Savage Games

by Peter Boland

  They parked up on a patch of gravel in front of the building and crunched their way towards the door marked ‘Reception’. Inside was a long, plain, scrubbed wooden counter stretching across the length of a tall-ceilinged room. A computer terminal sat at one end. Educational posters covered the walls informing people to not feed the forest’s wild ponies and to keep to its forty-miles-an-hour speed limit. One poster asked for volunteers to help look after the forest. Savage felt an overwhelming urge to sign up there and then. He couldn’t think of a better way of spending his days than keeping an ancient forest in order, mending fences and keeping footpaths clear; of early-morning winter starts, putting his back into it and his breath condensing in front of him. First he had a psychopath to stop. Wellington.

  Savage patted a gleaming brass reception bell. Seconds later, a slim, red-faced, outdoorsy type joined them, dressed in a green fleece with the Forestry Commission logo embroidered on the left side, and a name tag informing them he was called ‘Trevor’ pinned on the other.

  Trevor smiled, his weathered face revealing a web of crow’s feet around his eyes. “How can I help you?”

  Savage slid the printout of numbers across the counter. “Is this one of your printouts?”

  “Where did you get this?” Trevor asked, his smile disappearing.

  Tannaz ignored his question. “These are tree preservation orders, right?”

  Trevor eyed the list suspiciously. “The forest is Crown land. Under our protection. We don’t usually give out this information to the public.”

  Trevor may have had the ruddy appearance of a woodsman but at heart he was a bureaucrat, a stickler for rules. Probably saw himself as some sort of defender of the realm, protecting the monarchy’s land.

  “We’re trying to find the location of this tree.” Savage pointed to the ringed number.

  “We think the tree might have been cut down,” said Tannaz.

  Trevor didn’t say anything. Stared blankly at her.

  Tannaz continued, “Don’t you think it’s odd that a tree with a preservation order has been cut down?”

  “Not really,” Trevor replied. “Trees with preservation orders get cut down all the time.”

  “We’re just concerned citizens,” said Savage. “We love the forest and want to make sure the wrong tree hasn’t been cut down. I mean some of those trees are over a thousand years old.”

  “It was a beautiful fir tree in Dead Maids. Huge,” Tannaz added.

  Trevor suddenly became interested. “I thought Dead Maids was all deciduous. Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Maybe it’s best to check.”

  Trevor thought for a second. Curiosity got the better of him. He reluctantly picked up the printout and moved onto the computer at the end of the counter. After a few clicks of the mouse he said, “It’s a Douglas fir. They’re extremely prone to disease. They have to be cut down to stop it spreading.” Trevor went quiet, peered closer at the screen. “That’s odd.”

  “What’s odd?” asked Savage.

  “Well, to cut a tree down, especially one with a preservation order, you have to put in a request for felling approval. Has to be authorised by a senior manager. The box here is empty, no approval’s been given but the tree’s been felled. That’s not the way we do things round here.”

  “Who requested the felling approval?” asked Savage.

  “One of our Forest Management Technicians, chap called Joel Diplock.”

  “And who cut the tree down?” asked Tannaz.

  “Same person,” said Trevor. “Joel Diplock.”

  “So we’re saying that he’s chopped a tree down without permission.”

  “Certainly seems like it,” said Trevor, concern in his voice. “I really appreciate you bringing this to my attention.”

  “Why would he do that?” asked Savage.

  “I have no idea. Staff aren’t supposed to go around felling trees willy-nilly. Not on my watch.”

  Joel Diplock was in trouble, but Savage got the distinct impression it would be Trevor’s head on the block.

  “Is he in today?” asked Savage.

  “No, it’s his day off.”

  “Okay,” Savage replied. “Is it possible to get an exact location of the tree? Just want to make sure it’s the one we think it is. That we’re not wasting your time.”

  “I’ll send out a team of technicians to make sure.”

  “That sounds complicated,” said Savage. “We can head over there now, check it out. Make sure it’s the right one so your guys don’t have a wasted journey. Plus, if it has been cut down mistakenly, you probably don’t want everyone finding out. Wouldn’t be good for morale or the image of the New Forest.”

  Trevor went quiet. Considered Savage’s words. Trevor was clearly committed to the protection of the New Forest, but he was more committed to his own self-preservation. “Okay,” he muttered. “Would you mind calling me and no one else. I’m here all day.”

  “Understood,” Savage replied.

  Trevor hit a few keys on the computer. A printer at the back whirred into life and spat out a single sheet. He retrieved it and stapled it on top of Savage’s original list of numbers, then placed it in front of them. It was a map of Dead Maids. Covered in hundreds of black dots, each one with the tree-preservation order number beside it and its GPS co-ordinates underneath.

  Trevor pointed with his pen. “Each dot represents a tree.” He ringed one of them with his pen. “This is the tree Joel Diplock felled. The tree on your list. Put the GPS co-ordinates into your smart phone, and it will lead you straight to it.”

  “Wow,” said Savage. “So every preserved tree is logged with GPS co-ordinates?”

  “Correct,” Trevor replied. “Makes it so much easier. We used to mark diseased trees with a yellow X for felling. Our crews had to go out hunting with their chainsaws for elusive X’s marked on the trunk. Took ages. With GPS they can just go straight to them. Saves so much time.”

  “Wait,” said Savage. “So do trees still get marked with a yellow X when they need to be cut down?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “How long has it been like that?”

  “Last five or six years.”

  Savage thought for a moment. “So no trees have been marked with X’s since then.”

  “No, there’d be no point.”

  “Is there a chance a tree got marked the traditional way? Maybe if someone forgot,” asked Tannaz.

  “Possible, but highly unlikely. We used yellow to mark a preserved tree to be felled. Now we have GPS we don’t bother ordering yellow spray anymore. We still use other colours for different things. Blue for a tree near a boundary, red for timber harvesting. But not yellow, just don’t have it in our stores.”

  “Thank you, Trevor,” said Savage. “You’ve been extremely helpful. One other thing, has a goth couple been in asking about this area?”

  Trevor looked puzzled and shook his head.

  “Okay, thanks,” said Savage.

  “Make sure you contact me when you find the fir,” Trevor said. “Here’s my number.” He scribbled down his mobile number on the top of the printout.

  “Will do.”

  Tannaz and Savage returned to the VW van. “Okay,” said Savage, starting up the engine. “So I have another theory.”

  “Go on.”

  “We thought Dave selected a tree that would suit his needs. Scoped it out alone, then went back later and killed himself up it.”

  “Isn’t that what happened?”

  “No.” Savage held up the two printouts. The original list of numbers, plus the location map stapled to it. “I think someone gave this to Dave, told him which tree he needed to use for his suicide. Ringed it and maybe gave him a location map, exactly like this one. Remember the list had staple marks in it. Except the location map and the list became
separated. I think Dave took the map with him to find his way through Dead Maids. Left the list of numbers behind in his room because he didn’t need it.”

  “Okay, plausible,” said Tannaz. “Even with the map of GPS locations it doesn’t help him find the tree.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Dave was a complete technophobe. Luke said he didn’t have a computer, he hated them so we can safely assume he didn’t have a smart phone, and the GPS co-ordinates would be useless to him. If someone picked the tree for him, how was he going to find the right one?”

  “So the map gets him in the right area, then all he needs to do is find the tree marked with a yellow X, old-school style. He doesn’t need a smart phone. And if they used yellow, that points the finger at a forest worker still following tradition. A tree which he later fells without permission.”

  “You think this Joel Diplock did it? And what does this have to do with Wellington and all those trees?”

  “Don’t know. Joel Diplock is now suspect number one. Has to be. First we go to Dead Maids. Confirm these co-ordinates. Check we’re not barking up the wrong tree.”

  Tannaz groaned at his pun.

  “Sorry, that wasn’t intended. After that, we find Joel Diplock. And get answers.”

  Chapter 41

  Just after lunch, Savage’s VW van pulled into the car park at Dead Maids Wood. They both got out. Seconds later, another car entered the car park and pulled up nearby. A fairly new Toyota estate with two child seats in the back, no doubt covered in crumbs and indelibly stained with sticky baby food and dried up puddles of juice. The only occupant of the car stepped out of the driver’s side. A spectacled man, possibly mid-thirties, he was tall and greying at the sides, his back slightly hunched, his shoulders sloping, the result of hours and hours slumped at a boring desk job, no doubt. Dressed in outdoor walking gear; powder blue hiking jacket and brown walking boots, he slung a rucksack over his shoulder and disappeared into the forest before Savage had a chance to say ‘afternoon’.

  “He’s in a hurry,” said Tannaz. “Maybe he didn’t like the look of us.”

  “Nah, guy’s got young kids. See the car seats? This is his day off and he probably just wants a bit of alone time in the forest.”

  “Well, he’ll certainly get that in Dead Maids.”

  “Too right,” said Savage. “Come on, let’s make sure this is the tree on Dave’s list, then we can question this Diplock fellow.”

  Tannaz punched the GPS co-ordinates into her smart phone and off they trekked.

  About an hour later, they came in sight of the felled Douglas fir, still lying helplessly on the ground. A defeated giant. Exactly the same one they’d seen last time they were here.

  “Well, there’s no doubt about it. This is definitely the tree ringed on Dave’s list,” said Tannaz.

  “Good. Now we can confront Diplock and get to the bottom of why he cut it down.”

  They turned tail and began walking back to the car. “Seems like a bit of a waste of time, doing this,” said Tannaz. “It was a pretty fair guess that it would be the one.”

  “One thing I’ve learnt in all my years,” said Savage. “Never assume anything. What if the co-ordinates were for a different tree, and we went off to accuse Joel Diplock? We’d look pretty stupid. Always check the facts, no matter how tedious or obvious things look. That reminds me.” Savage kept his word to Trevor and texted him to say they’d positively identified the tree.

  They headed back. After ten minutes Tannaz stopped for a cigarette.

  “I thought you were in a hurry with this investigation?” Savage asked.

  “Yes, but I need to feed my addiction.” She sat down on a tree stump and sparked up the end of a Marlboro. “Don’t worry, I’ll take the butt and ash home with me,” she selected a large damp leaf off the ground and used it as a makeshift ash tray.

  After her last puff, she ground out the cigarette on the leaf, wrapped it up and put it in the pocket of her biker jacket.

  “Hey, do you want to hear a joke?” asked Savage. He didn’t wait for her reply. “Did you hear about the man who had a dog with no legs?”

  Tannaz rolled her eyes, and reluctantly shook her head, disinterested.

  “He called it Cigarette because every night he’d take it out for a drag.”

  She tried to keep a straight face but couldn’t stop a smile from forming.

  “Hey, you laughed at one of my jokes.”

  “Smiled, not laughed,” she corrected him. “Hey, what’s that over there?”

  “What’s what?”

  Tannaz pointed. “That blue thing through the trees.”

  Savage turned and looked, eyes squinting. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Wait, it keeps disappearing.”

  Savage kept staring.

  Sure enough, a blurry slice of blue appeared, way off in the distance, between the trees. Amongst the forest’s muted palette of greens, browns, burgundies and mustard yellows, it stood out like a neon light.

  Then it was gone again.

  “I saw it,” said Savage. “A blue shape, about head height, sort of hovering.”

  “This is freaky,” Tannaz replied, getting to her feet. “Let’s get out of here, this place gives me the creeps.”

  “Not just yet. Let’s take a look.”

  “Savage, we’ve got work to do. Bad guys to catch.”

  “Bad guys aren’t going anywhere.”

  Savage headed in the rough direction of where the blue shape had appeared, followed by Tannaz grumbling behind. A second later, it flashed into view again, then disappeared. It kept doing this with regular frequency. Appearing and disappearing.

  Savage quickened his pace, wanting his curiosity satisfied. As they trudged through the mulch the ground became damp and squelchy.

  “Savage, this is not doing my Doc Martens any good,” Tannaz complained.

  “So you can clean them later. Or I’ll buy you another pair—”

  Savage didn’t get to finish his sentence.

  He broke into a sprint, almost as if hit by a bolt of electricity.

  “Savage, what is it?” Tannaz cried.

  The blue shape emerged, and now they were close enough to see what it truly was.

  It belonged to the man they had seen in the car park. He was still wearing his blue walking jacket and the reason it kept disappearing and reappearing from view was because he kept swinging backwards and forwards from a noose attached to the low bough of an oak tree. A human pendulum slowly swaying, the rope creaking eerily like the rigging of the Marie Celeste.

  “Tannaz, help me!” cried Savage. He reached the guys legs, which hung roughly at chest height. Grasping them in a bear hug, Savage hoisted up the man’s body, attempting to take the strain off his neck.

  Tannaz caught up seconds later, swore rapidly and panicked. “What do I do? What do I do?”

  “Reach into my jacket pocket. Grab my keys. There’s a Swiss Army knife on the keyring. Climb up the tree and cut him down.”

  Tannaz followed Savage’s instructions, swearing with every breath.

  “Hurry, Tannaz,” said Savage. “There’s a chance we can still save him.”

  Tannaz ran for the tree, held onto the nearest branch and pulled herself up. Savage watched the soles of her boots slipping as she scampered higher, his arms and shoulders burning under the strain of the hanged man.

  “One day, Savage, all this could be yours.”

  Savage cursed. Jeff Perkins was back and it seemed his kryptonite, Tannaz, wasn’t keeping him at bay.

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” said Tannaz, assuming the profanity was aimed at her.

  “I dream of seeing you up there one day, Savage, swaying gently in the breeze, the noose crushing your neck, squeezing the life out of you.”

  Sava
ge didn’t respond. Just concentrated on keeping the dying man aloft, if indeed he was still alive.

  “You should just let him die, you know. That’s what he would’ve wanted. If you save him, he’s going to be really annoyed at you two. Nobody likes their suicide being interfered with. And if you’re wondering how I can be here even though Tannaz, your little good-luck charm, is here too, it’s because you’re on my home turf—suicide. If we’re going with the Superman analogy, and Tannaz is my kryptonite, then suicide is my yellow sun, makes me stronger.”

  In his mind, Savage urged Tannaz to go quicker. Moments later, she was on the branch the man hung from. She unfolded the main blade on the Swiss Army knife, which Savage kept fiercely sharp, and began to saw at the rope, panting heavily. Several strokes later it gave way, and the man and Savage tumbled into a heap on the ground. Savage loosened the noose from around the man’s neck and checked for a pulse on his carotid artery just below his jawline. It was weak and erratic. Still alive.

  “Oh no,” said Jeff. “He’s still alive, and now you’re going to ruin it all by bringing him back to life. Why do you always have to be a hero? It’s selfish. You’re denying him his miserable death.”

  Savage ignored the voice in his head. Pumped hard on the man’s chest with the heels of his hands. Tannaz climbed down from the tree, joining him beside the walker.

  Over and over Savage pushed down on the man’s rib cage, hoping to force the life back into him, stopping only to breathe air into his mouth.

  After several minutes, panting heavily, Savage stopped to check the man’s pulse.

  “He’s gone,” said Savage.

  “Hooray,” said Jeff. “Music to my ears. Another one bites the dust, or should I say leaves, and best of all you couldn’t do anything about it.”

  Once again, Savage wished more than anything that Jeff Perkins was real so he could punch him repeatedly in the face.

  Tannaz stared at the dead body, her mouth open. Mesmerised by the sight of death. Savage spoke softly, “We did everything we could. We just got here too late.”