The Woman in the Wood

by Lesley Pearse

  And that was that. Grainger donned the flying jacket and the crash helmet, started up the bike and roared off. He didn’t even look back to see what the chap looked like in his coat – all he cared about was that it would be in Eastbourne tonight. It might be weeks before the police found it; they usually only found stolen cars when they were abandoned. Jennings was so pleased with the exchange he’d be washing and polishing it weekly – he wasn’t going to abandon it.

  Since that night the weather had been good, and if it hadn’t been for the fear that he might run into a road block, Grainger would have been really happy. He enjoyed taking back roads through little villages and loved the warmth of the sun on his face. He was even getting to like the challenge of finding a bed for the night – sometimes a caravan, sometimes a barn – and the further challenge of finding some money. A pound note left on a doorstep for the milkman, a charity box in a church – one day he even nipped into an open kitchen door and snatched up a purse lying in full view on the table. That was a real corker of a day as the purse contained nearly seven pounds.

  But although he tried to convince himself that he was Jack the Lad, leading the police a merry dance, when the sun went down and he was cold and hungry, reality set in. He knew this couldn’t go on forever. He was going to be caught eventually and hanged.

  Again and again he thought what that would be like. He didn’t want to carry on living if he had to exist like a tramp, and that was how it would always be without enough money to get out of the country and create a new identity. But he was scared of prison and the build-up before they finally put the noose round his neck. What would make it easier to contemplate, would be to plan to go out with a bang: to cheat the police by going back to the one place they assumed he’d never dare return to.

  He had read in the newspapers that they watched his house constantly; foolishly imagining that he’d want to see Deirdre one last time. As if! All she’d been good for was cooking, cleaning and laundry; he called her Dreary Deirdre to himself because she was about as much fun as a dose of clap. He certainly didn’t want to go to her. It was Burley and the forest that beckoned him.

  He’d spent so much of his youth there – it was where he remembered having fun and adventures, and learning things. In fact his first tryst with a man with the same interests as him had been there, and others since.

  As a successful solicitor he’d driven through it almost every day, wishing he lived there. From the first time he was asked to call on Violet Mitcham in a professional capacity, he began thinking about how he could manipulate her into leaving him Nightingales. He had thought he almost had it in the bag, all those months of pandering to her, listening to her vitriolic ramblings, charming her, taking her out for tea.

  If it hadn’t been for those damn twins, and that nosy parker of a mad woman, he might have succeeded. He’d even considered seducing the girl, so he could get his hands on her inheritance once the old girl died.

  His biggest mistake was to take Duncan.

  His other boys had always been life’s rejects – not very bright, from bad families, the kind of boys who wanted to be loved. They were easy to dominate, eager to please.

  But Duncan! It wasn’t a bad idea just because he had a connection with the family, but because he was never his kind of boy. He was highly intelligent, well brought up, and with such strong principles that he’d have died rather than give in. He had to admire him for that, and for trying to protect that weakling Peter. Perhaps that was the reason he didn’t kill him.

  The old mad woman in the wood was his target now. He intended to make her death painful and drawn out. She was going to suffer, because she’d made him suffer. He was growing excited just thinking about it.

  23

  Grainger didn’t know exactly where in the forest Grace Deville’s shack was, but he had heard a few years ago that she kept a van at old Enoch’s place, so it couldn’t be far from there. It was June now, he’d been on the run since Easter back in April, and although he was sick and tired of being constantly vigilant and on the move, being back in the forest felt good.

  He drove past Enoch’s, remembering how he and his friends would knock on his door and run away. Enoch would come out shaking his fists, which they thought was very funny.

  There was an old blue van parked up beside his cottage. It had to belong to Grace as Enoch didn’t drive. He thought from what he knew about them, Grace and Enoch would make an ideal couple. Both recluses, as mad as hatters and cantankerous. The New Forest seemed to attract oddballs. He remembered that when he was a child, at least three women in the area had been reputed to be witches.

  He quite liked it that he was likely to appear in New Forest history. He wondered what they would call him. The Slaying Solicitor, Gruesome Grainger, the Burley Beast? Maybe he’d even be depicted in Madame Tussauds in London.

  Parking his motorbike just before Enoch’s place, he walked along on the forest side of the lane opposite Enoch’s looking for trampled vegetation. He could only see animal tracks, but there was one place which looked as if a human had recently pushed their way through.

  He was hot in the flying jacket, and it was cumbersome, so he went back towards his motorbike and pushed the jacket and his crash helmet into a nearby bush to hide them from thieves. No point in hiding the bike as no one knew he had it.

  He smelled very ripe as he hadn’t found anywhere to wash for the last two days. His beard was thick now, and it would have been a first-class disguise if the police hadn’t recently given the press a mock-up picture of what he must look like now with a beard. He opened the pannier bag on his bike and took out the ropes, putting the long length around his shoulder and chest and securing the shorter lengths to his belt, along with his hunting knife.

  Walking carefully, making as little noise as possible so as not to alert the old girl’s dog, his progress was slow. But he could smell smoke so he was fairly certain he was going in the right direction. About fifteen minutes further on, the shrubs and trees began to thin out. Peering through a bush he saw a glade ahead and assumed this was the right place.

  He moved himself into a position where he could see more and crouched down, pulling back a branch to peer through.

  A hundred yards or so ahead, to his surprise and delight, was Duncan, digging up a piece of rough ground. He looked good, wearing only shorts and boots, his naked torso tanned a deep golden brown.

  As he watched, Grace Deville came into view. She was wearing a navy blue baggy shirt, equally baggy trousers and a straw hat. She appeared to be showing Duncan a piece of paper. He stuck his spade into the ground and pushed his blond hair back off his face as he listened to what she was saying. He looked more mature and stronger than Grainger remembered, and he felt his cock unexpectedly responding.

  He thought the paper she was showing the boy must be a shopping list, because she had a string shopping bag in her hand and as she walked away, she put two fingers between her lips and whistled. At that the black-and-white collie dog came bounding over to her.

  She disappeared into the bushes on the far side of the glade, the dog going with her, and Duncan picked up his spade again and continued to dig.

  Finding Duncan here was like winning the pools. He’d daydreamed of killing him to hurt both his father and his sister, but thought he was unlikely ever to find him alone. But here he was, in the middle of the forest, a sitting target.

  Getting himself into a more comfortable position, Grainger mulled over his options. He needed to think about how he should tackle Duncan, and also to check out the whole area.

  He couldn’t strike now while the boy was out in the middle of the clearing. To get the element of surprise he needed to be hiding in a place where the boy had to go.

  As far as he could see there were only three places: the stream to get a drink or wash his hands, the privy, or the shack the old girl lived in. He ruled out the stream as there wasn’t enough cover, and he didn’t think he could get into the shack without being seen
. But the privy would be good – big enough to hide behind while Duncan went in, then jump on him as he came out.

  Grainger decided he would get into position right away, but if he crept around in the bushes close to the glade, Duncan was likely to hear him. So he retraced his steps back towards the road, then once he felt he was well out of earshot, he made his way diagonally through bushes and brambles in the direction of the privy on the other side of the shack.

  It was hard going, almost impossible to get through in parts, but he persevered. All the while he could hear the sound of Duncan’s digging, so he knew he wasn’t making him suspicious.

  Once he reached the privy and was well hidden by a bush, he sat down to make himself comfortable and thought how he was going to kill the boy. He had a knife and rope, so it could easily be stabbing or strangulation.

  But neither of those deaths hit the right spot for him. They were too quick; he wanted to be able to relish the boy’s pain.

  Then it came to him.

  Burning alive. Even by his standards it was brutal, but if this was to be his swan song, he might as well make it one that would be talked about for years.

  Capture the boy, gag him, tie him to a tree or a post, then light a fire under him. Just the thought of it made his heart beat faster, and his cock twitch again.

  Better still, what if he tied the boy to the tree, then waited for the old girl to come back and tied her up too, where they could easily see one another? That way, they would not only feel themselves burning, but see the other one burning as well.

  He peeped out from his hiding place and saw the ideal trees. One was behind where Duncan was digging now, the other fifty yards in front of him, close to the way Grace had gone. Two strong, mature trees. Perfect.

  When Grace got back she’d rush to Duncan to untie him, assuming that someone had robbed the shack. Then Grainger would step out from behind the bushes, seize her and tie her up.

  The dog was the only problem. Grainger had heard the noise the beast made when it attacked Hugo, and he didn’t want that happening to him. The newspaper said Hugo’s face was disfigured. Perhaps he could bargain with Grace, tell her that he wouldn’t hurt her and he’d let Duncan go as long as she tied the dog up for the time being. Would she do that?

  Somehow he didn’t think so, so he’d have to be prepared to kill it.

  An hour passed and still Duncan kept on working. He was hauling out tree roots and big stones with a pickaxe, then breaking up the soil with a fork, making a very thorough job of it. He looked hot, and at one point he went over to the stream and drank greedily from his cupped hands, then splashed his face and under his arms with water, but he still didn’t come over to the privy.

  It was nearly three in the afternoon now, and Grainger was getting anxious. Not only was he very hungry but also the chances were the old girl would be back soon, and he’d have to abandon his plan for the day. Or come back when it was dark and set fire to the shack with them in it.

  As he was mulling this over, Duncan suddenly speared the ground with his fork and began walking over towards Grainger.

  He stood up silently, almost holding his breath, heard the door of the privy open, and then heard pissing. At that he crept around the privy, standing where the door would be when it opened, a length of the rope in his hands and his knife ready in his belt.

  The door opened, and out came the lad. Grainger leapt forward, swinging the rope around his throat and pulling back on it firmly.

  Duncan yelled, bucked and writhed, waving his arms and kicking out with his legs, trying desperately to get free,

  ‘Hold still,’ Grainger warned him. ‘I’ve got a knife and I won’t hesitate to use it.’ He pricked the boy’s back to ensure he knew he really had one. ‘Now just walk calmly back to where you were digging. No heroics, I don’t want to hurt you, only to get some answers.’

  He thought maybe Duncan was too shocked to speak or even struggle because he walked back across the garden quite calmly; he’d even stopped flapping his arms around. But he knew the boy was smart, so there was a strong possibility he was working on a plan.

  ‘To that tree and put your back against it.’ Grainger nudged him towards it. All at once Duncan began to fight him again, catching hold of Grainger’s shirt with one hand and smashing his fist into his side.

  The blow really hurt – the boy was stronger than he had expected – but then Grainger had a better position, standing behind Duncan with the rope around his neck and the end tightly wrapped around his own left hand. He pulled it even tighter so Duncan could do nothing but slump back against the tree, his fingers clawing at the rope to loosen it. ‘Hands down,’ Grainger ordered him, showing him the knife. ‘Or you get this in your guts.’

  He drew the blade across the boy’s flat belly just hard enough to lightly pierce the skin. Bright red beads of blood popped out. ‘Now, hands behind the tree trunk or I’ll get your cock out and cut that too.’

  Duncan obeyed. Grainger pulled one of the short pieces of rope from his belt to tie his hands together behind the tree, then another around his ankles to secure them.

  ‘There, that wasn’t too bad,’ he said, coming round to the front of the tree to jeer at his prisoner. ‘If only you hadn’t been so prudish back at the big house. Things could’ve been so different. But I’ve cracked up now, you probably realize that. I’m officially a psychopath – I read that in The Times, so it must be true – and I don’t care what happens to me. But I want one last bit of fun first.’

  He pulled a lump of rag from his pocket and forced it into Duncan’s mouth so hard it made him gag.

  ‘That’s better. You can’t try to reason with me. I’ll just sit and wait for the old hag to get back.’

  It was only half an hour before she appeared. Grainger heard her in the distance, singing to herself, giving him enough time to hide behind a tree. Then he heard a rustle in the bushes and the dog came rushing out, going straight over to Duncan and jumping up at him joyfully.

  That was a far better outcome than Grainger had expected. He went over to the dog, who was still intent on getting Duncan to stroke him, and quickly slipped a length of rope through his collar and hauled him away, bucking, barking and writhing, behind a bush.

  It took just one thrust of the knife, straight into the top of the dog’s head, and he fell to the ground.

  Then, hiding himself again, Grainger waited for Grace Deville.

  She came out of the bushes carrying a shopping bag. She saw Duncan immediately and dropped the bag and ran over to him.

  ‘Who did this?’ she shouted out. Grainger heard the faint mumblings of the boy trying to warn her, but it was too late. He leapt out from behind the bush and grabbed her wrists, pulling them back behind her and securing them. Like Duncan, she tried to fight, kicking out and even headbutting and spitting, but she was no match for him. He soon had her tied to the tree opposite the boy, with a rag in her mouth.

  Grainger was so excited now that he felt he might burst. He went to the woodshed and filled a box with kindling, then made two piles, one in front of each of his captives. When he brought logs over he made a great show of slowly arranging them neatly on top of the kindling. ‘I love fires,’ he said, grinning at both of them. ‘Did you know human flesh smells like roast pork as it burns?’

  The old girl looked so terrified he thought she might have a heart attack. Her eyes were almost popping out of her head, her nostrils flaring, reminding him of a cow he once watched being led into an abattoir to be killed. She’d known that it was the end for her. He was fairly certain if he took the rag out of Grace’s mouth she would bellow just the way that cow did.

  Duncan’s reaction was disappointing. He was remarkably calm, not struggling at all, just looking at the old hag as if trying to send her a silent message that someone would rescue them.

  To make their misery greater and their fear sharper, he got the dead dog and laid it down between them.

  That got a reaction from Duncan: his e
yes widened and it looked as if a tear was running down his cheek. As for the old hag, she looked as though she’d like to skin her torturer alive.

  Finally Grainger sat down on a bench to watch them. This was the best he’d ever known, two people tightly secured, scared out of their wits, and he could take his time now and savour their distress. Later when he poured paraffin on the logs and set fire to them he knew it would be like the biggest and best orgasm ever. But for now it was enough to just sit, watch and anticipate.

  Maisy rode her bike to Enoch’s cottage because that way was easier going, and not so far to walk to Grace’s.

  She had brought with her a jam and buttercream Victoria sandwich she’d made herself that morning, and a bottle of elderflower wine made by Janice.

  Leaving her bike propped up against a tree, she noticed the motorbike parked by the bushes and was immediately suspicious. She had never before seen a motorcyclist come into the forest. There were plenty on the roads, and parked outside the tea shops, but somehow she didn’t see men who rode motorbikes as being people who went for walks. It just didn’t fit.

  Besides, if the owner of the motorbike had been calling on Enoch he would have left it by Grace’s van. Suppose it belonged to some lout who’d heard the rumours about Grace being eccentric and possibly rich, and had come to try and rob her?

  Although Maisy didn’t think Grace could come to much harm with Duncan there, she still took care to be stealthy along the overgrown path. Within a couple of minutes she realized it was very quiet – too quiet, she thought – no barking from Toby, no shouts from Duncan, or even the sounds of digging, chopping or hoeing. Her heart started to beat faster.

  The path came out very close to the shack, but she stopped further back to peer through a bush to see what was going on. What she really hoped to see was both Duncan and Grace fast asleep on the grass, and she even thought if they were she’d give them a scare by banging on the old tin bath hanging on the side of the shack.