‘If you can spare the time, we’d be very grateful.’
Even as she said it, Helen darted a look through the viewing window to the high-dependency unit. From here, they had a perfect view of Julia Winter, who lay immobile in bed, attached to an assortment of tubes.
‘Perhaps a quick coffee? I don’t like to be away from Julia for long …’
‘Whatever you’re comfortable with,’ Helen replied, gesturing Winter towards the coffee bar at the end of the corridor.
Five minutes later, they were seated in the overheated canteen, three milky coffees sitting untouched in front of them. Winter was open and cordial, though he seemed distracted by his daughter’s plight. He spoke carefully, a slight Swedish accent still coming through, despite his twenty-five years living on the south coast.
‘Can I ask how long Julia’s been here?’ Helen said hesitantly.
‘Around eight years now,’ Winter replied calmly. ‘She jumped, from Itchen Bridge. You probably know it …’
Helen did. It was one of Southampton’s most notorious suicide spots.
‘The doctors told me she wouldn’t make it. She’d sustained severe head injuries, had massive internal bleeding. But my girl is a fighter …’
He said it with pride, but Helen could see the sadness in his eyes. After nine years caring for his daughter, this handsome man’s face was pale and lined.
‘She survived, although in truth it’s the machines that are keeping her alive. At first, they thought that that was it, that she would be in a permanent vegetative state, but I was convinced that she could hear me, could understand what was going on. So, we tried different ways to reach her and for a time we did manage to communicate.’
Winter read the surprise on both their faces and smiled.
‘We found a way of asking her simple questions, reading her answers through brain mapping. Depending on her response – yes or no – a different part of her brain would light up. It really was the most wonderful thing, to be able to talk to her again.’
His emotion was palpable, his voice thick.
‘And now?’ Helen asked gently.
‘She contracted pneumonia a few weeks ago. Now it’s a constant battle to keep her comfortable, to keep her lungs clear, so we’ve had to put our conversations on hold.’
It was said with a wry smile, but he couldn’t resist shooting another glance towards the unit where his daughter lay.
‘If it’s ok, I’d like to ask you a couple of quick questions about Julia’s time at university. I believe she was a housemate of Lauren Scott?’
‘That’s right. They had a house together in Portswood. After Julia’s accident, Lauren stayed in touch for a while, visited when she could. She was a nice girl underneath it all.’
‘You’ve presumably seen the news.’
‘Yes, I was saddened to read about it. Saddened, if not particularly surprised.’
‘Because?’ Helen replied, wrong-footed by his response.
‘Because I always suspected it would end badly for her. Not like that of course, but still I did think that one day I would read about her in the papers.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Charlie asked.
‘Because she was fragile. Because she attracted trouble.’
‘Even then?’
‘Especially then,’ Winter replied firmly. ‘I think it’s the reason she and Julia were friends. Both struggled at university. Julia found it hard living away from home and drowned under the workload. Lauren barely bothered with her studies, she was just there to please her parents. But she fell into bad company, got into drugs, into debt …’
Helen leaned forward, intrigued now to be getting a fuller picture of the young Lauren.
‘Neither girl was enjoying her life there, but they handled it in different ways. Julia bottled it up, Lauren went the other way. She just wanted to get off her head as quickly as possible. I liked Lauren, but I feared for her. She was just one of those girls who never seemed happy in her own skin.’
Once more, Helen’s thoughts went back to Lauren’s parents. Was it possible there was neglect there? Even abuse?
‘Did Julia ever confide in you as to the root cause of Lauren’s unhappiness?’ Charlie asked, as if reading Helen’s mind.
‘No, Julia wasn’t the type to share secrets … but I always felt that Lauren was lonely. Her parents were uninterested, or disapproving, I could never tell which. And she was an only child, so …’
‘She was isolated, then?’
‘I think she sought approbation, affection, where she could get it. And she wasn’t the best judge of character.’
Helen nodded, digesting this.
‘You say she hung out with a bad crowd. Can you remember any specific names? People who might have sold her drugs, got her hooked on drugs?’
‘Not really, it was nine years ago now. There was … an Aaron somebody, who also shared the flat with them.’
‘Aaron Slater.’
‘That’s him. As to the others … Julia and Lauren were tight, but they seemed to change their friends almost as often as their outfits. Whenever I went to the flat there were always new faces there.’
‘Do you think …’ Helen said, unsure if she should continue or not. ‘Do you think it’s possible that Lauren’s parents might have harmed her in some way, historically, I mean?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Winter said quickly. ‘You’d have to ask them.’
Helen nodded and Winter, realizing he had sounded defensive, continued:
‘Look, I never liked them, that’s for sure. The couple of times I met them. But I can’t speculate on their home life, it wouldn’t be fair.’
‘Of course.’
Helen looked to Charlie, but she shook her head slowly, indicating she had no further questions.
‘There was one last thing,’ Helen continued, opening her file and pulling a photo from it. ‘I was wondering if you recognized this man?’
She offered him the photo of Tom Campbell. It was her final throw of the dice, a last-ditch attempt to salvage something meaningful from the interview. But Winter slowly shook his head, dashing her hopes.
‘I’m sorry, no.’
‘He may have looked a bit different back then. Longer hair, earrings …’
She offered him a second photo from Campbell’s student days. And now, to Helen’s surprise, a cloud seemed to pass over Winter’s face. Troubled, he picked up the more recent photo and held the pair together for comparison.
‘My God, that’s Tommy.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘That’s what they called him back then. I’d never have recognized him from this …’
He looked up at Helen.
‘And this is …? Tommy was also …?’
‘Yes, Tom Campbell was murdered five days ago. Do you know him?’
‘I only met him a couple of times, but sure I know him. Though I never knew his surname until now.’
He was staring at Helen, stupefied, but still managed to mutter:
‘He was Lauren’s boyfriend.’
96
Helen marched away from the hospital, Charlie matching her stride for stride. Having been downcast following their wrong turn with Clarke, both felt energized by their interview with Winter. Previously, they had feared that the brutal murders were the work of an unhinged maniac or dark spirit preying on innocent holidaymakers, but now they felt sure there was a concrete connection between the victims, a reason for these baffling murders.
‘First thing, I want us to do a deep trawl on all their communications. Emails, calls, texts, DMs, WhatsApp, the works. We need to know if Campbell and Scott had had any contact in the last few months.’
‘You think they may have rekindled their relationship?’ Charlie enquired.
‘Why not? According to Winter, they were pretty tight during her first year. She still lived here, he came to Southampton every day for work.’
‘We should check local hotels – for room r
eservations, credit card charges …’
‘Absolutely. It’s imperative we know if they were still in touch, if they still had feelings for each other.’
‘Do you think one of their partners could have been involved?’ Charlie asked. ‘If they were having an affair, for example?’
‘Potentially, but I don’t see it. They seemed genuine to me.’
‘Totally.’
‘Plus the evidence suggests that carbon monoxide had been pumped in to incapacitate both parties. I don’t think Dominici was faking it.’
‘A rival then? Someone who took exception to their relationship?’
‘Anything’s possible, but we don’t even know if they were in touch, so we need to keep an open mind. We should look at drugs too.’
Charlie turned to Helen, surprised by this sudden change in direction.
‘Lauren had a history of drug abuse, but it really ramped up during her time at university. The same time she was dating Campbell. We know Tom Campbell had a possession charge as a teenager, and was lucky to escape an intent-to-supply charge. He studied biochemistry at uni, was in a druggie scene …’
‘You think he was a dealer?’
‘Could be. He would be perfectly capable of producing MDMA and acid in a laboratory. Synthetic drugs too. Spice and K2 took off around 2008, while he was already at uni.’
‘And he would have had a ready market for it.’
‘Exactly.’
They had now reached Charlie’s car.
‘Do you think that he could still be dealing? That that was the basis of a possible reconnection?’
‘I doubt it. It’d be far too risky. He has a good job, a nice house. It would only be worth it if he was doing it big time, so we should check out his financials again.’
‘But it is possible that he was still using. He certainly had an appetite for booze and good living. Lauren had been trying to get clean, but we know she had fallen off the wagon before …’
‘Even if they weren’t in contact,’ Helen continued, thinking aloud, ‘it’s possible that someone connected to their student scene was involved in their murders. Someone who still lives locally …’
‘We’ve been concentrating so much on Lauren, but perhaps if we pull apart Tom Campbell’s student days, then we might find something. He was the first victim, after all.’
Charlie looked at Helen, a ghost of a smile creasing her lips.
‘Too right,’ Helen replied. ‘Race you back to base.’
She headed towards her bike, then slowed and turned.
‘And well done, Charlie. We wouldn’t have got here without you.’
97
It had been a gamble. One which was now paying dividends.
It had taken Emilia ten minutes to get to Ross’s flat in St Denys. En route, she had rehearsed how this might play out, testing again the wisdom of responding to his earlier invitation to meet. On arrival, she had texted a colleague, making clear where she was and hinting at what she hoped to gain from her off-the-record chat with the photographer. This was standard practice when entering an uncertain situation, and though it didn’t give you any real protection, at least it afforded you peace of mind that you wouldn’t vanish off the face of the earth. Emilia was not by nature timorous, she could fight her own corner, but the tragic case of Kim Wall was still fresh in her mind and it wouldn’t do to go completely off the grid.
Ross had welcomed her warmly, playing host efficiently, while complimenting her on her work. He seemed particularly interested in her future ambitions and in their earlier exchanges she got the distinct impression that she was being interviewed for a job. Soon, however, she managed to take hold of the conversation, allowing him one cup of tea’s worth of questions, before turning it back on him.
‘So, have you always worked for Grace’s outfit?’
‘Not at all. I’ve worked all over the country. Belfast, Glasgow, Manchester, Leeds …’
‘The things you’ve seen …’
‘Indeed,’ he replied happily, stretching as he did so. ‘And yet every crime scene still takes you by surprise.’
‘Because?’
‘Well, they give you the basics when you’re en route – domestic murder, drugs killing, sex crime – and you picture it in your mind before you get there. And often the scene you’ve imagined is basically correct, but it’s the small details that surprise you. The things they’ve done to try to stay alive, the keepsake they are still holding in their hands, the way the body has been arranged after death. Every detail tells a story.’
Ross seemed proud of his knowledge, of his insight, so Emilia had moved the conversation on quickly, zeroing in on his current case. She was surprised to find that Ross was largely dismissive of Grace’s efforts so far. Emilia had always struggled to find officers at Southampton Central who weren’t in thrall to her.
‘They went down a total cul-de-sac with this Dean Clarke guy,’ Ross declared, once Emilia had made it clear she knew Clarke was in the clear. ‘That guy is a thug, a wannabe soldier without the brains or know-how to do that …’
He gestured towards the graphic photos of the corpses that were spread out on the coffee table, incongruous next to the tea and biscuits. They had been awaiting Emilia on arrival, as if Ross was displaying his wares.
‘Maybe he would be capable of abducting the victims, pursuing them, but I’ve no idea what convinced them that he’d have an interest in arranging the bodies like that.’
Emilia took a look at the bodies of Campbell and Scott hanging from the trees, then back up at Ross.
‘What do you mean?’ she replied, being deliberately obtuse, hoping to draw him out further.
‘Well, look at it. The two victims haven’t just been murdered, they’ve been humiliated, hung out to dry. Whoever did this might enjoy the hunt, but it’s the end result that’s important. It’s the display.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Who knows?’ Ross replied, chuckling. ‘But it’s interesting, isn’t it?’
He leaned in a little closer to Emilia, laying a finger on the image.
‘Perhaps he wants to shame them, mortify them. Perhaps he hoped that the birds and forest dwellers would feed on them, the corpses slowly disintegrating over time. Perhaps he wanted to display his physical strength and power, in killing them and arranging them like that. Perhaps he just likes messing with our heads, but that’s not even the interesting part …’
It was to Emilia, who was still struggling to identify a discernible motive for these murders, but she let it go.
‘… what’s interesting is the staging,’ Ross continued, almost without pause. ‘Look at the framing of it, the way the bodies stand proud, while being enveloped by the clearing. It’s gruesome for sure, but it’s actually quite artistic, even beautiful.’
He seemed enraptured by the image.
‘And therein lies its power.’
He turned to Emilia.
‘It’s one of the best photographs I’ve taken and believe me I’ve taken a lot.’
‘Do you have more of these?’ Emilia asked, suddenly intrigued.
But Ross didn’t answer directly. Instead, he rose and gestured her towards the back of the flat.
‘Follow me.’
98
‘We need to get under their skin.’
Joseph Hudson had a team of junior officers gathered around him, a couple of data analysts too. Following her visit to the hospital, Helen had tasked him with leading the digital trawl of the two victims’ lives. She meanwhile had headed off elsewhere, which secretly he was glad of.
‘We are looking for any sort of connection, any form of relationship. Romantic, sexual, commercial, harmless flirting, animosity, recrimination … anything. If they had contact we need to know about it.’
The team nodded, waiting for more.
‘So … look at what they spent their money on, where they went, what they did for pleasure. We know now that Campbell and Scott were previously in an inte
nse, romantic relationship. Let’s see if any of the old fire remained. Drop everything else – this is your top priority now.’
The officers stared at him, eager but static.
‘Well? What are you waiting for?’ he barked, making one of the female analysts jump. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
The team rose to do his bidding, hurrying away. The startled data analyst retreated to her desk quickly, beginning an earnest conversation with her colleague as she went. Hudson was dismayed to see that she appeared to be upset. Perhaps she was just shocked, perhaps she felt his irritation was directed at her, either way he felt bad at having provoked such a reaction. He would have to talk to her later, see if he could make amends.
Marching over to his desk, he got stuck into his work. Helen had given him a specific, important, task to complete and he intended to get it right. Yet now he couldn’t seem to focus, his gaze inevitably drifting back to the data analyst, who was still deep in conversation. Hudson had tried hard to make a good impression with the team, leading by example. But he still hadn’t got the measure of them and now he had a black mark against his name.
Were they speculating that he was smarting from his encounter with Clarke? Or were they wondering if he was just brittle, unable to handle the stress of a major murder investigation? The thought made him seethe; he had handled plenty of big cases in his time. None of them as unsettling and unusual as this, but still …
He was tempted to roar at them, to order them to stop gossiping and get on with the job, but reining his fury in, he rose, walking over to the murder board. He stood in front of it, gazing at Campbell’s and Scott’s mugshots, and the scribbled writing that surrounded them. On the face of it, he was taking in the lines of enquiry, trying to piece together the connections. In reality, he was trying to gather himself.
Things had started well for him in what was unquestionably the most challenging posting of his career. Stepping into a dead officer’s shoes is hard, former colleagues naturally struggling to accept a replacement. Doing it in a team led by such a demanding boss made it more difficult still. And yet he had performed satisfactorily at first, bonding well with both Helen Grace and Charlie Brooks and making some positive interventions in the case. But where had it led him? Clarke had been his suspect, but had proved to be a mere burglar. A nasty, violent one for sure, but a burglar nevertheless. Worse, he had been left battered, bruised and humiliated, following his altercation with Clarke. Were the team laughing at him now? Questioning him? More importantly, what was Helen Grace thinking? Was she regretting her decision to employ him? Was that why she had tasked him with digital drudgery, while she and Charlie headed off to conduct interviews?
Down to the Woods: DI Helen Grace 8 (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 23