8
‘Hello. I’d like to speak to DI Holmes if it’s convenient.’
There’s a click on the line as they put me through to her extension.
‘This is DI Holmes speaking.’
The voice on the other end of the phone is light and reassuring. I imagine her sitting at her desk, compact bob, neat earrings, striped linen shirt and tailored black trousers, for all the world looking more like a travel consultant than a senior police officer.
‘It’s Fran Hughes. Is it possible to have a word? I can ring back if you’re busy.’
‘Hi, Fran. I was actually going to call you this morning to have a bit of a chat. The team is meeting at ten. Can I ring you later? Actually, I’ve just had a thought. Are you in this afternoon? I’m going to be in the area. I could come and see you about two if that suits.’
‘That will be fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll have the kettle on.’
Laurie has gone to work, with the promise he will be back early this evening. I walk Buddy and return to tackle my to-do list, which is pinned to the fridge. When I’m stressed, my memory becomes unreliable. There’s not much point in adding things to the checklist facility on my phone, either, as I have a habit of deleting that by mistake. No, I’m a big fan of lists; as old-fashioned as it is, pen and paper suits me just fine.
I ring Tash to make an appointment for a cut and colour. She’s had a cancellation and fits me in at 4 p.m. this coming Thursday. Laurie will be away overnight on Tuesday and again on Thursday, which means I can relax with a baked potato in front of the telly instead of cooking after I get back.
I also want to order some flowers for Jenny, as she was such a help looking after Buddy. The choices online are not great, but I find a small florist in Derby who does a seasonal, hand-tied bouquet, which I think she’ll like. I phone and arrange delivery, adding a thank-you note. Buddy and I will call to see her on Wednesday afternoon, to check if the flowers have arrived.
The food order for the weekend can wait for a couple of days, but I will have to remember to include lots of snack foods to keep Alice and Flynn happy. Marshmallows will be good. We can toast them on sticks in the fire. It will be just like the old days.
The doorbell rings, and I look through the front window to check before putting Buddy into the kitchen out of the way. DI Holmes is accompanied by a younger male, whom she introduces as DS Mark Georgiou. Tall, with black curly hair and brown, soulful eyes, he looks as though he is no stranger to the gym. It occurs to me that he could be quite popular down at the station with males and females alike.
They both decide on coffee, and I make a cafetière, which I place on a tray with the cups and a plate of biscuits.
‘Ooh, lovely. Fresh coffee,’ DI Holmes says. ‘We’re usually lucky to get a cup of weak tea. This is quite a treat.’
My early guess as to her attire is not that far off the mark. She is wearing a white shirt and a navy pencil skirt, which finishes at the knee. She notices a photo of us all on the mantelpiece and enquires about the kids.
‘Yes, that’s Alice and Flynn,’ I say. ‘It was taken a while ago when we were on holiday in Wales. They have both left home now. We don’t see much of them, but they are coming this weekend.’
I try not to sound like the pathetic empty-nester she must view me as.
‘Do you have any children?’ It’s forward of me to ask, but I’ve noticed she is wearing a wedding ring, so it’s not beyond the realm of possibility.
‘Yes, we do. Twelve-year-old twins, a boy and a girl.’
I can hear the pride in her voice.
‘I’m really lucky,’ she says. ‘My wife works part-time, which means she can be there when I am working antisocial hours.’
She gives me a cool look, as though she is expecting a challenge. I wonder how much explaining she has to do about her family situation. Whether she attracts any judgemental comments, even in these seemingly enlightened times.
‘It must be lovely having two at the same age,’ I say. ‘At least you get them through the teenage years together.’
She smiles. ‘They are quite a handful already. I dread to think what they will be like in a year or two.’
She puts her cup down on the table and turns to face me. ‘I realise this might be difficult for you, Fran, but I was wondering if you would be willing to come with us to the crime scene? You did a great job, but it’s just to see if you can remember anything else of significance.’
She has reverted to brisk and efficient, seamlessly steering the conversation away from the personal, a tactic I recognise from my own work with clients.
She takes a biscuit and bites off a corner. ‘Sometimes going back to where it happened can trigger memories. It doesn’t have to be now. We can arrange to take you when it’s more convenient.’
If I am going to do this, I don’t want to spend too much time thinking about it and lose my nerve. I agree to go with them there and then.
Pulling into the car park, we attract the attention of a group of Lycra-clad members of the local running club limbering up in preparation for a circuit of the woods. As we wait in the car for them to leave, I realise I have forgotten to mention the sticker in the rear window of the van that was parked up on the day Tyler was killed. I tell them, trying to remember as much detail as I can. With my description, a look passes between the two of them that I can’t quite decipher.
‘It didn’t mean anything to me,’ I say. ‘Laurie recognised it, though. He said it’s the Birmingham City Football Club logo.’
Before joining the path from the car park, we pass the pile of floral tributes. It has rained, and the bouquets from last week are brown and shrivelled in their cellophane. Fresher bunches have been added more recently. I resist the temptation to bend down and read the accompanying cards. The plastic is starting to lift from Tyler’s photo, and the colours from the print are beginning to run, but the lights in the glass jars, powered by batteries, continue to shine as brightly as ever.
‘How are you feeling, Fran?’ DI Holmes gives me a sympathetic look, as though aware of what an ordeal this is going to be for me.
‘Okay so far,’ I tell her.
We have reached the edge of the path and are about to turn in towards where the yew tree is located. A stray piece of plastic crime scene tape is fluttering loosely in the wind, and I jump at the sound. My head starts to pound, and I feel queasy. I pause and take deep breaths to steady myself. I don’t know how I am going to react once the curtain of branches is pulled aside. One thing I can’t rule out is an embarrassing meltdown. Taking another breath, I steel myself. What will face me can’t be worse than what I have already seen played out in this haven of tranquillity. Of this I am sure.
The overhanging canopy of yew tree branches reaches almost to the ground, shading the splinters of light coming in from above. The area looks as though it has been swept clean. Forensics have obviously done a thorough job of collecting evidence, because there is no sign of the crate Tyler was standing on. Peering closer at the branch from which he was suspended, I can see that the reddish-brown bark has been rubbed away by the rope, exposing the lighter tissue beneath. I shiver as I gaze in mute fascination. Where the pale afternoon sun has penetrated the dense foliage, by a strange trick of the light, the bare wood appears to be suffused with blood.
DS Georgiou has taken out a notebook and pen from the pocket of his jacket and is waiting patiently. DI Holmes has placed her hand under my elbow for support. I’m glad of her presence, as without it, I’m sure I would have bolted from the scene by now.
‘What I’d like you to do is to try to think back to the unfolding events that led to Tyler’s death. Don’t worry about the order. You can start at the end and work backwards if you want to. Just go through it all at your own pace. DS Georgiou will make a record of what you say. Do you feel up to giving it a go?’
I nod, and she steers me into the centre of the space. It’s so still I can’t even hear birdsong. Shafts of light cut through the
branches, and in that suspended moment it feels as if we are in a church.
‘It might help if you can remember how you were feeling up to and during the incident,’ DI Holmes is saying. ‘Taking yourself back to that morning and focusing on what was going on around you will help with recall. But please, let us know if you need a breather. We can stop at any point if it gets too much.’
I’m familiar with the cognitive interviewing techniques she is using; I’ve utilised them myself in my own job. Closing my eyes helps. Under pressure, my memory works more effectively if my thinking is linear. In my head, I run through the timeline from when Buddy and I first entered the woods. It’s going well until I try to give a description of the two men. It must be fear impacting on my ability to recall. I was able to give a good description during the original interview. Why then has the mental picture I had of the men become occluded? Details of their height and build, one tall and of slim build, the other shorter and stockier, one with crooked teeth. These details aren’t problematic. I also know they were wearing dark clothes, and both had shaved heads. Beyond that, their faces have become insubstantial in memory, as flimsy as gossamer.
I know it’s possible that I have suppressed the memory because it was too traumatic, but if that’s the case, why then has everything else associated with what happened remained imprinted on my mind with such heightened clarity?
I stop trying to force myself to think. It’s giving me a headache anyway. I turn in preparation to leave when a fragment of memory flashes into my consciousness. Closing my eyes again, I wait for the image to take form. I hadn’t recalled it in the first interview, yet here it is, taking shape and becoming recognisable. In my eagerness, I shout triumphantly, the words running into each other as I do so.
‘A clock face! The shorter guy, not the one who grabbed my arms, but the other one, who made the cut-throat sign. When he turned away, I noticed something on the back of his neck. It was a tattoo in the shape of a clock face.’
I ask for some paper, and DS Georgiou tears a sheet from his notebook. He hands it to me along with his pen, looking over my shoulder as I sketch out the shape.
DS Georgiou squints at the paper. ‘You haven’t drawn any hands. Is that correct?’ he asks.
‘That’s correct. No hands,’ I say. ‘What can that mean?’
Again they exchange a look, although both remain non-committal. Perhaps they think I’m getting carried away. I start to feel my initial exuberance ebb. DI Holmes, seeing my expression, seems keen to try to bolster my confidence.
‘You did really well, Fran. You have given us some very useful additional information. It looks like you have had enough for today, so I suggest we take you home now. But we will arrange for you to come in to work with an officer and prepare an e-fit of the men based on your description. Meanwhile, you can always contact us if you think of anything else.’
It is only after they drop me back at the house that I realise I haven’t mentioned the threatening note posted through the letterbox.
9
In my dream, I am following a cloaked and hooded form. We pass through a labyrinth of dark streets lit by fog-encircled lamps. It feels important that I don’t lose sight of the figure, and I hurry to try to keep up, but each time I get within touching distance, they turn down yet another increasingly narrow alleyway. The walls on either side are becoming so close I can feel the water coursing down the brickwork and splashing onto my arms. My nostrils twitch at the smell of damp and decay. Reaching a dead end, I follow the figure up a set of stone steps and in through a door. A spotlight clicks on, illuminating a large empty space. I offer an outstretched hand towards the figure, and it turns slowly until it is facing me. The hood is a void of darkness in which a head is suspended like a pale moon. It is featureless apart from the eyes, which burn with a fierce intensity, desperately begging me for help.
Clawing my way back from the heavy sluggishness of sleep, I see the room is unnaturally bright. It takes a few minutes before my head clears and I can start to make sense of what is happening. Despite all my checks before bed, I’ve forgotten to close the bedroom door or drop the blind on the landing window. An animal must have triggered the security light in the back garden, which goes on and off a number of times. My limbs still feel heavy, and with no Laurie to cuddle into, the chill of the night air on my sweat-stained face causes me to shiver. I’m reluctant to get up, so I curl into a ball, pulling the quilt over my head. Buddy has crept up onto the bed beside me, and I settle for stealing some of his warmth. Eventually, I fall back into a fitful sleep.
After breakfast, I walk Buddy to the park, where there are always a few mums with excitable children playing on the swings and slide. We are on our way back home when I see Jenny reversing out of her drive in her car. She pulls up alongside us.
‘Thank you for the flowers. They arrived this morning. All my favourites, and beautifully presented, too. You didn’t have to, you know? I’m always more than happy to help.’
‘I know you are, Jenny. It’s just a small token of our thanks, isn’t it, Buddy?’
Buddy has been wagging his tail the whole time at the sight of Jenny, and also manages a cute side turn of his head in response to his name.
‘We were thinking of popping to see you this afternoon, but you appear to be off on an outing,’ I say.
‘Oh, I’ll be back by lunchtime. I’m just doing a bit of shopping. It will be nice to see both of you. I’ve tried out a new recipe this morning. You can give me your verdict on my banana bread, and I’m sure we can find a treat for this little man.’
She closes her window and gives Buddy a smile and a wave before driving off. I would swear, if I didn’t know better, that he grinned in return.
Back home, I retrieve a message on my phone from Verena. As it’s late morning, she will be in her kitchen, having fed the animals earlier. She and Laurie’s dad, Bryn, have retired to rural Wales. They now own a smallholding with a motley collection of rescued animals. Grabbing a coffee, I dial her number, and she picks up immediately.
‘Fran? It’s good to hear your voice. Laurie phoned to let me know what happened. It’s terrible. Poor you, and how awful for that boy and his family.’
She prompts me for the full story and sounds genuinely shocked when I tell her about returning to the scene with the police.
‘Really?’ she says. ‘I can’t imagine anything worse.’
It’s on the tip of my tongue to challenge this statement. I don’t want to be provocative, so I resist. Years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to help myself, and I would have made a snarky comment about the life of refugees or something similar. The art of diplomacy came into my life rather late.
I can hear Radio 4 in the background and the rattle of crockery. Bryn is probably making a pot of tea, and the thought of their warm, cosy, chaotic cottage, with discarded wellies by the door and washing drying over the Aga, fills me with nostalgia for all the happy times we spent there as a family.
‘Fran?’
My daydreaming means I have missed some of what Verena has been saying.
‘Yes, I’m here. I thought I heard the door. Sorry,’ I say by way of an excuse.
‘I was saying that I could come to stay while Laurie is away. He rang to suggest it, and I think it’s a good idea. It will only take me a couple of hours to drive to you. I just need a bit of notice beforehand. Bryn will manage without me for a few days, but I still need to organise him and the animals before I go.’
‘That’s so kind,’ I say in my most upbeat voice. I weigh my words carefully, not wanting to hurt her feelings. ‘It’s just that I’ve got a few things coming up. If you come, I really don’t think it’s fair to leave you by yourself if I’m flitting here there and everywhere. It would be a waste of your time. I’m fine, really. I promise I will let you know if I need you.’
It’s all bullshit, of course. I have nothing planned that can’t be changed.
Verena and I are on good terms now, but this was not
always the case. Early on, it had been a tense relationship. We first met soon after Laurie and I started going out. She was grey-haired even then, with a penchant for dangly earrings and hippy clothes. At that time, they were living in the suburbs of a nondescript town near to London. It was an easy commute for Bryn, who worked as a buyer for an independent wine merchant in the City. Despite their urban location, Verena made her own bread and grew vegetables long before it was trendy to do so. She even kept a couple of chickens and a feisty cockerel, much to the exasperation of her neighbours. When I came on the scene, I knew immediately she didn’t think I was good enough for her precious son.
Looking back, I can hardly blame her. A bolshy, opinionated, pint-swilling leftie would not be what most women would view as an ideal prospective daughter-in-law. Over the years, we settled into an uneasy relationship based around a genial competition for Laurie’s affections. The arrival of the children unified us. Eventually, I grew to admire, respect and then love the quirky free-spirited woman who had given birth to the man I loved.
Having told Verena I’m busy, I feel the need to at least attempt to keep up the pretence of something resembling a social life. Perhaps I can rustle up a meeting with some of my old work colleagues?
After leaving my job, I was disinclined to join in with the regular social meet-ups. Feeling so wretched at the time, it was difficult to feign sociability. We had been a close-knit team, but were subjected to an uncomfortable level of scrutiny following the death of a child. The Serious Case Review into the circumstance surrounding Baby C’s death affected us all. Even though we were eventually exonerated, the death of a baby under such tragic circumstances left us all devastated. Perhaps I was being hypersensitive, but I got the impression that some of the team thought I had chosen the easy way out by leaving when I did. The upshot was, with nothing to contribute to the work-based gossip pool, the invitations eventually dried up. A few have kept in touch via social media, but I’m not really included in their nights out anymore. One thing is certain, me being a witness to a particularly gruesome murder is more than likely to generate a flurry of interest around the water cooler. It may even trump discussion centring on the plot line of the latest Scandi noir. I decide against making contact. I can’t face any of them. Not yet, anyway.
In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller Page 5
