The Secret of Wild Boar Woods (DS Dave Slater Mystery Novels Book 6)

by P. F. Ford

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘If you had a choice, who would be your perfect partner?’

  ‘There’s no such thing as a perfect partner,’ he said.

  She sighed impatiently.

  ‘I should have known you would say something like that. Just try to humour me for a minute, it won’t kill you. Come on, what qualities would your ideal partner have?’

  ‘Someone who had sufficient confidence in herself that she didn’t feel the need to ask annoying questions would be quite good.’

  She glanced across at him. He was grinning back at her.

  ‘Ha, ha,’ she said. ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Well, stop worrying about it,’ he said. ‘We’re doing fine so far, aren’t we? Working relationships are like any other relationships. They aren’t made overnight, they evolve over time. And, for your information, I’ve never in my life called anyone darling before, so think yourself lucky.’

  She ignored the bad joke.

  ‘Yes, but I bet you haven’t had many partners who started by opening your front door to your girlfriend, dressed in one of your t-shirts and not much else.’

  ‘I told you before, I don’t blame you for that. It was my fault. If I hadn’t got drunk and needed someone to take me home, you would never have been there.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her yet?’ she asked.

  ‘What am I going to say?’ Slater said. ‘Whichever way you look at it, whatever I say is going to sound like a lame excuse.’

  ‘You could just tell her the truth.’

  ‘I don’t think she’d believe me.’

  ‘You’ll never know if you don’t try. The longer you leave it, the worse it will get.’

  He sighed a long suffering sigh.

  ‘Thanks for your advice, Darling, but it’s my problem not yours,’ he said. ‘I just haven’t figured out how I’m going to deal with it yet.’

  Melanie Crump’s father, Bill Reece, lived in a small one-bedroomed bungalow in a neat cul-de-sac of similar properties, designed with the older person in mind. He was a kindly looking man whose welcoming smile certainly made him appear to be pleased to see them, but his swollen knuckles were a testament to the arthritis which had invaded his joints to the point where moving around was uncomfortable. Much as he was pleased to see them, he was obviously grateful to be able to collapse back into his chair.

  ‘I don’t get many visitors these days,’ he told them. ‘Not since my wife, Evie, died a couple of years ago. I suppose the truth is she was the more sociable one out of the two of us, so it was only to be expected people would stop coming to see the old misery. I’d offer you a cup of tea-’

  ‘You don’t look like an old misery to me, Mr Reece,’ said Darling. ‘You’ve certainly given us a warm welcome, and we don’t get that everywhere we go, I can tell you. You sit there, I’ll go and make us a cup of tea while you talk to DS Slater. Where is it? Through this way?’

  She stepped through the open door into the kitchen and busied herself making tea.

  ‘You said on the phone you wanted to talk to me about Melanie,’ the old man said to Slater. ‘I hope you won’t feel you’ve wasted your journey.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Slater.

  ‘I haven’t seen her in years, so I’m not sure I can tell you much.’

  Slater sat back in surprise.

  ‘So she didn’t come to see you on your birthday?’

  ‘Ha! That’ll be the day. I can’t recall the last time she even sent me a card,’ he said, sadly. ‘She didn’t even come to her mother’s funeral.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame. I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Reece.’

  ‘She always was ungrateful. She never seemed to appreciate anything we did for her. My wife always said she was cold, you know? I suppose some people are just born that way.’

  ‘She was adopted, wasn’t she?’ asked Darling, coming back in with three cups of tea on a tray.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. She was seven when we took her on.’

  ‘Do you know anything about her past?’ asked Slater, ‘Like where she came from, who her parents were?’

  ‘All they told us was she had been through a lot. We had no idea who she really was, or where she had come from. I think we were supposed to believe she came from around here somewhere, but you could tell from the way she spoke that she was from down south somewhere.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’ asked Slater.

  ‘Years ago,’ said Reece, sadly. ‘She came down here looking for trouble that day, I think. She ended up having a terrible row with her mother. You wouldn’t believe some of the things she said. I asked her to leave in the end. She was in a terrible, nasty, mood when she left here that day, even threatening her own mother, she was. And that was the last time we saw her.’

  Slater’s curiosity was piqued.

  ‘Can I ask what the argument was about?’

  ‘It was always about the same thing. How we were terrible parents, and how she wished we’d never adopted her. She seemed to think she would have been much better off with her real father. Apparently I didn’t stand up to comparison with him. I always used to think if he was so bloody marvellous, how did she end being adopted, but I never said it to her. You can’t, can you?’

  ‘How could she say that about him?’ asked Darling, ‘Did she know who he was?’

  ‘It’s funny you should say that,’ said Reece. ‘I think she did know, although she never said as much. I think she always knew, even before she came to us.’

  ‘What about her husband, Michael? How did you get on with him?’ asked Slater.

  ‘Never met him, not once. Some family, eh?’

  ‘Didn’t you go to the wedding?’ asked Darling.

  The old man sniffed and laughed a humourless laugh.

  ‘We weren’t invited. We didn’t even know about it until about a year later. We only found out by accident when she came round here one day and my wife saw the name “Crump” on her cheque book. That caused another row. Apparently we had no right to know she had got married.’

  ‘Did she ever tell you anything about him?’ asked Slater.

  The old man sighed.

  ‘She never told us a thing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really,’ the old man said, shaking his head. ‘She’s a strange one, that one. Very strange.’

  ‘Can you tell us roughly when you last saw her?’

  ‘Oh I can do better than that,’ he said. ‘I can tell you the exact date. It was the 20th of October, ten years ago.’

  It was almost two o’clock when they got back to the station. Slater told Darling he would write up the report, and that she should go home and make the most of what was left of her Saturday.

  Norman had already gone when he got up to the interview room, but he had left a large brown folder on Slater’s desk with a note attached: I requested this file from the archive a couple of days ago. Sorry I haven’t had time to check it out, but it came in just as I was leaving. Not sure if it has any relevance, but you never know your luck!

  Slater took the folder across to his desk and placed it to one side, out of the way, fired up his computer, and started writing his report. Half an hour later he pressed ‘print’, pushed his chair back, stood up, and stretched his aching spine. He really needed to start exercising again, or he would be the next one joining Norman on the ‘unfit for duty’ list.

  The folder on the corner of his desk caught his attention, and he wondered if he should take a look before he went home. He figured if Norman had thought it was worth going to the trouble of requesting it from the archive, he must have had a good reason. For a moment he was undecided what to do, then he realised if he went home now he might have to deal with the Cindy situation, and he really wasn’t sure what to do about that.

  He sat down again, reached for the folder, made himself comfortable, and removed a musty old case file from inside. On the cover, the date was shown as November 1965, the investigating officer was listed as a
Detective Inspector Ormerod, and the crime was listed as homicide. For some reason, Slater had a feeling of anti-climax, and he considered closing the folder and leaving it for another day. After a moment, though, he opened the cover, and when his eyes fell on the opening line of the summary, he suddenly sat bolt upright and any thoughts about going home were instantly forgotten.

  ‘On the 20th October 1965, the bodies of a mother and her daughter were found at an area of woodland known as Wild Boar Woods. They appeared to have been murdered.’

  It was four-thirty as Slater rang the doorbell for the second time. This time he leaned against it and didn’t let go. It took about twenty seconds of non-stop ringing before the door flew open.

  ‘What the bloody-’ began Darling. ‘Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here?’

  She was wrapped in a bath towel, hair dripping, a puddle forming around her bare feet.

  ‘You’re not answering your phone,’ said Slater. ‘You’re not very quick with the doorbell either.’

  ‘You try hearing a phone ringing while you’re using my vacuum cleaner,’ she said, testily. ‘And I can’t hear the doorbell when I’m in the shower. Anyway, I thought I had the afternoon off.’

  ‘Change of plan. We need to interview the Crumps again.’

  ‘I thought you said they could wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘I can call Steve Biddeford, if you don’t want to be there.’

  ‘What, right now?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, right now,’ he said.

  She rolled her eyes and sighed impatiently.

  ‘At least have the patience to let me get dried and dressed. You can come in and wait.’

  She turned and disappeared inside, leaving him on the doorstep. He pushed the door open and followed her inside, carefully closing the door behind him. There was a strange smell in the little hallway which he couldn’t identify. He could hear a hairdryer whirring away in a room to his left, so he went through the door opposite. He looked around the room and wondered what she could have been vacuuming. Most of the floor was covered in boxes, some half empty, and some still unopened.

  ‘Excuse the mess,’ she shouted. ‘I only moved in last Sunday. I haven’t exactly had much time to unpack. Find a seat, I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’

  He cleared a pile of books from one of the two armchairs and sat down. The moment he sat down, a small black cat appeared from nowhere and jumped onto his lap. It settled down and began to purr loudly, paddling enthusiastically at his thighs. Slater quite liked cats, but he thought he ought to explain the rules.

  ‘There’s no need for the claws,’ he told the cat. ‘I don’t mind you sitting on me, but I draw the line at my legs being used as your pin-cushion.’

  As if it had understood every word, the cat folded its front paws in and stopped paddling. Now a truce had been established, Slater was happy to stroke the cat, and, to show its appreciation, the cat increased the volume of its purring.

  ‘Oh, sorry about Pooey,’ said Darling, as she came into the room. ‘I think she’s suffering from attention deficit, so anyone’s fair game. Push her off if she’s a problem.’

  ‘Pooey? What sort of name is that?’ asked Slater.

  ‘A very appropriate one, as it happens. Didn’t you notice the smell out in the hall?’

  ‘Err, well, yeah, I did.’

  ‘That’s down to her. I think she’s punishing me for not letting her outside and making her use a litter tray. The smell seems to be getting worse by the day. I’ve tried disinfectant and all sorts, but nothing comes close. I’m wondering if perhaps she’s done one somewhere else, and I haven’t come across it yet.’

  Slater thought his face had probably gone a bit green.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, ‘I suppose that’s probably a bit too much information.’

  She reached over, took the cat from his lap and settled her on the other armchair.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’m ready. I take it you’re going to tell me what this is all about.’

  ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

  ‘So there was a murder on the same date fifty years ago,’ said Darling. ‘I don’t see how that helps us.’

  ‘But, it can’t be a coincidence, can it?’ said Slater. ‘We’ve got four murders, all committed on the 20th of October, and all the bodies have been found at Wild Boar Woods.’

  ‘But we know Clive Morrison killed his daughter. He can’t have killed all the others. He would have to be about eighty years old.’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s the same killer for all four murders.’

  ‘So what are you saying? Is there a link or not?’

  ‘I’m sure there is. I just haven’t worked out what it is yet, but I think we’re very close. If I’m right, Melanie Crump is the key.’

  Darling looked like she was struggling to keep up with Slater’s thinking.

  ‘But she was only five or six years old back in 1965.’

  ‘Seven,’ said Slater. ‘She was seven years old. Keep hold of that fact. According to the old case file, a man called Digby Southall killed his wife and the younger one of his two daughters, because he thought his wife had been unfaithful and the daughter wasn’t his. He didn’t touch the older daughter. She was seven years old.’

  ‘Yeah, but-’

  ‘What did Bill Reece tell us about Melanie? He said she was seven when they adopted her, and although they were never told where she came from, you could tell from the way she spoke she was from the south of the country.’

  ‘What? And you think-’

  ‘And they were told this little girl had been through a lot,’ said Slater. ‘I think having your father kill your mother and sister would count as a lot, don’t you?’

  ‘So what happened to this Digby Southall?’ asked Darling.

  ‘He got life,’ said Slater. ‘Served in Manchester, or Strangeways, as it was known back then.’

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, I haven’t got that far. But suppose he is, and he lives up in Manchester somewhere.’

  ‘You think Melanie’s been visiting him?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Darling was quiet for a moment.

  ‘How would she know he was her father?’ asked Darling.

  ‘She was seven,’ said Slater. ‘I can remember stuff from when I was seven, can’t you? And Bill Reece said he thought she’d always known who she really was.’

  ‘Even if you’re right, it doesn’t prove Melanie Crump is a murderer, does it? What, are you saying it’s genetic?’

  ‘I don’t know if it proves anything,’ said Slater. ‘But it’s a line of enquiry that’s got to be worth looking at. Unless you’ve got something better to do. Like I said, I can always call Steve Biddeford.’

  Darling sighed, a weary sigh.

  ‘No, you’re alright,’ she said. ‘I was only going to sort my flat out, watch TV, and open a bottle of wine.’

  Slater smiled as he drove.

  ‘You would have been bored,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll never know now, will I?’

  There was a different demeanour about Michael Crump this evening. Slater couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, but he thought it wasn’t just the fact he was on medication. Everything about him was quite different.

  ‘We went to see Melanie’s father this morning, Michael,’ said Slater.

  ‘It’s a long way to Manchester, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘And then when you get there the poor old fellow doesn’t know who you are.’

  ‘No, he’s not in Manchester, Michael. He lives down in the New Forest. His name’s Bill Reece, and there’s not much wrong with his mind, I can assure you.’

  Crump looked confused.

  ‘Melanie was adopted when she was seven,’ said Slater. ‘Didn’t you know that?’

  ‘This is all news to me. Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. She never told him about you, either.’

  Crump laughed.

  ‘
She’s a conundrum. She’s says I’m the one who lost his mind, but she’s the one who’s really crazy, you know. I’m just depressed. She’s quite mad.’

  ‘You crashed your car once, didn’t you?’ asked Slater.

  ‘Yes, I did. She was in the car with me. I thought I’d be doing the world a favour if I killed both of us.’

  ‘You meant to kill her?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’m only sorry I failed. I knew I’d only get the one opportunity. She’s never given me another chance.’

  ‘But why did you want to kill her?’

  ‘Revenge, of course.’

  ‘I’m not with you,’ said Slater.

  ‘Because she killed me years ago, here.’ Crump placed his hand on his heart. ‘Here inside, you know? You see, the problem comes when you put someone else first all the time. You do it because you think it will make that person happy, but all that really happens is you teach them you’re second class. Before you know it, they think you and your feelings don’t count for anything, and once that happens you’re lost.’

  ‘So you mean things like the phantom pregnancy were just to hurt you, and you wanted to kill her to stop her hurting you?’

  ‘It wasn’t just me,’ said Crump. ‘She hurts everyone.’

  ‘Who else did she hurt, Michael?’

  ‘All those adopted daughters.’

  There was a stunned silence.

  ‘What do you mean “all those adopted daughters”?’ asked Slater, quietly.

  ‘The ones she adopted and brought home,’ said Crump, matter-of-factly. ‘Of course, they were never going to accept me as their father just like that. But she only ever gave us a few hours to get to know each other. If they didn’t settle down, she took them straight back. I know she only did it to hurt me, but she hurt those little girls too. That’s not fair on me or those poor little girls, is it?’

  Slater couldn’t quite believe his ears, but he clearly heard Darling gasp and whisper ‘Oh Jesus, no’ next to him, so he must have heard what he thought he’d heard.

  ‘These adopted daughters,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand. You can’t just bring kids home and take them back if you don’t like them. There are rigorous procedures you have to go through.’