Was it possible that the copious amounts of blood that flowed from the stricken victim were an offering to the forest itself?
20
Emilia pressed hard on the doorbell, holding it down for several seconds. The modest suburban house in front of her was quiet, but she could see lights within. Someone was inside and Emilia was determined to talk to them, despite their concerted attempts to ignore her.
This was the last address on her list. So far, her search had proved fruitless. The first three women she’d approached seemed surprised to have been contacted by a journalist. They had clearly been out in the field all day, at various sites around the New Forest, and had not yet heard about their colleague’s distressing discovery. There was no word from the police yet, thus nothing in the mainstream media; nor had the company’s internal rumour mill reached them. Emilia wondered how tightly the Park Authority’s top brass were guarding their nasty little secret. It was hardly something they’d want to shout from the rooftops, just as peak tourist season was swinging into life.
Movement now within and Emilia released her finger, stepping away from the door to appear as unthreatening as possible. The fourth woman on her list hadn’t been very welcoming either – she was suffering from a bad head cold. Emilia had swiftly worked out that she’d been off work for three days now, so hadn’t detained her, hurrying on to the final address on her list.
The door swung open and a middle-aged man appeared. He looked Emilia up and down, his irritation clear, but even as he did so his decidedly hostile attitude seemed to waver, surprised and discomfited perhaps by the heavy scarring on the right-hand side of Emilia’s face.
‘Well?’ he barked, trying his best to sound unwelcoming.
‘Sorry to bother you so late. My name’s Annie Brewster, I’m from the Southampton Evening News.’
She flashed her ID quickly enough to conceal her real name. But the surly gatekeeper barely looked at it – he seemed unnerved to be facing a journalist.
‘You must be Mr Smith?’
‘What of it?’
‘I wonder if I could have a word with your wife?’
‘What about?’ he demanded.
‘We’re doing a survey on productivity and sickness in the workplace. I understand your wife was signed off work today?’
The man narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. He appeared to be trying to work out what question was really being asked of him.
‘So?’
‘Well, I just wanted to find out whether it’s a short-term illness, a cold perhaps, or something more seri—’
‘It’s none of your business’ was the terse reply, even as Smith retreated into the doorway once more.
Sensing the door was about to be slammed in her face, Emilia stepped forward, planting her foot on the threshold.
‘Here, what do you think you’re doing?’
‘It’ll only take a second, then I promise you I’ll be on my way,’ Emilia insisted, looking over his shoulder into the gloomy house beyond.
‘Absolutely not,’ Smith replied, squaring up to her.
‘If she’s bed-ridden, we could do it over the phone.’
‘It’s nothing like that.’
‘What then?’
Emilia’s tone was incisive, penetrating, which seemed to surprise her opponent. He was clearly torn as to what to do for the best.
‘Look, she’s had a nasty shock, that’s all. And she doesn’t want to talk to anyone, least of all a journalist. So perhaps you’d do me the courtesy of heading back where you came from …’ He angrily kicked Emilia’s foot off the sill. ‘… and leaving us in peace.’
Emilia took a step back as the door slammed in her face. She could hear footsteps walking softly away, then an anxious female voice inside. Slowly, a smile spread across her face. She might have been repelled, but she’d got what she came for. She now knew the identity of the key witness and she intended to act on it.
She had a long list of questions for the unfortunate Mrs Smith.
21
‘Did she say anything to you? Was something worrying her?’
Charlie and Steve were intertwined on the sofa, a bottle of wine in front of them. Having checked in with the team, Charlie had decided to head home. They had a big day ahead of them tomorrow and she felt utterly drained – the cumulative lack of sleep over the past week taking its toll.
To his credit, Steve had been waiting for her, with a home-cooked lasagne and a bottle of Barolo. He had already got Jessica off to sleep – another missed bedtime for Charlie – and seemed intent on making the most of their evening together. They had eaten, caught up on the day’s events and now lay together, Steve gently massaging Charlie’s feet. It was relaxing, it was comforting, and yet, try as she might, Charlie couldn’t shake her anxiety about Jessica.
‘No,’ Steve replied cautiously, not keen to be dragged into a long discussion. ‘She’d had a fun day at school, enjoyed Space Week. She was in good spirits.’
‘She didn’t say anything about what might be worrying her?’
‘You know what she’s like,’ Steve countered good-humouredly. ‘She tells you what she had for lunch and that’s pretty much it. But she seemed fine in herself, so try not to worry.’
He was right of course – Jessica generally did come home from school exhausted but content – yet still Charlie couldn’t shake the feeling that they didn’t know the full picture, that something was wrong.
‘I just don’t understand where this is coming from. Things seemed to be going so well at school.’
‘And maybe they still are. Maybe there’s no connection at all between what happens during the day and her night terrors.’
‘Maybe …’
‘You know what all the websites say – there’s no rhyme nor reason to these things.’
Not for the first time, Charlie wished she had Steve’s unshakeable optimism, not to mention his stamina. He seemed to cope with the lack of sleep far better than she did.
‘But if there is a root cause, something we don’t know about –’
‘Then it will become apparent, in time. If there is a problem, we will find out what it is and deal with it, right?’
It was said kindly, but was a clear invitation to move the conversation on.
‘I suppose …’
‘Good. Now how about we finish this bottle of wine?’
Charlie was happy to oblige, suspecting where this was heading. And sure enough, once the bottle had been drained, Steve scooped her up and carried her upstairs, stealing cheeky kisses every step of the way. Tiptoeing past Jessica’s room, they made it to the bedroom and moments later were under the covers, naked, entwined.
Stroking the hair away from her face, Steve kissed her on the neck, on the earlobe, the tip of her nose.
‘I’ve been thinking …’
Charlie opened her eyes, intrigued by his tone.
‘Why don’t you forget to take your pill tomorrow?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Let’s make babies, Charlie. You know we’re good at it …’
‘You must be joking.’
‘Jessie needs a little sister. Or brother.’
‘Not yet she doesn’t.’
‘And I promise you we’ll have fun along the way. But I do need your assistance.’
‘Sorry, no can do. This is purely recreational.’
For a moment, Charlie thought he was going to argue back, but instead he whispered:
‘I love it when you talk dirty.’
He moved in for the kill, pulling her towards him, then rolling on to his back, so that she was now on top. Charlie closed her eyes and gave in to the moment, revelling in his touch, shivers of excitement pulsing through her. Later, as she lay next to Steve, listening to his gentle, satisfied breathing, she tried to let sleep take her, but she remained wide awake. Despite the pleasurable distraction of the evening, Charlie couldn’t switch off, couldn’t quell her anxiety about Jessica.
So she
lay there in the darkness, frustrated and upset, waiting for the cries that she knew were coming.
22
A sharp rap on the door made Helen look up. She expected it to be Joseph Hudson – he was the only officer left in the incident room, gamely proving his enthusiasm on his first full day. But, to Helen’s surprise, Superintendent Grace Simmons now entered, closing the door gently behind her.
‘Got a minute for an old lady?’
‘Absolutely. I was going to call in on you before I left anyway.’
Seating herself, Simmons took in the interior of Helen’s office, her eyes fixing on the commendations hanging on the wall, the case files littering the desk, the empty coffee cups in the overflowing bin.
‘I thought I’d see what life was like at the sharp end. When you’ve been stuck in boardrooms for as long as I have, it’s nice to see where the real police work is done.’
Superintendent Simmons had been in charge at Southampton Central for six months now. In her early sixties, she should have retired from the force by rights, but at the eleventh hour top brass had persuaded her to take the job of station chief on an interim basis, following their failure to find a suitable permanent replacement for Jonathan Gardam. Helen had been covering two jobs up until then and was grateful to have a replacement, especially as Simmons was someone who had always been very dear to her.
Following her parents’ murder, Helen had been shuttled around various care homes, eventually ending up at an establishment in Basingstoke. The things Helen saw there – the things she endured – would stay with her for ever, but Simmons’s intervention, then just a lowly WPC, proved crucial in helping Helen escape. Thereafter, Simmons had kept a close eye on her, guiding her, supporting her, eventually mentoring her when Helen decided to join the force. Indeed, her influence on Helen had been so profound that she’d borrowed Simmons’s Christian name – Grace – when choosing a new identity for herself.
Helen was therefore delighted when Simmons took over at Southampton Central. Where Gardam had been obsessive, vengeful and manipulative, Simmons was honest, supportive and kind. It was the first time Helen had ever had a boss she got on with. Which was why her door was always open to her.
‘You’re too modest. You’ve forgotten more about policing than we’ll ever know,’ Helen replied, pleased to be ending a difficult day on a pleasant note.
Simmons waved away the compliment – she was a plain-speaking woman who didn’t need to be stroked.
‘So how are we getting on?’
‘Well, we have a person of interest – Nathaniel Martin – but no obvious way of finding him. He’s been completely off grid for eighteen months now.’
‘No sightings at all?’ Simmons replied, surprised.
‘Nothing confirmed. We think he may be hiding out in the New Forest, so the whole team are heading there tomorrow. I could do with some extra bodies though, as the area we are covering is pretty vast.’
‘Of course, take whoever we can spare.’
‘Thank you. Also, an operation of this kind is inevitably going to attract attention, so what would you like to do about the press?’
‘What do they know?’
‘Media liaison have released a statement saying a body was found in the New Forest this morning. But there are no details as to the manner of the death.’
‘Let’s keep it that way for now,’ Simmons confirmed decisively. ‘I’d like to know what we’re dealing with, before terrifying the holiday hordes.’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s that, then,’ Simmons said, rising. ‘I take it you’ll be calling it a day soon?’
Helen shot a look at the clock – eleven o’clock – then back at Simmons. She suspected this was the real reason for Simmons’s impromptu visit.
‘Ten more minutes.’
‘No more than that, please. This place will still be here in the morning.’
People marvelled at Helen’s workrate and commitment, but Simmons wasn’t fooled. She knew that Southampton Central, that her role here, was Helen’s sanctuary, a retreat from a world which had always treated her harshly.
‘I know you love this job, Helen,’ Simmons continued. ‘That what you do matters, but you have to give yourself a break every now and again.’
‘I do. It’s just that there’s always so much going on –’
‘It’s not your job to take the world’s woes onto your shoulders. I know you feel bad about what happened to Joanne, that you think working all the hours God sends will somehow make up for that.’
The mention of DS Sanderson set Helen’s nerves on edge.
‘It’s not about that.’
‘Isn’t it? You did everything you could at that inquest to get yourself disciplined, even fired. Assuming full responsibility, publicly lacerating yourself, questioning your operational decisions –’
‘And I was right to do so –’
‘No, you weren’t. You did nothing wrong, Helen. Which is why you were cleared of any culpability. This is a dangerous job, you know that more than most. So, it’s time to forgive yourself and look forward.’
She was probably right, but it was easier said than done. Joanne Sanderson had died in Helen’s arms and the memory was hard to shake.
‘I mean it, Helen. Don’t cling to the past. Or it will eat you up.’
She rose and headed to the door, but as she opened it, she concluded:
‘You deserve a life too, you know.’
With that, Simmons departed, leaving the door ajar for Helen’s departure. Helen watched her go, reflecting on her words. She did need to get out there again, to engage with the world, but to what end? What was out there for her?
Gathering up her files, Helen rose from her desk, shooting a quick look into the incident room – only to find Joseph Hudson staring directly at her. How long he’d been looking at her, she couldn’t say, but embarrassed to be caught out, he quickly dropped his gaze, busying himself with his work. For a moment, Helen stared at him, intrigued by his curiosity, but Simmons’s words were still ringing in her ears, so, turning to walk to the door, Helen killed the lights, plunging the room into darkness.
23
Heavy clouds hung above the forest, blocking out the sun. It was just after dawn, but the day had yet to rouse itself, and the Woodland View campsite was bathed in an insipid, milky light. Charlie hopped from foot to foot, clutching her latte, hoping the steaming coffee would bring her brain and body to life. After another sleepless night, she felt as washed out as the weather.
The team were gathering at the campsite, awaiting Helen’s arrival before the big push into the woods. Bentham, McAndrew and Reid were on site, as was Joseph Hudson, who stood with Charlie now, sneaking one last cigarette before battle commenced. The new boy seemed to be gelling well with the team, taking the time to talk to the junior officers, as well as some of the uniforms, but he cleaved close to Charlie this morning, keen to get the lie of the land from one of his most experienced colleagues.
‘So, what’s she like to work for?’
‘Helen?’
Hudson nodded, as if the answer were obvious.
‘Good. Better than good, in fact.’
‘Because?’
‘Because she cares. Because she works harder than anyone else. Because she gets the job done. And … because she’s loyal.’
‘You two been working together for a long time?’
‘A few years.’
‘Can’t do your prospects any harm, working with someone like DI Grace.’
‘Sure, but that’s not why I do it. I do it because she makes me a better police officer. If you want to learn, you’ve come to the right place.’
‘Amen to that.’
He took a final drag on his cigarette, before stubbing it out and tossing it into a nearby bin.
‘She’s never been tempted to move on? Get promoted to a new patch?’
‘She likes Southampton.’
‘Does she have family here?’
‘A husband?’
‘I expect you know the answer to that. But, no, she doesn’t. Helen doesn’t do relationships. How about yourself?’
Hudson looked up at Charlie, smiling, as if amused by her concerted move to turn the spotlight back on him.
‘I was married. When I was working in London. But it didn’t work out and I never really made a connection with anyone in Liverpool. Didn’t speak the lingo, you know.’
Charlie nodded. She assumed the handsome DS would be a catch anywhere, but it was true his well-spoken, southern accent would have made him stand out.
‘Well, maybe you’ll have better luck here. We don’t mind posh boys.’
Charlie finished her coffee, but continued to cling to the cup, keen to harvest what warmth she could. Try as she might, she just couldn’t shake off the cold this morning.
‘And is it true?’
Charlie looked up at Hudson and was surprised to see him hesitate for the first time.
‘Is it true what they wrote about her? About what she went through in prison? About all that stuff with Robert Stonehill?’
Charlie’s eyes narrowed. She was naturally protective of Helen and didn’t like anyone prying into areas which were hurtful to her. The newspapers had taken great delight in regurgitating all the details of Helen’s relationship with murdered dominator Jake Elder, of her dangerous tussle with her vengeful nephew Stonehill, which had landed her in HMP Holloway. Over the numerous days of their coverage, they had added all manner of detail that was salacious, misleading or untrue, meaning every man and his dog thought he knew Charlie’s old friend inside and out. The real Helen was very different to the newspaper caricatures – but Charlie was not prepared to share this with someone she barely knew.
‘You don’t want to go believing everything you read,’ she shot back. ‘But if you’re really curious, why don’t you ask her yourself?’
Down to the Woods: DI Helen Grace 8 (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 6