Turning back to her desk, Emilia picked up her pen and chewed the end, trying to summon the enthusiasm to finish her piece about burglary prevention. She should have finished it half an hour ago – it was the kind of fear-mongering piece she could write in her sleep – but instead she’d allowed herself to be distracted by the chatter on the police radio which she listened to while working, quietly absorbing the domestic incidents and traffic accidents that Southampton’s finest were being called to.
She seldom took in the details – the familiar voices detailing the units dispatched providing a soothing background to her deliberations. But now she suddenly sat up, riveted. Five units had been scrambled to the New Forest to secure a crime scene. More interestingly, the Major Incident Team had been deployed, with DI Helen Grace as the SIO in charge.
A smile crept across Emilia’s face. Things were seldom dull when Grace was involved. Scribbling down the location, she rose quickly, yanking off her headphones. Picking up her jacket and phone, she hurried from the newsroom without a glance at her colleagues, who continued to beaver away, unaware of this surprising development. Teamwork, Emilia had always felt, was overrated.
This one she was keeping for herself.
9
The trees swayed above her, casting long, sinister shadows in the early-morning sun. Helen picked her way carefully through the forest, her eyes sweeping it for broken vegetation, footprints or scraps of clothing. She was diligent, observant, but kept moving quickly. Initial reports of the crime scene were so alarming that she wanted to get there as soon as possible.
A forestry worker had discovered a body deep in the New Forest National Park. The call had come in just after 8.30 a.m., the police controller somehow managing to make sense of the terrified woman’s reports – and Helen had immediately dispatched the team. The corpse had been found in a remote part of the park, in an area of untouched woodland between the hamlets of Blissford and Fritham. As soon as Helen had heard the news, her mind had rocketed back to another body found in the depths of the forest – one of the victims in Helen’s first big investigation – but she’d swiftly pushed those macabre memories aside to focus on the case in hand. If initial reports were accurate, they were dealing with something very unpleasant.
There were no roads, houses or campsites near the crime scene – Helen had had to park half a mile away on Abbots Well Road – so how had the victim ended up in such a remote part of the forest? And, just as importantly, why? Helen’s eyes darted about her as she followed the faint path in front of her, but there was little in the bucolic surroundings to engender alarm or explain the morning’s strange developments. The ground was dry and unyielding, so footprints wouldn’t help and the vegetation in this part of the forest appeared undisturbed. In fact, the forest looked as beautiful as ever this morning, which made the brutal slaying seem all the more unreal.
The path widened slightly and Helen glimpsed activity up ahead – the familiar, fluorescent jackets of the uniformed officers. Quickening her pace, Helen reached the end of the track, emerging into a large clearing, which was already teeming with police officers and CSI investigators. Nodding to Meredith Walker, Southampton Central’s Chief Forensics Officer, Helen came to a halt, bracing herself as she turned to take in the body.
Helen was not easily shocked, but she had never seen anything like this before. A young man – late twenties, perhaps early thirties at the most – was hanging from the branches of an oak tree in the middle of the clearing, his face contorted with terror. The man’s feet had been tied together, then the rope had been looped over a thick branch, hoisted up and secured to the trunk, so the naked, brutalized body hung upside down, its outstretched arms reaching hopelessly towards the ground below. The man looked like a piece of strange fruit, gore-smeared and lifeless, hanging from the ancient branches.
Worse still was the manner of his death. Helen could make out three arrows protruding from deep wounds to his chest, neck and back. Moving closer, positioning herself directly underneath the body, she realized that actually they were crossbow bolts. It looked very much like a close-quarters execution, given the depth of penetration … but that hardly explained the strange staging of this brutal murder.
Questions flooded Helen’s mind. Why here in a remote clearing that few knew of? And why a crossbow? Attacks of this sort were extremely rare. Moreover, why had the victim been left like this, prominently displayed for some unfortunate rambler or park worker to discover?
Stepping away, Helen glanced across the clearing to the portly, middle-aged woman now being interviewed by DC McAndrew. Janice Smith was dressed in the familiar green of the New Forest Park Association, but that was the only colour about her – she looked deathly pale and was clearly in shock. They would glean what details they could from her – she would have to account for her presence here and the discovery of the body – but Helen feared there would be little in the way of solid information. She would not have been strong enough (and seemed an unlikely candidate) to suspend a grown man from a tree, and given the time of her call she was unlikely to have been a direct witness to the attack. Smith had called Southampton Central under an hour ago, but the blood on the victim’s wounds was already congealed and crusted over. Meredith Walker and Jim Grieves, their truculent Chief Pathologist, would provide more details in time, but Helen already suspected this was a night-time slaying. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.
Returning her attention to the body, Helen found herself looking at Graham Ross, their most experienced crime scene photographer, who was hard at work. Raising a friendly eyebrow at Helen, he got out of her way, moving around the body to take close-ups of the victim’s legs and feet. Helen was grateful – she needed a clear sight of the body to try and read the meaning of this horrific murder.
There had been no attempt to dispose of the body – quite the opposite: great pains had been taken to display it – which presumably meant that some message was being sent. Was it a warning? An act of retribution? Could it even be an occult killing, given the elaborate staging and timing of the attack? Or was the victim’s killer merely flexing his or her muscles, displaying their prowess and handiwork to the wider world?
Helen’s mind continued to turn on these alarming possibilities as she stared at the butchered man, her eyes inexorably drawn to the large pool of blood that now stained the forest beneath the slowly revolving corpse.
10
‘What’s happened to him? Where is he?’
Melanie Walton stared intently at Charlie, tears filling her eyes. She had reported her fiancé missing at first light, but the significance of this had not become apparent until the discovery of a body in the forest shortly afterwards. The photos of Tom Campbell on her phone and her description of the victim’s distinctive signet ring strongly suggested that her fiancé was the unfortunate victim.
Helen had dispatched Charlie and DS Hudson to the Woodland View campsite, an impressive new facility on the fringes of the forest, while she explored the crime scene. Charlie had barely had time to say two words to her new colleague, but he seemed pleasant and responsive enough, happy to organize the witness trawl, while Charlie interviewed Campbell’s anguished fiancée.
‘A body has been found in the forest,’ Charlie replied soberly.
‘Oh my God …’
‘We can’t say for certain who it is, until there has been a formal identification. That may be something we ask you to do in time. Would you be willing, and capable of doing that, if called upon?’
Melanie nodded mutely, before dropping her gaze to her hands. She examined them intently as if trying to find some meaning, some explanation there.
‘Can I ask how long you two have been together?’
‘Five years or so …’
‘And how old is Tom?’
‘Twenty-nine …’
Helen had estimated the victim to be in his late twenties – another small detail suggesting that they were on the right track.
‘Do you
often go camping?’
‘Sure.’
‘To this site?’
‘No, it’s pretty new.’
‘So why here?’
‘I don’t know. We got a flyer through the door and liked the look of it. Tom loves his camping, so …’
Melanie petered out, the present tense tripping her up, revealing the dark fears swirling around her mind.
‘What time did you arrive last night?’
‘Around seven p.m. We both had to work, so …’
‘And when did you last see Tom?’
Melanie paused, rubbing her hands with her face.
‘Around midnight, I guess. We had a few drinks and a smoke, then we went to bed …’
She shivered slightly, as if the memory haunted her.
‘Then what?’
‘Well … we …’ Melanie faltered, colouring, before continuing: ‘We … made love and then went to sleep. That’s kind of how it always goes.’
‘Was it consensual?’
‘Of course,’ she retorted angrily.
‘No problems? No arguments?’
‘No, nothing like that. We’re engaged to be married, we’re happy …’
A tear slid down her cheek. Charlie could feel Melanie’s anguish – the dawning realization that her world was about to be turned upside down – and she sympathized. More than that, she believed her. Family members and lovers are always the prime suspects, but there were no marks on the beautiful young woman and the campsite manager had confirmed there had been no disturbances during the night. Moreover, her emotion, her shock, appeared genuine.
‘So, tell me again what happened. Slowly, if you can …’
Melanie’s initial reports had been garbled, but now she tried to gather herself, aware of the importance of her testimony.
‘I woke up in the middle of the night.’
‘Can you remember what time?’
‘Not really. Two? Three perhaps? I’m sorry …’
‘It’s ok. Carry on.’
‘Tom had been sleeping beside me, but he wasn’t there any more. I went looking for him – at the toilet block, by our car – but …’
‘Did you try phoning him?’
‘’Course, but his mobile was still in the tent. So I waited until morning and when there was still no sign of him, I went to the camp manager.’
‘And you didn’t hear him leave?’
‘I was asleep.’
‘You’ve got no recollection – even a vague feeling or memory of movement, of a disturbance, of the tent being opened …?’
‘No, no, nothing. One minute he was there beside me …’
Melanie looked up at Charlie, fear writ large on her face.
‘And the next, he was gone.’
11
‘Nobody saw or heard anything.’
Clearly DS Hudson had been hoping to give Helen better news.
‘I’ve spoken to the other campers, but to be honest they’re pretty bemused by the questions. A couple of them met Tom Campbell last night, but they say they all spent a peaceful evening here, weren’t aware of any problems.’
‘We’d better run the rule over them anyway. See if any of them had connections to Tom Campbell or Melanie Walton.’
‘Sure thing. I’ve also asked them to surrender their phones, for an hour or so. Before we let them go, I want to check if anyone has footage from last night, anything that might give us an idea of what went on.’
‘Good idea. What about Campbell’s car?’
‘It’s where he parked it last night.’
Hudson indicated an Audi saloon on the far side of the campsite.
‘The keys are still in the tent,’ he continued.
‘Any sign of another vehicle? Near their tent or by the car?’
‘There are numerous tyre tracks to be honest – you have to drive past the edge of the site to access the car park – but nobody heard a vehicle, so …’
Helen digested this. Had Tom Campbell willingly abandoned the campsite to plunge into the forest then? It seemed improbable, but, on the face of it, appeared to be the most likely explanation.
‘Keep on it. Let me know if you find anything.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Hudson headed off to join a crowd of anxious campers, who were huddled together by the picnic tables. Helen moved in the opposite direction, towards a harassed-looking man, dressed in faded cords and a brown fleece.
‘Mr Robinson, I’m Detective Inspector Grace,’ Helen announced, flashing her warrant card. ‘I know you’ve already talked to my DS, but I’d like to ask you a couple more questions.’
‘By all means …’ Robinson stammered.
‘You manage the campsite?’
‘Manage and own it.’
‘Since?’
‘I’ve had the site for over a year. But we only opened four weeks ago – took longer than expected to plumb in the waste pipes, build the shower block.’
‘Because?’
‘Builders. What else?’ he replied ruefully.
‘I see.’
Helen surveyed him carefully as she formulated her next question. Nigel Robinson was trying to keep calm, but looked flustered and ill at ease, sweat creasing his brow. Whether this was because he feared the negative headlines the murder would generate or because he was simply unused to being interviewed by the police, Helen couldn’t say.
‘Do you sleep on site?’
‘At the moment. When we’re fully up and running, I’ll hire someone else to do it, but I want to stay on top of things for now.’
‘And you weren’t aware of any trouble last night?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘And before? Have you had any issues? During construction? When you opened?’
Robinson shook his head. ‘The people who come here are good sorts. So are the guys who work for me, despite their tardiness. This is a peaceful, family site, a nice place to –’
‘That’s all for now,’ Helen interrupted, keen to avoid the full advertisement. ‘Please stay on site. We may have more questions.’
Robinson nodded vigorously – he clearly wasn’t going anywhere while there were police officers crawling all over the place. Helen took her leave, intent on conducting a circuit of the campsite. It was a large facility, with a number of pristine log cabins, in addition to the brand-new toilet block, shop and bar. Robinson had clearly spent some money on it. Whether this would prove to be a wise investment was now open to question.
Helen bent her steps towards Campbell’s tent, examining the exterior, before poking her head inside. It was nothing special – tatty and worn – and there was little inside: a few items of clothing, two sleeping bags, an expensive-looking camera and a near-empty bottle of bourbon. How drunk had Tom been last night? Was it possible he’d had one too many? Lost his way and wandered off into the forest? That seemed more likely than forceful abduction in the circumstances, though he would have had to be pretty far gone. Had he been lured into the woodland then? Was there something in that part of the forest that he wanted?
Straightening up, Helen continued her tour. The shop was well-stocked and smelled of fresh paint, the bar’s spirit bottles were nearly full, though the grille was now down. Moving on, she reached the fringes of the forest. This was the point where manmade habitat met wilderness, but even here there were signs of Robinson’s industry. A dozen trees had been chopped down to make room for a small playground – the rides almost entirely made of wood to suit modern tastes – and several more had been sacrificed to give bar dwellers an unobstructed view of the lake. In fact, the whole perimeter area seemed to have been altered for the pleasure of the paying guests.
All except a handful of trees that loomed over the toilet block. Looking at them, they immediately struck Helen as odd. Nothing else had been allowed to stand in the way of progress, but these seemed to crowd in on the campsite. They had had their branches cut back to spare the toilet block roof, but the trees themselves had been allo
wed to remain in situ, despite the likelihood that their roots would eventually threaten the stability of the new building. Helen found herself walking over to them, curiosity drawing her on. Skirting the pristine facilities, she found herself at the base of the first tree. Running her hand over it, she soon found something unnatural embedded in the bark.
A metal spike had been driven into the tree – so forcefully that just the face of it was visible, making it impossible to remove. Further investigation revealed five more spikes, driven into the tree at different heights. Helen moved on to the second tree. It was the same here, as it was with the third.
Helen’s mind was already whirring, a number of possible scenarios presenting themselves, as she turned back to look at the campsite. She didn’t know which of these would prove correct, but as she took in the campsite manager, who’d been following her progress intently from afar, she knew one thing for certain.
Nigel Robinson had been lying to her.
12
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Emilia froze, cursing silently under her breath. She turned towards the approaching police officer, a look of innocent confusion on her face, as she dropped the police cordon she’d been in the process of lifting.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she answered, trying her best to sound ditzy and flustered. ‘I was just going for a walk when I came across this … tape.’
‘And I’m Brad Pitt.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I know who you are and why you’re here. So hop it. You’ll have to go through the usual channels if you want any information.’
He was staring at her, arms folded across his chest, oozing self-importance. Emilia was sorely tempted to tell him where to go, but instead replied:
‘Fair enough. You’ve got me bang to rights.’
Down to the Woods Page 3
