Under The Woods: a heart-stopping police thriller (The Forensic Files Book 4)

by K. A. Richardson

  TJ felt a shiver pass down her spine. He was a funny one, this Paul, but he was great with the horses. Whatever she felt about him personally, TJ knew she’d made the right decision hiring him.

  She took the cat off him carefully, avoiding its outstretched claws and gripping firmly as it hissed and spat at her. She managed to open the front door just as the cat escaped her grasp, landing on all four feet and throwing an angry stare at her before running off into the brush at the bottom of her garden.

  ‘Oi, you,’ came an angry shout from the bottom fence. TJ sighed and contemplated running back inside the house, but she knew he’d follow.

  Neil Brown was an awful man – he’d done nothing but rant and rave since TJ had moved in. Everything annoyed him – the sound of the horses, the smell of the manure, the fact they shared a driveway entrance. TJ had known about him before she moved in – but she’d never for one second believed he would be as bad as he was.

  She stared at him as he stormed up her path.

  He was heavy set, with a balding head, straggly brown hair and a dirty beard. His face was already beetroot red by the time he reached her.

  ‘You’ve been warned about that damn wagon coming up my drive.’

  He jabbed a mucky finger towards her, and she noted the yellow stains from the rolled cigarettes he was partial to. His breath was dank and smelled of stale whiskey and cigarettes.

  ‘It’s a shared driveway, Mr Brown – there is no other access to the stables for the wagon when it delivers the hay. You know this. Has the driver done something?’

  ‘Other than knocking my plant pot over for the hundredth time, no. But he shouldn’t be driving up that track – I paid good money for that damn gravel to be laid so my wagon can get up and down smoothly. I don’t need heavier wagons wearing it down and incurring me more cost.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mr Brown. I know fine well Stella paid half for that gravel because it’s a shared driveway. It wasn’t just you who paid, and both of us have to use it for access.’

  ‘And another thing – those bloody horses were neighing and making a racket all through the night – they kept me awake. It’s not good for an old man like me to not get any sleep. I’ve a good mind to lodge an official complaint.’

  TJ felt her anger start to rise – he always did this – tried to get a rise out of her. Normally, she backed away, but today, she’d had enough.

  ‘They’re horses – they neigh. And they most certainly did not do it all night – I was down there until 1am cleaning the tack, and they were all asleep. You don’t have anything else to say, so you might as well get off my path and get on with your own farming. I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do.’

  ‘Why, you cheeky little –’

  ‘Stop,’ she said sharply, glaring at him. ‘Get off my land, or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘You’ll pay for this. Nobody speaks to me like that. You’d better watch your back.’

  ‘More threats?’ asked TJ, purposely plastering a bored look on her face. ‘Go away.’

  Determined now, she turned and went back inside, closing the door quietly instead of slamming it like she really wanted to. He had such a cheek! Her face flushed deep red as she realised she’d lost her temper.

  ‘Crap. He’s not going to forget that in a hurry,’ she muttered under her breath.

  * * *

  10th December, 0920 hours – Rainbow Riding Stables

  He stood in the tree line and watched the exchange. His dark clothing blended him in with the still green holly tree, even with the bare trees around him. Winter made hiding easier – sometimes. He knew he hadn’t left any footprints – the ground was hard with the recent frost. It still hadn’t cleared – the trees and the bush hiding him all glistened and sparkled as if they had been decorated with fairy dust, but he didn’t notice.

  He had other things on his mind.

  He’d been burying his Angels on this farm land now for some time – no one had ever noticed. No one knew to look, to be fair.

  His victims were the unknown. They lived on the streets.

  There were plenty of places to pick them up, and he didn’t just shop in Durham – he went further afield. And no one ever reported them missing. He didn’t suppose anyone would – most of them had left their old lives behind when they became addicts.

  But he was worried now.

  He’d seen the plans for the land when he’d broken into her house earlier today –though he knew ‘breaking into the house’ was a strong term. More like used his skills to enter the front door that didn’t latch properly. He’d left no damage – she would never even know. Leaving the feral cat in there had been a stroke of genius on his part. It had been sniffing around the fence when he’d hopped over it to get in the garden.

  Once inside, he’d seen the documents that showed the woman’s plans for the land. She wanted to build a bigger indoor arena and an external paddock for jumping.

  The proposed paddock fell on his bit of land. He couldn’t have that.

  A frown covered the bit of his face that was visible. Dark blue eyes stared out balefully from beneath his balaclava. Once upon a time, revisiting his treasures had been easy – no one noticed him, and if they had, they just thought he was a walker.

  Nowadays, people wanted to talk and chat.

  His frown deepened into a scowl. He hated people. All people.

  He had watched the exchange between the woman and the farmer with interest. Maybe, it would give him someone to blame for the things he had to plan now. He hated being put in the position he had to contemplate.

  ‘This is my place, dammit, and nobody is going to keep it from me.’ His breath froze as it left his mouth, leaving a waft of steam as he turned and left the area.

  He walked for about fifteen minutes, until he got to a clearing in the woods.

  There were no markers there, nothing to indicate where his treasures were buried. But he knew where each one was. He visited them as often as he could. Talked to them, sometimes even sang to them. On rare occasions, he even removed the soil from over their faces so he could see them again.

  One area stood out – approximately six feet in length and two feet in width – it looked recently dug over. It had taken him ages yesterday – the ground wasn’t as frozen as today but it had still been hard going. It was shallower than he liked, too, but it would do.

  The woman he had back at his home had been dead for a few days. It was time to move her and find the next one.

  ‘Be good, everyone, and be nice to each other. I’ll be back soon, my darlings.’

  He made his way out of the other side of the clearing and, eventually, made it onto a bridle path that led to the road. His car had been there for hours now, and methodically, he de-iced it before jumping in and leaving.

  * * *

  10th December, 1100 hours – Sunderland City Centre

  Cheryl Whiffen was not a well woman. She wasn’t medicated for her various ailments because she didn’t believe in doctors – she felt like she’d had years of misdiagnosis and mistreatment. So, now, she refused to take anything.

  It made her unpredictable at times: her anger could strike like a hammer, and almost instantly, she would calm down. She just figured it was part of what made her human. Everyone kicked off sometimes, didn’t they?

  An old man was walking in front of her bent over and doddering along at a snail’s pace, leaning heavily on his walking frame. He had a heavy winter coat on and a flat cap on his head. Instantly, she felt irritated.

  Push him over. You can do it. He would break his hip – he’d be warmer in hospital than out here in the cold.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ she muttered. ‘It’s wrong.’

  Why is it wrong? You’d be helping him. He probably can’t afford to put his heating on at home. He’ll freeze to death in his sleep tonight, if you don’t push him and make him go to hospital.

  Cheryl shook her head hard. Sometimes, she couldn’t distinguish between which voice was
hers and which was in her head. Today, the one telling her to push the old man was strong; it felt like hers. She paused, and as was her way, she hit her head hard with her fist.

  ‘Stop it…stop telling me to do bad things.’

  Her head hurt where she’d hit it, and the voice stopped.

  For a moment, anyway.

  She heard a whisper, then it started shouting at her.

  Push him! Push him!

  It got louder and louder until she couldn’t take it anymore.

  She was level with the old man now, and turning, she pushed him hard.

  She wasn’t in control of herself anymore, and the man flew sideways and hit the shop wall with force.

  He grunted and fell to the floor, holding his arm to his chest.

  Cheryl barely registered the loud crack as it had broken.

  She did, however, hear the loud shouts from other people walking down the street, and realised she’d done it again. She’d listened and done something bad.

  Turning on her heel, she ran as fast as she could.

  Hands grabbed at her as she ran past, but she screamed loudly, sounding like a fox in heat, and then shot down an alley that she knew led to the back of the Bridges. From there, she could exit the other end and find somewhere to hide.

  Hot tears fell down her flushed cheeks, her greasy brown hair stuck to the side of her face, and the dirty woollen hat slipped slightly as she ran. Her gait was strange, her legs kicked back awkwardly as she held her jacket together with one of her hands.

  She had to get away. She couldn’t be put in a room. She hated rooms. All rooms, but especially the kind they put you when they thought you were crazy. The padded ones. She’d been in enough of them.

  Cheryl ducked out of the other end of the alley and ran without stopping until she was far from the city centre. She ended up in the riverside park, and, slowing down now, she made her way through the bushes near the river bank to where her stuff was.

  Pulling the dirty and torn sleeping bag around her shoulders, she started rocking back and forth as she let the tears fall down her face.

  ‘I didn’t want to do it. They made me.’ She repeated the phrase over and over softly as she cried.

  * * *

  10th December, 1315 hours – Rainbow Riding Stables

  TJ stood at the entrance to the indoor arena, watching the class unfold. The stables catered for the disabled, and there were also a couple of lads in currently who’d been ordered to attend by the court to assist as part of their rehabilitation. One was a lad called Matthew Whitworth – she remembered his case from her days working at the solicitors.

  Before she’d made the move to the stables, TJ had been doing her PhD and working for one of the most well-known solicitors in the city. She’d suffered an attack in the car park as she left one night, and Matthew’s father had been the one responsible.

  She frowned as she stared at Matthew. His mousy brown hair was floppy over his face, and she knew from his file that he was thirteen. God only knew what his father had put him through while Matthew had been with him – she didn’t know all the details, but it couldn’t have been good. Then, throw into the mix the fact that Matthew’s father had killed himself whilst in police custody, and you had one messed up child.

  Matthew lived with his aunt – she knew Carolyn St James from when she picked up and dropped off Matthew. The woman looked at the end of her tether. TJ didn’t envy her job as guardian – Matthew was hard work. His mother was in a care home and couldn’t look after him, so his aunt had taken him in at his own request when he was eleven. That was pretty much all she knew.

  He was just a kid, but she still felt wary when he was around. Was it a case of like father, like son? He had grown into himself in the last few weeks he’d been active at the centre. He stood almost as tall as she was, and his eyes were always filled with emotion that he struggled to contain.

  TJ always took the emotion as anger. It might have been something else. She wasn’t sure. She didn’t like to tar anyone with a brush – she firmly believed in giving people a chance. But she was finding it hard with Matthew. Maybe it was because of what his father had done to her – the injury to her jaw still hadn’t healed properly – she got pain from it, and it cracked constantly and was still misaligned. Not noticeable to other people, but she knew it was.

  It was that injury that had made her stop and think about what she wanted out of life, though. And she’d eventually concluded she didn’t want a nine-to-five (or in her case usually 9am to 9pm) job where she was stuck in an office all day or in court fighting for whoever she was standing for. She wanted freedom, and more than anything, she wanted to feel safe.

  Even with the crabby neighbour, she felt she had that here.

  It was the horses, of course; they calmed her almost instantly.

  She’d ridden since she was a child, but had stopped in recent years because she’d had too much on her plate with the solicitors and her doctorate. When she was recovering, she got bored being at home all day and had started visiting the stables again. Within a few months, Stella, her best friend from childhood, had offered her the chance to take over.

  Her attention was drawn back to Matthew as the horse he was leading, a mare called Rosie, tried to pull away from his grasp, spooked by something that had somehow got caught in the slats of wood surrounding the arena. She watched as he reached out and stroked the horse’s neck. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his lips were moving, and she knew he was trying to soothe Rosie.

  The rider on Rosie’s back, Gareth, was well-secured – he was one of the regulars. He came every week and was hoisted into the saddle from his wheelchair, his feet secured into the dabs at the bottom of the stirrups. Dabs were required for a lot of the disabled riders and covered the ends of the shoes so the rider’s feet didn’t slip out. The smile on Gareth’s face as he was led around the arena reminded her, once again, that her decision to take over the stables was a good one. Calm again, Matthew proceeded with walking the horse around the arena once more.

  She had a one-to-one booked with Matthew after the class – she knew she would now look at him differently just because of how he handled the situation. He needed a firm hand, but overall, he cared; he was a good kid. He needed to be told that; forced to understand that here, more than anywhere else, he would be praised for the good things.

  In calming the horse, he’d averted a potential disaster. The horses used in the disabled classes were extremely steady – it wasn’t like them to spook at anything. If the horse had spooked fully, Gareth would have been at risk of being thrown.

  TJ made her way silently around the arena and recovered the piece of offending plastic – it was a Mars bar wrapper. She kept it in her hand and made her way back out of the arena, popping it in the basket by the entrance. She didn’t know how it had got there, but she knew who’d had it. There was only one person addicted to the chocolate bars at the stables, and that was Paul.

  She added it to her internal to-do list for later and headed to the office to await Matthew’s arrival.

  2

  10th December, 1600 hours – Riverside Park, Sunderland

  Cheryl was hungry.

  She was also exhausted, despite just having slept. Her joints were sore and stiff as she unfurled from the ball she’d curled into instinctively on falling asleep. Her tummy was hurting from wanting food, and she rubbed a hand over it longingly. The tears and crying had stopped a while ago, but even her eyes were aching.

  She crept out of the bushes and stared at the river for a moment.

  It was dusk already – she hated the winter. Not only was it freezing cold, but food was scarce, and the shelters were busier. She’d told the Salvation Army yesterday that she would return tonight for some food – she hoped they remembered, and she would get in. They only had limited space, and sometimes, pre-warning them meant staff would hold a portion for her. And she might see her friend there. Sometimes, Sally showed up, and sometimes, she d
idn’t. They always sat together if she turned up, though. Sally was Cheryl’s only friend. She’d become homeless after her husband had left with his secretary, taking everything Sally owned with him, including her son. Cheryl knew Sally never gave up looking for him. Even now she had no money, she still went to the police station every month to find out if there were any more leads. There never were, though. It was as if Sally’s little boy had vanished off the face of the earth.

  Cheryl made her way through the park, not even noticing the dark shadows cast by the trees that moved in the breeze. She had no reason to fear the park – it was her home.

  She heard the crack of a twig as she neared the exit and paused, her senses on high alert for something she couldn’t see.

  Cheryl felt a breath on her neck and went to turn, ready to lash out at whoever was there. The needle entered her neck swiftly, and she felt whatever had been injected into her travel down her neck towards her heart. It was fast-acting, and she stumbled, grabbing for anything that would break her fall. Nothing was there, though, and she hit the floor hard.

  Her vision blurred, and she couldn’t stop herself falling unconscious.

  * * *

  10th December, 1605 hours – Riverside Park, Sunderland

  He smiled. Seeing her crawl out of the bush had been an amazing coincidence as he’d strolled along the path in the park. This was his third from Sunderland. He hoped she had fight. If she did she might stand a chance of leaving alive. He doubted it, though. No one had yet.

  He hoisted her shoulder over his, fully supporting her weight. If anyone asked, he would just say she was drunk – they never asked any more questions after that. Ketamine had a habit of letting facial features droop as if the person was drunk. He’d used it many times now.

  He made it to his car without incident and shoved the woman roughly into the backseat. She’d be out for at least half an hour with the amount he’d given her. It was just enough time to get her to where she needed to be.