The Woman in the Wood

by Lesley Pearse

  He braced himself at the ward door, offering up a silent prayer for help and guidance.

  As he walked into the small ward and saw Duncan looking so thin, battered and bruised in the hospital bed, he didn’t have to think about showing emotion because it erupted inside him. Instinctively he bent to kiss his son’s forehead and he felt tears welling in his eyes.

  ‘Steady on, Dad. I might look rough but I am going to survive,’ Duncan joked, a little weakly.

  ‘I know, and I thank God for that,’ Alastair replied, his voice quavering. ‘But I’ve told myself that from now on I must prove to you, and to Maisy when we get her back, how much you both mean to me.’

  ‘Do you think we will get her back?’ Duncan asked.

  ‘I’m counting on it,’ Alastair said and tried to smile. ‘I’m also counting on getting to be alone with that bastard Grainger just long enough to knock his teeth out. I never liked the little weasel when he was a boy. I caught him torturing a cat once and I should’ve flattened him then. But you are always inclined to believe boys will grow out of cruelty. He clearly didn’t.’

  Duncan could hardly believe his father was showing a whole new side of himself and he wanted to encourage more of it.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said. ‘I’ve been so afraid.’

  Alastair took hold of his son’s hand between his two and squeezed it, looking into his eyes. ‘Janice told me you were worried about my reaction to what’s been done to you. But let me tell you, son, you mustn’t feel shame. None of this was your fault.’

  Hearing his father saying such unexpected and tender things after a lifetime of coolness was too much for Duncan and he began to cry. But his father leaned over him in the bed and scooped him into his arms.

  ‘My poor boy,’ he said, rocking him comfortingly. ‘You’ve been through a terrible time, and nothing I or anyone else says can make the memories of it go away. But I’m going to try and get help for you, and maybe you can even bring yourself to tell me some of it, just so you don’t keep it all locked inside you.’

  ‘I don’t know the words to use,’ Duncan whispered. ‘I mean, I haven’t even kissed a girl yet, so I don’t know anything about the normal way of it. And now I’m so scared for Maisy, because I know he likes it with girls as well.’

  ‘From what I remember of him he was always seriously weird,’ Alastair said. ‘Don’t you go making the mistake of thinking he is a homosexual. I know that is illegal still, and some people see it as a crime, but I’ve had friends that are that way, and they are kind, loving, good men. They would never force anyone, let alone a child.

  ‘Let’s be clear about this: Grainger is what is known as a paedophile. He may have had many sexual relations with women, but his prime interest is in children, in his case mostly boys. Even more dangerous, he is also a psychopath. He likes to inflict pain on his victims and he gets pleasure from killing them.

  ‘But you aren’t quite the same as the sort of boys he usually goes for, which is probably why he didn’t kill you. It was very bad luck that you ran into him at a time he was looking for a new victim. If I’d only known he’d cosied up to your grandmother and become her solicitor, I would have moved heaven and earth to prevent him even speaking to her.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about him,’ Duncan said. ‘Did he do something to you?’

  Alastair looked horrified. ‘Certainly not! I was older and stronger and he knew I didn’t like or trust him. But there was always something distasteful at the core of him. No, I learned about such men after the war when I was over on the continent trying to sort out displaced people, refugees and suchlike. There was chaos everywhere, cities razed to the ground, terrible food shortages, and some people were like animals seeking revenge for what had been done to them or their families. Amongst the more understandable crimes – and many of these were barbaric enough – we also found perverts and psychopaths who were raping, maiming and killing for pleasure. All nationalities, Duncan, don’t run away with the idea that these were all German. The Russians were the worst – they were supposed to be liberating, and were raping and plundering as they went. But there were Polish, French, Romanian, and English too. I learned things in that time that I wish I could erase forever from my mind.’

  ‘Did the war make them like that?’ Duncan asked.

  Alastair pulled up a chair, sat down and leaned his arms on the bed.

  ‘Was it the war?’ He sounded like he was thinking aloud. ‘No, son, I don’t think it was just that. I think that many people have the potential to be depraved, but I’ve also observed there are certain things which seem to trigger such impulses. Cruelty to them as children, perhaps being belittled by their peers for some reason. But certainly during that time after the war, it appeared to be a major trigger for hitherto normal people to go off the rails. They found themselves in a world gone mad in the aftermath, with no semblance of law and order any more, and perhaps they had a deep anger, hatred or desire for revenge inside them. There were so many vulnerable people about, especially children everywhere, most of whom could be enticed with a loaf of bread, and suddenly all moral barriers broke down. These people might have come across to their victims as strong, but in fact they were weak, letting themselves be led by base desires.’

  Duncan realized this was the most his father had ever said to him at one time. He also felt a degree of comfort knowing he understood what his son had been subjected to without his needing to spell it out.

  ‘Have you got any idea what triggered such things in Grainger?’ he asked.

  ‘There was something hidden about his real family,’ Alastair said. ‘He was sent to live with his Aunt Constance in Burley and I remember when I asked him about his parents he never gave me a straight answer. My parents knew nothing, and my father was the kind of man who didn’t approve of people poking their noses into other people’s business. Janice told me once that she saw Donald’s back one time on a hot day when he was playing with the garden hose. She said it was a mass of scars, as if he’d been badly beaten.’

  ‘But surely if you’d been badly beaten as a child you wouldn’t want to inflict pain on anyone?’

  Alastair pursed his lips. ‘Just the opposite, I’m afraid, Duncan. The beaten often become beaters.’

  ‘Did you know that they had to take Peter to a mental hospital?’ Duncan said, looking across to the empty bed. ‘Somehow I don’t think things will ever come right for him.’

  Alastair shook his head. He didn’t know what to say. He thought when he returned to England from Europe in 1948 he’d seen the last of the terrible things men could inflict on each other. Now he was here with his own son, reliving it again. His daughter was in the hands of the psychopath, and another young lad taken away to a mental hospital, his wits gone.

  ‘What will happen next, Dad?’ Duncan asked, interrupting his father’s train of thought.

  ‘I take you home, that’s the next thing,’ Alastair said. ‘The ward sister told me she thought you’d be ready in about two or three days. But don’t fret about Peter – there’s every chance he’ll get better.’

  ‘Our mother hasn’t,’ Duncan said.

  Alastair had known for a very long time that he ought to explain to the twins about their mother, but he’d kept putting it off, hoping that the problem would solve itself, one way or another. But now that he had decided to be more open and loving, he knew it was time to start talking.

  ‘I’m afraid she is never going to get better. You will remember that she claimed her problem was through a riding accident – well, in a way that was true. She was taken to hospital after the fall from her horse and it was there they found something else, a small brain tumour.

  ‘They weren’t able to safely remove it, and back then I don’t think they really knew much about such things. The surgeon seemed to think it might just disappear. It didn’t, of course. Back during the war and immediately after, her only problem was bad headaches. When you twins were three, soon after I came ba
ck from Europe, I took her to see a specialist. He was convinced he could remove the tumour safely, but it didn’t work out that way, and the part of her brain it was connected to was damaged. The headaches got worse and she became irrational, developing a fear of leaving her room.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ever explain?’ Duncan asked.

  ‘I couldn’t find the words,’ Alastair said. He took his son’s hand in his and lifted it to his lips to kiss it. ‘Being unable to speak about important things has always been my failing. I can write a report so clearly and concisely anyone could understand it, but I flounder with the spoken word, especially anything to do with emotions. How do you explain to children that something in their mother’s brain is making her nasty and difficult and that eventually she’ll need to be somewhere secure so she can’t hurt herself or anyone else?’

  Duncan nodded. Put like that, he did understand. ‘Yes, it must have been hard. But I wish you had tried to tell us, because we got the idea you sent her away because you were tired of her being ill.’

  Alastair shook his head. ‘No, that wasn’t the case. Well, at least, not until she became violent and abusive; then I had no choice but to act. So I did what I thought was the best thing for you and Maisy, and sent you to my mother’s. I thought you’d be distracted from thinking about your mother and home by being in such a wonderful place and having so much freedom.

  ‘But when your mother went to the private hospital she deteriorated. There is no possibility of a cure or of ever bringing her home again, and I had to agree for her to be moved to a secure hospital because she became a danger to others. She set fire to her bed one night; she threatened another patient with a knife out in the grounds. I didn’t stop you from seeing her because I was being mean or secretive. She doesn’t even know me any more, Duncan. She wouldn’t know you either, and it would be far too upsetting for you.’

  Duncan shuddered, remembering Bertha Rochester, the mad woman locked away in Jane Eyre. ‘But what will become of her?’ he asked.

  ‘She is always getting bad chest infections, and the chances are that before long she’ll get pneumonia and slip away. That would be the kindest thing, Duncan. Nothing can be done for her, apart from feeding her and keeping her warm and clean. There is no miracle cure.’

  Duncan nodded. He could see anguish in his father’s eyes and knew he had told him the whole truth. ‘It would’ve been better if you’d explained properly before. We weren’t babies to be protected,’ he said reprovingly. ‘But never mind us, it must’ve been hell for you all these years. Especially shielding us from how it was. When we get Maisy back we must try to pull together like a proper family.’

  ‘I’m going in to see the police now and find out if there have been any developments,’ Alastair said. ‘I know they found Grainger’s car abandoned today and there’s been a full-scale search around Lyndhurst. Tomorrow they intend to expand the search area down towards the coast, and I’ll join in with it. I also intend to go and speak to Grace Deville – that is, if I can find her. I owe her a great deal.’

  They chatted for a little while. Duncan was eating the chocolate Alastair had brought him, breaking bits off now and then and offering them to his father. Alastair noticed that despite everything, including his sister being in great danger, Duncan seemed to have a self-assurance now which he’d never had back in London.

  Perhaps he had developed it with Mr Dove. On his last trip down here, Alastair had talked with the teacher and sensed how fond the man was of the twins; he actually said they were his favourite pupils, and a bright man like him must have brought out a lot of good stuff in them. But then maybe Duncan was always self-assured and Alastair wasn’t aware of it because he never got close enough to his son to notice such things.

  ‘I’d better go now and talk to the police.’ Alastair got up and reached out to ruffle his son’s hair. ‘You concentrate on getting your strength back. You’ll need it when you see how emotional your grandmother’s become.’

  ‘Really?’ Duncan’s eyes widened.

  ‘Yes, really. I think the Mitchams are in danger of becoming soppy.’

  Duncan gave a half-smile. ‘If they find Maisy.’

  ‘Yes. Only if they find Maisy. But we have to believe they will.’

  17

  Hugo picked Grainger up at the appointed place on the Southampton Road at eight in the evening and drove him into some woods and then on to a muddy lane where they wouldn’t be seen. He stopped the car and turned to Grainger.

  ‘Look, matey, I feel for you, but aside from giving you a change of clothes and some cash, I can’t help. You’ve murdered six boys, two more are seriously ill. And now you’ve got the girl. That’s far too much for me.’

  Grainger didn’t reply for a moment or two, so that when he did it would have more impact. He had always despised Hugo, his public school banter, big florid face and wet, fleshy lips. He was overweight, he hee-hawed like a donkey at his own jokes, and had a problem with body odour. On top of all those disadvantages he was thick.

  ‘You ought to know me well enough by now to realize I wouldn’t have asked you to meet me without expecting something from you,’ Grainger said eventually, with a wolfish smile. ‘And I don’t mean a clean shirt and some fresh socks. Thanks to me, you inherited a million or more. I know you finished Mildred off too, and you’ve been at some of the parties we’ve had in the past and shared the guests I brought. So you will help, Hugo, by taking me across the Channel, or I spill the beans.’

  ‘My boat isn’t strong enough to cross the Channel at this time of year.’ Hugo’s voice had taken on a whining note. ‘The waves are too big, we might capsize. And the police would know it was me who helped you.’

  ‘I have every faith in your sailing skills,’ Grainger said. ‘Let’s face it, you’ve done little else over the last ten years but perfect them. And why should the police connect you with me?’

  ‘Because you are my solicitor!’ Hugo whined fearfully.

  ‘I have hundreds of clients.’ Grainger’s voice was silky, but still managed to convey a little menace. ‘They are all in the Hampshire/Dorset area, at least half have boats and many have outbuildings where I could hide. In the time it would take for the police to check them all out, you could have sailed all the way to Australia and back.’

  ‘Please don’t ask me to do this,’ Hugo begged. ‘It’s madness! I don’t think you realize just how dangerous it is to take a small boat through one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world.’

  ‘You get me to the French coast and you’ll never see or hear from me again,’ Grainger said. ‘The police aren’t checking boats yet; they still think I’ve got a little hideaway somewhere. If anyone asks, you’ve just been fishing. Everyone knows how much you like fishing.’

  Grainger knew that Hugo had no choice but to agree, but he also knew he would be looking for some plan to turn hero. He was a similar size to him, though he didn’t keep himself as fit, but no doubt he would think along the lines of pushing Grainger overboard, in one stroke ridding himself of his blackmailer and the need to go to France. Perhaps he’d even tell the police Grainger got him to take out the boat at gunpoint. He would of course claim to have knocked the gun out of Grainger’s hand and into the sea.

  ‘OK then,’ Hugo said, the sudden calmness of his voice revealing that Grainger was right to distrust him. ‘So what time do you want to leave?’

  ‘At first light – it will be less suspicious than night-time. There’s a little old wooden jetty about half a mile out of Lymington on the salt flats. Do you know it?’

  Hugo nodded. ‘We used to dive off it as kids,’ he said.

  ‘Bring the boat there then, at six. I’ve got a bit of business to attend to first.’ He glanced sideways at Hugo and saw a glimpse of excitement on his face. The man believed he was soon to solve all his problems.

  ‘You’re not thinking of running to the police, are you now, Hugo? You do realize that if the coppers nab me tomorrow morning I will tell the
m everything about you? OK, I’ll swing for murder, but you’ll spend the rest of your life in gaol. They say old lags hate kiddy fiddlers.’

  He saw Hugo gulp. ‘Course I won’t, old bean. Telling tales is not my thing. I’m a trifle nervous about the sailing – it’s going to be tough – but I won’t let you down.’

  Grainger got Hugo to drop him a mile out of Lymington. He knew of a tiny cottage belonging to a client of one of his partners who had just recently passed away. It was tucked away so no one would hear him break the glass in the back door to get in. He needed to get a good sleep, as tomorrow he would have to keep his wits about him. He hadn’t told Hugo they were going to take Maisy with them because he felt that might have been a step too far for the man. But she’d be very weak by now with no food or drink, so she wouldn’t put up much of a struggle.

  It was starting to rain. He’d heard on the weather forecast it was set for all day tomorrow which was ideal for him; it would keep dog walkers away.

  He had a good feeling. Everything was going to be fine.

  It wasn’t fine for Maisy. She was sick and cold, and she had lost all track of time because despite what she’d hoped for, no daylight came into her prison and she had failed to find any way of getting herself untied.

  Kicking on the door had achieved nothing, but as she couldn’t see daylight around the opening, she thought perhaps there was another door beyond. She hurt all over, she had wet herself again, and as she kept going hot and cold she was fairly certain she had a high temperature.

  The hunger wasn’t so terrible now she was growing weaker, but the thirst was growing worse and worse. She had resigned herself to Grainger not coming back for her; why would he? He’d have to kill her to silence her, so it was easier to just leave her and let nature take its course.