Once more, Hudson felt the anger rising within him. And once more he tried to swallow it down. He had to get a grip on it. It was affecting his work, his judgement, and if he wasn’t careful it would consume him.
As it had done before.
99
Melanie Walton stared at Helen in astonishment. What had started as a terrible tragedy was fast becoming a hideous, twisted nightmare.
‘No, no, he never mentioned her name in my presence,’ she eventually managed to reply.
Helen scrutinized her, weighing her up.
‘I mean, Tom had girlfriends before, of course. But he didn’t have much to do with them and he certainly didn’t speak about them. There was one – Louise – who I met once. They had a brief thing when Tom was in his mid-twenties. But other than that …’
‘You never asked him about his early days? His first love, his first serious girlfriend,’ Helen replied.
‘I may have done, at the beginning. But he didn’t seem interested in discussing it. He wanted to talk about us, the future, which I was pleased about.’
Helen noted this, wondering why Campbell was so keen to gloss over his relationship with Lauren Scott. Was there a part of him – the old Tom – that he wanted to keep concealed?
‘Does he have any stuff from that time? Photos? Yearbooks? Diaries?’
‘Possibly, but if so it’ll be hidden up in the loft.’
‘Do you mind if we take a look?’
Melanie didn’t seem keen. For a moment, Helen actually thought she might demand a warrant, which of course was her right. But then the fight seemed to go out of her and she mumbled:
‘This way.’
Five minutes later, they were standing in the dusty attic. A single, naked lightbulb illuminated boxes of junk, dumped and forgotten. Melanie was keen to apologize for the mess, but Helen batted away her embarrassment, instead enlisting her help in locating Tom’s university mementoes. It was hot, dirty work, but eventually they found a single box, containing a programme for a Summer Ball, a university scarf, some CDs, a single dented trophy for the men’s tennis team and several packets of photos. Helen homed in on the latter, sliding them from their Snappy Snaps envelopes and flicking through them.
It was like stepping back in time. The photos were all dated, the retro digital font stamped on the bottom-right-hand corner. They seemed to cover all of his university career, but the ones she was most interested in came from 2008/2009, when he would have been in his third year and Lauren in her first.
Most of them seemed to have been taken during the summer term, when the weather was nicest and the post-exam celebrations were in full swing. Julia Winter appeared in a few, as did Aaron Slater – both were faces Helen had come to recognize now. But she was interested to note that the vast majority of the photos – and there were a lot – were of Lauren Scott. Lauren in repose, Lauren laughing, Lauren smoking a spliff, Lauren flirting with the camera. Helen could see why Campbell had been drawn to her – she seemed so delicate, so pretty, but with a slightly dangerous edge. It was natural sex appeal, a knowing quality, that men would have found hard to resist.
‘Is it possible …’ Helen said, choosing her words carefully, ‘… that Tom had resumed contact with Lauren?’
Melanie was standing close by, shooting concerned glances at the photos of the young, attractive woman.
‘No.’
‘You haven’t had any concerns? Mysterious texts? Tom being unnecessarily secretive about his movements, about who he was with?’
‘Absolutely not, I trust … I trusted him completely.’
Helen nodded, but Melanie obviously sensed disbelief, because she continued her passionate rebuttal:
‘I know he was faithful to me. We were about to get married.’
‘Of course. I understand that. But people are weak and sometimes past associations have an enduring power.’
‘No, no, no … Tom would never have betrayed me like that.’
She was staring directly at Helen now, radiating hostility and anger.
‘Never.’
100
‘Are you kidding? Lauren would never do something like that. She loved me. And I loved her …’
Matteo Dominici was pacing the front room, running his hand through his unruly hair. The last couple of days – the loss of Lauren, having to identify her body, being pursued by the press – had taken their toll on him. He seemed to have aged – his face was more lined, the grey at his temples more pronounced and he seemed on edge. Charlie’s probing questions about Lauren Scott had only exacerbated his anxiety, but she had no choice.
‘You were never suspicious of her? Nothing she did made you even the slightest bit concerned …?’
‘If you knew Lauren, if you knew us, you’d realize what a ridiculous question that is,’ he replied, witheringly.
‘Because …?’
Matteo gave Charlie a long, hard stare, then sat down on the sofa. Charlie was pleased he had finally stopped pacing. He had been working himself up, but now seemed to calm a little.
‘Lauren and I met at an AA meeting. She had managed to knock drugs on the head, but was struggling to get dry. I had been drinking too …’
He hesitated momentarily, perhaps weighing up how much to share, then continued falteringly:
‘My marriage had gone south, at about the same time my business ran into difficulties. I wasn’t the only one who got stiffed by the downturn, but that didn’t make it any easier, having to go back to work in the family restaurant. Anyway, after a year of self-abuse, I decided to clean up my act. And on the first day there I met Lauren.’
The memory seemed to cheer him slightly.
‘The attraction was clear, but that’s kind of frowned upon, so we took our time. Got to know each other a little better. And everything I learnt about her I loved. She was funny, cheeky, but also honest, kind, clear-headed. She had no illusions about life, she knew that you survived in spite of it, not because of it.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because her parents were shits. Sorry, but there’s no other way to say it. They were classic upper-middle-class parents – controlling, judgemental, narrow-minded. They had a clear view of what they wanted Lauren to be, but she didn’t fit the mould. And they couldn’t handle that, cutting off funds, kicking her out the house on a couple of occasions –’
‘Because of the drugs? The drinking?’
‘She was no angel, believe me,’ Matteo retorted forcefully. ‘But she was never cruel. Her parents couldn’t handle the fact she was different, that she wanted to make her own choices … but in trying to clamp down on her, they drove her deeper into the abyss. The worse she got, the worse they got. But none of it …’ He rapped the coffee table hard with his knuckles to emphasize his words. ‘… none of it was necessary, because all she needed was a little love. I gave her that – gave her everything I could – but I got back far more in return. She often said I saved her, but that wasn’t true. I freed her. And her gratitude, her love, was boundless …’
He raised his head to meet Charlie’s intrigued gaze.
‘Which is why I know for certain that she wouldn’t have hooked up with this Tom Campbell, or any other old flame.’
‘I do get that, Matteo, and I’m sure you’re right. You knew her better than anyone probably. But you can see why I have to ask the question – their connection cannot be a coincidence.’
Matteo shrugged, begrudgingly conceding the point.
‘And it’s why I need to ask one more thing of you. I know this will be upsetting but, so we can be absolutely sure what we’re dealing with, I need to ask you to provide a DNA sample. We need it to check it against the baby to establish paternity.’
Matteo’s expression was a mixture of surprise and horror.
‘I have the kit here, a cheek swab. It’ll only take a few seconds.’
Matteo Dominici didn’t seem to be taking in anything she was saying. He hadn’t even known that Lauren was p
regnant until a day or so ago. Now he had to face the implication that the baby wasn’t his.
‘Do what you need to do,’ he breathed eventually. ‘And then piss off.’
The words shot from him, startling Charlie. She didn’t hesitate, pulling the sterile kit from her bag and slipping on a pair of gloves. She tore at the plastic wrapper and slid out the test tube and swab.
‘Right, if you could just open your mouth for me …’
Slowly, he obliged. Charlie set to work, wanting to get it over with. But there was no mistaking the change in atmosphere. As she probed, garnering cells from the inside of both cheeks, Matteo Dominici’s eyes never left her, simmering with cold hatred. Whatever trust had been engendered previously was now gone. From now on, in his eyes, Charlie would always be the harbinger of misery.
101
She was drowning in death.
Having initially been coy about opening up his files, Graham Ross now seemed keen to share. Portfolio after portfolio appeared, each one filled with a plethora of new and disturbing images. Body after body, scene after scene, every indignity and cruelty which one human being could inflict on another was hidden away in Ross’s back room.
It was a strangely intimate encounter. The small space had been converted into a dark room some time ago and, though it seemed to function fairly effectively, was cramped for two people. This was in effect his private work space and his main storage area, which meant that he had everything to hand, even if accessing it was not always easy. Emilia had had to stand back, move, change her position on a number of occasions, Ross brushing past her as he dug out yet more gems from his treasure trove. Emilia assumed these fleeting moments of contact were accidental, but she couldn’t be entirely sure.
Either way, she didn’t feel threatened, nor would she exhibit anything less than upbeat enthusiasm for the brutal collage of images on the table in front of her. Stabbings, gunshot wounds, strangulation, even a crime of passion executed with a broken Perrier bottle – all these were arrayed for her pleasure. There were even a couple of photos from the New Forest crime scenes that Ross appeared to have withheld from the official files. Emilia decided not to call him on that, focusing instead on the overall brilliance of his work.
‘I’ve never seen anything like this before,’ she cooed. ‘I mean obviously you have to do the standard close-ups and so forth, but there is something about your other shots – the ones that encapsulate the whole scene – that have … an elegance to them.’
Ross seemed pleased by the compliment.
‘Anyone can photograph the evidence,’ he said, as if this was almost unimportant. ‘It’s what the scene tells you that’s interesting. Sometimes the perpetrator is actively trying to communicate with you through the staging, sometimes he’s not, but either way the story is there, if you’re prepared to look for it. And if you capture it right, frame it right –’
‘Then a picture is worth a thousand words.’
‘Exactly. If you take in the room, the position of the body, the state of the furniture and ornaments in that room, the mirrors, the pictures, then you can see it. There was one scene I went to where the killer had turned all the family photos face down, because he was ashamed of what he was doing, didn’t want his relatives to witness the unspeakable acts of brutality he felt compelled to perpetrate.’
‘I read about that,’ Emilia lied, sounding as authoritative as she could.
‘There’s more to you than meets the eye,’ Ross responded happily, turning over another print of carnage for her to enjoy.
‘Comes with the territory, I guess.’
Ross smiled but said nothing, continuing to leaf through the photos.
‘How many bodies would you say you’ve seen?’ Emilia continued, picking up an image of a nasty teen-on-teen stabbing.
‘Two hundred or so. Maybe more …’
‘And does it ever get to you?’
‘Not really,’ he replied, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘I’ve always been very disciplined about that, it’s work. To me they are subjects. I want to record them to help the investigation obviously, but I also want to capture them as they deserve to be captured. I want to give their deaths a certain significance, a beauty even. There is something about the stillness of death that renders them a serenity, a sense of peace, which was probably lacking in their actual lives.’
‘I can see that,’ Emilia replied dutifully.
In truth, she didn’t, or not wholly anyway. There was an elegance, an artistry to some of his shots, those from the New Forest especially, but in others it was hard to divine. A teenager lying face down on the street, a young mother strangled by her violent partner – all Emilia could see in these shots was ugliness and brutality. But she kept up her patter of approval, which pleased her host.
‘I have more, but maybe we should save those for another time. They are part of my special collection.’
‘I’d like that,’ Emilia lied again.
‘Then that’s settled.’
She left shortly afterwards, still mulling on the significance of the afternoon’s encounter. It could hardly have gone better – the more Ross approved of her, the more likely he was to expand on his theories about the New Forest killings, unpacking the significance and meaning of these intricately staged murders. But the question remained – what did he want? He had gone out of his way to charm her, to impress her. Yet he had not made his move, either professionally or personally. There was no doubt that he was reaching out to her, trying to draw her into his world.
But why he wanted her close remained as much a mystery as ever.
102
It had been nagging away at her, but now she wanted to know the truth.
‘DS Hudson, have you got a minute?’
Helen had returned from Melanie Walton’s house, clutching an armful of photos, to find the Incident Room impressively populated. The discovery of a concrete link between Campbell and Scott had been a shot in the arm for everyone and the team were working hard, trying to unearth further leads. DS Hudson, who usually prided himself on being the last man standing, had decided to depart early, however, using the cover of his colleagues to make a break for it.
Hudson stopped in his tracks and turned towards Helen.
‘I’ve sent you an update on our digital trawl –’
‘It’s not about that,’ Helen interrupted, gently. ‘Shall we?’
She gestured to her office. Covering his discomfort, Hudson did as he was asked. Helen shut the door softly behind her, as he settled into a seat.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, crossing the room to her desk.
‘Fine,’ Hudson responded quickly. ‘I mean the bruising is a bit unsightly but –’
‘We’ve all been there. It’ll fade soon enough.’
Hudson nodded amiably, but said nothing. He obviously wasn’t going to volunteer anything, so it would be up to her to grasp the nettle. There were many other things she could be doing right now, given the intense pressure on the team, but this could not be ducked.
‘And how are you in yourself? You must be feeling pretty shaken.’
‘No more than you’d expect,’ he replied, evasively.
‘If you need to take a day off, or to talk to our on-site counsellor –’
‘That won’t be necessary. I want to be here, contributing.’
‘That’s funny. Because I got the distinct impression that you’d rather be anywhere but here. If it’s last night’s attack that’s worrying you –’
‘It’s not.’
‘Then what?’
Hudson said nothing, breaking eye contact briefly to look out of the window, before returning his gaze to Helen once more.
‘You know, Joseph, there are some guys who might find it hard working for a female boss. Guys who might feel angry or embarrassed if said female boss helped them out in a tight spot.’
‘Do I look like that kind of dinosaur?’
He did not. He looked like a sophisticated, mode
rn policeman and a handsome one at that. But she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of sharing that.
‘Some people feel that way, can’t help themselves,’ Helen continued, unabashed. ‘And that’s a shame. Because we’ve all had our backs against the wall at times. I’ve had my life saved on more than one occasion by a fellow officer and I’ve never felt bad about it. We are a strong unit because we work for each other. And there is no circumstance under which an officer should feel they’ve let the side down, just because they picked up a few bruises. We are successful here because we put our bodies on the line and I will never fault an officer who exhibits that sort of bravery and selflessness.’
Hudson was about to respond, but Helen wasn’t finished.
‘So, go home, Joseph. Have a drink, a smoke, watch Netflix, do whatever you do to unwind. Then come back tomorrow, ready and raring to go. We are finally making progress on this case and I need my best people around me.’
Hudson rose, nodding his agreement. She was pleased to see that he looked a little more at ease, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
‘First thing tomorrow then.’
There was a bit of steel in his voice now, which gratified Helen.
‘See you then, DS Hudson.’
Helen watched him go, satisfied with her evening’s work. They were finally getting somewhere on this case, but there was much still to do. Slowly, they were beginning to put the pieces together, but there were more riddles to solve, and unseen dangers to confront, before they came face to face with their killer.
Down to the Woods: DI Helen Grace 8 (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 24