She handed it to McAndrew, who pulled a face, and continued to investigate the contents of the bag. There were some more newspapers, some tatty clothing and underneath these, a laptop and a phone. Intrigued, Helen placed them on the table and turned them on, pulling over an upturned crate to use as a chair. Seating herself, she stared at the phone. The wallpaper was a dull grey and was demanding a four-digit passcode, so she turned her attention to the laptop instead. There would be time enough for the digital team to crack the phone later.
The computer proved more fruitful. It too demanded a password, but on the metal frame surrounding the screen, a word had been scratched: Pompey75. Helen had seen this kind of thing before, stolen computers sold at market stalls and in lay-bys, with the previous owner’s password provided for convenience. This one had presumably come from Portsmouth, given the password, and Helen was not surprised when her typing unlocked the computer, the desktop opening up obligingly for her.
There were few files and only the standard applications along the bottom of the screen, but Helen’s gaze was drawn to the top-right-hand corner. The laptop had stirred itself and was now forging a link to the iPhone on the table, the latter drawing on its 4G signal. This, then, was how Morgan connected to the outside world.
Helen pulled up his internet history. She wasn’t expecting much, but even she was surprised by the treasure trove of depravity that presented itself. With the exception of a couple of news sites, all the websites were pornographic. Gangbangs, rape simulations, pre-teens and all manner of violence and coercion. Most of the women and girls in the clips appeared cowed, whether genuinely or feigned, and it was clear they were designed for people who were aroused by others’ fear and pain.
Rising, Helen gestured to Hudson to take a look and, crossing to the doorway, headed back out onto the site. As she gazed at the line of caravans and the curious faces of the onlookers, her mind turned slowly on their discoveries. Morgan was into extortion, possibly blackmail, but what else were they dealing with? He had been accused of sexual assault and harassment, but was Morgan more than the common-or-garden rapists Helen had encountered before? On first sight, he appeared to be a sexual sadist with an interest in domination and torture, but how far had he taken his fantasies? Was he now dangerously out of control? Preying on those who thwarted him, revelling in their agony and distress?
Gazing out into the night, Helen wondered where Morgan was right now. Only a handful of determined holidaymakers now haunted the forest, the majority having heeded the warnings to steer clear, but still it made Helen uneasy. Had Morgan left by chance tonight or was there a more sinister reason for his absence? Scott and Campbell had been dispatched, and there were no other numbers he regularly called, yet the fact remained that he was absent. As was the crossbow, and a battered Jeep Cherokee that witnesses from the site said he drove. Which made Helen wonder – was it possible he was going to strike again tonight?
And, if so, who would be in the firing line?
118
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk about him. I never want to say that man’s name again.’
‘I appreciate that,’ Charlie gently tried to mollify her, ‘but it is vital that we talk to Caleb Morgan, and anything you can tell us about him –’
‘I’ve done this before. Five, six, seven times,’ Alice Walker responded angrily. ‘And where has it got me? He hasn’t been picked up. You lot don’t have a clue where he is, do you?’
The young woman was crying, fear mingling with her distress. Charlie wanted to comfort her, but before she could do so, a gruff, male voice came on the line.
‘This is Alice’s father. She’s said all she’s going to say, you’ve upset her enough. Don’t bother calling back until you’ve made some bloody progress.’
Charlie was about to answer, but he hung up, cutting her off. Charlie sighed, long and loud. Having left Helen and Hudson to continue their search at the travellers’ site, she and a couple of others had returned to Southampton Central to continue their investigation into Caleb Morgan – his personal history, family background, past misdemeanours. But they had made little headway, his accusers either irrevocably hostile to the police or unwilling to relive their experiences. In truth, given the failed raid on the campsite and lack of concrete information on Morgan’s habits or whereabouts, they were no further on.
‘Working late?’
Charlie jumped, startled, then turned to see Superintendent Simmons approaching. She was surprised, the station chief seldom setting foot in the incident room, preferring others to come to her. At first, Charlie had wondered if this indicated a lack of interest, but now she realized that the reverse was true – Simmons was extremely interested in their investigations, but trusted the team to get on with the job. This was a far cry from previous station chiefs and Charlie was glad of the change.
‘Trying. Not that we’re getting anywhere fast.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Simmons reassured her. ‘We know Morgan’s bolt-hole now. Maybe he’ll return in time, in which case we’ll be waiting for him. If he doesn’t, we’ll release his details to the press tomorrow. It’ll be a lot harder for him to stay hidden then.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘I’ve no doubt. So why don’t you get off home, rest that foot of yours? It’s getting late.’
‘Maybe another twenty minutes …’
‘Go on, DS Brooks. You look tired.’
Charlie smiled an acknowledgement, but her heart sank. She had touched up her make-up to try and make herself look less haggard, but obviously hadn’t succeeded.
‘Maybe I will then,’ she conceded, but made no move to leave.
‘Is everything ok? You’ve seemed a bit down of late.’
Now Charlie just felt embarrassed. She had never had a senior officer sound so concerned about her well-being before.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she replied, as brightly as she could.
Simmons nodded, but didn’t look entirely convinced. And somehow her warm, concerned expression demanded more.
‘My partner and I are just going through a bit of a rough patch …’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But it’s not uncommon in this job, as you know.’
‘It’ll be fine, I’m sure. We just need a bit of time together, to talk, but Jessie isn’t helping.’
‘Your little girl?’
‘She hasn’t been sleeping. Night terrors.’
‘I see.’
Her tone was knowing, as if she too had experienced these.
‘We’ve tried to get to the bottom of it, to see what might be causing them, but … it’s a mystery. And, believe me, we could do with a good night’s sleep.’
‘Have you tried singing to her?’
Charlie was so surprised by this response that she thought she’d misheard.
‘I know it sounds daft,’ Simmons continued, ‘but it worked a treat with my eldest.’
‘Right …’
‘He had night terrors for nearly four weeks. It was around the time I’d just got promoted to DI and things were a bit fraught in our house. I was stressed out of my mind, truth be told, then someone suggested a song at bedtime and suddenly they stopped.’
Charlie was surprised, but also interested.
‘And singing to them at night can really make that much difference to a child?’
‘Sure, but it’s not really the difference it makes to the child that’s important, it’s the difference it makes to Mum.’
Charlie stared at her, wrong-footed.
‘But, anyway, I’m keeping you. I’m going home now and so should you.’
With that, Simmons left. Charlie watched her go, still trying to make sense of her advice. She had given it generously, but firmly, as if she somehow knew the cause of Charlie’s unhappiness. Any help was welcome and yet still Simmons’s words unnerved her. She’d assumed all along that the problem lay with Jessie, that something was worrying her, but now another possibility raised itself. Char
lie had been anxious, guilt-stricken, even paranoid since Sanderson’s death, a state of mind which had definitely affected the mood in the house. Was it possible that she was the root cause? That Jessie had picked up on her anxiety?
Had she been the problem all along?
119
Helen cast an eye towards the seventh floor, to the dim light that peeked from behind the blinds. She was sure Charlie was still up there – she’d just emailed Helen an update on their progress – and she was tempted to go up and talk to her, to check that she was ok. But tonight Helen felt like getting away from Southampton Central, to give herself a little time and space to think, so instead turned away from the building and mounted her bike.
Hudson had offered to return the pool car, so Helen took advantage of his generosity, pulling her helmet from her bike and sliding it on. Immediately, the sound around her diminished, even as her view of the world became tinted and softened. It really was strange, and perhaps worrying, how calming she found being at one remove from the real world. Flicking off the stand, she fired up the engine and roared away from the bike park, heading away from the scene of her frustration.
Morgan was out there somewhere, but continued to elude them. Helen was sure he was the key – the only person who linked Campbell and Scott, the only one who had reason to harm them, not to mention the imagination and depravity to dream up this exquisite form of torture. But where was he? Morgan was from Macclesfield originally, but seemed to have little contact with his parents, who still lived there. He had few friends locally, none of whom had stuck by him since his outing as a sex pest. And his down-at-heel existence at the traveller site strongly suggested that he had run out of other options, living alone and modestly, eking out what cash remained by buying out-of-date tins. She sincerely hoped that he would return to the campsite – McAndrew, Bentham and some uniformed officers were stationed there, hidden in a neighbouring caravan – but if he didn’t, if he clocked their presence and took flight, what then? An APB and press release might help flush him out, but if he went to ground, their only other option would be to interrogate his previous movements via his phone signal, to see if there were any other places that he liked to frequent. But it was a shot in the dark and Helen knew it.
She was still brooding on these thoughts, when she noticed something. She was on the ring road again, following her customary route home, and once more a solitary biker had appeared in her mirrors, bearing down on her.
Dropping her speed, she examined her pursuer, satisfying herself that it was Hudson. She marvelled at his cheek, uncertain whether to be annoyed or impressed by his dogged pursuit and lack of reserve. Either way, she was not going to let him have things entirely his way.
Lowering her speed further, she let him pull closer. Then suddenly she yanked back the throttle, roaring away from him. Now Hudson did react, but Helen had a head start, accelerating away from her pursuer.
Now it was a straight race. It was late at night and the ring road was empty and inviting. Hudson’s bike was more powerful than Helen’s, but she was the more experienced rider and knew every bump of the road. She took the bends hard and low, straightening up occasionally to roar past trundling lorries, zipping past them as if they weren’t there. If there were traffic patrols out, she would have some explaining to do, but tonight she didn’t care, revelling in the speed, the thrill of the chase.
The race had now become a game of cat and mouse. Hudson would close on her, sometimes getting to within twenty feet of her, then Helen would open the gap once more. He would come back strongly again, at which point Helen would use trickery, slowing down and feinting as if to turn off, before roaring away again, once Hudson had dropped his speed. On and on they went, enjoying the duel, toying with each other, two riders in their element, utterly unconstrained by the scattering of vehicles they sped past.
Eventually, however, Helen decided to put him out of his misery. Hudson had fought a good fight, but had not managed to catch her. Magnanimously, she guided her bike into a lay-by, bringing the chase to an end. Pulling up beside her, Hudson removed his helmet, smiling happily, even boyishly, at her. Helen looked at him for a moment, then lifted her visor, their eyes meeting.
‘If we do this, we do it my way,’ she said firmly.
‘Fine.’
‘We don’t talk about it with anyone and when it’s time to stop, we stop.’
‘Understood.’
‘Good. Follow me.’
Flipping down her visor, she roared away. Hudson did likewise, the pair of them burning off into the night, heading directly for her flat.
120
The ramshackle building was as quiet as the grave. The girl who’d opened up for Emilia was obviously surprised to have a visitor this early and was virtually monosyllabic, answering Emilia’s questions with a remarkable lack of courtesy or interest. Clearly, she was not a morning person.
‘It’s all online.’
‘Not the information I’m looking for,’ Emilia contradicted her.
‘If you’re interested in doing a course,’ the girl drawled. ‘You should go to www –’
‘Actually, I’m a journalist. My name’s Emilia Garanita – you may have read my articles about the New Forest Killer.’
That silenced her, which pleased Emilia. Having exhausted her online research into Graham Ross late last night, she had set off for his photography school at first light. School was perhaps a rather grand title for the collection of small workshops that he and his colleagues taught photography courses in, but it sounded better on the flyers. It was housed in a former gym, which had now moved on to a more fashionable area, and included a space for exhibitions, for local photographers or artworks with a Hampshire bent.
‘What I need from you,’ she continued, nodding at the teenager, who now looked a little cowed, ‘is a simple piece of information. Did this man’ – she handed her a piece of paper with Tom Campbell’s name on it – ‘ever attend a course run by Graham Ross?’
The girl hesitated.
‘I’m not sure I should. I mean, I’ve only got your word that you are who you say you are.’
‘Here’s my card.’ Emilia handed it over. ‘And there’s twenty quid in it for you, if you’re quick.’
This seemed to decide the teenager, a free night of drinks too much to pass up for a task that would only take a few minutes. She scurried away, leaving Emilia to ponder the wisdom of coming here. It was a bit of a flyer, but as she’d wracked her brains for potential connections between Ross and the known victims of the New Forest Killer, the only thing she had come up with was photography. Campbell was mad about it – indeed the paper had published numerous photos he’d taken of his girlfriend and, more sinisterly, several snaps he’d taken of the New Forest itself. She knew from her digging that Campbell had done courses on photography locally, and sitting at her desk, looking at her Venn diagram of connections, the link had seemed a potentially viable one. Now, however, she was having doubts, suddenly fearing she had battled the morning traffic for no reason.
To still her anxiety, she stepped inside the exhibition space. It too was deserted, a hushed reverence filling the quiet space. Emilia walked through the display, absorbing the images around her.
The photographs seemed to be themed around criminality, not surprising perhaps given Ross’s chosen profession. This particular exhibition was called ‘Crime and Punishment’ – from what Emilia could make out all the portraits were of convicted felons, beneath which were small signs, offering a potted summary of their lives and the punishment they had received from the state. She read a couple – they seemed to be neither critical nor damning of the felons, allowing viewers to make up their own minds about the subjects.
She continued to walk the line of faces. Some looked like downright wrong’uns, people you would cross the street to avoid. Others seemed more vulnerable, plaintive even, particularly the women, and Emilia found herself gravitating towards those. She knew from her own childhood how routinely
people abuse and exploit those they deem weaker than themselves.
There was an African woman, who had been convicted of people trafficking, a British teenager who’d been banged up for aggravated assault, even a pensioner sent down for multiple counts of fraud. Some were funny, others were tragic – women with facial bruising and trauma lurking just behind the eyes. On she went, letting the stories, the faces, wash over her, until suddenly she came to an abrupt halt.
At first, she was a little confused, then she felt a shiver run down her spine. For staring back at her, looking younger, more naïve, yet strangely defiant, was the face of Lauren Scott.
121
Helen stared at him, watching the morning sunshine steal across his face. She had been lying here for several minutes, enjoying a brief moment of peace, replaying the night they had spent together. But now Hudson was beginning to stir, the warmth of the sun doing its work, meaning Helen would soon have to face up to the consequences of her actions.
Normally she would have bolted from such a situation, but today she felt strangely comfortable. Conversation had been minimal on their return to the flat, but their lovemaking had been relaxed and passionate, only coming to an end in the small hours. Helen had fallen asleep soon afterwards, Joseph’s arm draped across her shoulders, and she’d woken just before eight, feeling oddly refreshed.
She had given the team a late start, to make up for their efforts last night, so there was no abrogation of duty lying here, even though the clock had just crept past nine. She knew she would have to be on the move in a moment, but suddenly felt determined to wring the last moments of pleasure from what had been a surprising, but pleasant, encounter.
Hudson stirred, muttering something in his half-sleep, then turned onto his other side, pulling the covers over him. He probably had forgotten where he was, imagined himself in his own bed, which underlined how strange it was for him to be here. This flat had always been the place Helen retreated to in times of trouble – when she was recuperating from injuries, when she needed to hide from the world, on Christmas Day when her sense of isolation was at its most acute – and it was somewhere she inhabited alone.
Down to the Woods: DI Helen Grace 8 (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 28