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

by M. J. Arlidge

  The team reacted, parting to allow Helen through. They had resumed their search for Nathaniel Martin bright and early, but had not ventured far off the beaten path when they stumbled on the body of a pony, lying discarded and forgotten in the brush. As with the first horse, the beast had been laid low by human hand, five crossbow bolts jutting from its flank.

  As the officers drifted away, Helen crouched down by the corpse. This was their second such discovery, but there was no doubting that this pony had been killed first. It was already in an advanced state of decomposition, the stench of decay strong. Maggots riddled the body, a significant part of which had been stripped to the bone by other forest dwellers. Both of the unfortunate creature’s eyes had been plucked out, giving the horse a sinister, even demonic air.

  Were there other ponies lying undiscovered in the forest? Or was this the first? If so, it was evidence of the perpetrator’s methodical build-up to his crimes. The beast Helen had chanced upon had been efficiently dispatched, downed by three well-aimed bolts. This pony had suffered more – five bolts this time, only three of which could have inflicted a fatal blow, the other two being lodged in its back and rear leg respectively.

  Staring at the corpse, Helen wondered if this was by accident or design. Were the errant shots the ones that slowed the beast, before it was dispatched? Were they just badly aimed? Or did this random scattering of shots signify something else? To Helen, it looked very much like overkill, as if someone had enjoyed themselves, loading and firing five times, unleashing the final bolts even after the horse was dead perhaps. Part of her hoped this killing denoted an amateurish beginning, but another part feared this was the work of someone with a taste for death.

  ‘Ok, let’s secure the scene,’ Helen said, rising and turning to the assembled officers. ‘As soon as Meredith gets here, you can resume your search.’

  The officers got to work. Walking away from the ravaged body, Helen pulled her phone from her pocket, keen to inform Charlie of the latest developments. The pony’s body had been found in woodland near Furzley, well away from the other crime scenes, opening up a new area for them to investigate. As she raised the phone to her ear, however, she paused. Her eyes had alighted on a tree at the edge of the clearing, which appeared to have a bright green creeper climbing up its trunk. Following its length upwards, Helen’s eyes now alighted on something that made her heart race.

  A birdcam, perched high up in a small hollow, staring directly down at the clearing below.

  69

  He could feel his father’s eyes burning into him.

  He had turned up for work early, keen to make a good impression and put last night’s unpleasantness behind them. He cursed himself now for his violent overreaction – he had obviously scared his father, which could only lead to trouble. Old fool that he was, his father was unused to being bested and wouldn’t take it lying down. He would punish him, no question, but worse than that he would ask questions – questions Dean didn’t want to answer.

  His father had barely looked up as he entered the site office, merely grunting at him. Grabbing some tea and toast, Dean had slunk down in front of the TV. Better this than the heavy, hostile silence. The morning news was on and he’d sat through the weather, then the sport, and was now watching the local headlines. They led on the killings, this morning focusing on Matteo Dominici, the Italian who’d been in a relationship with Lauren Scott. Dean watched on, intrigued, as the harassed figure hurried from his flat to an awaiting taxi, suitcase in hand. The bereaved boyfriend had clearly been driven from his home by the constant attentions of the press and it amused Dean to hear the reporter relay this in sober, judgemental tones, as if she was no part of it. Liar, liar, Dean thought to himself.

  The reporter tailed off and the anchor switched focus to less sensational news, moving on to a spate of burglaries. Dean didn’t linger, flicking the TV off. He could sense his father watching him, staring at the back of his head as if trying to penetrate his skull, and it made him feel ill at ease. Finishing off his toast, he crossed to the tiny kitchen, slinging the dirty crockery into the sink.

  ‘I’ll crack on then.’

  He darted a look at his father, but the latter nodded absently, turning away from him. Angry with his father, with himself, Dean departed, pushing through the door and out onto the site. There was a fridge that needed to be stripped down and he was suddenly keen to get on with it, to be away from the suffocating atmosphere in the office. But, even as he hurried away, he heard the office door creak open, his father following him out.

  Try as he might to ignore the shift in temperature between them, it was clear that something had changed. His father was suspicious now, perhaps even sensed what lay behind his son’s evasiveness, and appeared intent on finding out the truth. This made Dean intensely nervous, but there was little he could do about it. This was his father’s site, his domain, and while Dean was on it, he would remain under surveillance.

  70

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Hudson tried, and failed, to contain his astonishment.

  ‘One hundred per cent. I’ve checked twice.’

  ‘So, he couldn’t have been a member of the SAS?’

  ‘Obviously not,’ the army sergeant continued, as if talking to a child. ‘There was no one by the name of “Dean Clarke” enrolled in the Armed Forces during the years you mentioned.’

  ‘Is it possible he enrolled under a false name?’

  ‘Anything’s possible, but our background checks are extremely thorough, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘Of course,’ Hudson replied, his mind turning on this strange development.

  He’d called the British Army headquarters in Andover first thing, eventually being put through to Staff Sergeant Greta Smith. She was brisk and condescending, but not unhelpful, so Hudson decided to chance his arm again.

  ‘Could I beg one more favour of you? There are a couple of things I’d like you to take a look at.’

  Ten minutes later, Hudson had the full picture. He’d forwarded Sergeant Smith photos of Dean Clarke’s citations and medals and was not surprised to learn that the former were fake, amateurish copies of the real things, probably signed by Clarke himself. The medals were the genuine article, but as there was a lively trade on eBay for ex-servicemen’s gongs, these could very easily have been found elsewhere.

  Hudson took his findings straight to McAndrew, who’d been doing some further background checks, all of which reinforced his growing suspicions. Clarke, it appeared, had left school at sixteen, but after a couple of failed apprenticeships had started claiming benefits. These had continued to be collected during the years he was supposed to have been on overseas duty and coincided with a couple of police cautions for theft and affray. He had never been charged, hence his lack of a criminal record, but he clearly had led an unfulfilling existence during his early twenties, until the wheels eventually came off when his benefits were stopped for good, following a fraudulent attempt to claim disability allowance.

  Hudson could guess the rest, the son falling back on his parents’ charity, working at the yard, sleeping at the family home. Perhaps he had always been delusional, perhaps his mother’s death had sent him over the edge, but it was clear that somewhere along the line Clarke had developed a split personality. On the one hand, he was a downtrodden worker, ripping apart other people’s junk for his dad, on the other, he was a violent fantasist, living out a fabricated life as a battle-hardened warrior. The question was, how real was this alter ego, how much had he inhabited his delusions?

  Clarke was a failure, isolated and angry. Would he have enjoyed exerting power over his victims, hunting them down? Would it have given him a thrill to pursue them through the woods, perfectly camouflaged and impossible to detect? Would it have fulfilled his fantasy of being a trained killer?

  As Hudson drank in Clarke’s litany of failure, and the improbable alter ego of an SAS assassin he’d created, Joseph Hudson was forced to ask himself how strong Dean Clar
ke’s grip on reality actually was.

  71

  Everything was a blur.

  Charlie was already knackered but, fortifying herself with several cups of coffee, she had set to work, investigating the minutiae of Matteo Dominici’s life. Helen had initiated this new line of enquiry last night, then, having been called away to investigate a second pony’s death this morning, had asked Charlie to run with it.

  She was happy to do so and, having asked DCs Bentham and Osbourne to investigate Melanie Walton’s life, she’d got stuck in. But the details were unremarkable – Dominici was second-generation Anglo-Italian, had lived in Southampton all his life and had spent most of that working in the family restaurant – a nice, friendly establishment in the city centre. He had no criminal convictions, paid his taxes and contributed to the local community. His Facebook posts were intermittent, but optimistic, his outlook on life sunny – in summary, there seemed to be no reason why anyone would have wanted to destroy his happiness or sanity. This line of investigation had the feeling of a dead end, and as Charlie scrolled through his recent posts, they started to blur, their repetitive, benign sentiments starting to merge into one.

  ‘DS Brooks?’

  Charlie snapped out of it, turning to see Helen gesturing her towards her office. Rising, Charlie hurried over, closing the door behind her as she entered. It was clear from Helen’s demeanour that something important had come up.

  ‘I was out near Furzley this morning,’ Helen commenced, eschewing the pleasantries, ‘checking out the second horse fatality.’

  ‘Is it our man?’

  ‘No question, but I think this was a dummy run. The horse has been dead a week or more and the attack was less precise – five bolts this time.’

  Charlie nodded, digesting this.

  ‘While I was there, I spotted a birdcam. Fortunately, this one was working and with a bit of arm-twisting I managed to get the footage from the last couple of weeks.’

  Charlie sat forward in her seat, as Helen turned the laptop towards her. She had slipped a USB stick into the port and now opened up the video player. Seconds later, the screen burst into life, the night vision camera providing an eerie, green-hued view of the nest and forest beyond. A timecode ran continuously along the bottom and Helen now scrolled the footage forward.

  ‘I warn you, it’s not very pleasant …’

  Charlie braced herself for what was to come, staring intently at the small screen. A few seconds elapsed, then suddenly in the upper fringes of the image, there was movement. A pony entered the field of view, stumbling into the clearing. It was followed by a tall, shadowy figure, who walked up to the wounded beast, raising his bow and firing at point blank range.

  The horse bucked wildly – Charlie flinching as it did so – but worse was to follow. The pony had now collapsed onto its knees, but its attacker showed it no mercy, booting the poor beast onto its side and pinning it down. Two more bolts followed, bringing the total to five. The horse was presumably in shock, its body rigid with fear, but gradually its head lowered and moments later it was still. Its killer lingered over it, however, drinking in his achievement, before turning away.

  Charlie’s eyes were riveted to him, as he crossed the clearing, drinking in the details. The thick, rubber-soled boots, the dark clothing and hood, the fact that the attacker was clearly left-handed, still gripping the crossbow as if expecting more bloodshed. A bird now flew past the camera and this seemed to startle the fleeing figure, who briefly turned to follow its flight.

  As he did so, Helen punched a key, freezing the footage. The figure was now looking directly up at the birdcam and Charlie leaned in to try to discern his features. Involuntarily, she gasped. For where there should have been a face, there was just a void. She could make out no chin, no nose, no ears – just a sea of black with two white orbs where eyes should be.

  Charlie looked up at Helen. She had expected a glimpse of their suspect, but instead she appeared to be looking at some kind of monster. Helen raised an eyebrow – she was clearly as unnerved and disappointed as Charlie – so the latter returned her gaze to the computer.

  To find the figure still staring directly at the camera, his malevolence radiating towards her.

  72

  ‘Look me in the eye and tell me you weren’t responsible.’

  Superintendent Simmons’s blood was up, her tone withering, but Emilia refused to be cowed.

  ‘They’re your photos, not mine. I’ve no idea how they got into the public domain.’

  She gestured towards Simmons’s laptop, which displayed Graham Ross’s crime scene photos, now available for all to see on Backchat, an underground news website which specialized in the unusual and, occasionally, the illegal. The powers that be had tried to shut it down numerous times, but so far the site had risen above the injunctions, continuing its mission to inform, educate and appal.

  ‘Well, forgive me if I don’t believe you –’

  ‘Superintendent Simmons, we barely know each other –’

  ‘But I think I’ve got the measure of you. Your coverage of this case so far has succeeded in terrifying the public and heaping pressure onto my officers, who are already working around the clock.’

  ‘Not that you’d know it.’

  ‘And all in the interests of making your star shine a little brighter. I’m aware that you’ve acted illegally in the past in order to further your own agenda … which is why I had a little chat with Graham Ross this morning.’

  Emilia regarded her, saying nothing.

  ‘He said you shadowed him to a pub yesterday – despite his repeated attempts to dissuade you – and that you may have stolen these images while he briefly left his camera unattended.’

  ‘Doesn’t ring any bells,’ Emilia replied blithely. ‘I’m not in the business of following strange men into bars and, besides, I was busy at the office yesterday. You may be aware, there’s a major story breaking –’

  ‘I know it was you and I know why you did it. So, let me give you a little piece of advice …’

  Emilia was tempted to continue her denial, but thought better of it. Strangely, she loved these dressing-downs, the impotent rage of the establishment struggling to come to terms with the digital world. How foolish they were to think that anything could be contained.

  ‘You may think that this will help you,’ Simmons continued, pointing at the gory images on screen, ‘that this will make the story bigger. But this is not journalism. This is fear-mongering. And it could have serious consequences: for members of the public and for you too.’

  Emilia raised a quizzical eyebrow. How many times had she been threatened before, in this very office, and lived to fight another day?

  ‘Which is why I shall personally be looking into this data breach. If I find evidence that you were responsible, then you can expect your day in court.’

  ‘If you want to make a fool of yourself, be my guest. Now, if there’s nothing else …?’

  Emilia was determined to end this on her terms. There was no way she was walking away from their first confrontation with her tail between her legs. And, to her satisfaction, Simmons now terminated their meeting, albeit with ill grace. Emilia walked away in good spirits, confident that Simmons was powerless to do anything. She was pretty sure the pub had no CCTV; nor were there any witnesses to her crime. Moreover, it would be impossible to prove that she leaked them to the wider world.

  That was the beauty of modern life, Emilia thought to herself as she sauntered down the corridor, you could do what you like these days, post what you like, protected always by the perfect anonymity of the internet.

  73

  ‘I want to know where he goes, who he meets, what he does.’

  Helen had corralled the team together once more. Having consulted with Joseph Hudson about the latest developments, she was now ready to launch the next phase of their investigation.

  ‘DS Hudson will lead, assisted by myself and by DCs McAndrew, Osbourne and Reid. Others of you m
ay be called in – we need round-the-clock surveillance on Dean Clarke.’

  ‘Are we saying he’s our prime suspect now?’ DC Bentham asked.

  ‘He’s our main suspect,’ Helen replied. ‘DC Reid and DS Hudson have done some deep digging on Clarke and he certainly fits the profile. A single white male, disaffected, angry, addicted to internet violence. The line between fantasy and reality is thin for these guys. Clarke is not a soldier – he never even applied, according to Army recruitment records – but he’ll tell anyone who’ll listen about his service kills, his awards for valour. Perhaps he’s come to believe his own lies. Or perhaps there are others, as yet undetected, who are encouraging him, prompting him to commit these barbaric crimes –’

  ‘Plus,’ said DS Hudson over Helen, ‘his vehicle fits the profile and he’s a practical guy, with unfettered access to scrap metal and the tools to fashion them into something new. He is clearly someone with an unhealthy fascination with weapons and instruments of torture. I’m betting that if we raided the family home tonight, we’d find an arsenal of weapons, many of which have been used.’

  ‘The circumstantial evidence is also intriguing,’ Charlie added, pulling up the birdcam snapshot of the perpetrator. ‘Height, build and note the face. The guy looks like some kind of evil spirit, but he’s probably just wearing a mask or balaclava, plus camouflage gear. Note also that the guy is left-handed. It may be a coincidence, but in all the images Clarke has posted of himself he uses his left hand to pull the trigger.’

  ‘The most important thing now,’ Helen resumed, ‘is to find out where he goes at night. We’ve been assuming that the attacks are nocturnal because the perpetrator wanted to enjoy the cover of darkness, but it might be that they have to take place after dark – his father keeps a close eye on him during the day. We need to find out where Clarke goes, and what he does. DC McAndrew will take first watch, then DS Hudson. In the meantime, I want us to keep up our exploration of the victims and their partners, to see if there are any patterns, any clues we’re missing. DS Brooks?’