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

by M. J. Arlidge

  Emilia had pondered before whether he might be dangerous, whether he might even intend her some harm. Previously she had batted these concerns away, but they returned to her forcefully now. Everyone – journalists, members of the public, the police themselves – had been scratching their heads as to a motive for these crimes. But had Ross, wittingly or unwittingly, given her a clue? Perhaps the staging of the deaths was significant, but not because of some deeper meaning to the arrangement of the bodies. Perhaps it was the staging itself that was important for the killer, the ‘beauty’ of the kill sites an end itself. If so, was it possible that Ross himself was somehow involved?

  It seemed unlikely and yet it was a thought that refused to go away. So, swallowing down her disquiet, Emilia continued her descent into the dark world of a man who’d spent his life with dead bodies.

  113

  He was a face without a name.

  As soon as Helen glimpsed him in the grainy, black-and-white CCTV shot, she’d felt a jolt of recognition. Not from any of their main lines of enquiry – their hard digging into the lives of Nathaniel Martin and Dean Clarke – but from something altogether more peripheral. Leaving the bank with the CCTV tapes in hand, Helen had ferried Charlie back to Southampton Central, shutting the door to her office and pulling down the blinds, as she laid out a series of photos that had been taken nearly a decade ago.

  When Helen had first taken possession of the plethora of snaps hidden away in Tom Campbell’s attic, she had sought out images of Campbell and Scott, searching for confirmation of their relationship. But as she did so, her gaze had alighted on other players – fleeting images of Aaron Slater, Julia Winter, but others who appeared more regularly. And one of them – this man, their mysterious blackmailer – had registered strongly with her.

  Some of the photos were domestic in nature – sweet, goofy images of Campbell and Scott in happier times – but most of them were exterior shots. Smoking in the park, dancing in the twilight, sunbathing, swimming – endless shots of carefree, bacchanalian times when alcohol and dope were plentiful. Their suspect was notably absent from the domestic shots, making Helen wonder just how good a friend he was, but he was front and centre in the scenes of revelry, a young, sarcastic, but undeniably attractive lord of misrule. Helen had assumed he would be part of their crowd, a fellow student at the university perhaps, but so far their search had thrown up nothing.

  ‘What about the graduation photos? Perhaps he joined late, did a condensed course?’

  They had already looked at Scott’s matriculation photo, as well as Campbell’s, and even the year in between. They had found many of the others – faces that were prim and earnest in the official photos, gurning and drunk in Campbell’s party snaps – but there was no sign of their suspect. Charlie pulled up Tom Campbell’s graduation photo and examined it.

  ‘No, he’s not there.’

  ‘Let me have a look, while you check out Scott’s graduation photo.’

  Helen pored over the faces, but already knew the answer. Charlie was unlikely to have missed their suspect’s distinctive face, with its aquiline nose, high forehead and thick, chestnut curls. On cue, Charlie looked up from her own perusal and slowly shook her head.

  ‘Could he be their dealer? We know they both took drugs.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Helen replied cautiously. ‘But he seems too embedded in the group. He pops up numerous times, drinking, laughing, singing with their group. I can’t see sensible Tom embracing his dealer so enthusiastically.’

  ‘Plus Campbell might have been manufacturing his own drugs,’ Charlie replied, torpedoing her own line of thought. ‘Could he be a friend of one of the others then? Or a relative even? Brother? Cousin?’

  ‘Maybe, but I don’t see a resemblance to anyone else present. And if he’s a friend, we’ll have a hard time working out whose. He seems to be on good terms with pretty much everyone and short of getting the team to examine the entire group’s Facebook history …’

  ‘It may come to that.’ Charlie shrugged, though clearly she didn’t relish the idea. ‘We could start with their late teenage years, because I’d say this guy looks older. Older than Lauren for sure, and probably older than Tom Campbell too.’

  ‘We could do, but I think the connection is the university years. Campbell and Scott didn’t know each other prior to enrolling at Southampton Uni. I think this guy came in contact with them there, otherwise why would he be blackmailing both of them?’

  ‘So perhaps he was an ordinary Joe, who happened to share a flat with one of –’

  ‘Or he was a member of staff.’

  Charlie looked up at her, intrigued.

  ‘You get loads of old dinosaurs working at universities, the jobs-for-life brigade, but you also get young lecturers, PhD students and the like. Charismatic, mature figures who seem very impressive to young students.’

  Even as she said it, it felt good to Helen, given the age difference.

  ‘Can we pull up thumbnails of university personnel going back that far?’

  ‘Sure thing,’ Charlie replied quickly. ‘Southampton Uni have always been keen to showcase their personnel, show off their credentials.’

  ‘Let’s start with the 2008 roster, when Campbell matriculated.’

  Helen rounded the desk to hover at Charlie’s shoulder as she scrolled. The familiar Southampton University crest appeared on screen and beneath it all manner of weird and wonderful thumbnail photos, displaying some of the brightest minds in the country on subjects ranging from art history to zoology.

  ‘Try chemistry first, Campbell’s subject.’

  Charlie sped through the faces, but no one resembled their subject.

  ‘Ok, let’s try geography, then. Perhaps Scott was the connection.’

  Charlie scrolled once more. Faces flew by – a young Asian woman, a handsome black man with a shock of white hair, a matronly older lady.

  ‘There.’

  Charlie virtually shouted it, before checking her volume. Ceasing her scrolling, she clicked on the image, enlarging it. Helen leaned in, drinking in his features, before turning to Charlie, a smile of triumph etched across her face. Finally, they had a connection.

  More importantly, they had a name.

  114

  ‘So our suspect is Caleb Morgan.’

  Several of the team scribbled down the name, before returning their attention to the big screen. On it were two images – the CCTV still from the bank and one of Campbell’s snaps from 2009. Blown up for inspection, there was no question that both were of the same man.

  ‘He taught for four years at Southampton University between 2006 and 2010,’ Helen continued, ‘before moving on to Bournemouth University. He did three years there, then got out of tertiary education to teach at a number of sixth-form colleges. Interestingly, he was suspended from his last post, following a complaint from a female student.’

  ‘That was last year,’ Charlie expanded. ‘Around the time the #metoo campaign really got going. Following the initial allegation, three more female students came forward, from other sixth-form colleges. He now has three outstanding warrants against him for sexual assault and sexual harassment, but he went to ground before he could be arrested.’

  ‘Bloody typical,’ DC Edwards groaned. ‘How long has he been off the grid?’

  ‘Nearly two months now.’

  ‘Which is presumably why he was tapping up his old “pals”,’ McAndrew added. ‘No one will employ him, he’s being hunted by the police, presumably running short of cash, so he goes to Campbell, to Scott. Campbell pays twice, Scott once, then both reject his calls. Now he’s high and dry.’

  ‘Perhaps he took out his frustrations on his former friends,’ DC Bentham added. ‘Maybe he wanted to destroy them, humiliate them?’

  ‘It’s a theory,’ Helen agreed. ‘And one I’m keen to put to him. So, top priority is to bring him in. Where are we at with his phone calls?’

  Now it was Osbourne’s turn to speak up.

>   ‘A couple of the phone calls were made in the city centre, nothing particularly interesting about them. The main cluster was made in an area east of the city near Horton Heath.’

  He stepped forward, heading for the screen. Helen ceded her position, joining the rest of the team, as Osbourne pulled up Google Maps.

  ‘The calls were generally made at different locations on Burnett’s Lane. There’s nothing much out there, but there is a bus route that goes to Southampton city centre, so he could have walked to Burnett’s Lane from wherever he’s hiding out, making the calls there, out of earshot perhaps.’

  ‘So, if you wanted to lie low out there, where would you go?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Hard to say. There’s Knowle Park … and some playing fields. But both are used frequently by school kids and local clubs, so it wouldn’t be ideal.’

  ‘Derelict houses? Disused buildings?’

  ‘Not that we know of, it’s basically fields and country lanes. There are very few residential properties and no industrial estates.’

  ‘Forests? Marshes? Anything distinctive?’

  Again, Osbourne shook his head.

  ‘It’s all pretty bucolic really.’

  For a moment, a frustrated silence filled the room. Then a new voice spoke out:

  ‘There is one place he could go. A place that wouldn’t be on Google Maps …’

  The room turned to look at Joseph Hudson.

  ‘A few locals might know about it, but it’s not officially recognized, so wouldn’t show up,’ Hudson continued, moving towards the screen. ‘It’s a travellers’ camp – about a mile or so away from Burnett’s Lane.’

  Hudson had now switched the screen to Google Earth and was zooming in fast on a mass of shapes in the middle of a swathe of green. Slowly the images came into focus. First the borders of a field, then a scattering of caravans, then tiny people, moving about the site.

  ‘How have I lived here all these years and not heard about it?’ Osbourne asked.

  ‘Because that’s the way they like it. It’s under the radar, off the beaten track, and the men and women who live there don’t take kindly to the attention of strangers.’

  Several of the team were staring, visibly curious as to how a newcomer could know so much about local travellers’ sites, but Hudson ignored their scrutiny, turning to face Helen.

  ‘If I wanted to vanish off the face of the earth, I’d go there.’

  115

  They bounced along the dirt track, their heads brushing the ceiling as the car lurched and bucked. Helen was behind the wheel this time, Hudson sitting quietly in the passenger seat, as she drove with purpose and speed. Night was falling and she was determined to have Morgan in custody before darkness consumed them.

  They drove in silence, the sirens hushed and the blue light stilled. They were kicking up a cloud of dust as they sped along the track, but Helen was gambling that speed would win the day. There were five vehicles in total, and if they could surround the site before Morgan had a chance to react, they would have their man.

  ‘Have you been here before?’

  ‘No. Just heard about it on the grapevine. I still have friends in the travelling community, so …’

  ‘I’m very glad you do.’

  ‘Talking of which, it might be best if you let me do the talking when we get there. We’ll get results quicker that way.’

  ‘No problem. I’m happy to bow to your superior knowledge.’

  Hudson glanced at her, but said nothing. Helen was pleased to see a little of his old sparkle had returned. Perhaps their past awkwardness was behind them.

  Returning her attention to the road, Helen spotted the camp coming into view. Excited as she was to see it, she nevertheless felt a stab of nerves, which surprised her.

  ‘You’d better radio around,’ she said quickly. ‘We’re here.’

  Moments later, the cars roared into the camp. Two of them branched off, skirting the perimeter of the camp in order to cut off any escape routes to the rear, while Charlie’s and McAndrew’s cars pulled up by the entrance. Helen brought hers to a halt a few yards short of the caravans, and she and Hudson exited quickly. Now the blue light was on the roof, accompanied by a couple of short blasts of the siren, to announce their arrival.

  The effect was immediate, a gaggle of children and teenagers melting away, even as a group of men materialized. They were heading directly towards them and looked suspicious, even hostile. Normally Helen would have confronted them, but this time she stepped back, allowing Hudson to approach them alone. This was his world, not hers.

  She couldn’t make out the words, but the exchange was heated. Hudson was endeavouring to put the travellers at their ease, pointing to a photo of Morgan, as if keen to point out that he was the target of their attention, not them. At first, they seemed uninterested, as if anything Hudson had to say would fall on deaf ears, but to his credit the young DS persisted and eventually one of them shrugged, pointing to a caravan on the periphery of the site.

  Hudson turned and nodded to Helen, who hurried over. Immediately, the group of men fell away, as if fearful of contamination.

  ‘He’s been hiding out here for the last six weeks. Third caravan from the end.’

  They were already on the move. As they walked, Helen retrieved her radio, summoning the others to join them. The team was quick to respond. She could see them emerging from between the rows of caravans, forming a suffocating circle around the dilapidated dwelling.

  In under a minute, she and Hudson were outside Morgan’s bolt-hole. It was dirty and damaged, with a hole in the roof. Beyond that, it was hard to see much – stained sheets covering the windows, shielding the interior from view.

  ‘No heroics,’ Helen said, as she slid her baton from her belt. ‘I want this guy in a fit state to be questioned.’

  Nodding, Hudson did likewise. Helen counted down from three, then stepped forward, throwing her boot at the door. Immediately, the lock exploded, the door flying open. Helen didn’t hesitate, hurrying in through the doorway. Hudson was behind her, but was surprised by her speed, so Helen entered the caravan alone, eagerly scanning the gloom for their suspect. Feeling something flying towards her head, she ducked, only to find it was a bare lightbulb, swinging in the breeze. Her heart pounding, she turned to face the main body of the caravan, expecting to see Morgan rearing up at her.

  But the interior was empty. There was no sign of their suspect, few personal possessions and just a smattering of empty tins in the sink. In fact, there was nothing of any interest in the caravan at all … save for a series of newspaper headlines, cut out and laid out carefully on the dirty Formica table, announcing the brutal murders of Tom Campbell and Lauren Scott.

  116

  The glowing tent was a beacon amid the darkness.

  Night had stolen over the campsite now and the scattered tents seemed isolated and unconnected. Earlier there had been a few exchanges between the smattering of campers who’d ventured out to this remote site, but now everyone had retreated to enjoy a night under the stars.

  Silence pervaded the darkened camp, save for the crickets and the occasional bird. Watching on from the shadows, Caleb Morgan remained stock-still, taking in the scene. It was so peaceful, so still. Few present would have guessed that there was evil in their midst.

  He had left his caravan shortly before dusk, taking the back roads as he journeyed towards the forest. He was well prepared, but still his pulse raced as he gripped the steering wheel. He shot occasional glances in the rear-view mirror, but in truth there was nothing to disturb him. He had everything under control tonight.

  Nearing the campsite, he had parked up on the fringes of the forest, taking care to conceal his vehicle behind some dense foliage. Then, removing his gear, he had continued on foot, reaching the campsite in good time to make his preparations. An hour later, the sun had set, but not before he was in position, concealed in the shadows on the fringes of the camp.

  He had watched with satisfac
tion as the fires were extinguished, the lights turned out, the tents zipped up. The stage was set now and with each passing second, his excitement grew. He fingered his weapon carefully, itching to use it, but reined himself in. There was no question of going too early, of giving himself away. Caution was the watchword tonight.

  Turning his attention to the tent once more, he smiled at the scene in front of him. The illuminated tent looked pretty, even faintly magical framed by the inky black sky. A lantern illuminated the interior, he could see the flame casting shadows inside, but it was clearly starting to dim. Soon it would be extinguished altogether and darkness would reign.

  Until then he would remain where he was, suppressing his growing excitement, waiting for his moment to strike.

  117

  Her fingers crept through the dirt, finally alighting on something solid.

  Their initial search of the caravan had yielded little – the cupboards were bare, the wardrobe unused, even the broken fridge was empty. But as they had started to lift the seating and pull apart the fixtures, Helen had spotted something lurking beneath the sleeping berth in the corner.

  Dropping to her knees, she had slipped on a pair of gloves and groped towards the dark shape. Now she had hold of it and she slid it carefully towards her, a battered holdall emerging from beneath the bunk. The newspaper clippings had already been bagged and removed, so Helen lifted the bag onto the table, sliding open the zip. To find a face staring back at her.

  A short intake of breath, then Helen realized that she was looking at a mask. Widening the mouth of the bag, Helen eased it out, holding it up to the torchlight. The smooth leather surface shone, even as the torch beam danced over the metallic, zippered mouth. It was a BDSM staple – a spin on the classic gimp mask – but it looked strangely sinister tonight.