‘When did you last see Nathaniel?’
She didn’t look up, but she knew Eleanor Brown was close by. Nathaniel Martin’s ex-girlfriend had been loath to let a police officer into her ramshackle house and certainly wasn’t going to let her have free run of the place.
‘About eighteen months ago. When I kicked him out.’
‘How come you’ve still got all his stuff?’
‘He said he’d come back for it, but … but he was sectioned a month or so after we split, so …’
Eleanor shrugged, as if he were of no importance to her. But she looked unsettled. Was it fear undermining her attempt at nonchalance? Or guilt?
‘Why was he sectioned?’
‘He’d had mental health problems for most of his life. His dad was violent, used to beat up his mum. I think that was one of the reasons Nathaniel was so angry.’
Putting the book down, Helen spied a discarded photo on a rickety desk. It was of Martin and Brown in happier times. Taking it in, Helen realized for the first time how big Martin was – six foot four at least and broad with it. He dwarfed his girlfriend, making her look like a fragile bird.
‘And the drug use didn’t help … He could be very paranoid, very hostile …’
‘Was he ever violent towards you?’
‘What do you think?’
It was said defiantly, but her voice shook.
‘When I told him to go, he became very aggressive. Afterwards, he was upset, inconsolable really. I wasn’t surprised when he was taken in.’
‘How long had you two been an item?’
‘A year or so, but he only lived here for a few weeks.’
‘Domestic life not suit him?’
Brown laughed, long and bitter, surprising Helen. She turned to look at the 48-year-old, taking in the neat, hand-printed headscarf, the make-up-free face, the long, angular body.
‘Domestication was the problem. The root of all evil …’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning it was unnatural. In his mind. All this …’ Brown continued, gesturing at the walls around them. ‘… houses, buildings, roads, railways, construction, mechanization, industrialization … they were all ways of perverting nature, taking it away from its original state.’
‘He wanted to live in paradise?’
‘He wanted to turn the clock back, to go back to the old ways. The idea of him living in a two-up, two-down was laughable. It was just a place for him to dump his stuff.’
She gestured at the congested attic.
‘You don’t share his views?’
‘I believe in the environmental cause, any intelligent adult would,’ Brown replied sharply. ‘But I was never an extremist.’
‘And he was?’
‘What does it look like? He left Greenpeace cos they were pussies, couldn’t stand all those wankers dressing up as penguins. Then he joined Earth First, because they were up for direct action. But even they were too soft for him, so he joined the Earth Liberation Army, which was when he got into trouble.’
‘The attack on the police officer?’
Brown shrugged, but couldn’t carry it off. Helen sensed this violent attack on a young police officer troubled her.
‘They kicked him out after that. But he didn’t care. He’d given up on organized resistance, teamwork, was happy to face the world alone.’
‘And you took him in?’
‘Silly cow that I am. But it was never going to last. Nathaniel was the genuine article. A real anarcho-primitivist, went on and on about rewilding –’
‘Sorry, you’re going to have to translate.’
‘It means going back to our original state. No organized agriculture, no industry, no machinery, a return to the hunter-gatherer life. Living off what Mother Nature provides, what you can kill, forage or grow.’
‘Does he still hold these beliefs? In your view?’
‘Probably, but who knows? Word was he’d pretty much lost his mind by the end. I had friends who saw him living on the streets – drunk, dirty, abusive – before he finally disappeared. So, who can say?’
Her voice shook a little now. Was there still some affection there, despite her anger?
‘Either way, he’s not here. So, if you’ve got what you came for …’
‘I’m going to have to take a few items away with me. If you would like me to give you a recei—’
‘Take what you want. Means nothing to me.’
Thanking her, Helen busied herself, bagging a selection of Martin’s personal effects, paying particular attention to his handwritten manifestos on rewilding. Following his recent mental health crisis, had Martin retreated to the depths of the forest, hoping to live in total isolation, away from the rapacious spread of modern urbanization? If so, what would he have made of the sustained attack on the forest by housing developers, campsite owners and leisure companies? And how would he have reacted?
There were many questions still to answer, many leads still to chase down, but a disquieting image was forming in Helen’s mind, one she found hard to shake.
Nathaniel Martin padding through the forest, doggedly hunting his prey.
17
‘No serial number, no maker’s mark, no Kitemark … nothing.’
Charlie stared at Meredith Walker, who held the crossbow bolt up for her to view.
‘The bolts weren’t bought in a shop or online,’ Meredith continued. ‘I’d say they were homemade, cannibalized from other bits of metal. There were three in total, and all show subtle differences in shape, weight, density.’
‘So, they’re homemade?’ Charlie replied.
‘Looks that way.’
Meredith handed one of the evidence bags to Charlie. The pair were in the CSI labs in Woolston, surrounded by dozens of forensic operatives, but Charlie had eyes only for the gnarled crossbow bolt in the palm of her hand. The weight of the thing unnerved her – she suddenly had a vision of what it must feel like to be struck by one of these deadly missiles.
‘Any prints on it?’ Charlie said, gathering herself.
Meredith shook her head.
‘And the DNA on it belongs to Campbell. If you can find where the bolts were fashioned, we might be able to make a link, but that’s the best I can do.’
Charlie nodded, trying not to show her disappointment. She’d hoped for more, but wasn’t surprised. Nothing about this case seemed straightforward.
‘What about the rope?’
‘Nothing special. It’s old, so probably wasn’t sourced recently, but it’s very strong.’
Another image shot into Charlie’s mind – Campbell’s lifeless body being hauled up into the air.
‘We haven’t checked all of it yet, so we might get lucky on prints or DNA.’
It was a sop to Charlie, something to engender a smidgen of optimism, but it fooled neither. They were dealing with a calculating, resourceful killer here – someone who could fashion their own instruments of torture, someone who didn’t intend to be traced. Nevertheless, Meredith’s findings were important, underscoring the possibility that their killer was someone outside the mainstream, someone who knew the forest well and was using this to their advantage.
Charlie left shortly afterwards, leaving Helen a brief message with her findings, before hurrying back to her car. Their priority now was to find Nathaniel Martin, but where should they start? None of the usual methods would work – financial tracking, known associates, an appeal for witnesses. All they had to go on was Robinson’s sketch and the knowledge that somewhere in the depths of the New Forest lurked a malign spirit, a phantom who could lure an innocent man to his death. Charlie often felt at sea in her private life, but she was beginning to feel the same nagging anxiety at work too. She was meant to lead, to help Helen drive the team forward, to guide DS Hudson as he established himself at Southampton Central. But what were they supposed to do now?
How do you find someone who has vanished into thin air?
18
‘Why would som
eone do this? I don’t understand …’
Melanie Walton was staring directly at Joseph Hudson, entreating him to help her. He understood her grief, her shock, her need for answers – he’d seen it many times before – and his heart went out to her. But he had nothing concrete to offer her and there was no point dressing it up.
‘Honestly, we don’t know yet. Which is why we need your help.’
Melanie didn’t respond. Instead, she tugged at her engagement ring, turning it round and round her finger. The sight of it clearly upset her – the beautiful diamond ring was the last present given to her by her murdered fiancé – but her nervous tic was somehow keeping tears at bay. Hudson suspected that she would break down completely if she stopped.
‘Melanie?’
‘I’ve said I’ll help you, but I don’t know how I can …’
The shock of the morning was giving way to helplessness and despair. Following her interview at the campsite, Melanie had been escorted to the police mortuary. There, supported by an FLO, she had formally identified the victim as Tom Campbell. Afterwards, she’d been driven back to her flat, Joseph deciding it would be better to talk to her in familiar, comfortable surroundings than in the station’s austere interview suites.
Now he was wondering if he’d made the right call. Tom Campbell was clearly a keen photographer – endless photos of Melanie, beaming happily back at her lover, covered every inch of wall space. Smiling, happy photos, images which seemed to mock the bereaved woman now.
‘We just need some info on Tom. His background, where you met …’
Bland, general questions first. He needed to get Melanie talking.
‘He’s a south coast boy, always has been,’ Melanie eventually responded, sniffing loudly. ‘Southampton born and bred. I met him at a sailing club. We were both into it and just hit it off.’
Another few turns of the engagement ring.
‘What did you like to do together?’
‘Hiking, camping, cycling. Tom loved the great outdoors, loved his camera too, always brought it along on our trips.’
Joseph darted another look at the photos on the walls.
‘He was never happier than when he was snapping away. And I loved to watch him. He seemed so excited, so happy …’
She dropped her gaze to the floor, a couple of quiet sobs racking her body. She was trying very hard to hold it together, but the strain was beginning to tell.
‘When did you get engaged?’ Hudson persisted gently.
‘Six months ago, should have done it earlier really, but we wanted to wait until Tom was settled at work.’
‘Did he enjoy working for Nexus?’
‘Sure. Being a biochemist was all he ever wanted to do. I don’t understand it at all, but to him it’s like poetry …’
‘Did he have any trouble during the protests?’
‘Not that he told me about. They were pretty short-lived and the company brought in security so …’
Hudson suspected that things were actually much heavier than Melanie was letting on, but he let it go. Perhaps Campbell had shielded her from the truth, to save her from worrying.
‘So, he was never targeted personally, at home or at work? No threatening letters, no damage to the house or car?’
‘No, he was a scientist, not management.’
‘What about his private life? Any problems? An ex-girlfriend? An ex of yours?’
‘No, we’ve been together nearly six years. There was no one serious before that.’
‘Money problems?’
‘No, he’s well paid. Always has been.’
‘What about drugs?’
‘What about them?’
‘Did he take them recreationally?’
‘In the past, maybe …’ Melanie replied hesitantly.
‘I noticed he has a conviction for possession.’
‘He was eighteen. Wrong time, wrong place. He had too much going on to be part of that scene these days.’
‘Did he drink much?’
‘No more than you.’
It was said defiantly, angrily, as if Joseph were slandering her fiancé.
‘And this trip you decided to take – to the Woodland View campsite – was it planned a long time in advance?’ Joseph said, moving the conversation on.
‘A week or so.’
‘Who else knew you were going?’
‘Well, my folks, I suppose. But nobody else.’
‘Did you post or tweet about it?’
‘Sure, but only once we got there. The site was really nice and the sunset was beautiful, so …’
Joseph knew that both Tom and Melanie were enthusiastic contributors to Facebook. He had looked through their recent offerings at the station and it was hard not to feel a stab of sadness. Pretty much every selfie and photo was of the young couple, happy, carefree, in love.
‘It was perfect, the whole thing was just perfect,’ Melanie continued, climbing inside the memory. ‘We’d even talked about maybe getting married in the forest, at one of the nice hotels in Lyndhurst, with a reception somewhere nearby. We were making plans that night … and now all this.’
She threw out an arm in a hopeless, helpless gesture, as she looked up at Joseph once more, confusion and despair all over her face. Her life had seemed so sunny, so optimistic – she had plans, hopes, dreams, but they had all gone up in smoke. She had lost her fiancé, no, she had had her fiancé snatched away and it was this that was tearing her apart.
Dealing with the reality of Tom’s death was one thing. Facing up to the fact that he had been brutally murdered, then hung out for the birds, was something else entirely.
19
Helen stared down at Tom Campbell corpse, sickened by what she saw. The grey, lifeless skin, the puckered, encrusted arrow wounds, the livid, raw patches where his ankles had been bound – these were bad enough, but it was the sight of the young man’s face that really upset her. His mouth was open, his lip curling upwards. It was an expression of pure terror, one which made Helen shiver. What had he endured to provoke this sort of reaction?
‘Gets to you, doesn’t it?’
Helen lifted her gaze to find Jim Grieves approaching. She had worked with Hampshire Police’s Chief Pathologist for several years now and he seldom confessed to any emotion. But this one seemed to have affected him.
‘You can see pain in his face,’ Helen replied thoughtfully. ‘But something else too. Fear? Horror?’
‘It’s not a pretty sight, that’s for sure, but let me give you what I’ve got,’ Grieves replied, keeping his tone businesslike.
Whether he was busy or just wanted to get this over with, Helen couldn’t tell. Either way, she was glad of his professionalism.
‘As you can see, there are numerous abrasions on the body. The clothing I removed from him was extensively torn, so I think it’s fair to assume he’d fallen into a bush or been running through the forest. The state of his feet would certainly indicate the latter.’
He gestured Helen towards the end of the slab.
‘You can see the soles of his feet have been lacerated numerous times, with a single, deep wound here …’
Helen craned down to take in the angry hole in the middle of his left foot.
‘Given the cleanness, depth and curve of the wound, I would guess at a large thorn, but it’s hard to say for sure.’
Helen shuddered, could suddenly see Campbell running for his life, the thorn embedded deep inside.
‘A wound like that would have hindered his progress, making him an easy target perhaps. The bolt wounds were all good, clean hits – all occurring at the same time by the looks of things – so when he was finally stopped, he was stopped suddenly.’
‘Would they have killed him?’
‘You’d hope so, wouldn’t you? But in this case, I’d say no.’
Helen looked up at him, surprised.
‘Three major wounds to the torso. Massive haemorrhaging and blood loss, but the bolts missed the major organs.
If they’d hit the heart, the lungs, even the kidneys, he might have been a goner, but as it was …’
Helen digested this. She had been hoping for a quick death, but in fact Campbell’s agony must have been extreme and sustained.
‘Look at the dried blood on his torso,’ Grieves continued, pointing to the thick lines starting at each of the wounds and running up his body towards his neck and face. ‘And on the arms. By the looks of things, I would suggest that the victim was strung up while he was still alive.’
‘How can you be sure? Blood would have seeped from the wounds anyway surely?’
‘Not in this quantity if his heart wasn’t beating. Also, look at his ankles, there is no way they would be so swollen if the victim was dead when hoisted into the air.’
An image of Campbell twisting desperately on the rope darted into Helen’s mind, but she pushed it away.
‘So, cause of death? Time of death?’
‘Hard to be exact on the timings. After midnight but before dawn is the best I can hazard. Cause of death? Well, that’s pretty simple. He bled out.’
Helen nodded, but could hardly take it in.
‘It would have been long, slow and distressing. Like a gradual suffocation.’
Helen wondered, was this accidental or deliberate? Did Campbell’s killer watch on, as the life leached from his victim?
‘Anyway, those are my preliminary findings. I’ve got the toxicology reports for you – plenty of alcohol in the bloods, but no drugs or medicine of any kind.’
Grieves continued briskly, reeling off his discoveries, but Helen’s eyes remained glued to the corpse, following the lines of blood that ran from his wounds to his fingertips. What must it have been like to feel the life ebbing from him? And why had he been made to suffer so? Was it simply for his attacker’s enjoyment? Was it a deliberate punishment for Tom’s unwitting ‘crimes’, whatever they might be? Or was there a deeper meaning?
Down to the Woods: DI Helen Grace 8 (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 5