In A Deep Dark Wood
Tina Pritchard
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
We hope you enjoyed this book
Acknowledgments
Rights Info
Prologue
She liked the fact that most of the inmates feared her. When she first arrived, some of the women tried to give her a hard time. She found it weird that even those who had committed the most horrific of crimes took the moral high ground when it came to kids. The first time they came for her, she was taking a shower. The big butch-looking one grabbed her by the hair and smashed her face into the tiles, while her skinny friend with the squint laughed shrilly, clapping her hands in excitement. Even though her nose was broken, she refused to tell the guards who was responsible. She learned two important lessons that day: never turn your back on anyone, and get your hair cut as short as possible.
There was something about her that made people uneasy. Even though keeping on good terms with everyone was encouraged, she didn’t want friends. Using people was her forte. She was a master manipulator with an extensive repertoire of behaviours. These she employed to get exactly what she wanted. A cat playing with a mouse, she picked up and discarded at whim, and this made her dangerous and unpredictable. She exuded power like an odourless chemical, and all except the half-witted and pugnacious, their brains addled with drugs, picked up on it and kept her at arm’s length.
Mostly she was alone. It made it easier that she had her own cell, a tiny space, more like a cubicle, with a bunk, a desk and chair, a toilet and a compact washbasin. A small bookshelf held a line of toiletries and a few books borrowed from the prison library. It was her choice not to have anything personal out on display.
Her reflection in the mirror above the sink often caught her unawares as she glimpsed her pallid features and new, short hairstyle. Having her hair cut in the prison hairdressing salon had given her the idea. A plan to work towards. It was something that gave her a feeling of assurance. The seed took root, and she nurtured it, even when it became sickly and struggled to grow. It was her secret. Her responsibility. She loved the sense of it, nestling in the deepest, darkest recesses of her being. When she lay in her cell waiting for the lights to go off, the thought of it gave her comfort. Relief from the vortex swirling around her. The shouting, the screams, the shrieks of laughter, the slamming of doors, the discordant music: The noise was incessant. The background psychodrama of the mad, the sad and the bad.
The sweet eighteen-year-old inside for repeated attempts at shoplifting, and who worked in the textile workshop, was easy to bribe. The squares of fabric were smuggled out and handed over during break time. Signing up for the hairdressing course gave her access to scissors, supposedly under supervision, but it was easy enough to slip them into her waistband when she went to the washroom. Here, she cut each piece of cloth into three strips, which she guessed measured around a foot in length when laid end to end.
It took a month until she had what she needed. Her only concern was that her little stash would be found if there was a suspicion that illicit drugs had been brought in, and there was a cell search.
The barred window was small and positioned above head height. If the weather was good, it lifted her spirits to see a patch of blue sky. At night, it never got completely dark in her cell; lights were dimmed but never turned off completely, and this made her task easier. It took over an hour to tie the knots. The rope, fashioned from an incongruous selection of strips of brightly coloured material, looked almost cheerful, like party bunting.
Tying an end around one of the window bars, she pulled hard to check its tensile strength, feeling a level of satisfaction when it held fast. Fashioning the ligature into a noose with a running knot, she placed the chair on her bunk and the noose around her neck. In her hand, she held a crumpled photo of two sweet-faced boys dressed in identical outfits. Her boys.
Kicking the chair away, she knew there would be a few seconds when instinct would cause her to claw at the rope, and she held the photo up in front of her for as long as she could. She did this until the ringing in her head ceased and the darkness closed in. Until everything faded into oblivion.
1
The house is quiet. Too quiet. The hallway still smells of paint. Was it really only two days ago that we folded away the dust sheets, washed the rollers and brushes, and closed the lid on the tin of paint? The colour, a heritage green, looks bilious in the pale afternoon light. Not long ago it might have offended me enough to think about repainting it in a warmer colour. Now the idea seems ludicrous. When I push open the lounge door, it squeaks on its hinges. Even though I’m expecting it, I still jump in response, heart rate accelerating. I am jittery as hell, and I try to calm down by breathing deeply, using the techniques learned at my yoga class. All I can manage are shallow gulps. My throat feels as dry as sandpaper. Despite this, I can’t control the tears running down my cheeks or stop the snot pouring from my nose. Sniffing inelegantly, I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my jumper, past caring about propriety.
The lounge is untidy. Books and papers litter the coffee table, and the cushions remain unplumped. Dust motes dance in shafts of light struggling feebly through the slats of the window blinds. The atmosphere is stuffy, and paint fumes mingle with the aroma of stale food and sour coffee. I want to pull aside the blinds and throw open the windows. Let in cool, clear air to banish the musty odours.
I want to, but I can’t. I’m afraid. I feel unsafe in my own house.
My phone is displaying numerous voice and text messages. I ignore all except the last one. It’s from Laurie. I hit redial, and he answers immediately.
‘Fran, it’s me. Are you okay?’ His voice is placating. He’s trying to keep calm.
‘Yes. I feel shaken up, but I’m all right. What time will you be home?’
‘I’m just picking the car up now. If there are no hold-ups, I should be with you before seven.’
‘Are you hungry? I think there’s stuff in the freezer,’ I say.
‘Something reheated will be fine. Did you get Buddy?’
Oh shit, Buddy. On my instruction, the police had taken him to Jenny’s house. I need to pick him up from there.
The pair of them will be climbing the walls by now.
‘I’m just on my way to get him.’
It had slipped my memory, but I don’t tell him that. The last thing I want to do is talk to anyone, and I steel myself for what is to come. Jenny will ask questions, and I really don’t feel like telling her about what happened. Not yet.
‘Laurie?’
‘Yes, I’m still here.’ His voice is fading in and out. I’m worried he is losing the signal. I want the continued reassurance of his voice. Even if it’s on the end of a line. ‘He was dying, Laurie. He was dying, and I couldn’t help him.’
‘I know,’ he says softly.
Picking up my keys, I let myself out, pulling the handle with force to ensure the door is properly closed. The air is fresh and tinged with cold, and I draw my coat around me. The street lights are already on, casting pools of white light in the autumn gloom. With the change in the weather, the leaves have started to fall, spiralling to the ground in a languid pirouette. The Council recently replaced the yellow sodium lamps with LEDs. At the time it irritated me. I preferred the older-style lamps with their softer, sodium glow to the glare of the replacements. Now the extra illumination is welcome.
With my senses heightened, I’m scanning the road for anything unusual or out of place, including any strange cars. My legs feel heavy, and it takes twice as long to cover the short distance to Jenny’s house. The dense mass of woodland surrounding our small horseshoe-shaped close of houses stands in silhouette against the darkening sky. The familiar image looks oppressive and threatening. A place once so full of happy memories has become tainted. A combination of anger and sadness overwhelms me. Poor Buddy, he loves his walks in the woods. There’s going to be a lot of pavement pounding in broad daylight for the foreseeable future.
Jenny eventually answers the door to my knock. As usual, she is smartly dressed and well groomed. In comparison, I’m dishevelled, and my face is blotchy from crying. To her credit, if she has noticed, she doesn’t comment.
‘He’s been as good as gold,’ she says, ushering me in. ‘But I didn’t have anything to feed him, so he’s had some bread and butter and a rich tea biscuit I hope that’s all right? Oh, and I’ve taken him out into the garden a couple of times for a wee. I kept him on the lead. I didn’t want him disappearing at a time like this.’
Buddy is subdued. He peers at me through fuzzy eyebrows, head resting on his paws. He wags his tail, but doesn’t come to me. It could be he knows where his best interests lie, though it’s more likely he doesn’t like the change in his routine. Reaching down to stroke his head, I speak to him in what I hope is a reassuring voice.
‘Come on, Bud, we’re going home. Dad will be back soon.’
I slip on his lead, and he gets to his feet, albeit reluctantly.
‘Thanks so much for having him,’ I say. ‘It was a weight off my shoulders knowing he was with you.’
‘It was no problem. I was glad to help. I’m going to make a cup of tea. Do you want one?’ She is already filling the kettle. If I stay any longer, I will get drawn into a detailed explanation, and I can’t face that. Not yet.
‘No, thank you. I must get back. Laurie is on his way, and I need to make us something to eat. It’s been a long day.’
‘I do understand. It must have been awful for you?’
‘It really was dreadful. I feel so weary. I hope you don’t mind, but I won’t stay. I promise I’ll call and see you in a day or two. We can have a chat then.’
‘Of course,’ she says. ‘It’s been a terrible shock. Do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. You have my number, and Buddy is always welcome.’
She accompanies me to the door, Buddy trailing behind.
‘You do know it’s not the first time there’s been a suicide in the woods?’ Her voice is low and conspiratorial.
My heart lurches, then beats faster. The bright flash of recollection a physical pain.
‘Yes, I was aware.’ I sigh heavily and look down at Buddy to hide my tears. ‘But it wasn’t a suicide this time, Jenny. It was cold-blooded murder.’
2
With Buddy at my side, I’m less anxious, but I still jump in response to a sudden noise. People are starting to come home from work. The thud of car doors slamming and raised voices echo around the close. Our house is now in complete darkness. As I approach the porch, the motion sensor on the security light flickers, but doesn’t fully illuminate. I keep meaning to buy a new bulb and curse my stupidity for not switching on an inside light before leaving the house.
Buddy slinks in as I open the door, tail between his legs. He seems to sense everything is not as it should be. I follow, lighting the table lamps and closing the blinds in the lounge. He noses the door to the kitchen, and I flick the switch, bathing the space in light. The array of spots located in the ceiling and under the kitchen cupboards throw out bright, white heat, and I lower the light levels with the dimmer switch.
Everything is as it was before I took Buddy for his morning walk. Breadcrumbs litter the granite worktops, and my breakfast dishes are still in the sink. A cursory tidying will do for now. Decorating has made everything dusty anyway, and a deep clean is well overdue. We can blitz the house on Saturday morning. Laurie doesn’t mind housework, and if we pull together, we can have it all spick and span by lunchtime.
Once Buddy is fed, I get some leftover takeaway from the fridge. My phone does a little dance across the worktop before the message alert pings. It’s from Laurie.
Traffic slow, so stopped for a coffee. Back 7:30ish.
A bubble of irritation rises in my throat. He’s aware of what I’ve been through, yet he thinks it’s all right to stop for a coffee? It’s uncharitable of me, but I feel justified at being annoyed. It has been a shit day. I could do with him being here to support me. Pouring a glass of wine, I sit waiting, unable to concentrate either on reading or the TV.
The sweep of headlights and crunch of gravel alerts me to his car pulling onto the drive. Buddy woofs excitedly and runs for the door. I hear the click as Laurie puts his key in the lock. There’s a solid clunk as the door encounters the safety chain.
‘What the fuck?’ Laurie curses loudly, and I jump up to go and release the chain, Buddy running excitedly between my legs as I do so.
‘Sorry, love. I’m a bundle of nerves,’ I say.
‘I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. I don’t think we have ever used that chain since we moved in, have we?’
He wheels his case into the kitchen and leaves it by the washing machine. Buddy is demanding his attention in his usual way. I can’t help but smile as he jumps as high as his short legs will allow before rolling onto his back for a tummy rub. Not for the first time, I observe it’s the dog getting all the attention. I can’t really begrudge the bond they have formed. After all, it was I, with additional persuasion from the kids, who pushed for a dog in the first place.
Once Buddy has been rewarded with a treat, it’s my turn. ‘Come here. You look absolutely shattered.’ Laurie hugs me and plants a kiss on top of my head. ‘Do you want to talk about it now, or shall we eat, and you can tell me the full story over a glass of wine?’
His tone suggests his preference for the latter.
‘It’s only reheated Chinese takeaway,’ I say. ‘I’m afraid preparing food has been the last thing on my mind.’
We sit side by side on the sofa. The combination of noodles with chicken and rice is greasy and unpalatable, but Laurie polishes off his portion and takes a long swig of wine.
‘The police officer who rang me said you made an excellent witness. It was a detailed account, and you gave a very precise description of the men. The police are fortunate to have you as a witness. You’ve always had a good eye for detail.’
‘Oh, God, Laurie, it was awful. To make matters worse, I felt like a criminal when they took me away in a police car. I’m sure there was a lot of curtain-twitching in the close. The detective interviewing me was great, though. Her name
is DI Jo Holmes, which did make me giggle a bit. I almost asked where Watson was.’
‘Do you feel up to going through it all again now, or is it too upsetting?’
‘No, it will be good to go over it with you as long as you’re not too tired,’ I say. ‘It might even jog my memory for something I might have missed.’
The dirty plates, mine displaying a heap of congealed noodles, are making me queasy. I scrape the residue into the bin and run the plates under the tap. After stacking the dishwasher, I return with the wine bottle and top up our glasses. The heating has gone off, and it’s getting chilly. With Buddy snuggled between us, I pull a throw from the back of the sofa and drape it over our knees.
‘So, let me get this clear?’ Laurie says. ‘You and Buddy went through the gate into the woods at your usual time?’
‘Yes, thereabouts. Flynn rang around eight, and we left soon after that. He was going to come for the weekend, if you remember, but he’s been invited to a party. Oh, bloody hell Laurie, I’ve just thought. The kids will have to know. It’ll be all over the media by tomorrow.’
‘Don’t worry. They would have rung by now if they’d heard anything. We can get up early and call them in the morning. You took the path into the woods, you say. Then what?’
In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller Page 1
