There was no doubt about it, Nathaniel Martin was a good fit for Tom Campbell’s murder. He had targeted Woodland View before – Charlie had confirmed his strong reaction to her mention of the name – and was exhibiting behaviour that was unstable, violent, even deranged, fighting a one-man war against those who defiled Mother Nature. He was a man adept at living by his ingenuity, fashioning whatever he needed from things he found. It was true he favoured natural materials, but there were iron objects in his camp – cooking pots, utensils – and it was not beyond the realms of possibility that he could have smelted some of these down to manufacture a deadly weapon.
And yet there were things that troubled Helen, things that argued against his guilt. According to Charlie, Martin had had the opportunity to confess his crimes, but had not, despite the fact that Charlie was completely at his mercy. Moreover, there was no concrete evidence that he possessed the murder weapon. He could have taken it with him, of course, and any additional bolts, but if he had been fashioning these armaments himself, wouldn’t you expect to find some tools, some remnant of their manufacture, on site? They could have been made elsewhere, obviously, but Martin was not itinerant – his camp would have taken a long time to construct and the jars of preserved fruit, the well-appointed ‘bathroom’ and comfortable bed all pointed to him having lived there for some time. So where was the evidence of his deadly craft?
More than this, it was the murdered pony that worried Helen. Martin had a long history of violence and had no problems with killing to eat – the dead hares and stoats impaled at his camp suggested he was an efficient hunter. Yet, here again, there were problems. These animals appeared to have been trapped rather than shot and, besides, there was nothing perverse or unusual about Martin targeting them. Forest-dwellers had been bagging hares for centuries.
The pony was something else, however. Martin was determined to turn back the clock – his avowed philosophy of rewilding necessitating that he live like our pre-industrial ancestors. In practice, this meant adapting to the character of the forest, following its lead, eating what was provided – berries, mushrooms, vegetables, tubers and herbs – and hunting what could be spared, the odd hare, bird or squirrel. The ponies were part of the fabric of the forest, part of its natural, regenerative rhythm, their itinerant grazing providing a natural pruning service which kept the forest healthy. Targeting a pony would actually harm Mother Nature and ran counter to the essential tenets of Martin’s philosophy.
In his world view, you harvested what you needed to survive. Indiscriminate desecration or destruction was not part of his lexicon. Killing the horse served no purpose – no meat or skin was taken, its hooves, teeth and tail hair were untouched. It was a harmless, useful member of the forest community, so what would be the point of killing it?
It was possible that Martin had used the horses to hone his hunting skills. After all, killing a human being was a different proposition to trapping hares. This made more sense to Helen. The horse would then have been target practice, might even have been a necessary step on the road to murder – Martin testing his mettle by killing a horse, before escalating to taking a human life. But, still, Helen’s knowledge of Martin’s credo and beliefs gave her pause. Martin was far gone, for sure, but his continued presence in the forest and his exchanges with Charlie suggested his belief in the importance of protecting Mother Nature remained as strong as ever.
So were they right in believing Nathaniel Martin was the perpetrator? Or was it possible that something even more sinister, even more malign, was responsible for this awful crime?
43
‘Please, God, let me wake up. Please, God, let me wake up …’
She repeated the mantra breathlessly, praying that she would be propelled out of this hideous nightmare. Back to her tent, back to Matteo … But when she opened her eyes, she was still in hell.
Lauren shivered, clutching her arms around her. She was frozen to the bone, her T-shirt and knickers sodden with rain, and racked with terror. Closing her eyes once more, she moaned softly in despair.
Why was this happening to her? What was going on? She and Matteo had spent a loving evening together, then she had drifted off to sleep. Only to awake, cold and confused, in the darkness. At first, she thought their tent might have blown away. But then she realized that she was in the heart of the forest, surrounded on all sides by towering trees and lush vegetation. She had called out Matteo’s name – once, twice, three times – but to no avail. Initially she was met by silence, the soft whistling of the wind the only accompaniment to her distress. Then she had heard footsteps.
She had turned, gasping with relief, hoping to see Matteo. But the sight that greeted her chilled her blood. A tall, hooded figure was walking directly towards her.
She could barely make out his contours in the gloom – he was perfectly camouflaged – nor could she see his face. But she knew with absolute certainty that he intended to harm her.
‘Run.’
The command was barked at her. Immediately, she turned and fled, crashing straight through the nearest bush. Thorns tore at her arms and thighs, but she ignored their savage sting, charging on, on, on. She had no idea why she was running, nor whom she was running from, but instinct told her that hesitation would be fatal. She had to get away.
But how could she? When she had no idea where she was, nor which direction to head in? The forest seemed to be crowding in on her – every time she darted one way, she came up against a solid wall of vegetation. Darting another, she would stumble over a hidden obstacle or glimpse him, pacing quietly towards her.
Swallowing down her terror, she fought on, clawing at the foliage, fashioning a way forward. But her body seemed to be revolting against her – her head was pounding, her throat was dry, her lungs were starved of oxygen. She was fit and healthy, so why did she feel so bad? Was this what terror did to you?
Blundering through the brush, she glimpsed a path ahead and tore towards it. Immediately, her right foot hit something unyielding and she felt herself falling. She crumpled to the floor, her head connecting sharply with the ground, even as a savage pain ripped through her knee. Shocked, confused, she looked around her – to discover she had tripped over an exposed tree root, smashing her left knee on one of the exposed wooden tentacles as she fell.
Tears filled her eyes as agony took hold of her body, making her feel nauseous and faint. Even so, she found herself stumbling to her feet and limping on, determined to keep going. With each step, she tried to go faster, ignoring her protesting knee, struggling forward through the gloom.
But he was close by now, she could sense it. He had gained on her, was perhaps even now shaping to attack. In her fear, Lauren suddenly had to know. She wanted to be able to defend herself or perhaps, if God was on her side, cheat death? Craning around, she peered over her shoulder, as she stumbled on.
He was only thirty feet from her now. The figure, who had been cloaked in darkness, was now illuminated by the moon as it broke free of the clouds. Lauren slowed still further, desperate to know who her pursuer was. His clothes were dark green, possibly black, and smooth with it, glistening in the moonlight. His hood was made of a similar material, but it was its contents that interested Lauren. Who was this guy?
Peering into the void, Lauren gasped in confusion and horror. This hunter did not have a human face. She could make out no features at all, apart from two huge, lamp-like eyes.
‘Please, no …’
Terror gripped her. What was this thing? Some evil spirit? A shade raised from hell to torment her? Convinced now that she was stuck in a living nightmare, she scrambled on, desperate to put some distance between herself and her pursuer. But despair was robbing her of hope, fear conquering her will to survive. She was being hunted by something monstrous, something unreal.
And at any moment she expected death to descend upon her.
44
She wrenched back the throttle and roared along the empty road.
After a diff
icult day, Helen wanted to put some distance between herself and Southampton Central. It was not a desire to be back home that spurred her on – the same unanswered questions would nag her there – but a thirst for speed. When assailed on all sides, Helen sometimes resorted to pain to expiate her anxiety, but on other occasions she opted for the adrenaline that only speed can provide. It was late now and the roads were empty, allowing Helen a clear run home.
On leaving the incident room, she had called in on Superintendent Simmons. It had been useful to update her, but their discussion hadn’t allayed Helen’s fears or furthered their thinking, so in the end she had headed to the bike park. Before long she was on the ring road, crouched down against the roaring wind, angling her weight into the bends. She had first ridden a motorbike at the age of fifteen – thirty years on it still gave her a rush.
But she was not reckless, nor a speed freak. She pushed her bike, her body, hard, but she was always in control, risking only her own life and limb, as she ripped along the road. She kept her senses alert, constantly checking the way ahead, as well as what lay behind. And now, as she looked in her mirrors for the umpteenth time, she noticed something.
A bike was speeding along the road about a hundred yards behind her. It hadn’t been there when she’d checked a few seconds ago and she hadn’t slowed for traffic lights for some time, so the rider must be setting a blistering pace. Why were they going so fast? And where were they making for in such a hurry? Intrigued, Helen dropped her speed, drifting slightly to the left to allow the bike to pass.
To her surprise, the bike slowed, keeping a safe distance from her. Immediately, her body tensed. Was this bike following her? She dropped her speed still further, her eyes glued to her mirrors. The rider responded, copying her, telling Helen everything she needed to know – except for who was pursuing her, and why.
Her nerves were jangling. She had been hunted too many times not to be on her guard. But she could do little until she knew what she was dealing with, nor did she like the idea of being anybody’s quarry, so, making an instinctive decision, she tugged hard on the brakes.
This took her pursuer by surprise, who shot towards her, before suddenly killing their speed. But it was too little, too late. The bike was a popular, nondescript model, but Helen did recognize the helmet and the distinctive winged angel on the side. It was Joseph Hudson.
Helen’s mind spun. From memory, he did live out this way, so there could be an innocent explanation for his presence. Perhaps he was hanging back because he didn’t want to smash the speed limit in front of his new boss or because he wanted to avoid being recognized, for fear that it would look like he was following her.
But Helen wasn’t convinced by either of these explanations. His pursuit was not intimidating, he was not bearing down on her, trying to bully her out of his way. No, there was something circumspect about this pursuit, even a little coy. Was he checking her out from a distance? Perhaps, but if so it was a clumsy pursuit. Was she meant to see that he was following her, then? Was it possible the handsome DS was flirting with her?
Inappropriate though that was, Helen hoped it was this and nothing more sinister – memories of Robert Stonehill were still fresh. Either way, she was not going to be the supine object of his attention – she had never played the game by anybody else’s rules before.
She slowed still further, almost to a standstill, then, as Hudson did likewise, ripped back the throttle. Her bike leapt forward, the needle moving wildly on the speedometer, as she hit 40 mph, then 60 mph, then 80 mph. Roaring on, she angled a look over her shoulder. Hudson had responded to her sudden move, but too late.
The race was over.
45
Lauren plunged through the forest, never daring to look back, hoping her relentless momentum might deliver her from harm. She knew he was still behind her, could hear her pursuer’s progress as he ripped through the brush, but miracle of miracles, she was still alive. Her knee throbbed horribly, but in the last few minutes she had found a way to deal with it, pushing through the pain as she broke into a sprint once more.
Her lungs burned, her breath was short, but she powered on. Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and she was better able to avoid the pitfalls that littered her path. She no longer had a thought for who might be doing this or why, she just wanted to survive, to be reunited with Matteo. Summoning all her energies, she sped on, daring to hope. Had she surprised her pursuer with her stamina and determination? Was it even possible that she had opened up the gap between them? The thought spurred her on and she hurdled a fallen log with ease, touching down gracefully on the other side.
She felt hysterical, even slightly euphoric now. She knew that she was injured – the soles of her feet were sticky and sore, no doubt cut to ribbons by the fallen thorns on the forest floor, but she didn’t care. She was making progress, cutting through the forest, driving on, on, on. From nowhere, she suddenly felt as if she could go on for ever, outrun anyone, survive.
And now she glimpsed it. Light up ahead. She screwed up her eyes, fearful her senses were deceiving her. But there could be no doubt about it, the forest was thinning. Hope surged through her. If she could get out of this desolate darkness, perhaps she could find a road, flag down a motorist, find a house to seek refuge in.
She was insensible to what was behind her now, sprinting towards salvation. She was forty feet away, thirty, twenty. With a roar of triumph, she broke free of the gloomy woodland, running out into open pasture. A little way ahead there was a low stone wall and she raced towards it, her feet springing off the wet turf. Clearing it easily, she ran on, scanning the horizon for signs of life.
But even as she ran, fear stole over her. She could make out nothing ahead of her. No lights, no shapes, nothing. How was that possible? Instinct made her slacken her pace and seconds later she skidded to an abrupt halt.
For a moment, she thought she might fall, teetering on the edge of the vertiginous cliff. But throwing her weight backwards, she righted herself, staggering away. She had saved herself, but now her head was spinning. She’d had no idea she was so far south in the forest – she must be miles from the campsite. She chanced another look over the edge. The drop was awful – a hundred feet or more into the swelling sea, which was crashing angrily onto the rocks. But what was the alternative?
She turned, knowing full well what she would see. The hooded figure was walking towards her, but now there was no hurry. Her pursuer seemed neither breathless nor troubled, gliding eerily in her direction, utterly confident of victory. Shaking, she looked all around her, seeking some means of salvation, but there was none. She was stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea.
‘Please …’ she whimpered.
But she knew there would be no mercy. Spinning, she took a step forward towards the cliff edge … but once again the pounding surf made her pause.
‘Please …’
She was talking to herself, tears streaking down her cheeks, but she knew it was no use now.
It was time to die.
46
Alice stared into the depths of her coffee cup, filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. In spite of the early-morning sunshine, which poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the dark liquid mirrored her mood. She felt heavy, downcast, lost in the fog.
What should she do? What was the right call? Every time she thought she’d hit upon a course of action, she was undone by hesitation, the potential pitfalls presenting themselves as she interrogated her scheme. Part of this was justifiable circumspection, even a sensitivity towards her daughter’s feelings and well-being, but part of it was honest-to-God cowardice. She felt guilty, terribly guilty, uncertain how to make amends.
She had turned her back on her daughter. There was no point dressing it up, that was what she had done. And though there were extenuating circumstances, she knew that people judged her. They never said it to her face, but they all believed that a parent should never cut off their child, no matter the ci
rcumstances. Part of her felt that too, but if they could have glimpsed inside her soul, if they had seen her turmoil, they might have been a bit more charitable.
The truth is that you cannot truly cut yourself off from your own flesh and blood. Once you’ve carried a child to term, given birth to them, nurtured them, there is a bond there that never disappears, whatever else may happen. In spite of everything, it still exerted a strong pull on Alice, thoughts of her estranged daughter constantly in her mind, obsessing on all that she had suffered, all she might still suffer.
This was why she was prone to these bouts of darkness, why she often felt so blue. And this was why she had to do something. Difficult as it would be for both parties, she had to act. The alternative – going gently mad, day by day – was unthinkable. It was time to seize the nettle, time to make amends.
She just prayed she wouldn’t be too late.
47
‘Why don’t I come to work with you?’
Charlie couldn’t help smiling, despite her discomfort.
‘I’d love that, sweetheart, but you have to be a bit older before they give you handcuffs and a warrant card …’
Jessica’s face fell and she returned to pushing her Weetabix around the bowl.
‘But I’ll tell you what. About every six months or so kids get to come down to the police station and look around. You can meet the sniffer dogs, talk to real police officers. Why don’t we do that instead?’
Down to the Woods: DI Helen Grace 8 (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 11