In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller

by Tina Pritchard

  Catching up on my emails, I see there is a message from my yoga teacher. She wants to know if I will be coming back, as she has a waiting list of people wanting to join the class. I message her with my apologies for not attending for a while, and confirm that I will be there for the next session. I find yoga relaxing and look forward to the class. My reputation for being so relaxed that I fall asleep during the closing minutes always generates a great deal of amusement amongst my fellow practitioners. I’m hoping the effect continues despite my distinctly wobbly state of mind.

  Jenny seems pleased to see us. She has prepared a tray with her best china tea set and generous slices of home-made banana bread. Buddy has not been forgotten. She produces a treat ball filled with chunks of doggy sausage. He sits for a while looking perplexed, as though expecting it to automatically dispense the elusive bits of meat. Jenny laughs indulgently when he discovers he can roll the ball with his nose until pieces of sausage drop onto the rug.

  Returning the book she lent to me, I offer Jenny a reasonable enough account of the plot for her to believe I have actually read it. We sit in her conservatory, looking out over immaculately kept gardens. Since her husband Peter’s death, Jenny has employed a gardener, but most of the plants and bushes were planted during their almost fifty years of marriage. I enjoy hearing her stories about moving into the house as a newly-wed.

  ‘So much has changed since we came here in 1969, but the one constant is that beautiful expanse of woodland,’ she says. ‘It’s such a pity that this has happened, Fran. I’m guessing it will take time for you to recover and begin to feel safe again?’

  If ever, I think to myself, nodding in agreement.

  I update her on my return to the scene with the two CID officers.

  ‘How dreadful. It’s like something out of a television drama. It’s such a quiet village,’ she says. ‘I really hate the thought of always having to be on alert from now on. I suppose it’s a necessary evil and a sign of the times. Let’s just hope they catch those awful men soon.’

  The autumn sun is a watery shade of lemon as it sets behind the trees. With a drop in air temperature, we watch as a grey mist rolls in, obscuring the top of the tree canopy. It’s an eerie sight. I collect my coat and Buddy’s lead, along with a piece of cake for Laurie. There is a definite nip in the air. I take Buddy for a quick walk to the top of the road and then turn back, eager to get home and light the wood burner before cooking our evening meal.

  The drive is shrouded in gloom, and I’m fumbling for my keys in my coat pocket. Stepping into the unlit porch, I don’t notice the figure crouching in the shadows until they push past me, tripping over Buddy’s lead in the process. Taken by surprise, neither Buddy nor I have time to react. A flailing arm catches me a glancing blow on the cheek, and then they are gone, melting silently like a wraith into the encroaching dusk.

  10

  ‘It’s weird, Laurie, but it didn’t feel like it was an adult who pushed past me in the porch. I’m pretty sure it was a kid. I really don’t think there’s much point in phoning the police.’ I’m visibly shaken, but rational enough to realise that calling the police won’t achieve much. ‘You know what teenagers are like, if that’s who it was. They don’t think about the consequences of their actions. It was probably a dare between friends, and he or she drew the short straw.’

  On the other end of the phone, Laurie is furious and worried on my behalf. He is also annoyed with himself for not sorting out the porch light. ‘I knew there was something else we needed,’ he says. ‘That bloody light is unpredictable. It may need more than a new bulb.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself,’ I say. ‘I forgot, too. I’ll phone up an electrician tomorrow. By the time you get home on Friday, it will be like Colditz when you pull onto the drive.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not too shaken up? I could drive home tonight and go back early in the morning if you are worried.’

  ‘No,’ I say with as much conviction as I can muster. ‘You are not doing anything of the sort. Buddy and I will be fine. I’m not having you run yourself off the road after falling asleep at the wheel. We would rather have you back safe and sound, if you don’t mind.’

  Finding an electrician who can come and do the job at short notice proves more difficult than I imagined, but eventually I manage to locate one. He has time between jobs and is only in the next village. He arrives just as I am finishing a sandwich, and accepts my offer of a cup of tea. As we stand chatting in the kitchen, he gestures towards the woods.

  ‘It’s a lovely location. Awful what happened, though. The murder, I mean.’

  I nod, but don’t volunteer any information.

  ‘There’s nowhere safe now. I’ve had quite a few more calls from around here since last week. Security always becomes a big issue when something major happens, but a dog is as good a deterrent as you can get, I always say.’

  He looks at Buddy curled up on his blanket in his usual pose, nose tucked into his backside.

  ‘Terriers are good guard dogs. I’ve got two borders of my own, and people think they look cute, but they are pretty fierce when it comes to defending their territory.’

  I let him out through the front door. Five minutes later, there’s a tap on the window.

  ‘It’s not the bulb,’ he says. ‘The whole unit needs replacing. I’ve got some spares in the van, or you can get your own, and I’ll come back and fit it for you.’

  I decide on the former, and he brings a selection of boxed lights for me to have a look at.

  I decide on a cast-iron effect lantern.

  ‘This will give you light in your porch, but not in the whole of your garden. Do you want me to put up a PIR spotlight to cover your drive and garden, too?’

  In for a penny, I think to myself, taking his bank details to pay his bill online.

  It’s drizzling when I set off for the hairdresser’s. Even though it’s only a ten-minute walk away, I arrive soaked to the skin. The little shop is sandwiched between the Co-op and the post office, and the window display is end-of-summer beach-themed. Hair products are artfully lined up on pieces of driftwood. A light scattering of sand contains a selection of realistic-looking starfish and brightly coloured seashells. I push open the door, and the bell tinkles to announce my arrival.

  Tash is in the back and comes out armed with a sweeping brush. Her own hair has undergone a number of incarnations in terms of colour and style over the years. The spiky cut in an eye-watering shade of fuchsia pink she is sporting, does not disappoint; I compliment her on the colour. She takes my coat and hangs it up on a wooden peg. While I perch on her tiny, uncomfortable chaise longue, she sweeps away the hair from underneath the salon chairs.

  ‘Window looks great,’ I say, moving across to take a seat in front of one of the large mirrors. ‘I can’t wait to see what you do with it for Halloween.’

  Tash gives me a mischievous smile. In previous years, she has come to the attention of the local Parish Council, who were not best pleased with her wacky interpretation of the celebration. Someone had complained about the coffins and blood-soaked figures with glowing eyeballs, all displaying the latest trends in hairstyling. Tash being Tash, she left the display up, but endeared herself to local mums by providing a bran tub with a lucky dip for passing children, and no more was said about her display.

  ‘Okay. Now we have coffee and Polish cake. Yes?’ She has already disappeared into the back without waiting for a reply.

  Tash is from Poland and has been in this country for over ten years. She still has an accent, but I love the way she has incorporated Derbyshire idioms into her speech. She made me laugh out loud once when she referred to her husband as ‘mardy’ when he was ill, and a ‘big whinge bucket’ when he had been bad-tempered.

  She is tall and well-built, with a somewhat unconventional dress sense. Today she is wearing a short tartan pleated skirt with chunky boots and tights. Her cold-shoulder top only partially obscures her tattoo sleeve, which begins just below her s
houlder and ends above her wrist. The intricate pattern of blood-red roses, encircled by leathery green leaves and topped with dewdrops, trails down her arm. It’s a sight I find both beautiful and unsettling every time I see it.

  She brings me a slice of her cake and a mug of strong brewed coffee and places them on the shelf in front of me.

  ‘Right, ducky. What are we doing with this?’ She takes a handful of my lanky locks from either side of my head and extends them outwards. ‘Definitely need a trim as well as some colour. Shall we do some highlights to brighten it up? Looks like it needs it.’

  Tash’s brusqueness conceals a heart of gold. She is as good with the old ladies who come in for a perm as she is with the little ones having their first haircut. I also know she donates to a lot of the less high-profile charities in the area, shying away from any recognition for her contributions.

  ‘How is szarlotka? It’s family recipe.’

  ‘It’s delicious, Tash. Cinnamon goes so well with apples. Can you message me the recipe? I’d like to have a go, but I doubt it will be as good as this.’

  She huffs in response, but I can tell she is flattered. ‘Of course. Now let’s get going on this hair. I’m glad no one else coming in, or I could be here until midnight.’

  Tash attacks my hair with vigour, cutting and shaping it into a choppy bob and applying half a head of blonde highlights. We chat like the old friends we are, Tash keen to know all about Alice and Flynn. They were both impressed enough to trust Tash to give them trendy haircuts during their teenage years. I’m eager to hear all about the renovations on the house she and her husband, Alex, moved into three years ago.

  Over the years we have become confidantes, sharing intimate details of our lives from that odd position of trust occupied by someone outside of your family who doesn’t fit in neatly with your circle of friends. It was Tash I turned to for advice when I was considering leaving work. By this time, the Baby C story was all over the media, and it was possible to discuss the case without leaking any important facts.

  ‘I don’t think I can continue with the job, Tash,’ I’d said. ‘It feels like the final straw. There was nothing to alert us that anything was wrong, yet I still want to beat myself up about it.’

  Tash knew the background to the case from what she read in the papers, and was less than sympathetic towards the parents of the child. Given her own circumstances, I could hardly blame her.

  ‘You should get out, Fran. People like that are take the piss. Have lots of help and still mess things up. They don’t deserve to have baby.’

  ‘She was just so young,’ I told her. ‘It’s true she had been using heroin, but she was stable on her methadone. She was doing really well with support from her mum. Her little flat was immaculate; the baby seemed well cared for. We had no real concerns when we visited. True, she kept quiet about the boyfriend coming to stay. The baby was fractious. Poor little mite was still withdrawing, and they would give him tiny amounts of methadone to settle him to sleep.’

  Tash had clicked her tongue in annoyance. ‘How stupid to give baby that muck. People should stay away from drugs in first place. Don’t deserve baby if take drugs. You getting too old for this, what you say, Fran, malarkey?’

  I had to agree with her; I was tired and jaded from it all. I longed to leave behind the chaos that people generated in their lives, increasingly as a result of drug-taking. It was social workers who were left to pick up the pieces, and we got little thanks for the work we did. Damned if we intervened and took a child away from its parents, and damned if we didn’t, as had happened in this case. Tash was harsh to blame the parents in this case. More accountable are those who bring the stuff into the country and distribute it. They are the real villains.

  Over the years, Tash has been party to all the major crises that occurred in my life, ranging from my moans about teenage tantrums, the affair, the death of my mum and my subsequent spell in the doldrums after leaving work. I was therefore more than happy to offer some support in return when she suffered a series of miscarriages. I shared in her joy when she became pregnant again. This time, she carried the little boy she and Alex had named Iwo, after her father, for twenty-eight weeks. Then she went into early labour. The baby was stillborn.

  Incapacitated by their sorrow and unfamiliar with British norms, she and Alex had no idea if it was possible to have a funeral for Iwo. I was able to assure them they could, and helped with the arrangements.

  Early on a cold January morning, I joined them for a short ceremony at the crematorium, where I read an extract from a poem in front of the tiny white coffin. In the background the Polish lullaby ‘Rest Young Child’ played as the curtains closed.

  Verena has always enjoyed painting in her spare time, and I had asked her if she would paint a watercolour of a lily of the valley. When it was finished, she posted it to me. On the back, I wrote out the verse I read at the funeral, and packaged the painting up to send to Tash and Alex. Tash tells me that Iwo is always in their hearts, but the little painting, she keeps in her bag. When she feels down, she finds it comforting to take it out and read the words of the poem.

  A lily of a day

  Is fairer far in May,

  Although it fall and die that night –

  It was the plant and flower of Light.

  In small proportions we just beauties see;

  And in short measures life may perfect be.

  It is close to six o’clock before Tash finishes my hair. She holds up a hand mirror to show me the sides and back of my head. She’sworked wonders, but the face looking back at me in the main mirror is pinched and drained.

  ‘You look tired, Fran. Not sleeping?’

  ‘No, not well,’ I say. ‘It’s all the stuff surrounding the murder. You heard about it, I assume?’ ‘Yes, it’s a terrible thing,’ she says. ‘It would give me nightmares too.’

  I wonder if she is aware that it was I who witnessed the murder. Surely the village grapevine has been active since it happened?

  ‘You know I saw the whole thing, don’t you?’

  I hold off mentioning the threatening letter or the intruder.

  I can tell by her reaction that she had no idea. ‘Gówno.’ She draws out the Polish expletive, then places her hands on my shoulders. ‘No, I didn’t. People have been talking about it in salon, but I had no idea…’ Her words tail off, and she sits down heavily in the chair next to mine. ‘You saw the boy Tyler being murdered?’

  I nod, the familiar knot of tension in my stomach twisting in response.

  ‘He lived in Willington, you know, not far from me, with his mum and brother,’ she says.

  ‘A brother. How old is he?’

  ‘Teenager too, but younger than Tyler. Fifteen maybe? His name is Gabe.’

  ‘I don’t know why, I’m surprised he had a brother,’ I say. ‘I have been thinking a lot about his mother, but it never occurred to me that she might have other children. Stupid really, not to realise. It must have been devastating for them both.’

  Tash does not respond immediately, and I look across at her.

  ‘Pah,’ she says. ‘Bad lot. She likes money too much.’ She makes a face and flicks imaginary banknotes through her fingers to illustrate her point. ‘No one know how she make a living,’ she adds.

  It sounds as though Tash is not a fan of Melanie Ingram, but I decide against challenging her on the subject.

  It’s still raining, and she offers to drop me off in her car after locking up the salon. She deftly reverses into our drive to avoid having to make a turn in the road, and triggers the security lights.

  ‘Look like Blackpool Illuminations,’ she says, making a face and pointing at the front of the house. I laugh at her expression; I can see she’s not impressed. She tells me she will ring if she finds out anything further about Melanie and Gabe, then gives me a hug and a wave before driving off.

  Laurie will be pleased. The thought of his face when he sees what I’ve done makes me giggle. When he returns ho
me tomorrow, as soon as his car noses onto the drive, the motion sensor will trigger the security light, and its powerful beam will bathe the whole area in incandescent white light.

  I just hope the neighbours appreciate our attempts to make our property resemble a gaudy seaside resort.

  11

  Laurie Skypes as I’m sitting having my baked potato. I’m not that hungry, but I’ve started losing weight with all the stress, and I need to eat.

  ‘Hey there, is everything okay? Nothing else untoward happened?’ He leans sideways, then peers close-up into the screen. ‘The hair looks good from here. How was Tash?’

  I assure him all is well, then tell him about my conversation with Tash and what she said about Melanie Ingram and her surviving son. He listens attentively but doesn’t offer much in the way of comment.

  We chat about more mundane matters. He tells me about his day and uses his computer to give me a tour of the hotel room. It is slightly more luxurious than his usual accommodation.

  ‘I’m going to try to get ahead of the traffic tomorrow. All being well, I’ll be home by five. I’ll text when I’m setting off,’ he says. ‘By the way, did you place the food order? You know the kids will be starving. They always are.’

  ‘I’ll do it now,’ I tell him and sign off, but not before I turn the screen to show him a sleeping Buddy stretched out on the sofa next to me.

  ‘Night night, both of you. Love you. And you too, Fran,’ he says, his words a standing joke between us.