Down to the Woods: DI Helen Grace 8 (Detective Inspector Helen Grace)

by M. J. Arlidge

  ‘Do you know why she did it?’

  ‘No, I asked her a million times, but she just said that when the mood overcame her, she felt compelled to. She hated herself, thought she was unworthy, that the world would be better off without her. I know she had contemplated suicide in the past, but we managed to get past that. Once she was dry, once I was dry, it was possible for us both to see a way forward.’

  ‘Can I ask why you drank, Matteo?’

  ‘Why I was an alcoholic, you mean?’

  Charlie had seen this from ex-alcoholics before – a fierce determination not to dress up their behaviour.

  ‘Marriage breakdown. Got hitched too young and it ended messily.’

  That would need to be checked out. It was not beyond the realms of possibility that Dominici might be connected in some way. Though his pain, his distress, seemed genuine, they only had his word as to what happened that night.

  ‘And now this,’ Dominici said, looking up. ‘Why did this happen just when she was getting her shit together?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we will find out, I can promise you that.’

  ‘Dear God, this is all my fault,’ Dominici moaned, seeming not to hear Charlie at all. ‘All my fault …’

  ‘Why do you say that, Matteo?’

  ‘Because she didn’t want to go,’ he replied, shaking his head.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Camping was my thing, not hers. She wasn’t keen, didn’t like the idea of sleeping outdoors. But I went on and on at her.’

  ‘And in the end she agreed?’

  ‘I’d just bought a new tent, wanted to try it out. Then we got this leaflet through the door for Sunnyside. Maybe I put pressure on her, I don’t know, but she said she’d come because … because she loved me and wanted me to be happy.’

  Now he wept openly.

  ‘This is not your fault, Matteo. None of this is your fault.’

  ‘But if I hadn’t made her go, she’d still be alive …’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Charlie replied quickly, though she couldn’t fault his logic.

  ‘Dear God, what have I done?’

  She was losing him now, despair consuming him.

  ‘Matteo, I won’t take up any more of your time, but I do need to ask you one more thing.’

  He looked up, bewildered as to what Charlie could possibly want to ask, given the circumstances.

  ‘We think Lauren’s murder might be connected to another death, a few days ago.’

  Blank astonishment.

  ‘So I’d like you to look at this photo and tell me if you recognize the man in it, if Lauren might have known him socially or through her support networks.’

  She handed him a photo of Tom Campbell. It had been taken at a recent family gathering and showed the young man smiling broadly – happy, relaxed, full of life. Dominici stared at it for what seemed like an eternity, taking in the details of the man’s features.

  ‘No, I’m sorry …’ He looked up at Charlie, handing her back the photo. ‘… I’ve never seen that guy before in my life.’

  61

  The metal screamed as the claws descended, twisting and contorting under the intense pressure, before eventually being crushed flat. It was hard to watch – the car, which had presumably once been someone’s pride and joy, flattened like a pancake – yet oddly it was hard to take your eyes off it. It seemed so overwhelming, so final.

  Tearing his gaze away, Joseph Hudson pressed on, pushing deeper into the scrapyard. He was a practical man – had always been interested in constructing weird and wonderful machines from spare parts – and in other circumstances would have enjoyed exploring the sprawling site, taking in the dismembered fridges, cars, computers and TVs. But he had a job to do so, ignoring the mammoth towers of metal which surrounded him, he bent his steps towards the manager’s office.

  ‘Terry Clarke and son, scrap merchants’. The battered sign above the door looked tired and forlorn, mirroring Hudson’s mood. He had spent the past three hours trawling Southampton, knocking on doors, having terse, irritable conversations with car owners, who bridled at his intrusion. His presence was welcome nowhere, but he had pressed his case and, through his persistence, had now ticked off most of the names on his list. DCs Bentham and Edwards were doing likewise elsewhere in Hampshire, but had turned up nothing so far. Hudson told himself that this would be his last call of the day – perhaps tomorrow would bring him better luck.

  Knocking on the door, he was greeted by a grunt. Taking this as an invitation to enter, he stepped inside. A burly, unshaven man in overalls looked up at him, surprised and suspicious. There was obviously something in Hudson’s bearing that made it clear he was not a customer.

  ‘Terry Clarke?’

  ‘S’right.’

  ‘I’m DS Hudson,’ he replied, showing the owner his warrant card. ‘I wonder if I could have a quick word about a Land Rover Defender – registration number DB09 OLF?’

  ‘Why? What’s this about?’

  ‘Do you still own the vehicle?’

  ‘Sure, but I don’t use it.’

  ‘I see …’

  ‘I’ve got a Freelander now. My son drives the Defender.’

  ‘And his name is …?’

  ‘Dean.’

  Hudson scribbled the name down.

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘No, he’s just popped out.’

  ‘And the car?’

  ‘S’out back.’

  ‘Could I take a look?’

  It was said with a smile, but Hudson’s tone revealed that this was not a question.

  ‘What’s happened? Is this about speeding or …’

  He petered out, knowing full well that you don’t receive home visits for speeding offences. Hudson could see the scrapyard owner’s mind turning, sifting the possibilities.

  ‘Why don’t we just take a look at the car?’ Hudson replied amiably.

  Clarke’s definition of ‘out back’ was generous. It took them ten minutes to pick their way through the maze of wrecked cars and discarded appliances, before they eventually reached a shabby warehouse at the rear of the site. Had the owner been the least bit hostile or menacing, Hudson might have felt apprehensive, isolated in the sprawling yard on the edge of Woolston, but Terry Clarke was out of shape, wheezing as he struggled along.

  ‘Keeps it in here,’ Clarke gasped, heaving open the door to the warehouse.

  Stepping inside, Hudson was immediately struck by the smell – part rotting wood, part bird droppings, part engine oil. It was a heady combination.

  ‘Just there,’ Clarke continued, gesturing towards the black Defender, parked at the back of the dusty space.

  Hudson moved forward, intrigued. Why did Dean Clarke feel the need to hide the vehicle away in such a remote part of the site?

  Approaching the vehicle, he took in the battered wings and dirty windscreen. This was not a vehicle that was much loved – it was a functional, off-road beast which was clearly being driven into the ground.

  Bending down, Hudson examined the front tyres. They were Avon Rangemasters, as he had expected, and they were virtually bald, the tread worn down by age. Intriguingly, mud caked both tyres, filling in the space between the soft rubber ridges. Hudson ran a finger over it – it was dry but firm, refusing to crumble – suggesting it was relatively fresh.

  ‘How often does your son use this vehicle?’ Hudson asked, straightening up.

  ‘Often enough,’ Clarke replied evasively.

  Nodding, Hudson continued his circuit of the vehicle. There was no question that it had seen some action – the body had numerous dents and the paintwork was severely scratched.

  ‘And what does he use it for? Work or play?’

  ‘He uses my van for work, this is just for getting about.’

  Hudson continued his circuit, peering into the boot of the car. Some of Clarke’s possessions were in there, but it was impossible to say what they were, as a thick blanket covered every inch of th
e boot. Curious, Hudson tested the handle, but was not surprised to find it locked.

  ‘Any idea what he’s got in there?’

  Clarke shook his head, looking tense. Hudson suspected he wanted to know what this visit was all about, but was fearful to ask.

  ‘And when are you expecting him back?’

  ‘Not sure, to be honest. He doesn’t tend to hang around after his shift’s finished.’

  ‘I could call round later, to the family home?’

  ‘You won’t find him there.’

  ‘He’s got his own place?’

  ‘No, he lives with me, but … but he’s not around in the evenings much.’

  ‘Does he have a partner? Mates?’

  ‘Not to speak of.’

  ‘So where does he go?’

  ‘Out.’

  Hudson looked at Clarke, who could barely meet his gaze.

  ‘Maybe … maybe he finds it a bit suffocating at home. Just me and him …’

  ‘You’ve never asked him where he goes?’

  ‘No, I’m not his keeper. He can do what he likes.’

  It was said with bluster, but rang hollow. The scrapyard owner was clearly rattled, which made Hudson wonder. Where was Dean Clarke? What was he hiding from his father?

  And where did he go at night?

  62

  The cigarette smouldered in her hand, unnoticed. On returning to Southampton Central, Helen had eschewed the incident room, instead heading for the yard. She told herself she needed a smoke, but actually she needed some time, some space, to think. Few ventured here – it was a forgotten part of the station that Helen often fled to, a good place to let your mind turn on a troubling case.

  But today Helen was not the only person seeking its sanctuary.

  The door groaned and Helen looked up sharply, but it was only Charlie, one of the few people who always knew where to find her. Pocketing her cigarettes – Charlie was not a fan – Helen turned to face her colleague.

  ‘How did you get on?’ she said, as brightly as she could.

  ‘Not good,’ Charlie shrugged, seeming a little downcast. ‘You?’

  ‘Nothing. We’re chasing down every possible angle, but there’s no sign of a link between the two victims so far.’

  ‘You’re sure the murders are connected?’ Charlie asked, sounding suddenly doubtful. ‘I mean, if the evidence isn’t there …’

  ‘I hope so, for all our sakes,’ Helen emphasized. ‘Otherwise, we’re going to have the devil’s own job finding the perpetrator.’

  Charlie nodded, but looked distracted.

  ‘I think we need to look deeper into Lauren Scott,’ Helen continued. ‘Her history of self-harm, her relationships, her drug abuse …’

  ‘Right …’

  ‘It may be something, it may be nothing. But it’s a line we can work with. Tom Campbell is just so … clean. It’s hard to think why anyone would want to harm him.’

  Charlie nodded once more.

  ‘How did Dominici respond to the photo of Campbell?’

  ‘He didn’t recognize him, but to be honest, he was too devastated to respond to anything.’

  Helen could tell Charlie was upset and reached out to her. There were no barriers between them after all these years.

  ‘It’s so cruel … Life seemed set fair for him,’ Charlie continued, falteringly. ‘For both of them. And now he has a double funeral to plan …’

  Charlie was staring at her shoes, emotion bubbling to the surface. Helen looked at her friend with concern – she had been tired and anxious of late.

  ‘Look, why don’t you head home, Charlie? Rest that ankle of yours?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Charlie said, grimacing as she rotated her swollen foot to show off its capabilities. ‘To be honest, I think I’m safer here.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Charlie said, sounding embarrassed. ‘It’s just Steve is set on having another child. He’s probably putting the wine on ice as we speak, lining up his Barry White playlist …’

  ‘But you’re not sure you’re ready?’

  ‘Part of me wants to, of course. For Steve, for Jessie, but … what if that’s just me being weak? Taking the easy way out, because it’s what they want?’

  ‘Have you spoken to Steve about it?’

  ‘Not properly and I’m not sure I want to.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I will sound paranoid. And scared.’

  Helen stared at Charlie. Her friend was always absolutely candid with her, a quality she admired enormously. But she did seem frightened and unsure of herself tonight.

  ‘I just can’t get what happened to Joanne out of my head.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Whenever I think of the next step, of having another child, I think about that day …’

  She didn’t need to spell it out – Charlie was one of the first on the scene, after Joanne Sanderson had died in Helen’s arms.

  ‘I still visit her mum, you know.’

  Helen felt a sharp stab of guilt – her visits to Nicola had tailed off.

  ‘And I see how it’s affected her, how it’s affected the whole family … and it makes me think – what if it had been me? What if I’d come face to face with Daisy and …’

  ‘We’ve all thought that.’

  ‘I know,’ Charlie said, angrily wiping an errant tear from her eye. ‘I know you feel it worse than me, which is why I feel so … stupid.’

  ‘You’re not stupid. This job is dangerous and if you ever feel –’

  ‘I don’t want to step away from my job, that’s not what this is about. But Joanne has made me … appreciate what I’m risking. It makes the idea of having another child seem crazy, but that’s stupid too.’

  ‘Charlie …’

  ‘Because I can’t put my life on hold – our life on hold – because of something that happened to someone else. It’s not fair to deny Jessie a sibling – she’d love a little brother or sister – and yet …’

  ‘If you’re not ready, you’re not ready,’ Helen said firmly. ‘Obviously, I know nothing about these things.’ Helen smiled, aware of how absurd it was for her to be dispensing domestic advice. ‘But I’m sure when the time is right, you’ll know. Until then you have to allow yourself to grieve for your friend and process what happened in whatever way comes naturally. Don’t force yourself to feel that you’re over it, if you’re not.’

  Helen knew she was also guilty of obsessing over Joanne’s death, but nevertheless she felt that what she was saying was true.

  ‘It happened. It’s horrible, but it happened. And we all need to deal with it, however distressing or troubling that might be.’

  ‘You’re right, of course you’re right,’ Charlie said, flashing a smile of gratitude at Helen. ‘And thank you.’

  ‘Now get off home, you’ve had a long day.’

  ‘I will do, if that’s ok. You never know, there might be some football on to distract Steve.’

  Smiling ruefully, Charlie departed, leaving Helen alone. Her encounter with Nathaniel Martin had clearly amplified Charlie’s fears, reawakened all the doubts and anxieties she’d experienced after Joanne’s death, but Helen was glad to see her leaving with a smile on her face. Watching her go, Helen reflected that they had both been affected by Joanne’s murder, albeit in differing ways. Charlie at least was engaging with the world, trying to build a life for herself and her family. Helen, by contrast, was alone in the smokers’ yard, toying idly with a packet of cigarettes. It was a perfect picture of isolation, which made Helen feel suddenly empty.

  Charlie might have her problems, but she had made her mark on the world, with Steve, with Jessie. If Helen died tomorrow, what would be her legacy? Who would mourn her?

  Not for the first time today, Helen found herself unable to answer a simple question.

  63

  ‘No, no, no. And that’s my final word on the matter.’

  Emilia was tempted to point out that ‘n
o, no, no’ was actually three words, but thought better of it. She had to pacify Gardiner, her editor having already worked himself up into a lather.

  ‘I’m not talking about any of the graphic shots,’ Emilia replied, gesturing at the crime scene photos spread out on the desk. ‘I was thinking we could use one of the long shots. You can see the outline of the body hanging from the tree, but you can’t see her features, her injuries, or any flesh. In fact, it’s a rather beautiful shot. The way the trees frame the crime scene …’

  Martin Gardiner looked at Emilia as if her idea of ‘beautiful’ was beyond perverted, but she persevered.

  ‘And think what a sensation it would be. Grace, Simmons, they’re all guilty of treating the public like kids, of hiding the true situation from them. Well, we could bust it right open –’

  ‘You’re talking like a comic book hack,’ Gardiner shot back angrily. ‘And before you go any further, let me remind you that this is a local paper.’

  ‘How could I forget,’ Emilia muttered, low enough for him not to hear.

  ‘People read this paper for the property pages, the recipes, the crossword. The news they want is local news –’

  ‘This is local, it’s on their bloody doorstep.’

  ‘By which I mean, council elections, school fetes, fun runs …’

  ‘This is going to be a big story. And we could steal a march on everyone …’

  ‘By publishing graphic crime scene photos – photos that you stole.’

  ‘We can say they were leaked –’

  ‘And when we get taken to court, when we have to prove that? What then?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be down to us to prove anything. They would have to prove that we’d obtained them illegally. Besides, they’d never go down that route. It would make them look totally incompetent.’

  Gardiner was about to interject, so Emilia carried on quickly.

  ‘Look, we’re wasting time. If we can agree on which shot to go for, then I can give you a thousand words by close of play.’

  ‘Emilia,’ Gardiner replied, just about controlling his temper. ‘You don’t seem to understand what I’m saying, so let me try and be clear. We are not publishing crime scene photos that will repel the vast majority of our readers – not on the front page, not on the centre pages, not in the bloody horoscopes.’