‘You’re thinking that the killer stopped here?’
‘Could be,’ Helen replied, rising. ‘Let’s find out.’
Moving away from the tracks, she walked cautiously to the trees nearest the tracks. Hudson followed, examining the ground for trampled grass. The grass on the verge was long and wild and it was hard to be sure, but there did seem to be some flattened areas approaching the thick vegetation.
‘Here.’
Helen was now at the edge of the woods, her finger directing his attention to a tiny scrap of white material caught on a tree branch.
‘Her T-shirt? A vest?’
She shrugged, stepping under the branch and proceeding carefully into the forest. Hudson followed, scouring the gloomy woodland for clues.
‘There.’
He’d spotted it instantly – a broken branch hanging limply, ten feet or so further on. Examining it, Helen nodded and they pressed on. Their progress was swift – they found two more broken branches, a larger snag of fabric and then a small patch of blood. They had almost walked past the latter, but Helen had grabbed Hudson, pointing out the crimson stain that had suddenly caught a beam of sunlight on the end of a vicious-looking branch.
On they went, following the discreet trail of devastation, until eventually the path opened out into a clearing. Helen was still on point and Hudson heard her little gasp of horror, just before she ground to an abrupt halt. Summoning his courage, Hudson emerged into the clearing and looked up.
To find Lauren Scott’s corpse hanging from a nearby tree.
52
Matteo Dominici. Lauren Scott.
Emilia’s finger hovered over their names. There was no doubt about it – this was the unfortunate couple.
On arrival at the Sunnyside campsite, Emilia had kept a low profile, leaving her car some way off and approaching the camp via the woods. There was still a major police presence and plenty of activity. A group of campers were being interviewed in the picnic area and, as she cautiously approached the site office, she saw the distressed-looking guy with the unruly hair being ushered away by a solicitous family liaison officer. Emilia’s first instinct was to follow them, perhaps try and grab a picture with her phone, but it would be hard to do so without being detected and, besides, she needed hard facts. So instead, on instinct, she’d darted into the deserted site office.
Crossing to the front desk, she reached over and picked up the guest register. She took a quick photo of the names, then got to work. Keeping one eye out for police officers or site workers, she started Googling the names on the list, looking carefully at the images for each name. At the seventh attempt, she got lucky. Matteo Dominici – with his bushy black crop of hair – was very distinctive. A number of the photos featured him with his arm around a pretty young woman. Sifting the Facebook offerings for ‘Lauren Scott’, she quickly confirmed his girlfriend’s identity.
So, this was the missing woman. None of the campers being interviewed resembled her and, given Dominici’s distress, she must be the one. Had the police already found a body? Or was she still missing? Emilia knew she was getting ahead of herself, but the similarity between Tom Campbell’s murder and Lauren’s disappearance was too striking to be a coincidence. She felt certain the New Forest killer had struck again.
Emilia stared at the woman’s profile photo. Her trusting, open countenance, her slender, pretty face, even the clothes she was wearing – a pink Race for Life T-shirt – made this the perfect image for tomorrow’s front page. The photo had obviously been taken at the end of the run, when Lauren was exhausted but happy, a broad grin spread across her face. It would tug at the heartstrings of their readers – here was a kind, spirited young woman who contributed to society – and provide a chilling counterpoint to her abduction.
The story was already taking shape in Emilia’s mind, but she needed more details. Perhaps some of the campers would talk to her. Or maybe she should approach a uniformed officer – see if one of the young ones could be intimidated or encouraged into talking to her. But as Emilia darted a wary look out of the window, she was surprised to see that the police team was on the move. A couple of uniformed officers remained with the unnerved campers, but all the others – CID particularly – were hurrying to their vehicles. Though ‘hurrying’ was perhaps the wrong term to describe DS Brooks, who was limping rather awkwardly across the site. Emilia wondered if she had sustained this injury in action. Perhaps in some kind of confrontation?
Engines were now starting up, doors being slammed. Snapping out of it, Emilia knew she needed to make an instant decision. Stick or twist? Staying put might yield some interesting information, but surely a mass departure could only mean one thing.
Dropping the register, Emilia fled the office, hurrying back through the woods towards her car. If she could get there as they were securing the scene, there might be some good photo opportunities, not to mention a chance to target the team when they were off guard. The thought sent a shiver of anticipation through her. When it came down to it, there was nothing she enjoyed more than the thrill of the chase.
53
Helen marched back towards the car, her phone clamped to her ear.
‘Is it the same guy? The same MO?’
Simmons sounded focused but concerned. Another killing so soon suggested a perpetrator who was fearless, reckless, or both.
‘Yes,’ Helen replied quickly. ‘The forensics team will be on site shortly … but I’ve no doubt this is our second victim. It looks very much like Scott was abducted, hunted down, then left to bleed out.’
There was a brief pause, then Simmons’s voice punched through again.
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Well, that’s your call really,’ Helen answered. ‘But I don’t think we can sit on it. Not after last night’s headlines.’
There was a brief silence on the other end. Both women had been surprised and angered by Emilia Garanita’s inflammatory article, and dismayed by the panicked response to it. The incorrigible journalist was clearly enjoying her moment in the sun, having called Helen’s mobile twice this morning, seeking an official comment – calls which Helen had resolutely ignored.
‘You think we should put out a general alert, talk to the national press?’ Simmons responded.
‘There’ll be hundreds of holidaymakers descending on the New Forest this week. If they’re at risk, we need to let them know.’
‘Do we want to name Nathaniel Martin as a suspect?’
‘Not yet. The public won’t help us flush him out – that’s down to the search teams – and naming him might deter people from coming forward with other information.’
‘Ok. I’ll get media liaison on to it straight away. We’ll advise the public to review their plans, to exercise caution. Would you like me to handle the press conference?’
Simmons knew her too well. Helen loathed being harangued by journalists, when she could be doing something more useful.
‘That’d be great. I’ll keep you up to speed.’
‘Please do.’
Simmons clicked off, but before she did so, Helen heard her asking her PA to summon media liaison. It was one of the reasons she admired her new boss so much – she was no-nonsense, practical, purposeful – and it behoved them to follow her lead. Gesturing to Hudson to join her, Helen climbed into the car.
‘Where to?’ Hudson said, sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the engine.
‘Southampton Central.’ Helen’s tone was grim but determined. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
54
‘So, we’re saying that the victims were gassed?’
The team was back at base, gathered together in the incident room. Helen had brought them up to speed on her findings and, predictably, they were full of questions. On this occasion, it was DC Reid who’d got in first.
‘Looks that way. We don’t know for sure what they used, but my bet would be carbon monoxide.’
‘Because it’s convenient if you’ve got
a car,’ Osbourne suggested.
‘And it doesn’t leave any lingering trace in your blood or your organs,’ Helen added. ‘So it’s hard to find.’
The assembled officers digested this. As long as you didn’t overdo the dose, there was no question that exhaust fumes were a simple and discreet way of pacifying your intended victims.
‘Then what? They are let loose in the forest?’
‘Presumably,’ DS Hudson answered. ‘The trail we followed looked very much like a pursuit. But the victim wasn’t killed where she was found. The trail continued to a cliff edge roughly half a mile further on.’
‘And then she was dragged back to the clearing?’ DC Edwards enquired.
‘We didn’t see any drag patterns, so it looks like she was carried,’ Helen replied. ‘We only found one set of footwear marks – a size eleven combat boot of some kind.’
Helen punched a few buttons on her phone and her snatched image of the boot print sprang up on the screen.
‘It’s rough and ready, but it’ll have to do until we have Ross’s photos. Interestingly, we also saw what looks like a single boot print on the victim’s T-shirt. Perhaps the perpetrator stamped on the victim. Or just pinned her down, while discharging one of the bolts …’
One of the younger officers shuddered, but Helen pressed on.
‘Given the size of the boot, the strength required to transport and hoist the body and the fact that there appears to be only one set of footwear marks, I would suggest that we are looking for a lone male, someone of considerable size and strength. Unless we find concrete evidence to the contrary, I want us to proceed on that basis.’
The team nodded. It hardly narrowed the field down, but they had to start somewhere. Helen scrolled through her photos once more, pulling up another.
‘This is a close-up of the tyre tread left by what we believe to be the perpetrator’s vehicle. DC McAndrew has already done some work on this.’
She nodded at McAndrew. As one, the team turned to look at her.
‘It’s a wide, heavy-duty tyre, which suggests off road. Looking at the tread pattern, I’m pretty confident we can say it’s an Avon Rangemaster. They’re expensive and relatively rare tyres, but they were standard issue on the Land Rover Defender.’
‘They’ve stopped making Defenders, right?’ DC Edwards, their resident petrol head, piped up.
‘Land Rover stopped production a couple of years back,’ McAndrew confirmed. ‘But I think this vehicle is older than that. The tread pattern is from one of the early iterations of the Rangemaster tyre and, besides, it’s very faint and uneven, suggesting the tyre is worn. So, we might be looking for a Defender that’s seven, eight, nine years old or more. DC McAndrew has the latest DVLA lists. There are fifty-three registered Defenders in the Hampshire area. Now, maybe the vehicle is unlicensed or stolen, but our first job is to trace these vehicles and run the rule over the owners, focusing on possible motives and, crucially, their movements during the last few days.’
‘Does this mean we’re discounting Martin as a suspect?’ DC Edwards asked, gesturing towards his mugshot. ‘I mean, we don’t think he has a car and he doesn’t like using machinery anyway.’
‘We rule nobody out at this stage,’ Helen countered decisively. ‘Martin still has questions to answer, about his animus against Woodland View, about his attack on DS Brooks, but we have to consider other possibilities –’
‘We’re looking for anyone with concrete connections to Tom Campbell and Lauren Scott,’ DS Hudson cut in. ‘And clues as to the choice of MO. We’re looking for hunting enthusiasts, weapons obsessives, anyone who would know how to source, construct and operate a crossbow. We need to deepen our trawl in this area to see if anyone connected to this type of vehicle has form for assault with a deadly weapon, aggravated assault or threatening behaviour. Also, has anyone been buying or trading crossbows online, either conventionally or via the dark web?’
The assembled officers nodded soberly, the scale of their task only now becoming clear.
‘I will break you up into smaller units and apportion specific tasks,’ Helen resumed. ‘Some of you will be investigating the areas DS Hudson has just outlined, others will be assisting DS Brooks to explore the victims’ backgrounds and personal history.’
Charlie rose, wobbling slightly as she did so.
‘So, principal question,’ she said, steadying herself, ‘is why were these two individuals targeted? Does our perpetrator attack campers simply because they are vulnerable or because he has a particular animus against them?’
‘I bloody hate camping,’ DC Edwards drawled, to a mixture of muted chuckles and groans.
‘Were they chosen at random?’ Charlie continued, unabashed. ‘Or were they targeted specifically? Are they connected in some way?’
‘Do they know each other?’ Osbourne asked, picking up Charlie’s thread.
‘Not that we can see from our preliminary trawl. They are both from Southampton originally, but other than that there is very little overlap. Campbell was nearly thirty, Scott was twenty-seven. She’s a middle-class dropout, he’s a grammar school boy made good, with a well-paid job, a fiancée, an expensive house in Winchester. Lauren Scott by contrast has a history of petty crime, drug abuse, even the odd caution for prostitution. She had cleaned up her act recently, but is estranged from her parents and lives with her boyfriend in a flat in Thornhill.’
‘It may be that there’s no connection at all,’ Helen added. ‘She was an alcoholic and drug addict who was never able to hold down a job. He was a well-educated scientist with the world at his feet, but if there are any links, we need to find them. At present, the perpetrator’s choice appears random – the victims are different genders, from different backgrounds and were taken from different campsites – Campbell’s campsite was near Godshill, Scott’s was much further south, near South Baddesley. So, what’s driving his choice? The victims or the locations? Let’s pull apart the personal histories of the victims, but also look again at the campsite owners. Has anything occurred recently at either location that might explain why Campbell and Scott were abducted? What is driving our killer?’
Helen broke up the briefing shortly after this, dividing her team into working groups and sending them on their way. Her last question hung in the air, preying on everyone’s minds, as they tore apart the fabric of this case. What was the meaning of these attacks? And what had precipitated them? Did the killer have a specific motive?
Or did he just enjoy watching his victims suffer?
55
He was staring directly at her, challenging her to take him on. Arms folded, chin jutting out, this macho idiot seemed determined to thwart her.
‘I’m an accredited journalist,’ Emilia hissed, barely containing her fury. ‘I have every right to drive down this road –’
‘You’re a pain in the arse,’ the smirking officer replied. ‘And this is a crime scene. Authorized personnel only, I’m afraid.’
What was it with young police officers these days? In the past, Emilia had always been able to work them somehow – through flattery, veiled threats or outright bribery. But the new breed seemed impervious to temptation or fear, toeing the official line with a zeal that bordered on the obscene.
‘I need to speak to DI Grace,’ Emilia demanded, hoping her knowledge of the SIO would buy her some slack. ‘Or DS Brooks. I know their unit is here –’
‘They left an hour ago.’
Emilia cursed under her breath. On leaving Sunnyside, she had followed the flotilla of vehicles towards South Baddesley, maintaining a safe distance, while always keeping it in view. All had been going well until, right at the death, a tractor had slipped into the gap, crawling slowly along the road for almost half a mile, before diverting into a field. By the time Emilia rounded the lumbering tractor, the police vehicles were long gone.
This wasn’t necessarily a disaster, as the road was a dead end, petering out by a cliff edge. So she knew where she was heading. Her
problem became clear a mile further down the road, when a fluttering police cordon came into view, hovering a few metres in front of a police roadblock.
Slewing her car to a stop, Emilia had considered her options. Really, she had none – other than to try and circumnavigate the roadblock by penetrating the thick bushes to the right or traversing the steep meadow to her left. Sensibly, she had attempted the latter, only to find a pair of uniformed officers stationed at the top of the hill.
Now she had no option but to drive down the road and see if she could talk her way through the roadblock or, at the very least, garner some information about what was going on. But the fresh-faced officer remained tight-lipped, seemingly enjoying frustrating her.
Having been ahead of the game, Emilia suddenly found herself behind the beat. Angry, frustrated, she was about to leave, when she noticed something in the distance. A man, with a bag on his shoulder, walking slowly away from the forest. Now Emilia paused. There were no other vehicles – police or ambulance – to help her piece together the narrative, but perhaps this lone survivor might tell her something. Not literally of course, the world and his wife seemed to know who Emilia was these days, the curse of her current notoriety. But there was more than one way to skin a cat.
Returning to her car, she dawdled casually, smoking a cigarette and pretending to send some emails. And, sure enough, five minutes later a black Volvo estate crawled by. Busying herself with her phone, Emilia nevertheless angled a surreptitious glance at the driver and was rewarded with the sight of Graham Ross driving by. She had seen the crime scene photographer at several other crime scenes over the years and recognized him instantly. The car, however, was new to her, so she didn’t hesitate, zooming in to take a close-up of the number plate.
All was not lost, it seemed. Emilia had a contact at the DVLA who could slip her his home address. She did not know Ross personally, but she felt certain she could work on him. He had always seemed a little isolated, a team member in name only. Would he not welcome some stimulating female company?
Down to the Woods: DI Helen Grace 8 (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 13