’am, but we thought you’d better know. We’ve found Nia Hopkins’ body.’
Slack didn’t sugar-coat it. No point. Anna squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Fuck!’ The expletive emerged as an expulsive whisper. Even though she knew that seven days after an abduction the chances had been slim, a tiny part of her nestling in the core of her humanity hoped that for once someone might hold two fingers up at the stats. But it was not to be.
‘What does it look like?’ she asked.
‘Something you ought to see, ma’am.’
She went back into the dining room.
Kate must have read her expression. ‘Bad news?’
‘Yes. I have to go.’
‘Oh?’ her mum said. ‘Anything interesting? Must be more important than visiting your sister and your family.’
‘If you call murder interesting, then yes.’
‘My God.’ Her mother’s hand went to her throat.
‘Not that poor little girl in the Forest of Dean, is it?’ Kate asked.
‘I really can’t talk about it,’ Anna said.
‘Why on earth are you involved in something like that?’ Horror raised the pitch of Mrs Gwynne’s voice.
Anna snapped. ‘What do you think the police do, Mum?’
‘I know what the police do. But you could have done anything. Your father would be—’
‘Proud. He’d be proud. I’m doing what I bloody well want to do. When are you going to accept that?’ It came out sharp and bitter. ‘Sorry, I can’t do this. Not now. Bye, Mum.’ She turned and walked away. Kate’s chair scraped back and she caught Anna’s elbow at the door.
‘She doesn’t mean any harm by it, Anna,’ she whispered.
‘Yes, she does. You know she bloody well does.’
‘She’s losing the filters. She just says what comes into her head.’
‘Yeah, and she might as well stand on the table, wave her hands around and say, “This! This is what you should have. Not a rented flat and a can of mace as your perfume of choice.”’ She raised her voice a notch, knowing her mother would hear. ‘Well, guess what? I like my rented flat. I like making a sodding difference.’
Kate winced and put a calming hand on Anna’s arm. ‘I know you do, babes. And you do have all this, too. Rob thinks you’re a rock star. The kids love you to bits. This is here for you, whenever.’
‘Tim fucking Lambert?’
‘She doesn’t know the dirty truth though, does she?’
Anna sighed. ‘No, she doesn’t. And I’ve just been reminded of why I didn’t tell her.’ She hugged Kate. ‘Say goodbye to the monsters for me.’
‘I’ll come up one Saturday. Leave the kids with Mum and Rob. Just us two, OK?’
‘That would be good. Really good.’
‘Take care, Anna. I’m just on the other side of that bridge, remember. And on the other end of the phone. You know, black oblong? Touch screen?’
It broke the tension. Anna smiled and they hugged again.
* * *
Holder rang Anna five minutes later. They agreed to meet at the Severn View services and travel up to Gloucester together. It was Sunday. He didn’t have to, but she was grateful for him offering nonetheless.
Driving fast along the M4, Anna couldn’t shake the thought of Tim Lambert. Even after all these years it made her feel sick. What was her mother thinking of? Guilt followed. Her mother had probably thought of nothing at all. And yet…
She’d analysed the why and the wherefore of just when her relationship with her mother started to go south and concluded that her father’s death, though not the actual trigger, was the catalyst that allowed a suppressed stream of constant negativity to pour forth. There was probably a PhD psychoanalysis thesis here, if she dug deep enough or even scratched the surface. But knowing that didn’t help.
Anna had been close to her father, much closer than Kate. He’d engaged in and encouraged her interests, and possessed enough emotional intelligence to screen her from the carping criticism that her mother seemed unable to stop. Kate, on the other hand, could do no wrong in her mother’s eyes. Her three years at the university in Cardiff meant that she’d been close enough to nip home most weekends to be with Rob and provide emotional support for their mother, whereas Anna’s end-of-term visits were kept to the minimum, and, after a couple of days, she’d be itching for London again. No, that was wrong. She’d be itching to be away from the chintzy curtains and antimacassars, and the silent drone of disapproval. More than once Anna asked herself, and occasionally Kate, if their mother had suffered some sort of localised stroke. A targeted embolism, which demolished that part of her brain capable of empathy, or, as said in typically blunt Anna fashion, ‘recognising when she was being a hypercritical cow’.
She had her phone in a holder on the dash and pressed a key to bring up Siri. ‘Phone Kate.’
Her sister answered. The noise of children giggling in the background abated as she changed rooms. ‘Anna? Everything OK?’
‘I made inspector. Temporary, but still inspector.’
Kate squealed. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘You know why.’
‘We would have opened champagne.’
‘Now’s not the time for celebration.’
‘Was the news really bad?’
‘The worst. Keep that bottle on ice for the next time and I’ll stay over. I miss having a three-year-old crawl all over me at six in the morning.’
‘Hah! When was the last time anyone crawled all over you at six in the morning?’
‘Thanks, Kate.’
‘Any time, babes. Right. I’ll sort out that Saturday and we will drink Prosecco because you’re a cheapskate and I will definitely sleep over.’ The rest of the sentence was sung in a dramatic soprano. ‘Oh my God. My sister the detective inspector!’
Eleven
He’d made sure they’d find her and it had been easy. There’d been no resistance. The drugs ensured that. He’d used ketamine alone the first time and far too much of it. He’d almost killed her in the barn. But they’d worked a treat once he’d reduced the amount and mixed it in with the other stuff. It had kept her quiet and subdued while he waited.
She’d bled a little when he’d taken her. He’d stuck her in the thigh with the dart as she slept in the barn – who let two kids sleep in a fucking barn? – and she’d jerked from the pain, tearing a gash in her thigh. But he’d got enough in to subdue her. Later, she’d lain, quiet, pale, unmoving. Exactly the way he liked. Ever since that first time with Emily had awakened the excitement within him.
The drugs were a new departure. Previously he’d had to use his hands to suppress and choke, but the drugs… he wondered why he’d never thought of it before.
They’d ensured she hadn’t fought at the end. He’d hardly needed to use his hands on her throat even, excep
t that he liked to feel, to squeeze the apple. She’d only reacted when he’d stabbed her. Then she’d bucked and flopped like a fish. He’d made sure to stab her exactly the same number of times that he’d stabbed Emily. With exactly the same knife. It had to be the exact same number of times. Yet even he was surprised by how much it fulfilled him. How much he’d missed this. His hand had been forced by circumstances and yet… and yet he knew that there would be no going back now. No more being careful not to cross the red line.
He had a good supply of the drugs left. He knew how to hunt. A new chapter was dawning. This one had been a necessary target. He’d watched her ride. Knew her movements. But she was different. Chosen because of who she was, not what she was. Much more risk than he would normally take. But he’d taken care. Extra care.
Even the wild boar he’d encountered on the track had stayed away. Boars knew real danger when they came across it.
Now that they’d found her, they’d used his name again. He liked that. Couldn’t wait to read the words in the newspapers, hear them emerge from the mouths of those perfect English newsreader’s lips. Him. His name. He felt elated at the thought as it burned through him, from within.
But first, he needed for his carefully planned and constructed scenario to play out. It shouldn’t take long. Confirmation. Affirmation. That’s what people needed.
And afterwards? Afterwards he would be free to continue. A new chapter in his story. Spread his wings. Find another forest in which to hunt, even.
Watching, from a distance, the men and women in their stupid white suits swarm around the place he’d chosen for them to dance to his tune, he trembled. So much power. So much fucking power.
The cold was unremitting. The sun, sinking, stained the sky magenta as the day ended. It presaged another clear day to come and, with it, the promise of a new awakening for the Woodsman.
Twelve
Anna parked in Quay Street and she and Holder walked up under the overhang of the Gloucester county offices. The police station, a seven-storey concrete-and-glass monstrosity, cast a cold, architectural shadow over the simple domed beauty of the Crown court entrance opposite. Slack met them and took them upstairs. Within minutes he’d furnished them with strong tea and put them into a tiny room with a glass wall looking out onto the busy squad room. Sunday was forgotten and at least ten people were at work. It came as no surprise to Anna. The Hopkins Case was now a murder investigation for Harris and his team. With a killer at large, the danger for the local community had increased incrementally, and the public hadn’t even seen the body yet, or made the connections to Cooper, to Emily Risman… to the Woodsman.
With the door of their room closed, Anna and Holder could see the bustling activity and conversations taking place through the glass wall, but the soundproofing was excellent. Occasionally, someone in the squad room would glance in, wondering what it was that kept them so engrossed on the TV monitor.
Thankfully, no one in that workaday room could see what they could.
No one in his or her right minds would ever want to.
A dog team had found her in desolate woodland just four miles from the Hopkinses’ property. In a place that had been searched some days before. One handler had noticed activity from a couple of magpies as he’d made his way through a copse, his dog quickly repaying his sharp-eyed observation. The SOC video showed the layout. A narrow path led up to a crest, which rapidly descended into a bowl surrounded by naked ash and beech. From the approach, there was no way of knowing that such a depression existed in the landscape beyond. But the killer obviously knew.
The camera led the way down to the body and Anna was struck instantly by the similarity to Emily Risman’s SOC photos. The arrangement of branches and sticks forming a wooden tent over the body stood out. This time, a circlet of twigs entwined the crown. Someone had edited the video and the scene shifted to some time later, when the forensic team had done their preliminaries, to a point where the sticks had been removed. The cameraman was by necessity a true pornographer, visually probing all exposed parts of the victim’s body. This was his thankless role in the CSI team; finding and zooming in on every stab wound and bruise.
The similarities between Nia and Emily stood out as vivid and stark. Nia was also on her stomach, her lower half also covered with leaves, her face turned to one side, left arm half raised, pyjama bottoms pulled roughly down around her ankles. Anna knew that if she counted the stab marks, they’d number the same as were found on Emily’s body.
‘It’s the same. Exactly the same,’ she said finally.
‘You all right, ma’am?’ Holder asked.
‘As well as anybody after seeing that,’ said Anna. ‘The branches over her body. Has anyone given them a thought?’
Slack shrugged. ‘Half-hearted concealment maybe.’
‘I’d say he wanted her to be found,’ Anna shook her head. ‘Evidence of sexual molestation?’
Slack nodded. ‘There is bruising on the thighs but no semen. He used a condom.’
‘Knife?’
‘Four-inch blade. Same as with Emily Risman. Same number of times.’
Holder, sitting next to Anna, winced. He looked grey under his normally glowing brown skin.
‘Bathroom’s on this level, through the swing doors and take a left.’
Holder got up, mumbled some thanks and hurried through the door.
Anna watched him leave with a sympathetic grimace. ‘They didn’t tell him about this stuff at the academy. Preliminary forensics?’ she asked.
Slack consulted a file. ‘Remnants of adhesive on the wrists and mouth. Probably from tape. Strangulation was not fatal but prolonged. The ground was badly trampled. It looked as if he played cat and mouse with her, or she tried to get away. The blood spatter is all over the place.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Late yesterday evening.’
Anna squeezed her eyes shut. Nia’d been alive all this time. Hidden away. She swallowed down the frustration and hot anger. It wouldn’t help.
Slack continued, ‘No adhesive on the ankles but evidence of chafing on the left as if she’d been tied. He didn’t want her to get away, but didn’t want to restrict her movements either.’
‘Carried her to the killing ground. Easier to do if they’re not completely trussed up,’ she said, before exhaling loudly and reaching for the A4 pad she’d been scribbling notes on.
‘And, like Beckie, she was dosed up on ketamine and something called thiafentanil. A narcotic analgesic used by vets.’ Slack shook his head. ‘Do you need a copy of the video?’
‘No. Just send me through a few stills.’
‘Harris asked if you’d give him a ring once you’d finished here.’
She tried to read Slack but failed. She outranked him through nothing more than luck. If he was resentful, he was keeping it under wraps. She liked to think that catching Nia Hopkins’ killer was more important to him. Unlike his senior investigating officer.
‘Where is he?’
‘At the scene. He has a mobile.’
Slack reeled off the numbers as Anna dialled.
Harris answered with a barked hello. He sounded tired and brusque and blunt. ‘So, what do you think?’
‘My opinion is that we’re looking at an organised killing.’
‘You think whoever did this planned to kill this girl from the outset?’
‘Of course he did. Drugging Beckie. Abducting Nia to a place he clearly chose. He knew what he wanted to do, presuming this is not a copycat?’
‘No way. This is the sodding Woodsman. It’s Cooper,’ Harris said. ‘And don’t try telling me anything different.’ He killed the line and Anna pocketed the phone. His vehemence was understandable and all the more unwelcome for it. He wasn’t thinking clearly at this point. Though the similarities were obvious between Nia’s and Emily’s murders, there were differences, too.
Emily had not been hidden away and then killed. Her death had occurred on the day she’d gone missing.
The abduction was a new departure. Why had the killer kept Nia? There were obvious reasons, despicable and harrowing ones that she didn’t need to dwell on, which the autopsy might reveal. But there may have been more practical and devious reasons, which she had yet to think through.
Anna saw no point in quizzing Harris further at this point. He’d hardly been receptive up to now, and, judging from his reactions on the phone, the drawbridge was most definitely up.
‘Is he happy?’ Slack asked.
‘Couldn’t you hear the hysterical laughter?’ she replied.
They both swung round at the noise of the door opening. Holder, looking a lot less grey, walked in.
‘Sorry, ma’am.’
‘Don’t be. I’d think a lot less of you if you hadn’t thrown up. I was a whisker away from it myself.’ Anna turned to Slack. ‘We’ll want all the evidence and files duplicated, obviously.’
‘No problem,’ Slack said. ‘I’ll make sure of that. You know the way out?’
Back in the car, Holder looked confused. ‘So, are we investigating this case, too, ma’am?’
‘No. But we need shared access now that there are so many similarities. Slack and Harris know how this works.’
Holder nodded, a deep frown creasing his brow.
Anna snorted. ‘Don’t ever play poker, Justin. Come on, out with it.’
‘Something Sergeant Slack said, ma’am. When he phoned through with the news, he said that DCI Harris wanted to pick Neville Cooper up for questioning.’
‘And so it begins,’ she said, and the smile that graced her lips bore no trace of amusement.
* * *
They drove back to Bristol in the darkening afternoon, Anna unable to shake off the despondent mood that had settled over her. There was no denying it might be the Woodsman, but that didn’t immediately incriminate Cooper, and she desperately needed to investigate her other leads. What if the killer killed again?